Tuesday, October 02, 2007

293. The omniscient narrator

"Impressive," said HateMonger as he observed the spectacle onstage. His head was cocked ever so slightly to one side, and he was aware that the companions next to him were growing aroused by what they saw. "Faggots," he sneered to himself, apparently oblivious to the fact that his own hand was in his lap, grazing against an ever-growing mound there.

The Honest Men on the stage had begun to lower their jockstraps, revealing fully erect shafts that they now began to stroke. The hooded prisoners continued to kneel; it was impossible to know what, if anything, they thought about what was happening to them.

Scarecrow had his own mask on now, and he walked behind the captives, teasing them with his bony fingers. They did not flinch.

One by one the solders shot their loads onto the hoods of the heroes. "Yeah," grunted one of the men in the audience, temporarily lost in his own excitement. The others chuckled quietly, then turned to HateMonger for their cue. His face completely neutral, he clapped his hands together slowly. They, too, began to applaud, and the nearly empty room began to echo with the sound.

Batman, Robin, Green Arrow, and the Magus kept kneeling onstage, their black hoods soaked with cum. The men who had just done the soaking pulled up their jockstraps and breeches, tidied their uniforms, and then walked behind the heroes. The contrast was striking: four men standing tall, looking magnificent, while four more squatted at their feet, spattered with milky splooge.

"We should shoot those filthy pathetic fuckers right here and now," said one of the men in the audience.

"No," said HateMonger. "Their role in our adventure has only just begun."