At long last, Bruce Wayne pulled up across the smooth bank of wet asphalt. A sense of nakedness consumed him as he left the comfort of his car without the usual security measures—the suit that made him Gotham’s king of the night. He scanned his surroundings, mostly dilapidated concrete buildings and exposed metals covered in rust, the orange glow of the single, blinking streetlamp offering him a better look when it could stay lit for long enough.
Bruce’s boots were loud against the pavement despite the grace of his movements. He knew very well that the eyes he could feel searing into his back were not the eyes that belonged to the typical animals who made their home in this abandoned part of the city, but the eyes of a different creature entirely. In the darkness, the only thing that Bruce could truly determine was this presence and its hunger.
Of course, Bruce was well aware of the risks. He had arrived at this location, barely armed and unequipped to deal with anything his brute strength couldn’t, due to a threatening letter he’d received regarding Alfred’s life. The letter’s contents were as puzzling as ever; a riddle, not left to The Batman as they normally were but delivered to his home for Bruce Wayne. It described in detail how Alfred would be the next target for the Riddler’s long string of gruesome murders unless Bruce Wayne himself came, on his own, to this specific location.
After an evening of debating between contacting the only police he trusted or keeping it to himself to better control the situation—particularly because his secret identity was at stake—Bruce decided it would be best if he took matters into his own hands and played the role of the clueless billionaire. He would show up alone, Alfred would be free from his untimely demise, and—potentially—Bruce could find his way to the source of the infamous Riddler who had taken so much of his time.
It wasn’t like the Riddler had combat abilities. It was obvious from his previous work that he could only outperform others through planning. It was also clear that the Riddler had no outside help—other than the times that Bruce had accidentally played into his hand, it seemed that the Riddler was the solitary type. Finally, the last reason that Bruce felt his false sense of security and ultimately decided that it would be fine to fall once more into Riddler's hands, Bruce reasoned to himself that it certainly would be no trouble for him to bring a gun with him. After all, the elusive Bruce Wayne of the wealthy elite would obviously have one; on its own, a weapon could not possibly expose the truth of his identity. If anything happened that he couldn’t punch his way out of, he knew he could rely on a gun to clear a path to safety whenever he saw fit.
As Bruce’s eyes adjusted, he saw a painted question mark on the ground. Carefully, he eased himself closer to it, defensively. He kicked a rock towards it, watched it ricochet after it struck the paint, determining it wasn’t a trap in and of itself. He edged nearer, giving himself three or four feet of distance from it.
“I’m here,” Bruce called out, his voice surprisingly meek in the nudity of his true identity.
“Do you think I don’t know that already?”
Bruce whipped himself around towards the voice—it felt as though it had been whispered right into his ear. His pulse quickened, the exposed flesh of his face where his mask—his true identity—normally sat throwing him off balance. It only took an instant, yet the approach was completely silent even to someone at Bruce’s level of skill. Before he could fully turn around, he felt himself being tackled to the ground with an extreme force. His hand darted to his suit pocket, struggling for his escape weapon, but this too proved futile. In his rush to prioritize his gun, a damp rag had been pressed to his face, against his lips and into his nose. Bruce thrashed against the pressure of the predator, kicked his legs. Adrenaline clouded his reasoning, and as he attempted to buck himself upward, he inhaled deeply—forgetting the cloth and breathing through it by mistake.
Bruce heard laughter that almost sounded like a young boy’s as his energy quickly wound down—he had started off with the strength of a bull, but now his thrusts and groans were like that of a domesticated animal. Bruce’s irises shot wide, his skin hot, his mind clouded and foggy. He began to forget why he was where he was in the first place. He felt his captor stroke his head affectionately, and Bruce’s vision gave way to the brightness of a memory of how his mother had touched him the same way.
“Good boy…”
How warm and sweet. Bruce let himself fall, eagerly and completely, into that dream.
—-----------------------🦇🦇🦇—-----------------------
“His Royal Highness is finally awake!”
That condescending, sardonic voice was eerily familiar. As Bruce came to his senses, he squinted against a bright floodlight as the man aimed it into his eyes. It reminded him of the severity of a spotlight on a stage. He felt a pressure in his head from a headache, a grogginess; he couldn’t remember much beyond whatever had happened days ago, prior to the letter regarding Alfred. Bruce realized that this pressure wasn’t exclusively in his mind. His whole body was wracked with ropes of tension and pain.
It finally dawned on him as he tried to bring his hand to his face to wipe away beads of sweat—his hand couldn’t move. Nor could his arm. Or his chest. Or his mouth—it was taped shut. Now he understood why he felt so sticky, so hot, so irritated.
Panic set in. He was bound snugly to a chair with some kind of sleek rope—of what kind he couldn’t make out. The binds coiled around the thick muscles of his arms, roped around his chest, hugged the smooth curve at the weakest point of his ribs, and rolled along his hips. His legs were bound overboard seemingly on purpose. Bruce could no longer feel them at all. They had gone completely numb from the loss of circulation.
How long had he been like this? Bruce tried to think, but it was difficult to find any base of logic, any sense of self or time.
He leaned his head back in defeat against the back of the chair. The only part of his body he had any hope of moving were his fingers, his neck, and the angle of his face.
“Ladies and gentlemen… spurned children of Gotham… tonight's stream marks the debut of an extremely special guest!”
Bruce jolted up to face the source of the theatrical presence, but it was merely a shadow cast into the bright lights that blinded him. In the spaces between the shadow, Bruce could make out a wall of what appeared to be monitors, but actually reading them proved impossible. The thick shadows of outstretched arms descended upon Bruce as the masked and costumed man waltzed forward, onto the stage.
“I have here with me poor little Bruce Wayne. I bet you’re all just as excited as I am.”
There was a darkness seared into each word he spoke. Bruce was helpless to escape what he knew was coming. It dawned on him who this individual was and what kind of situation he had mired himself in. Now he was just another rat in a maze; like all of the other pawns, he too would fall victim to some horrific—but thematically suitable—game.
He could make out the shapes of cages all across the ceiling, and although some of their contents were hard to make out, he could see the distinct shape of bats throwing themselves against the cool, iron bars.
Bruce rolled his head as far away from his captor as he could, but it proved pointless. As he struggled, he breathed so heavy against the duct tape against his lips that it followed the swell of his lungs. His hands danced pathetically as he focused on twisting his chest, heaving as he tried to escape. The attempt was so pathetic that the legs of the chair didn’t even squeal from the pressure of the motion against the floor—in fact, they didn’t lift off the floor in the first place.
The Riddler's eyes crinkled behind the steam of his glasses as he stared down upon Bruce’s face, pleased with his work. He waited almost patiently for Bruce to forfeit his childish fit before he grabbed Bruce’s chin with his forefingers.
“I’ve prepared an extra special puzzle tonight.”
Bruce groaned with frustration behind his muzzle. His eyes shot upward, pouring anger out at the Riddler despite his fear. The display prompted by the adrenaline of being at the brink of the moment of his own televised death.
It was easier to make out a portion of the chatlog on some of the screens of the back wall now that the Riddler’s form ate some of the light. Bruce couldn’t determine anything useful other than the fact that the screen was moving quickly, populated by dozens of emoticons of applause and approval. Multiple camera angles were being fed through to the main display at once.
“Did you really think this was going to help you?” The Riddler pulled out the gun that Bruce had brought as his only insurance. It glinted in the light, looking like more of a toy than anything else. Bruce swallowed hard. How could he be so stupid? He squeezed his eyes shut, but he jumped when he felt the barrel press into the side of his cheek. The Riddler grabbed Bruce’s long, glossy hair with gloved hands and pulled firmly, enjoying the way the gun sank into the tender flesh of Bruce’s cheeks. It was obvious he was putting on a show for his own amusement, even to Bruce, who was shaking ever so slightly. The cameras couldn’t pick it up, but the Riddler could feel the tremors through the steel of the gun and his thin gloves. He laughed.
The Riddler let the tip of the gun slide down Bruce’s dewy skin, down his neck, holding it there until Bruce swallowed hard against it. It slid down over the crest of Bruce’s chest, in between the valley of his pectoral muscles. Bruce’s mind swam, trying desperately to form some kind of plan to escape his predicament, but with each second it became more and more clear that he had no chance of getting out of this situation. His coal black suit—so elegant it likely cost more than the entire room he was held prisoner in—normally perfectly tailored to flatter every curve of his body, was now damp and clingy with his sweat. The Riddler hooked the tip of the barrel into the first button of Bruce’s dress shirt, pulling it down, the lines of the edges bending and buckling from the pressure, exposing the wet skin between the windows of fabric.
Bruce could hear the panting from behind the Riddler’s grotesque mask grow more hysterical as his pleather hands crept to the seams of Bruce’s collar, pulling with great force until the precious-metal buttons burst, falling away one by one until Bruce’s first layer of clothing had been peeled open. The Riddler threw each half of the shirt to each side, taking time to admire how fear had caused each of Bruce’s muscles to be bound in twisted tension, glistening with sweat. He certainly did not have the body of a spoiled rich boy; across his chest and stomach were risen snakes of white scars that looked severe even after they’d fully healed.
The Riddler finally tasted his new caged animal, curling his fingers down so he could use both without dropping the gun just yet. He smeared his fingers along the lines of scars first, tracing them. He curled his fingertips beneath the most tender ones beneath Bruce’s heavy chest. He pressed at Bruce’s ribs to feel between his bones, then into the soft pool of Bruce’s abdomen as Bruce wailed in response. The Riddler could feel his pulse drum against his hand. With his hand still pressing hard and deep into Bruce, the Riddler bent close to him if only for a moment.
“This is the real me. Are you sure that this is the real you?”
The voice he used sounded different. It was a whisper only for Bruce to hear. As the Riddler pulled back, he savored the look of pure shame in Bruce’s eyes, the fear and embarrassment of his deepest, darkest secret…. He turned around to address his audience, placing the gun atop a table that was just out of Bruce’s line of vision.
“Let’s see how he looks when he can’t hide behind these expensive clothes.”
The Riddler descended upon the seams of Bruce’s suit once more, mauling the material before ripping it violently into curls of fabric that wept, hissing off Bruce’s body. He made short work of it, some parts of the suit trapped under the belts of thick rope that kept Bruce’s strong body hostage. Bruce’s eyes went wide in panic as the Riddler descended for his tight dress pants, right to his thighs and crotch, the only area Bruce could still feel.
What could the Riddler be planning? His lack of practical experience made the answer avoid him, even as the Riddler tore through Bruce’s boxers. Bruce’s cock dropped onto the exposed wood of the chair with a smack, slightly hard from the adrenaline. The residual drugs in Bruce’s system made it so that it took him a long time to register what was happening, even as the Riddler stepped to the side so the audience could get a good look at Bruce Wayne’s most secret place. His skin was pink, bruised around where the ropes held him in place. Waiting there, being sized up, his panicked pulse was just faintly visible twitching in his cock.
The Riddler, to Bruce’s absolute horror, splayed both of his hands across the mass of Bruce’s chest, running his palms against the peaks of Bruce’s sensitive nipples. Bruce groaned, but behind his gagged mouth it sounded pathetic, just as sexual as the slow patterns the Riddler traced along the lines of Bruce’s tight waist. The confusion, fear, and stimulation—Bruce had never been caressed like this—coaxed a response out of his cock, throbbing in earnest at the assault on his body.
Humiliation destroyed him as he felt himself get harder, tilting his face away to hide his rolling tears of shame. Why did it feel so good?
“Wow…” the voice the Riddler used—a mix of condescension and genuine arousal—created twisting pools of heat in Bruce’s guts. “Bruce Wayne… your stupid cock is standing up just for me…”
He ghosted the tip of his finger along the length of Bruce’s shaft. Despite the tape, Bruce’s sharp inhale was audible to everyone listening. The Riddler pressed the pad of his fingertip into the head of Bruce’s cock, pushing into the pool of precum that glistened on the tip. Very loosely, the Riddler formed a lazy circle with his fingers, down around the base of Bruce’s fully erect cock. He gently—painfully and frustratingly—rocked the loose sleeve he’d made with his fist up and down the length of Bruce’s cock, feeling the heat of it scorch his hand. Bruce moaned.
Between the drugs still coursing through his system and the rhythm of the Riddler’s purposely sloppy handjob, Bruce lost the last of his sense of logic, his eyes rolling back. He flexed his bound hips once and a while during the assault if only to get deeper into that warm hand—closer, more friction, please. Each time the Riddler gave him a tiny taste, curling tightly and expertly for only one or two thrusts, Bruce cried out, panting weakly, submissively.
Against the sound of the Riddler’s fists hitting up against Bruce’s heavy balls as he worked his cock, he offered his promised riddle.
“I only emerge in the night… I am not what I seem in the light… Both my father and I will never be seated upright.” He laughed, giddy as though drunk with pleasure. “What am I?”
Realizing that Bruce couldn’t think while his cock was toyed with, the Riddler lifted his hand just out of reach. Bruce hissed, craving it back immediately.
“Go ahead,” Bruce could hear the smile in the Riddler’s voice. The order was aimed as much at him as it was at the rest of the livestream. “Solve it.”
Stars spun in Bruce’s mind. He couldn’t find a satisfactory answer. He struggled to even retain the entirety of the riddle. Before he could do much else, he felt an ice cool liquid splatter onto his cock. The solid grip he’d longed for returned, but it was wet and slick, coating him delightfully. Trapped, forced to remain still, his only outlet was to clench and unclench his hands as wave after wave of intoxicating pleasure abused him. The assault made a loud, wet sound against his exposed cock.
“This is almost too easy, Bruce.” The Riddler giggled. “Everything is going exactly as I planned.”
The Riddler brought a new toy to Bruce’s cock, introducing them by bringing it down to kiss against the sensitive head. It was a clear fleshlight, well-used from the looks of it. It opened up with a simple press, eagerly sucking Bruce up into its folds. The Riddler pushed it down slowly, savoring the moment that Bruce’s brain fell into the darkness of inescapable pleasure. The muscles in Bruce’s legs jolted with electric arousal as the Riddler executed his practiced ministrations against Bruce’s thick cock.
“I only emerge in the night… I am not what I seem in the light… Both my father and I will never be seated upright.” He repeated it knowing full well Bruce had completely lost all that remained of his mind. “What am I?”
Bruce’s only response was a string of soft moans as Riddler's used fleshlight squealed and sighed around him.
He didn’t need to offer Bruce any time to think. He quickened his pace and tightened his grip, pumping until he knew from how Bruce shook and breathed that he was close to spilling. Without warning, right before it could happen, the Riddler stopped and leaned down with a gentle whisper.
“A bat.”
The Riddler was so close to Bruce’s ear once more that he could have licked it between words if not for the mask. “Bruce Wayne… I know who you are.”
The shock brought Bruce sober to the front of his consciousness. He could feel all the pressure of the brink of his orgasm and the fear of how he would be exposed, sexually, for all that he was, both identities at once, in unison. The Riddler squeezed Bruce’s cock to the base, slowly now that Bruce was truly awake. The pain and pleasure of being edged in the worst situation of his life was too much to bear. His chest heaved like a caged beast’s. His wide eyes watched the dirty toy hug and suckle his cock, watched his cock disappear into the mouth of the toy and the Riddler's fist. Behind them, the chat raced to determine the answer to the riddle, an answer that no one but the two understood.
The assault grew more intense, stopping every time Bruce reached the breaking point but choking Bruce’s cock so he couldn’t finish. It didn’t take long before Bruce felt his sanity completely slip away.
“Admit it to me and I’ll let you come.” The Riddler breathed against the waves of Bruce’s dark hair. “Tell me who you really are. I want you to be the one to say it.”
Over and over, up and down. Minutes felt like hours of torture. More than anything, Bruce needed to cum. He’d quickly dissolved into nothing more than a slave under the Riddler’s hand.
He had to come. He’d do anything to come. He’d die if he couldn’t come.
The Riddler grinned behind his mask, knowing full well that it was finally time. He peeled the tape from Bruce’s sore lips. Briefly he listened to the moans that escaped them before he picked up the pace once again, stroking Bruce exactly how he needed it.
Before the Riddler could choke his orgasm back again, Bruce weakly breathed, “I’m… I’m the Batman.”
The Riddler pumped Bruce’s cock like never before, purring with ecstatic delight at Bruce’s confession. Bruce groaned at the edge of his prize, taking hardly any time to finish, pumping hot, thick ribbons into the toy and the Riddler’s waiting fist.
“That’s it,” the Riddler sighed, voice so low that only Bruce could hear him. He pressed closer, his body folding against Bruce’s, gloved fingers carding through damp hair. “Good boy.”