209. Anonymous

I declare today to be my birthday. On this night traditionally devoted to the celebration of fear, my eyes are open wide and I take my first breath. I welcome myself into the world, and prepare myself to cleanse it of all impurity. I am but an infant now. I am ravenous, and with each passing day I shall grow in power and in wisdom. My training begins tonight. Soon I shall blaze a path of glory across the sky, and all of Gotham City shall speak my name with trembling tongue.

I must remember to thank the good doctor who eased me into being. In all that I do, I endeavor to bring him great pride as I rise to my rightful place in the universe.

Behold me, Gotham: I am your future.

208. Gustavus

I knew my behavior by this point was completely unprofessional, to say the least, and I honestly didn't care.

What mattered far more to me was the new choice I found myself confronting: Batman was groaning from a powerful combination of pain and pleasure, and I had to make a move. I could ignore him and let the experience lift him into a new realm. I could set him free to find for himself. Or I could do what I did next:

I left him hanging there, immobilized and excited to the point of physical agony, his costume stained with my spunk. I cupped his cock in my hand and stroked it as it jutted through his tights.

"Please..." he moaned. "F-finish me off." From the way he said it, I wasn't quite sure whether he was begging for release or something more permanent.

I reached under his belt and grabbed hold of his outer briefs, yanking them down till they fell to his ankles. I worked on his tights after that; they didn't go quite as far down, but they left an athletic supporter visible, and I had that out of the way in no time. His shaft was in plain view now, and I could see just how distended it had become. I noticed, too, how aptly the term "blueballs" described his condition. I knew I was directly responsible for all of this, and that thought turned me on once again.

I took off my shirt as slowly as I possibly could. I knew he found me an attractive man, and I decided to let him get an eyeful of what he wanted. His cock twitched as he did. When I'd had enough of this game, I let the shirt fall to the ground, then bent down and picked it up. I wrapped the tail of it around his shaft and began to jerk him off through it.

It did not take long at all for him to soak the cloth with his juice. When he was done, I applied the wet mess to select parts of his body--a dab on his cheeks, and the top of his cowl, followed by a swipe across his chest. I traced the bat emblem on his costume with my finger while he nearly howled.

There was one more thing I wanted to do to him that night. It occured to me that if I'd truly overstepped a boundary, I might never see him again. That only gave me further incentive to keep going.

207. Gustavus

I stared at Batman hanging there, his still-wet costume clinging even more closely to his flesh. Even though he was no longer in fighting shape, his muscles were prominently displayed and quiet impressive. I could only imagine what he might look like at the top of his form. He was silent, his eyes following me as I approached him. I stood so close that I could hear his quiet breathing, watch his chest rise and fall as air filled and left his lungs. I could smell the moisture on his clothes, even the faintest trace of soap.

I knew this man--knew his secrets, his weaknesses, knew them better than anyone else on earth. Better far than he knew himself. And yet I saw him now as a stranger: a strong, beautiful stranger, one who had placed his life in my hands.

I was near enough to touch him, and then ... I did. I reached out and felt the tautness of his costume over his outstretched arm. I knew then, and I know now, that that was my biggest mistake. That I had turned a corner which would forever change the nature of our relationship. I had touched him before, but only sparingly, and only in the service of treatment. Never, ever for my own selfish purposes. But this brief encounter--I withdrew my hand almost as quickly as I had advanced it--was different, and I knew it. I was doing this for my sake, for the pleasure it would bring me, not for any conceivable benefit it might bring him. What was happening now had nothing to do with therapy and everything to do with ...

Almost without thinking, I reached down, unzipped my pants, and pulled out my cock. Now that I'd turned a corner, there was no going back, no undoing what had begun. I started to stroke myself, scanning his body as I did. I imagined the two of us making love--or perhaps I should say I acknowledged for the first time that what we were doing was making love, the purest kind either of us knew. That thought--the sheer fact that this was as exciting to him as it was to me--made me even harder. We were twin spirits, united by countless unbreakable threads, this one the strongest of all. I wanted him, and I had him.

I grunted as I masturbated, and he began to respond to my gutteral sounds by writhing a bit, ever so sensuously, within his bonds. "Take me," he whispered, pleading so quietly that I wondered whether he'd said a word or not.

In a matter of moments I shot a deeply satisfying, gut-emptying load, aiming so it would land on one of his boots. I reached down, wiped my right hand in my warm spunk, and then wiped it off on his briefs,using them as if they were a towel. His shaft was so hard and so immobile it felt like it could not possibly be a living piece of flesh.

It was only then that I remembered what I had put him through earlier, forbidding him to cum for the last several days. Suddenly my action felt cruel in a way I had not intended--cruel because I had forgotten his situation, had been lost in my own desires.

"P-please..." he said gently. "Please..."

206. Gustavus

I've been thinking about what happened that moment 10 days ago; I still can't quite believe I did what I did, or that the stituation has taken its current direction.

Walking into that room and seeing Batman hanging there--not Bruce Wayne, not a client, but the actual Batman--I ... I simply lost control of myself. There is no other explanation. All my years of experience and training in my craft simply vanished, and I found myself face to face with .. with this man. I knew who he was under the disguise, but it did not matter. (In subsequent days, it has occured to me that whatever happened that brought him to this point in his life--whatever it was that reduced a legendary vigilante to the level of a simpering bottom--I could surely empathize, whether I wanted to or not.)

I think it was the sight of his erection that pushed me over the edge. I'd seen Wayne in states of arousal many times during our sessions and had been able to tell myself this was all part of the treatment, but--again--this was different. I'd been trying to come to terms with my growing feelings for Wayne already; I am all too familiar with the process of transference, but I...

I suppose I finally acknowledged that this was an extraordinary situation, one for which no amount of education or experience could prepare me. More was at stake here than in any of my previous cases. I decided to follow my instincts into uncharted territory, come what may.

That is the best--the only--possible explanation for why I allowed myself to do what I did next.

205. The omniscient narrator

He could feel the jet of water hitting the outside of his suit for several minutes before it registered as warm or wet. He stood and watched as it landed: first as individual beads, most of them bouncing off and landing on the floor of the shower, then beginning to soak the costume, gradually saturating every inch of the surface. It was like an invasion, this process of moving from dry to wet.

He looked down and noticed that his uniform had grown darker from the moisture. The belt and boots were waterproofed, so there was no need for concern that they would be damaged or destroyed, but he was also feeling several pounds heavier.

That's when it dawned on him: the suit had become a kind of prison, weighing him down instead of giving him the freedom it once promised.

He began to wonder, too, just who he was at this point. Costume or not, he did not feel like Batman, just an everyday civilian trapped in clothes that did not belong to him.

He turned off the water, then stepped out of the shower, toweled himself off--no thought of removing the soaking wet attire--and headed downstairs. A trail of water followed him. It squished out of his boots, dripped off his cape and gloves, leaked from his bodysuit. He was like a child leaving his bath, messing up the floor as he left the room.

He knew exactly what to do next, having been led through the ritual Gustavus had taught him many times in recent weeks. This time, however, instead of locating chains and other items to bind himself, he reached into his utility belt and produced his own batcuffs and rope, then began threading them through the mechanism that would hold him suspended in place for the next several hours, hands and feet outstretched. He hung there, a cross between a puppet and a captured speciment, until further notice. What a perfect prize he would make for his master, he thought, his cock stiffening once more.

204. B.

Earlier tonight Gustavus beckoned me to join him in the main room. "Mask on," he said, and I obeyed.

He pointed at a spot on the floor. "Kneel."

I did as I was told. He walked closer, and I could see that he was freshly showered and wearing newly laundered clothes. They still smelled slightly of detergent, which mixed with a light scent of cologne.

I, on the other hand, was filthy, having worn the same outfit for a week. I was unwashed, unshaven, a stinking mess of a man. I felt ashamed of myself once again, and let my head sink to my chest.

I saw his shoes--polished and immaculate--and felt him standing so close to me we were almost touching. I could feel his breath, hear his watch ticking, smell his wonderful aroma. I... I wanted to lose myself in him completely. I do not know exactly what that means, but I am certain it is not the impulse of a so-called hero.

"Have you followed my instructions?" he asked. The erection jutting from below the buckle of my utility belt was clear evidence that I had.

"What was that?" he said, leaning in even closer. "I didn't hear you."

"Y... yes, sir," I whispered. It was all I could do to keep from tearing the suit off and squeezing my shaft until it exploded.

"Good," he said. "Very good."

He remained at my side for the next hour, not saying a word, not moving. I was in tremendous pain, wanting more than anything to release the pressure building up inside me.

Finally he spoke once more. "That's all for tonight. Go to your room and take a shower. IN your suit. Let the water soak it thoroughly. Lather it up and rinse it off--but don't remove it. When you're done, go downstairs and tie yourself to the overhead beams, as we have done before. You know the room I mean. Stay there until you're completely dry, and then return here. If I'm not here, wait for me. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," I replied.

"Good night... Batman," he said.

I've come here to the room to make these notes before stepping into the shower. The water is already hot, and there is steam building up. I long to be clean again, although I doubt that is the purpose of this particular exercise.

203. B.

It has been six days now since Gustavus told me to put the suit on again, time I have spent in training sessions with him punctuated by long periods of solitude. I have worn it ever since, removing only the mask on occasion, and only on his command. The entire thing reeks of my sweat and precum, and I long to remove it, but he will not let me. Not yet, at least.
Nor has he let allowed me to reach an orgasm, despite my near-perpetual state of arousal. I do not regret that I shared this part of myself with him--I do not regret anything that has happened during these sessions--but I feel foolish. The constant presence of tenting in my tights only adds to my sense of embarrassment.

I cannot deny that the suit is now and perhaps forever linked in my mind with shame and failure: my shame, my failure. Sometimes I am embarrassed by the thought that I ever believed that wearing this ... this costume would make the city a better place, would accomplish anything whatsoever. Other times I reflect on the absurdity and futility of my original quest, and admit to myself that it was doomed from the start. I cannot look at myself in this outfit without remembering the horrible things Strange made me do the last time I wore one like it--things that, I confess, made me feel more alive than I had ever felt before.

I do not know if this was Gustavus' intention, but I have come to realize that wearing the costume once more is simply another form of humiliation akin to the many others to which he has subjected me during our time together. With the mask clinging tightly to my skull and the suit gripping me like a second skin, I feel more naked than on those days when he stripped me of my street clothes and made me stand before him. I feel as though I have no place to hide, no more secrets to conceal.

I realize, too, that I am at last fulfilled. It is not necessary for me to pretend any longer that my purpose in wearing the costume is to fight crime or improve the world--I wear it only to satisfy myself, and I cannot say for sure whether that has anything to do with "improvement" or not. It is simply something I must do.

The costume is a part of me. I can no longer deny that. What I must do instead is learn what lessons it has to teach me. For that, Gustavus is my guide.

202. The omniscient narrator

"PUT IT ON," Gustavus barked. Bruce stood stock still for another moment, then reached into the case. The athletic supporter came first. It would be easy: just a simple piece of fabric, albeit reinforced in highly specific fashion. Wearing it, he could be anyone. He could still be himself, whoever that was.

Extending the elastic over the protrusion at his midsection and working his erection into its confines was not quite so easy, but he managed it. He looked down at himself and then glanced back at Gustavus as if waiting for approval. "Keep going," his mentor demanded.

The bodysuit was next. This was the point from which there could be no turning back, and Bruce swallowed hard as he stared at it, then lifted it out of the case. To distract himself, he tried to calculate precisely how long it had been since he had last worn this particular garment, but the challenge proved futile. Time was too slippery these days. All that mattered was that this uniform had become for him a symbol of broken promises, abject failure, lies embraced. He hated the suit now, hated everything it stood for--

and then he put it on. As he did, he recalled with crystal clarity the ordeals he had endured the last time he'd worn it: the drugs, the cage, the conditioning... everything. And it occured to him that all these things he'd just told himself were untrue. Planted in his head by a man bent on his destruction. He was under no obligation to believe them anymore. Hugo Strange was dead and gone--nothing but a horrible memory. The suit remained, and the revulsion he felt as he zipped it up began to fade away.

The rest came easily: the outer briefs, the boots, the gloves, the belt. Each a piece in his armor, a component of his true self. His shadow self. A reality from which he could no longer hide.

He fastened the cape around his neck. It occured to him that he'd been acting on autopilot for the last several minutes, no longer turning to Gustavus for direction. He knew what he was doing without being told for a change. This was familiar. This was his life.

Only one item remained: the mask that would complete his transformation from Bruce Wayne to Batman.

"What are you waiting for?" Gustavus said.

201. Bruce Wayne

I have endured many torments in my lifetime, but the last several days have been almost unbearable. Revealing my true self to Gustavus felt like a major step in this current process, only it was followed by ... nothing. Nothing but silence and solitude. Waiting for him to make the next move. Waiting for him to tell me what to do. Waiting for him to help me press forward. Waiting... and waiting... and waiting...

And then, last night, it happened: the phone call. "The time is here. Meet me in Room 7 in 3 minutes. And bring ... it." He didn't have to explain; I knew better than I know my own name.

I scrambled, well aware of the consequences if I were late. It felt great to be following his orders once again.

He was waiting for me when I arrived. He sat in a chair and stared as I approached him, case in hand. "Put it on the table," he said quietly. "Open it." I did so, and then looked up for his next instruction, as I have been trained to do. When he's in a good mood, he calls me an "obedient puppy" when I do this. When he is in a bad mood, there are no words.

This time, he said nothing but raised his right hand. I knew this signal very well and began to remove my clothes, my shaft stiffening as I did. This, too, has become part of the routine now: part memory of past ordeals, part anticipation of what might lie ahead. He uses my excitement as a reminder of his mastery over me. "You like this, don't you?" he teased. "You can't help yourself..."

I nodded, trying hard not to reveal what I was feeling. That was easy, since I was not even sure what that feeling was.

"Put it on," he said next, and ... I hesitated. I have put this part of my life behind me for months, and I don't want to bring it back. Honestly, I don't. I am ashamed by what I did in those days--what I tried to do, and failed to do, and the damage I brought to others as a result. I hate what I was, and I vowed never to be it again.

And yet I had no choice.

200. Gustavus

It's been almost a week since the Client opened that case of his, and it's safe to say that things have changed significantly.

I know I've changed. Changed the way I think of him--I'm only calling him "the Client" here in an attempt to restore some focus to my thoughts, to remind myself that this is still a job, that I still have a task to perform, one which is far from complete.

I suspected long ago what Wayne's secret was, but I ... I couldn't believe it. The man who came to me for help was weak, timid, shattered. Possibly the biggest bottom I've ever seen. He had the tough exterior of a businessman, or the remnants of one, but he melted in my presence. He wanted to melt. He'd been fighting the demons inside himself for years, and he was ready to unleash them.

He's been an excellent pupil. Every time we meet I have seen the gleam in his eye--the longing to explore ever deeper and darker realms, to push himself to places he's never been.

Only now I'm not so sure about that. About not having seen these places before; a man in his shoes has seen more than most. But there was something holding him back from experiencing it all.

So: I suspected, but I did not know. Now that I do, so much about him makes sense.

After he opened the case last Friday, I said almost nothing. Tried hard not to reveal any response whatsoever. I thought for a moment that I still had it wrong: that this ... this thing he held in his hands represented who he wanted to be, not who he was. We stood there together in silence for what must have been half an hour, our eyes barely blinking, and when I was convinced this wasn't simply a fantasy on his part I sent him back to his quarters. I left that night and returned here to Gotham. I gave him written instructions to spend the time alone in quiet study as before; informed him I would be coming for him soon to continue our work.

That time has almost arrived.

Eventually, I will share something of myself with him--it must be said; there is no other way. But for now, we have other tasks to accomplish. This job is unlike any I have other done--but I have faith that I have been called to do it for a reason.

199. The omniscient narrator

The moment he was untied, Bruce Wayne left the main room and headed for his quarters. Along the way, he reviewed the events of the past summer: the time he'd invested in these sessions, and the intense sensations they had provoked within him. He remembered mornings he'd been ordered to crawl to Gustavus's side and remain there, on all fours, until his mentor reached down and mussed his hair. He recalled afternoons suspended in a sling while Gustavus conducted a series of "experiments" on his orifices with objects black and smooth... evenings bent doubled over a board until his legs went numb... midnight sessions with hot wax and cold ice. He heard once more the snap of a rubber glove over one of Gustavus's large hands, the crack of a whip as it headed for his bare back, the buzz of an electrical device attached to his flesh. He smelled leather and wood and sweat and oil and a host of chemicals intended to manipulate his body and mind, each in a different way.

He hadn't loved it all equally, but he had learned from each new exploration. His earlier training had given him practice dealing with all manner of abuse, but this time around he was taking stock of which treatments brought him ... pleasure, and how that pleasure could be used to lift his consciousness to another plane. This was not about making the world a better place, not about avenging his parents' death: this was about something entirely different. This internal quest, he was now convinced, was his true calling.

He knew, too, that his feelings for Gustavus were growing ever more powerful. He knew this was strictly a business transaction, and he knew, too, that this ever-growing emotional response was a necessary component of the "treatment," but neither of those facts diminished the intensity of what was happening.

It wasn't just Gustavus, either. There was Richard, and the Riddler, even Hugo Strange, and so many other men. A few of them he considered friends, most enemies--but he realized now those were simply categories intended to smooth over deeper concerns. There would be time, he knew, to revisit all these things--but for now, he had a mission. An assignment.

He headed straight for a slim black suitcase tucked away in the closet of his chambers, then returned to the room where Gustavus stood in waiting. He put the case down on a table and looked to his mentor for guidance.

"Open it," Gustavus said.

198. The omniscient narrator

Bruce Wayne sat alone in the enormous room, naked, bound to a chair at the wrists and ankles. He'd been here for at least twelve hours, and he'd spent most of that period stiff as a board.

Solitary confinement gave him plenty of time to reflect back on the past month. The sessions with Gustavus had been put on hold for a week and a half when word hit that a massive storm had decimated much of the nation's southern coast. Wayne had sent two trucks of supplies to New Orleans days after the hurricane, only to find them turned away by confused and overly territorial officials. Outraged that no federal relief had yet arrived, he'd stormed into his senator's Gotham office and demanded that action be taken--but nothing came of it.

He felt powerless, a perception that only grew stronger as the days passed. Each day brought fresh reports of law enforcement officers walking off the job in a state of shock, sometimes even killing themselves. Lawlessness had gripped the land--and he, as Batman, was one man who could do something about it. Only he'd abandoned that job, a failure. It was too big, and he was too small. What use is a lone, broken being reduced to the level of "Object X" in the face of such a global catastrophe, he asked himself.

The Wayne Foundation seemed the best and only way that he could help, and he made relief efforts the organization's top priority for the immediate future. Then Richard contacted him--via Alfred--with a plan to head down South as a volunteer in the reconstruction. Bruce insisted on covering all of Grayson's expenses on the trip.

All of this made it hard to think about the dark path of self-exploration with Gustavus. The sessions seemed like an obscene luxury in the face of so much suffering. What right did he, millionaire Bruce Wayne, have to pay outrageous sums to have himself tormented and abused when, elsewhere in the nation, men, women, and children were desperate for a drink of water?

It was Alfred who convinced him otherwise. "Innocent people will suffer no matter what you do or don't do, Master Bruce," he'd said. "They have done so throughout history, and will most likely continue to do so for the foreseeable future. But at the moment you are suffering, too, sir--and you are unable to help them, or anyone else, until you first get help for yourself."

And so Bruce found himself here, bound to this chair, in a state of high arousal--merely the latest in another extended round of activities devised by Gustavus. He'd been caged, collared, shocked, whipped, suspended upside down, forced to drink and eat the foulest of substances, and otherwise treated like the lowest form of life. And he'd admitted, first to himself and then out loud, that this treatment brought him unspeakable satisfaction. Not pleasure, mind you: more a sense of calm, of tranquility, of empowerment. These were the things, he whispered ony to himself, that had first driven him to don a cowl and assume the life of a "caped crusader" of the kind he'd imagined as a child. Only now he knew he did not need to pretend that he was a hero, a crimefighter, anything but an explorer of private realms.

Gustavus entered the room silently and forcefully. His presence was, as always, unmistakable. He began untying Bruce.

"Before we began this latest session, I told you to bring something with you to the retreat center. Do you remember what it was?" Gustavus asked.

"Yes, sir," Bruce said meekly.

"Tell me."

"You told me to pack something that was the outward embodiment of my innermost self. An expression of all my hidden secrets. The one side of myself I have not yet shown you."

"And did you obey me?" Gustavus asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Then go get it and bring it to me. The time has come."

"I will, sir."

197. Dick Grayson (letter from the coast of Mississippi)

Dear Bruce,
I know it's been a while, but ever since I got here I haven't had a second to sit down and write you a thank-you letter. It's way overdue, but given the circumstances I trust you can cut me some slack.

Everything has been moving so fast these last few weeks--not unlike the storm itself. It's kind of funny, because my life had slowed to a crawl over the spring and the summer, ever since I left you and the Manor.

I guess this isn't really the place to talk about that. I just hope you can somehow understand what it was like for me: knowing that a huge, unforgiveable mistake on my part nearly brought your life and my own to an end. There were times, when I got back to my own place and had to face the prospect of starting all over again from scratch, that I just wanted to destroy myself once and for all--to wipe out whatever remained of my identity after Dr. Strange had his way with me.

I want you to know that I missed you more than I can ever say. I just couldn't face you--and by "you" I mean both Bruce Wayne and Batman. I loved both sides of you, even if there were times I thought what I felt was something much darker.

It seems crass to bring up finances under the circumstances, but I'm going to anyway. I don't know how to thank you enough for your generosity. Even after I left the job of Robin, even after it seemed like you'd never see me again, you continued to send me those monthly checks, which meant that I didn't have to think about a job while I was trying to rebuild my shattered psyche.

And now you are paying for this extended trip down to the Gulf Coast! If I did have a steady job, there is no way I could afford to leave it for weeks, months, maybe a year, to do this work I am now engaged in, helping to rebuild this place. Alfred tells me that in addition to covering the cost of my travels, you have donated an immense amount to a host of relief-related charities. That doesn't surprise me, but it moves me deeply.

I wish you could see the things I have seen since I came down here. These people have lost everything. Crime is rampant, but much of it is driven by abject poverty. I spent several days in New Orleans battling roving gangs exactly like the ones we had to confront in Gotham, only these have been pushed to the point of sheer insanity. (That town needs a Batman even more than our own--I wish to god it could be you, but I know that I of all people can't ask that of you.) The kind of work I'm doing now does not involve a mask or a costume--but I know that I would not be able to do it without the training and the confidence you gave me.

I honestly don't know how long I'm going to stay. I feel like, in some small way, I am doing this in order to atone for the great damage I caused when I tried to play the role of your sidekick. Or maybe I'm trying to rebuild a community as a way of trying to rebuild my own battered coast. It sounds selfish when I put it that way, and I guess there's no getting around that. But I look at it, also, as a way to continue what I was doing as Robin, only in a different setting. Lord knows it calls for many of the same skills--skills I only possess because of your faith in me.

I hope you are well. I know we haven't spoken except through Alfred for ages now, and maybe one day that will change. But I sense that each of us has something we need to do for the time being, something we must do alone. Perhaps a time will come when ...

I don't know. I don't even want to speculate about what the future may bring. All I want to do right now is finish this letter, take a cold sponge bath (we still don't have any safe hot water), and get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be another long, long day.

We don't have much access to technology, so I don't know when I'll be able to write again. But please know that I am thinking of you. In more ways than one, I wouldn't be here now if it weren't for you.

Love always,
Dick

196. Gustavus

Met with the Client in my office yesterday. I made clear in advance that this was merely a meeting, not a formal session, and thus our interactions were quite different than they have been of late. The discussion was necessary and valuable as a chance for both of us to check in regarding the progress of the program. Wayne seems pleased so far, and is more than willing to proceed. I have arranged for him to join me at the retreat center again this weekend.

I must note here that I am beginning to develop an emotional bond with the Client. This transference is an inevitable step in the process, as I well know, and for both our sakes it is essential that I observe certain boundaries as we press on.

195. Alfred

Master Bruce is home again, though he says he may be called away again at any moment. He has not talked about what he has been doing, and I of course do not ask, but I can see that it has affected him on some deep level. I only hope the change is for the best.

I continue to manage the financial affairs of Master Richard as well, although I have not spoken to him since his departure from the Manor.

I never dreamed I would say this during my lifetime, but It looks as though the era of Batman--and Robin--is now over. While I initially disapproved of Master Bruce's decision to assume the role and am on some level relieved that both men are now safe, I grieve the loss of their contributions to the city, and I pray that someone or something will change, and soon.

194. Bruce

Back home now. The place feels slightly alien after my time away, and I do not know how long I will be here before Gustavus calls for me once more. Alfred has done his usual excellent job maintaining the residence and most of my business affairs in my absence.

The sessions are going remarkably well. One image is still fresh in my mind: my final night at the compound, just a few short days ago. After many hours in bondage, G. released me sometime Friday afternoon (I could only figure that out in retrospect, as I began to piece together the fragments of my experience and match them to something resembling conventional measurements of time). My limbs were so weak at first I could do little more than prop myself up on the ground. He removed the blindfold and gag and I saw that the room was flooded with harsh red light.

He gave me a pair of hiking boots and told me to put them on. They were the only clothes on my body. He handed me the stinking, crusted sweatpants and shirt I'd been wearing for so long and had me hold them in my hands as we walked out the rear door of the house and down a trail into the woods out back. The sun was just beginning to set as we began our journey.

I had no idea what was in store for me at the end of the trail. Naked and ordered by a fully clothed man, I felt like a prisoner of war being led to his execution. I feared--perhaps hoped, on some level?--that all my trust had been mislaid, and that this was indeed my doom.

He took me to a clearing and ordered me to gather branches for a bonfire. When I was done, he directed me to a large old tree and bound me to its trunk. I remained there, immobile and silent, until the sky was pitch black. He lit the fire and waited for it to grow to its full potential before untying me.

The sweatpants and shirt were at my feet. "Cast them in," he said, and I did. We both watched as they burned into ash, and then saw the ash carried upward into the sky and out of sight.

"We are at a point of transition, Wayne," he told me. "Your old self is gone now. We shall rest a while, and then begin the process of creating your new skin."

We sat and watched the fire until it had burned itself out, a process which took hours. It seemed to me that the Gustavus I had come to know--ferocious, intimidating, larger than life--was softening a bit. I remembered I sometimes wanted to forget: that I had sought this man out. That he was not an enemy but a helper. A teacher. I looked him and realized that I ... wanted him. Wanted him to like me. To love me. He already knew more about me than almost anyone else I'd ever met.

And I realized then and there that, should the proper opportunity arise, I wanted to show him even more.

193. Gustavus

Wayne's chest and upper arms are pocked with cuts, bruises, and every manner of abuse. Some of the scars appear to be several years old. I knew he was interested in extreme states of various kinds, but I honestly had no idea the depth of his commitment. Whether these marks are self-inflicted or imposed by others by request--or against his will--I cannot say. Clearly, something is going on that he has not told me about.

I released him from the closet last night and led him to the formal dungeon, where I bound him to a post. I blindfolded and gagged him, much to his evident delight. He is there now, still naked and presumably wide awake.

Tonight I will lead him into the woods behind the compound for the final stage of the current phase of therapy. He will be instructed to bring the clothes I made him wear during the last several days, and to burn them in a bonfire as a signal that he is ready to move on.

Tomorrow he will be released. We will reconvene in my office back in Gotham. There are a few things I need to investigate before we go any farther.

192. The omniscient narrator

A skilled locksmith, Batman could have made his way out of the closet in seconds. But that side of Bruce Wayne was long gone now, and he chose to wait in silence and darkness until Gustavus returned for him.

That took more than twelve hours. When Gustavus opened the door at last, he found Wayne slumped against the wall of the tiny room, sleeping. The pants were still on his head. This one really is a true bottom, the standing man thought.

"Get out here," he commanded. "Crawl."

If Wayne had a shred of dignity left, it was buried so deep inside him that neither man could find it.

"Take those goddam pants off your head, fool," Gustavus said. "The shirt, too."

Bruce pulled the sweatshirt over his head and tossed it to the ground.

Gustavus got a good look at his pupil's naked body for the first time. Holy shit, he thought to himself. Holy fucking shit.

191. The omniscient narrator

Of course, Bruce did not have to be told where to aim his spunk; it added a fresh coat to the inside of his sweatpants, and he gave thanks that it was there instead of trapped inside him.

"Take them off," Gustavus ordered, and Bruce stepped out of the sweats he'd been wearing for a week and a half. "Behold your past," the Master said. "Embrace it, so that we can put it behind you."

Bruce looked confused.

"Jesus Christ, do I have to explain everything to you, boy?" Gustavus snapped. He pointed at the spot on the floor where the discarded pants lay. "Get down there. NOW." Bruce lowered himself to the ground once more. "Smell them. Press your head in nice and close."

Once again, Bruce did as he was told, rubbing his face into the warm, wet patch at the crotch. As close as he was, he could distinguish between the fresh moistness of the most recent spurt and the earlier layers of crust.

"Hmmm. Not good enough," Gustavus said. "Put them on. Over your head."

Without even a second's misgivings, Bruce Wayne rose to a squatting position, picked up the filthy sweatpants, and wore them on his head. He felt ridiculous. In the darkness, he heard the door close and lock shut.

190. The omniscient narrator

As Wayne slept on the hard cold kitchen floor, he dreamed of life back in Strange's cage. He dreamed he'd never left, that weeks--months--years had passed, and he was still the captive Object X. The time he'd spent in Strange's possession now far outweighed the relatively brief period he'd spent as Batman, and he understood at last that his entire career as "Caped Crusader" had only served to prepare him for his true purpose: to cater to Strange's every whim. He would grow old--he had grown older, in fact, and weaker and thinner and more pathetic every day--in this living hell. There was no way out.

He knew beyond a doubt that Bruce Wayne had been declared dead long ago. Alfred, following Wayne's own orders, would surely have constructed a tragic tale by now to explain his extended disappearance. He mattered to no one anymore except this one man, who treated him like a clump of dirt at best. He had no life except this meager caged existence. He was a laughingstock to himself and to the only two other men who even knew he was still alive: Hugo Strange and Robin, the former Dick Grayson.

Yes, Robin--or rather, Object Y. He was there, too, only his fate was rather different. Strange had taught him to hate his one-time mentor--and for good reason, too, since Batman was solely and directly responsible for Robin's presence in the mad doctor's clutches. "You destroyed me," the younger man would say as he stood outside Batman's cage, pointing at him. "But He saved me. He remade me. I am his now. All because of you." Bruce turned and saw Strange embrace Robin. The two men kissed and laughed and gazed affectionately into each other's eyes. The two of them mocked the prisoner ruthlessly. He was nothing but a joke to them. A joke which had grown old and would soon pass into nothingness...

"GET UP," a voice said. It belonged not to Robin or Strange but... Gustavus. Bruce wearily returned to consciousness. Opening his eyes one at a time, he saw a pair of black dress shoes and dress pants standing before him. Gustavus had changed into something more formal than his earlier attire. "For god's sake. Have you smelled yourself lately?" Bruce took a whiff of the air around himself as he rose to his feet: he hadn't bathed or removed his clothes since Gustavus' arrival over a week before, and he reeked of sweat, cum, dirt, and food.

"Come with me," his Master demanded, and Bruce followed into another room. This one--a closet of some kind?--was empty and dark. The floor was concrete, and in time Bruce was directed to kneel for a familiar routine. Gustavus snapped his fingers, and Wayne--like a trained animal--began to jerk himself off again. There was no conventional pleasure in this act anymore, only physical pain and a vague awareness of how humiliating it was to be reduced to this state, day after day, at another man's command. Even if he had chosen all of this for himself: what did that say about him, anyway?

Wayne had no trouble selecting an image to reflect on while he did his duty: he replayed the material from the dream he'd just have, one element at a time... The cage. Robin/Y scolding and berating him. Strange's utter and irreversible victory. His own unthinkable failure...

He was on the verge of shooting and then stopped himself, knowing this was surely just the beginning of another punishing ban on erotic release.

"Keep going," Gustavus barked. "I didn't tell you to stop, did I?"

"N-no sir," Wayne replied, resuming his assignment. He pictured himself at the very end of his life, having spent decades in that damned cage, forgotten by the rest of the world, his entire existence a complete waste of...

"Let it out," Gustavus prodded. "NOW."