It's about fucking time.
It's about taking time to do it right: making sure to seat your slave in the proper chair, to double-check that his ass is placed just so (since for all he knows he will be planted there for a long, lonnnnnng time), to guarantee that his ankles are flush with the legs of the chair, that his forearms mesh with the arms of the chair, that the ropes are wrapped with care, around and around and around his chest, his limbs, every inch of his body.
It's about pulling those ropes tight and taut, about standing next to your captive and listening to his breathing, trying to read what his eyes are saying. His eyes are all he has, the rest of his face buried beneath a mask and a gag.
He does not struggle. He knows you are not an enemy but a friend. A very special kind of friend. One who knows him inside and out, one who loves him in a way few men can understand.
I stood beside him until I grew tired of standing, then I pulled up a chair and sat beside him, still staring at him, not saying a word even though I alone had the ability to speak. It was the longest time we have been together in months, and I wanted to make the most of it.
As I sat there, I got an idea. And today I acted on it.
With B's approval (once he'd freed himself from his restraints), I asked Alfred to make me a suit of my own. A very special suit.
For a very special role.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Friday, March 10, 2006
232. Dick Grayson
Cameron, LA
It's been more than five months since the hurricanes, and it's amazing how much work remains to be done. And to be brutally honest, I just don't know how much longer I can do it. Never thought I'd say this, but being Robin was, in a way, so much easier: swoop down on the bad guys, tie them up, alert the police, end of story. (Well, that's how it went when it worked...) This cleanup job is so completely different. It just goes on and on and on. Every time we think we've made some progress, we head to a new town, like this one, and it's time to start from scratch. So much destruction, so much pain, so little hope. I'm seriously thinking about calling it quits and moving back to Gotham. But would that make me ... a quitter? I left that place when things went wrong (horribly wrong), and now that I realize it's not going so great down here, I dream of going back?
I don't know. I just don't know.
Meanwhile, it's been almost a month since I opened Ollie's suitcase and found ... a pair of my own tights! The green leggings I wore as Robin. I don't know how he got his hands on them, or what he knows about me, or why we still haven't talked about this, but we haven't. Granted, I didn't look too closely--just saw them, shut the case, and tried to go about my business. I keep meaning to bring it up, and I haven't found a way to do it without admitting that I was snooping around where I shouldn't have.
Other than that gaping hole in the trust department, things are going great between us. We keep moving from one town or city to another either together or within a few days of each other, sharing sleeping quarters, and fucking like bunnies. Sometimes I fantasize myself being the meat in a Bruce-and-Ollie sandwich, and I like what I see. Strictly for selfish reasons, I'd love to introduce those two to each other--
--or not. I mean, two emotionally cold but physically hot daddies in the same room? I'd either freeze or melt. Or both!
It's been more than five months since the hurricanes, and it's amazing how much work remains to be done. And to be brutally honest, I just don't know how much longer I can do it. Never thought I'd say this, but being Robin was, in a way, so much easier: swoop down on the bad guys, tie them up, alert the police, end of story. (Well, that's how it went when it worked...) This cleanup job is so completely different. It just goes on and on and on. Every time we think we've made some progress, we head to a new town, like this one, and it's time to start from scratch. So much destruction, so much pain, so little hope. I'm seriously thinking about calling it quits and moving back to Gotham. But would that make me ... a quitter? I left that place when things went wrong (horribly wrong), and now that I realize it's not going so great down here, I dream of going back?
I don't know. I just don't know.
Meanwhile, it's been almost a month since I opened Ollie's suitcase and found ... a pair of my own tights! The green leggings I wore as Robin. I don't know how he got his hands on them, or what he knows about me, or why we still haven't talked about this, but we haven't. Granted, I didn't look too closely--just saw them, shut the case, and tried to go about my business. I keep meaning to bring it up, and I haven't found a way to do it without admitting that I was snooping around where I shouldn't have.
Other than that gaping hole in the trust department, things are going great between us. We keep moving from one town or city to another either together or within a few days of each other, sharing sleeping quarters, and fucking like bunnies. Sometimes I fantasize myself being the meat in a Bruce-and-Ollie sandwich, and I like what I see. Strictly for selfish reasons, I'd love to introduce those two to each other--
--or not. I mean, two emotionally cold but physically hot daddies in the same room? I'd either freeze or melt. Or both!
Thursday, March 09, 2006
231. The omniscient narrator
The Batmobile roared to a stop at its designated spot in the Cave. The headlights faded out, and the driver exited the vehicle. It took him less than a minute to pull the cowl off his head and grab a towel to dab the sweat that had gathered beneath the mask.
"Long night?" Carl Gustavus asked, not bothering to look up from his copy of the Gotham Gazette. Bruce had taken to calling him "Carl" for the last two months (when he called him anything at all, that is), a subtle indicator that the power dynamic between them had shifted.
Bruce said nothing and began to unfasten his cape. He'd sustained a few minor injuries during the evening's adventures and was eager to treat them quickly. Nothing major, just a couple of cuts and scrapes--the sort of thing Alfred was so very good at handling, only he had the night off.
In the last several weeks, this had all become routine: Batman gone for hours, sometimes until after sunrise, then the silent treatment upon his return. Work seemed to be the only thing on his mind. He had a city to save, after all.
Gustavus's presence in the Batcave was the only thing even slightly out of the ordinary about this particular morning. Since early February--a week or two into Batman's re-emergence--the former mentor had been spending more and more time in his own home, even working with clients after a long break. There was no point in camping out at Wayne Manor any more, he reasoned, since Bruce was never there, and they barely ever even touched each other, let alone made love.
"We have to talk," Gustavus said in a low tone that resembled Batman's studied growl. "This is madness. I was all in favor of your returning to work, but now that you've been doing it for a while, I don't see any place for me in your life. You're gone half the night, and I fucking HATE sitting here waiting for you to return. It's not my style to play the housewife. Do you have any idea what it's--"
Gustavus looked up and saw that Batman wasn't even paying attention to this monologue. And yes, he was Batman again--the cowl was back in place, and he was reaching for something in his belt. Goddammit! Was he heading out on some fucking case again, at this hour?
The masked man turned and faced Gustavus. There was passion in his eyes. "Tie me up," he said. It was half an order and half a plea. "Use this." Batman handed his lover a length of rope from the utility belt, and offered his outstretched arms as a starting point.
"Long night?" Carl Gustavus asked, not bothering to look up from his copy of the Gotham Gazette. Bruce had taken to calling him "Carl" for the last two months (when he called him anything at all, that is), a subtle indicator that the power dynamic between them had shifted.
Bruce said nothing and began to unfasten his cape. He'd sustained a few minor injuries during the evening's adventures and was eager to treat them quickly. Nothing major, just a couple of cuts and scrapes--the sort of thing Alfred was so very good at handling, only he had the night off.
In the last several weeks, this had all become routine: Batman gone for hours, sometimes until after sunrise, then the silent treatment upon his return. Work seemed to be the only thing on his mind. He had a city to save, after all.
Gustavus's presence in the Batcave was the only thing even slightly out of the ordinary about this particular morning. Since early February--a week or two into Batman's re-emergence--the former mentor had been spending more and more time in his own home, even working with clients after a long break. There was no point in camping out at Wayne Manor any more, he reasoned, since Bruce was never there, and they barely ever even touched each other, let alone made love.
"We have to talk," Gustavus said in a low tone that resembled Batman's studied growl. "This is madness. I was all in favor of your returning to work, but now that you've been doing it for a while, I don't see any place for me in your life. You're gone half the night, and I fucking HATE sitting here waiting for you to return. It's not my style to play the housewife. Do you have any idea what it's--"
Gustavus looked up and saw that Batman wasn't even paying attention to this monologue. And yes, he was Batman again--the cowl was back in place, and he was reaching for something in his belt. Goddammit! Was he heading out on some fucking case again, at this hour?
The masked man turned and faced Gustavus. There was passion in his eyes. "Tie me up," he said. It was half an order and half a plea. "Use this." Batman handed his lover a length of rope from the utility belt, and offered his outstretched arms as a starting point.
Monday, March 06, 2006
230. THE GOTHAM GAZETTE
RUMORS FLY: IS THE BAT REALLY BACK?
By Thomas Drury
Staff Reporter
Almost one year after his presumed death, alleged sightings of the fabled character Gotham City once dubbed "The Batman" have resumed at a dizzying rate. In the last two months, more than three dozen people have reported seeing the masked vigilante on the prowl once again. Dressed in his trademark mask and cape, the mysterious individual--or perhaps a copycat--has intervened in an unknown number of petty crimes.
Not everyone is convinced the rumors have any validity. "Wishful thinking," sniffed police detective Harvey Bullock. "This town is goin' to hell, and people are lookin' for a savior from the skies. Sorry to burst yer bubble, folks, but there ain't no such thing as a 'Bat-Man.' If you want to save this city, you're goin' to have to do it yourself."
At least five of the accounts have been dismissed as prank calls, but the rest are being taken seriously by the GCPD.
[story continues on page B6]
By Thomas Drury
Staff Reporter
Almost one year after his presumed death, alleged sightings of the fabled character Gotham City once dubbed "The Batman" have resumed at a dizzying rate. In the last two months, more than three dozen people have reported seeing the masked vigilante on the prowl once again. Dressed in his trademark mask and cape, the mysterious individual--or perhaps a copycat--has intervened in an unknown number of petty crimes.
Not everyone is convinced the rumors have any validity. "Wishful thinking," sniffed police detective Harvey Bullock. "This town is goin' to hell, and people are lookin' for a savior from the skies. Sorry to burst yer bubble, folks, but there ain't no such thing as a 'Bat-Man.' If you want to save this city, you're goin' to have to do it yourself."
At least five of the accounts have been dismissed as prank calls, but the rest are being taken seriously by the GCPD.
[story continues on page B6]
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
229. Dick
Mobile, AL
Ah, Valentine's Day.
Oliver and I actually celebrated it last night, even in the middle of the chaos of our lives. We had a nice romantic dinner at a place recommended by one of our new friends, then headed back to the motel where we've been staying for the last week and fucked like bunnies.
And then, of course, he left. Middle of the night, just like always.
I was pissed. I admit it. And in my anger, I did something I really, really shouldn't have done.
I looked through his luggage. I admit it: I was mad at him, and I just thought, the hell with it. I opened his suitcases and went through his clothes and generally just invaded his fucking space.
And what I found took me completely by surprise.
Ah, Valentine's Day.
Oliver and I actually celebrated it last night, even in the middle of the chaos of our lives. We had a nice romantic dinner at a place recommended by one of our new friends, then headed back to the motel where we've been staying for the last week and fucked like bunnies.
And then, of course, he left. Middle of the night, just like always.
I was pissed. I admit it. And in my anger, I did something I really, really shouldn't have done.
I looked through his luggage. I admit it: I was mad at him, and I just thought, the hell with it. I opened his suitcases and went through his clothes and generally just invaded his fucking space.
And what I found took me completely by surprise.
Monday, January 30, 2006
228. Dick
Baton Rouge, LA
I think I"m at a crossroads here: in some ways, I feel like I've completed the task I came to do. And yet, there is still so much work to be done--for these people, for this region--that if I leave, I will be abandoning them, passing them by as the rest of the world is on the verge of doing. Our national attention span is so short; we can only handle one crisis--AIDS, a brutal dictator, a terrorist attack, a tsunami, a hurricane--at a time, and we can only "handle" it until it begins to bore us or we grow distracted by another one. I don't want to be one of those people who gets behind the Crisis du Jour for as long as it's fashionable and then moves on.
And yet...
And yet, it's so clear to me that this is not my home, that this way of life, constantly moving from one town to another (using Baton Rouge as our current base of operations), is not for me, any more than dressing up in a costume and fighting bad guys all night long. Though I must say that line of work is not looking so bad at the moment.
Oliver doesn't have the same problem. He's a nomad at heart; he's been doing this for years. Decades, even. I've noticed that when people ask him where he's from, he usually changes the subject. "Somewhere else," or "I don't remember" are his two favorite vague responses. Lots of times people don't even ask; they just assume--in larger cities, like this one or New Orleans--that he's a resident.
He's a man of mystery, all right. That business of getting up in the middle of the night and disappearing until sometime a day or two later is getting old. I've tried to talk to him about it, but he's just as evasive as ever.
So, I don't know what I'm going to do, or where I'm going to go, next. I just feel like "next" is here, or will be, soon.
I think I"m at a crossroads here: in some ways, I feel like I've completed the task I came to do. And yet, there is still so much work to be done--for these people, for this region--that if I leave, I will be abandoning them, passing them by as the rest of the world is on the verge of doing. Our national attention span is so short; we can only handle one crisis--AIDS, a brutal dictator, a terrorist attack, a tsunami, a hurricane--at a time, and we can only "handle" it until it begins to bore us or we grow distracted by another one. I don't want to be one of those people who gets behind the Crisis du Jour for as long as it's fashionable and then moves on.
And yet...
And yet, it's so clear to me that this is not my home, that this way of life, constantly moving from one town to another (using Baton Rouge as our current base of operations), is not for me, any more than dressing up in a costume and fighting bad guys all night long. Though I must say that line of work is not looking so bad at the moment.
Oliver doesn't have the same problem. He's a nomad at heart; he's been doing this for years. Decades, even. I've noticed that when people ask him where he's from, he usually changes the subject. "Somewhere else," or "I don't remember" are his two favorite vague responses. Lots of times people don't even ask; they just assume--in larger cities, like this one or New Orleans--that he's a resident.
He's a man of mystery, all right. That business of getting up in the middle of the night and disappearing until sometime a day or two later is getting old. I've tried to talk to him about it, but he's just as evasive as ever.
So, I don't know what I'm going to do, or where I'm going to go, next. I just feel like "next" is here, or will be, soon.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
227. Gustavus
More than a week has passed since Batman's return.
So far, so good: B. has not gone out every single night; closer to every other one. The times he stays in, he works just as hard--and I am right by his side, uncomfortable with this shift in my role but willing to assume it in the service of a greater good.
And I do believe there is a higher purpose in all of this, one that involves not just him now but me as well.
Alfred assures me I have been lucky so far, that the worst is yet to come. B. has focused his attention on smalltime crooks, muggers, street trash. Nothing major, and no major battle wounds yet. But the moment he faces a truly powerful adversary, all of that will change. I try to brace myself for the inevitable.
I look at him in that suit and I wish to hell he never had to leave the Cave.
So far, so good: B. has not gone out every single night; closer to every other one. The times he stays in, he works just as hard--and I am right by his side, uncomfortable with this shift in my role but willing to assume it in the service of a greater good.
And I do believe there is a higher purpose in all of this, one that involves not just him now but me as well.
Alfred assures me I have been lucky so far, that the worst is yet to come. B. has focused his attention on smalltime crooks, muggers, street trash. Nothing major, and no major battle wounds yet. But the moment he faces a truly powerful adversary, all of that will change. I try to brace myself for the inevitable.
I look at him in that suit and I wish to hell he never had to leave the Cave.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
226. Gustavus
I was not prepared for this part.
The waiting, that is.
In all our endless discussions about Bruce returning to face his true calling, it never once occured to me that I would be stuck here in his goddammed house all night long while he goes out with the specific purpose of nearly getting himself killed.
I can't sleep, I can't work, I can't do a fucking thing.
All my life I have been the man in charge. I feel comfortable in that role. It suits me. But now, for the first time, I am not in control of a goddammed thing.
He says it won't be long tonight, that this is merely a test run, and he'll be home soon. But it's been four hours, and I keep thinking: What if it's too soon? What if he's not ready? We've both had dreams--nightmares, really--that the big day comes and something happens to him. Hugo Strange returns, or something triggers a flashback, or just some maniac with a gun shows up and blows him away. Unlikely, I know--and in Strange's case, impossible--but the fear is still there.
And it won't always be four hours. Alfred has already tried to warn me about that. Sometimes it will be twelve hours. Four days. Sometimes he's been captured and held for four weeks. I don't know how the fuck I'm supposed to handle this.
All I have for now is the memory of him putting on that suit last night, one piece at a time. The way it clung so tightly to his body--a body which has never looked better, at least in my experience. I watched him slip into the bodysuit, pull the boots up around his calves, snap the belt around his waist, fasten the clasps of the cape. Then came the cowl, and the gloves, and suddenly it was not Bruce Wayne but Batman standing before me. I'd seen him suit up in the last days of training, but this was different. This was the real thing.
I wanted to kiss him, but I held back. It felt wrong--it felt like affection, even in fhe privacy of the cave, would soften him in a way he cannot afford. As long as he's in that suit, he's not a man, he's the Batman. He's invulnerable. Or so it must seem.
And what about me? What kind of man am I, waiting up for his goddammed hubby to return from a day at the office?
Fuck. I hate this already, and it's only just beginning.
The waiting, that is.
In all our endless discussions about Bruce returning to face his true calling, it never once occured to me that I would be stuck here in his goddammed house all night long while he goes out with the specific purpose of nearly getting himself killed.
I can't sleep, I can't work, I can't do a fucking thing.
All my life I have been the man in charge. I feel comfortable in that role. It suits me. But now, for the first time, I am not in control of a goddammed thing.
He says it won't be long tonight, that this is merely a test run, and he'll be home soon. But it's been four hours, and I keep thinking: What if it's too soon? What if he's not ready? We've both had dreams--nightmares, really--that the big day comes and something happens to him. Hugo Strange returns, or something triggers a flashback, or just some maniac with a gun shows up and blows him away. Unlikely, I know--and in Strange's case, impossible--but the fear is still there.
And it won't always be four hours. Alfred has already tried to warn me about that. Sometimes it will be twelve hours. Four days. Sometimes he's been captured and held for four weeks. I don't know how the fuck I'm supposed to handle this.
All I have for now is the memory of him putting on that suit last night, one piece at a time. The way it clung so tightly to his body--a body which has never looked better, at least in my experience. I watched him slip into the bodysuit, pull the boots up around his calves, snap the belt around his waist, fasten the clasps of the cape. Then came the cowl, and the gloves, and suddenly it was not Bruce Wayne but Batman standing before me. I'd seen him suit up in the last days of training, but this was different. This was the real thing.
I wanted to kiss him, but I held back. It felt wrong--it felt like affection, even in fhe privacy of the cave, would soften him in a way he cannot afford. As long as he's in that suit, he's not a man, he's the Batman. He's invulnerable. Or so it must seem.
And what about me? What kind of man am I, waiting up for his goddammed hubby to return from a day at the office?
Fuck. I hate this already, and it's only just beginning.
Monday, January 16, 2006
225. Batman
It has been almost two months since I rededicated myself to my career as Batman. I have worked quickly but unceasingly to prepare myself once again, and it is comforting to realize that it generally takes me only a few days now to pick up skills that first took me years to develop. Strange had me convinced that I had lost everything, but it has become clear to me that this was just another of his lies.
My training is almost complete. My weapons are ready. My uniform fits me well. My mind is sharp. My will is firm.
The time has come to resume the work I was meant to do.
My training is almost complete. My weapons are ready. My uniform fits me well. My mind is sharp. My will is firm.
The time has come to resume the work I was meant to do.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
224. Anonymous
Although I am still but a child in the world of evil, just beginning my journey through crime and villainy, I continue to grow in strength and force. Soon all of Gotham shall be mine.
On this day on which mere mortals amuse themselves by making trivial little resolutions and promising in vain to improve themselves, I have a vow of my own:
I hereby devote every fiber of my being to the destruction of reason, the annhiliation of safety, and the eternal reign of despair. I shall spread fear and hatred throughout the land.
Gotham is a city on the brink.
I shall provide the push that sends it over the edge.
On this day on which mere mortals amuse themselves by making trivial little resolutions and promising in vain to improve themselves, I have a vow of my own:
I hereby devote every fiber of my being to the destruction of reason, the annhiliation of safety, and the eternal reign of despair. I shall spread fear and hatred throughout the land.
Gotham is a city on the brink.
I shall provide the push that sends it over the edge.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
223. Gustavus
Christmas came and went without much notice around Wayne Manor. Bruce continues to train with ever-increasing intensity, and I cannot say that I much missed the holiday myself. On the one occasion that the subject came up--two days ago, during a break, as he sat sipping water in his sweat-soaked tights--he admitted what I'd long suspected: that the season is a painful one for him, reminding him not only of the death of his parents but, more recently, the personal downfall that began around this time last year.
I could see it was hard for him to talk about--so many things are, though the ice has melted significantly since I first met him--so I wrapped my arm around him and held him tight for a long, quiet moment. I could feel and smell the perspiration gather around his neck and armpits, and I brushed my spare hand through the moisture to smooth some of it away. I kissed the top of his head and each of his ears, nuzzling the lobes against my lips and wishing like hell there was some other life in store for the two of us.
Then it was back to work.
I could see it was hard for him to talk about--so many things are, though the ice has melted significantly since I first met him--so I wrapped my arm around him and held him tight for a long, quiet moment. I could feel and smell the perspiration gather around his neck and armpits, and I brushed my spare hand through the moisture to smooth some of it away. I kissed the top of his head and each of his ears, nuzzling the lobes against my lips and wishing like hell there was some other life in store for the two of us.
Then it was back to work.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
222. Dick
Slidell, Louisiana
If you'd told me a year ago I'd be spending Christmas Eve in a place like this, doing what I've been doing, I would have told you you were out of your mind.
Come to think of it, I was out of my mind--literally--this time last year. So maybe I should change the subject.
Today I did pretty much what I've been doing for the last few months, which is pretty much whatever the volunteer coordinator of the moment tells me. This time that meant we distributed toys, clothes and other gifts to families in the area for hours, along with hot meals, which was both exhausting and totally exhilirating. It doesn't look much like Christmas around here--few homes are decorated in any way--but people are doing what they can to rebuild their lives.
After the sun went down, Oliver and I had dinner at a little place that just recently reopened. Nothing fancy, but it was exactly right. We didn't exchange gifts of any kind, unless you count some incredibly hot blow jobs. (God knows I counted those.)
And then, as he does almost every night, he left without a word of warning. At first that routine was kind of intriguing--where was he going? what was he doing?--but tonight it just kind of sucked. In all the weeks we've known each other, I don't think he's spent a full evening with me more than four times.
But I'm not about to complain. When he is aound, he's the warmest, gentlest, most attractive man on the planet.
Or one of them, at least. (Okay, so Bruce was never that warm or gentle, even on his best days. But you know what I mean.)
I wish I could give this entry some kind of Christmas Magic-y ending, and all would be right with the world and my little place in it. But that would be a lie. Things are hard, very hard, unbelievably hard, for the people of this area right now, and I'm spending my remaining energy with a guy who vanishes every night at midnight. Still, things could be worse, as recent events have taught me.
So, ho ho ho. Ho ho fucking ho.
If you'd told me a year ago I'd be spending Christmas Eve in a place like this, doing what I've been doing, I would have told you you were out of your mind.
Come to think of it, I was out of my mind--literally--this time last year. So maybe I should change the subject.
Today I did pretty much what I've been doing for the last few months, which is pretty much whatever the volunteer coordinator of the moment tells me. This time that meant we distributed toys, clothes and other gifts to families in the area for hours, along with hot meals, which was both exhausting and totally exhilirating. It doesn't look much like Christmas around here--few homes are decorated in any way--but people are doing what they can to rebuild their lives.
After the sun went down, Oliver and I had dinner at a little place that just recently reopened. Nothing fancy, but it was exactly right. We didn't exchange gifts of any kind, unless you count some incredibly hot blow jobs. (God knows I counted those.)
And then, as he does almost every night, he left without a word of warning. At first that routine was kind of intriguing--where was he going? what was he doing?--but tonight it just kind of sucked. In all the weeks we've known each other, I don't think he's spent a full evening with me more than four times.
But I'm not about to complain. When he is aound, he's the warmest, gentlest, most attractive man on the planet.
Or one of them, at least. (Okay, so Bruce was never that warm or gentle, even on his best days. But you know what I mean.)
I wish I could give this entry some kind of Christmas Magic-y ending, and all would be right with the world and my little place in it. But that would be a lie. Things are hard, very hard, unbelievably hard, for the people of this area right now, and I'm spending my remaining energy with a guy who vanishes every night at midnight. Still, things could be worse, as recent events have taught me.
So, ho ho ho. Ho ho fucking ho.
Friday, December 02, 2005
221. Gustavus
The changes in Bruce over the last few days are remarkable. As he continues to train his body, he grows ever more confident, ever stronger. He is literally a new man, or perhaps an improved version of the one he was long before I met him. I look at him in wonder; I cannot help thinking how far he has come since we first began working together.
On a related note, he has brought me further and further into his very unique training process. I had always thought that my own physical conditioning was rigorous, but his dedication in that department puts mine to shame. I work out alongside him, spot him on equipment, and spar with him during combat drills. During rest breaks, I continue to coach him in more esoteric realms, furthering the exercises we began months ago.
I cannot hide my excitement as I grapple with him in his sweats--aptly named, for he is frequently drenched in perspiration within minutes of beginning one of his gruelling sessions. Soon, he says, he will start to wear a stripped-down version of his costume during these routines, since its weight and bulk affect his stamina and balance significantly. Having seen him in the full outfit earlier, I must say I look forward to that transition.
On a related note, he has brought me further and further into his very unique training process. I had always thought that my own physical conditioning was rigorous, but his dedication in that department puts mine to shame. I work out alongside him, spot him on equipment, and spar with him during combat drills. During rest breaks, I continue to coach him in more esoteric realms, furthering the exercises we began months ago.
I cannot hide my excitement as I grapple with him in his sweats--aptly named, for he is frequently drenched in perspiration within minutes of beginning one of his gruelling sessions. Soon, he says, he will start to wear a stripped-down version of his costume during these routines, since its weight and bulk affect his stamina and balance significantly. Having seen him in the full outfit earlier, I must say I look forward to that transition.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
220. Dick
Gulfport, Mississippi
Writing the occasional letter to Bruce has reminded me what it was like to keep a journal, and makes me think that perhaps it's time to try that again.
Of course, the whole idea stirs up some very bad memories--cloudy though they may be. After all, it was Dr. Tanhoger who encouraged me to write down my most private thoughts, only to use them to bring down B. It's hard for me to write a word without wondering who's going to read it and what they will do with the information they discover.
And yet, I just feel the need to keep some kind of record of everything I've been going through since I came down here. I feel like a witness to history, and I'm not even sure I could find the words to express all that I've seen. Perhaps I should leave that to actual historians and journalists and write what cannot be said out loud. I've worked hard to put my past behind me, to find some way to undo the awful things I did not so very long ago. That job will occupy me for the rest of my days, but at least I feel, in some incremental way, like I am doing good.
And, if I may say so myself, I am having some pretty damn hot sex in the process. Oliver is an unbelievable lover--so confident and direct, and unabashedly masculine. He's a lot like Bruce, I admit, if Bruce were about a hundred times more secure in his sexuality. (He's also a lot hairier than Bruce--that goatee just drives me crazy! And let's not even get into that fur on his chest and forearms...)
On the other hand, he's every bit as eccentric as B; maybe even more so. It's hard as hell to get him to spend the night, since he's always getting up and heading out at the strangest hours. That part is a little too familiar, but I'm thankful for any time I get to spend with him.
He's used to life on the road--he hasn't told me much about his past, but I do know that he's got a long history of travelling from town to town. Years of it now, I'd bet. I think he might have been married at some point, and there may be a kid in the picture, but that's just a hunch. On the other hand, I'm convinced he spent some time as a priest or monk of some kind, judging from the books he carries around and the frequent references to various religious traditions he peppers his speech with.
One thing is certain: his politics are a hell of a lot closer to mine than Bruce's. But what am I doing, anyway, constantly comparing him to B? I guess it just shows I still feel something--okay, a lot--for the guy who changed my life forever.
Who am I kidding? Of course I'm still in love with Bruce--it's just all screwed up. Maybe forever. Oliver is here, and he's amazing, and neither of us has any illusions about the future. In this kind of setting, amidst this kind of devastation, illusions are impossible to maintain, anyway.
So I do the work I'm here to do, and I sleep with this hot man almost every night (or most of the night), and then I get up and begin all over again. The work is hard, and the romance is easy, and there's nothing else to occupy my mind in between. It's not the life I imagined for myself, and I know this period won't last forever, but while it's here I'm going to make the most of it.
Writing the occasional letter to Bruce has reminded me what it was like to keep a journal, and makes me think that perhaps it's time to try that again.
Of course, the whole idea stirs up some very bad memories--cloudy though they may be. After all, it was Dr. Tanhoger who encouraged me to write down my most private thoughts, only to use them to bring down B. It's hard for me to write a word without wondering who's going to read it and what they will do with the information they discover.
And yet, I just feel the need to keep some kind of record of everything I've been going through since I came down here. I feel like a witness to history, and I'm not even sure I could find the words to express all that I've seen. Perhaps I should leave that to actual historians and journalists and write what cannot be said out loud. I've worked hard to put my past behind me, to find some way to undo the awful things I did not so very long ago. That job will occupy me for the rest of my days, but at least I feel, in some incremental way, like I am doing good.
And, if I may say so myself, I am having some pretty damn hot sex in the process. Oliver is an unbelievable lover--so confident and direct, and unabashedly masculine. He's a lot like Bruce, I admit, if Bruce were about a hundred times more secure in his sexuality. (He's also a lot hairier than Bruce--that goatee just drives me crazy! And let's not even get into that fur on his chest and forearms...)
On the other hand, he's every bit as eccentric as B; maybe even more so. It's hard as hell to get him to spend the night, since he's always getting up and heading out at the strangest hours. That part is a little too familiar, but I'm thankful for any time I get to spend with him.
He's used to life on the road--he hasn't told me much about his past, but I do know that he's got a long history of travelling from town to town. Years of it now, I'd bet. I think he might have been married at some point, and there may be a kid in the picture, but that's just a hunch. On the other hand, I'm convinced he spent some time as a priest or monk of some kind, judging from the books he carries around and the frequent references to various religious traditions he peppers his speech with.
One thing is certain: his politics are a hell of a lot closer to mine than Bruce's. But what am I doing, anyway, constantly comparing him to B? I guess it just shows I still feel something--okay, a lot--for the guy who changed my life forever.
Who am I kidding? Of course I'm still in love with Bruce--it's just all screwed up. Maybe forever. Oliver is here, and he's amazing, and neither of us has any illusions about the future. In this kind of setting, amidst this kind of devastation, illusions are impossible to maintain, anyway.
So I do the work I'm here to do, and I sleep with this hot man almost every night (or most of the night), and then I get up and begin all over again. The work is hard, and the romance is easy, and there's nothing else to occupy my mind in between. It's not the life I imagined for myself, and I know this period won't last forever, but while it's here I'm going to make the most of it.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
219. Bruce
It has not been easy to return to my old regimen. In fact, it seems absurd--and that is why I have worked to create a new one with G's help, making use of his fields of expertise and the rather gaping deficiencies in my current physical and mental state. It might have been wise to ease my way back into training, but instead I have devoted most of my waking hours to it for the last five days. My body aches as I exercise muscles which have not been attended to in close to a year. And yet I continue, well aware that my days are as numbered as any other man's--surely more so.
I approach the work at hand with a sense of sadness and sacrifice. When I first assumed this role many years ago, I felt I had no other options: no family, no private life, nothing to put on hold. I had money, I had drive, I had the clearness of vision that can only come with youth and privilege. My life revolved around my mission.
That is no longer the case, for better and for worse. Things have changed, and changed significantly. As I reintroduce myself to strength training, combat technique, and all the other dimensions of my new routine, mindful of the uses to which I will soon be putting this preparation, I cannot help thinking about all that I will be leaving behind when I don the uniform once more. Every moment with G at my side--every rest break, every night of sleep--now seems precious, for I know that it is all coming to an end. I am thankful that I had a few short weeks of uninterrupted happiness with him. There are times, I confess, when I doubt whether I am up to the task--or even whether I want to do what I am about to do.
... and yet I realize I can no longer turn my back on the work I was born to do. It was never my lot in life to be an ordinary man with ordinary concerns and ordinary joy. Fate has given me a calling, and I am compelled to pursue it. Hugo Strange may have broken my spirit, and Gustavus may have opened my heart, but at the very core of my being one inescapable fact stares me in the face each time I look in the mirror:
I am Batman. That is who I was, who I am, and who I will continue to be until the end of my days--come what may.
I approach the work at hand with a sense of sadness and sacrifice. When I first assumed this role many years ago, I felt I had no other options: no family, no private life, nothing to put on hold. I had money, I had drive, I had the clearness of vision that can only come with youth and privilege. My life revolved around my mission.
That is no longer the case, for better and for worse. Things have changed, and changed significantly. As I reintroduce myself to strength training, combat technique, and all the other dimensions of my new routine, mindful of the uses to which I will soon be putting this preparation, I cannot help thinking about all that I will be leaving behind when I don the uniform once more. Every moment with G at my side--every rest break, every night of sleep--now seems precious, for I know that it is all coming to an end. I am thankful that I had a few short weeks of uninterrupted happiness with him. There are times, I confess, when I doubt whether I am up to the task--or even whether I want to do what I am about to do.
... and yet I realize I can no longer turn my back on the work I was born to do. It was never my lot in life to be an ordinary man with ordinary concerns and ordinary joy. Fate has given me a calling, and I am compelled to pursue it. Hugo Strange may have broken my spirit, and Gustavus may have opened my heart, but at the very core of my being one inescapable fact stares me in the face each time I look in the mirror:
I am Batman. That is who I was, who I am, and who I will continue to be until the end of my days--come what may.
Friday, November 25, 2005
218. Bruce
I do not think I ever expected my life would turn out quite like this. Heir to a family fortune, clearly. Businessman, certainly. Caped crimefighter, perhaps. But spending a quiet holiday with a male lover, devoid of masks or assumed identities? Not a chance.
G and I have spent many long days together lately, reflecting on the paths that brought us to this point. I have begun to tell him more and more about my history, and he has done his best to understand. The old dynamic that brought us together is a thing of the past. We are equals now, or heading in that direction. At the very least, there is a balance between us, which is to say that he sees something in me that he looks up to, and I see the same in him.
I can honestly say I have never been happier in my life. As we sat down to a Thanksgiving meal (Alfred's doing, prepared with his usual aplomb) I literally counted my blessings, beginning with the fact that I am alive. Everything beyond that is luxury, and the luxury is overflowing. Surrounded by material possessions, oblivious to need or want, I understood, as never before, how easy it would be to stop here, to be thankful for all that I have, and to do everything in my power to hold on to all of it. To live my life in comfort, peace, and safety. What would be the harm in that?
And then that afternoon we made love once again. The radio was on in the background, and I could not shut out the news of Gotham's latest fatalities any longer. I took it as a sign, one I have done my best to ignore for a very long time. The crime wave of the last several months continues to escalate. People far less fortunate than myself are suffering; they are dying. Try as I may to pretend that the world is a wonderful place because I am happy at last, I cannot run from the ugly truth.
To be a man in my position, with the resources I possess, and not to use them to the best of my abilities is unconscionable.
Rgardless of the consequences, I must take action.
The time has come to begin again.
G and I have spent many long days together lately, reflecting on the paths that brought us to this point. I have begun to tell him more and more about my history, and he has done his best to understand. The old dynamic that brought us together is a thing of the past. We are equals now, or heading in that direction. At the very least, there is a balance between us, which is to say that he sees something in me that he looks up to, and I see the same in him.
I can honestly say I have never been happier in my life. As we sat down to a Thanksgiving meal (Alfred's doing, prepared with his usual aplomb) I literally counted my blessings, beginning with the fact that I am alive. Everything beyond that is luxury, and the luxury is overflowing. Surrounded by material possessions, oblivious to need or want, I understood, as never before, how easy it would be to stop here, to be thankful for all that I have, and to do everything in my power to hold on to all of it. To live my life in comfort, peace, and safety. What would be the harm in that?
And then that afternoon we made love once again. The radio was on in the background, and I could not shut out the news of Gotham's latest fatalities any longer. I took it as a sign, one I have done my best to ignore for a very long time. The crime wave of the last several months continues to escalate. People far less fortunate than myself are suffering; they are dying. Try as I may to pretend that the world is a wonderful place because I am happy at last, I cannot run from the ugly truth.
To be a man in my position, with the resources I possess, and not to use them to the best of my abilities is unconscionable.
Rgardless of the consequences, I must take action.
The time has come to begin again.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
217. Bruce
Dick's letter hit me with unexpected force. I am proud of him for the work he is doing, but I cannot hide the hurt I feel upon learning that he is with someone else. I have not told G about it, or even about Dick beyond the briefest of mentions. For that matter, I have not told him enough about what happened in those days with Hugo Strange for anything to truly make sense to him. Perhaps now is the time to do that.
He needs to understand what I went through if he is to help me move on. As for what "moving on" entails, I cannot say for certain yet, although I am beginning to formulate a plan.
He needs to understand what I went through if he is to help me move on. As for what "moving on" entails, I cannot say for certain yet, although I am beginning to formulate a plan.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
216. Gustavus
The last few days have been ... interesting, to put it mildly. None of this is what I would have expected when I first answered Bruce's call earlier this year. On the one hand, he and I have been growing ever closer, exploring new realms of connection that build on our previous relationship while freed of the old boundaries that professional treatment required. I still feel like a mentor to him on some level, but we are working at establishing an equal footing in our play. No longer do I play an exclusively dominant role; if anything, I have been showing him my vulnerable side just as he has begun to regain what I assume was his old self-confidence. For the first time, it can truly be said that we make love when we are together. And we have been together a great deal lately.
On the other hand, it is harder and harder to ignore the outside world. The press and television are full of accounts of the crime wave gripping Gotham City ever since the disappearance "and presumed demise" of the Batman. Only I know better, and yet I have been unable so far to convince him that he must assume that role once again. The threats seem to come from all sides: costumed criminals with colorful names, everyday street thugs, random acts of violence. Most disturbing of all is an escalation in the rate of violent hate crimes in the metropolitan area--over three dozen attacks since the first of the month.
Gotham desperately needs its Batman to return. But is he ready to begin again?
On the other hand, it is harder and harder to ignore the outside world. The press and television are full of accounts of the crime wave gripping Gotham City ever since the disappearance "and presumed demise" of the Batman. Only I know better, and yet I have been unable so far to convince him that he must assume that role once again. The threats seem to come from all sides: costumed criminals with colorful names, everyday street thugs, random acts of violence. Most disturbing of all is an escalation in the rate of violent hate crimes in the metropolitan area--over three dozen attacks since the first of the month.
Gotham desperately needs its Batman to return. But is he ready to begin again?
Monday, November 14, 2005
215. Dick Grayson (letter from Baton Rouge, LA)
Dear Bruce,
Time again to write and let you know how things are going down here. Since my last note, I've been all over the Gulf Coast, working on a variety of projects. For a couple of weeks I did nothing but string cable through little tiny holes in an equally tiny town outside Biloxi. Not very glamorous, I assure you, but it seems to be what is needed most right now--and I can say with certainty that I never would have done anything remotely like this if I hadn't met you. I know this isn't the kind of work you had in mind for me, but it just seems to fit. I think both of us are trying hard to put our pasts behind us even as we find new ways to make the world a better place. I don't feel any more like a hero than I did when you and I were working together, but at least I can live with myself. There are still nights when I wake up gasping for air after dreaming about ... those bad times we had at the end. I did things I can't ever forgive myself for, and I know that it will take a lifetime of good deeds to make up for the damage I caused.
I feel kind of weird telling you this, but I've met someone out here on the road. Like me, he's been travelling around, trying to lend a hand however he can, wherever he can, and for the last six weeks we've been making sure we end up in the same place as often as possible. We generally work different assignments during the day but end up together at night--usually in a work tent, although sometimes someone in town offers us a place to stay. He's about your age (I guess I have a thing for older men, after all) and seems to do things like this fairly often--it's a new experience for me, but he's been on the road for several years now. His name is Oliver. I don't have any illusions that we're building anything permanent--given the nature of our lives, that doesn't seem possible--but it's nice while it lasts.
I honestly don't have a clue where to go from here, or how much longer I can keep this up; I'm just trying to stay open to whatever possibilities present themselves. I hope to return to Gotham sooner or later, for a visit if not for good. When I do, you can be sure I'll give you a call.
Love,
Dick
Time again to write and let you know how things are going down here. Since my last note, I've been all over the Gulf Coast, working on a variety of projects. For a couple of weeks I did nothing but string cable through little tiny holes in an equally tiny town outside Biloxi. Not very glamorous, I assure you, but it seems to be what is needed most right now--and I can say with certainty that I never would have done anything remotely like this if I hadn't met you. I know this isn't the kind of work you had in mind for me, but it just seems to fit. I think both of us are trying hard to put our pasts behind us even as we find new ways to make the world a better place. I don't feel any more like a hero than I did when you and I were working together, but at least I can live with myself. There are still nights when I wake up gasping for air after dreaming about ... those bad times we had at the end. I did things I can't ever forgive myself for, and I know that it will take a lifetime of good deeds to make up for the damage I caused.
I feel kind of weird telling you this, but I've met someone out here on the road. Like me, he's been travelling around, trying to lend a hand however he can, wherever he can, and for the last six weeks we've been making sure we end up in the same place as often as possible. We generally work different assignments during the day but end up together at night--usually in a work tent, although sometimes someone in town offers us a place to stay. He's about your age (I guess I have a thing for older men, after all) and seems to do things like this fairly often--it's a new experience for me, but he's been on the road for several years now. His name is Oliver. I don't have any illusions that we're building anything permanent--given the nature of our lives, that doesn't seem possible--but it's nice while it lasts.
I honestly don't have a clue where to go from here, or how much longer I can keep this up; I'm just trying to stay open to whatever possibilities present themselves. I hope to return to Gotham sooner or later, for a visit if not for good. When I do, you can be sure I'll give you a call.
Love,
Dick
Thursday, November 10, 2005
214. The omniscient narrator
It's now or never, Gustavus thought to himself. "Bruce, do you remember a bank robbery at one of the First Gotham branches about a year and a half ago?" he asked.
Better than you could ever imagine, Bruce Wayne thought to himself. "Of course," he replied. "Joker and his men. That was a rough one." His voice trailed off slightly as he replayed the carnage of that day in his head--as well as his first encounter with Dick. "Why do you ask?"
"My... sister was in that bank. Joker nearly had her killed. You saved her life."
"Oh, god, I... I didn't know."
"And I didn't know you were... who you are... until you showed me. I couldn't believe it. Didn't want to believe it, on some level. But I can't help thinking that fate has brought us together. And I know, better than I've known anything else in my life, that you must find it in yourself to be the Batman again. For her sake--and yours."
Neither man had anticpated what would come next. If you'd asked them, they would have said it was gravity, or some magnetic force, that pulled them into each other's arms. They did not speak.
Their embrace was strong and passionate, and it led them into the master bedroom. No roles, no rules, no top, no bottom--just two men fully immersed in each other's bodies, limbs entwined, cocks jutting and thrusting, tongues exploring all available holes, fingers reaching in every direction. They came, and slept, and started again. The rain outside stopped, but they did not notice. They opened the bedroom door for a moment, saw that Alfred had left them food and drink, scarfed it all down, then continued once more. There was no telling how much time had passed, and they did not care.
At some unspecified moment in the darkness, one of them--it didn't matter which--let out a mighty groan, followed by yet another spurt of cum. He felt back onto the bed and the two of them lay there, quiet at last.
"Ohhhhhkay," Gustavus said after a while. "NOW what?"
Better than you could ever imagine, Bruce Wayne thought to himself. "Of course," he replied. "Joker and his men. That was a rough one." His voice trailed off slightly as he replayed the carnage of that day in his head--as well as his first encounter with Dick. "Why do you ask?"
"My... sister was in that bank. Joker nearly had her killed. You saved her life."
"Oh, god, I... I didn't know."
"And I didn't know you were... who you are... until you showed me. I couldn't believe it. Didn't want to believe it, on some level. But I can't help thinking that fate has brought us together. And I know, better than I've known anything else in my life, that you must find it in yourself to be the Batman again. For her sake--and yours."
Neither man had anticpated what would come next. If you'd asked them, they would have said it was gravity, or some magnetic force, that pulled them into each other's arms. They did not speak.
Their embrace was strong and passionate, and it led them into the master bedroom. No roles, no rules, no top, no bottom--just two men fully immersed in each other's bodies, limbs entwined, cocks jutting and thrusting, tongues exploring all available holes, fingers reaching in every direction. They came, and slept, and started again. The rain outside stopped, but they did not notice. They opened the bedroom door for a moment, saw that Alfred had left them food and drink, scarfed it all down, then continued once more. There was no telling how much time had passed, and they did not care.
At some unspecified moment in the darkness, one of them--it didn't matter which--let out a mighty groan, followed by yet another spurt of cum. He felt back onto the bed and the two of them lay there, quiet at last.
"Ohhhhhkay," Gustavus said after a while. "NOW what?"
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