The Black Bishop (Batman SI)

Batman swooped down out of the darkness, a silent specter of justice that had haunted Gotham's night for days. His cape fluttered behind him like a dark wing as he dived upon the mugger. So startled, the mugger dropped his knife and tumbled backward. The white LEDs in his eyes pierced through the darkness, jarring contrast against the cold, emotionless mask concealing his face. The mugger's gaze met a tall figure, and then and there he was terrified.
"This is your last warning," he spoke in a low rumble, like thunder in an alley, which sent shivers down the mugger's spine. "Leave now, and I won't have to make it your last."
For one searingly lucid instant, the man stared aghast at what had befallen him, his eyes bulging in his head. This was not some myth, some figment of a fearful mind. The Bat did exist, and it was terrifying. Shaking, the mugger nodded, scurrying to leave his prey untouched, his ego bruised.
Batman's eyes followed the retreating figure as he disappeared into the night. The mugging victim looked up to his unlikely savior and found himself staring into the empty eyes of the caped crusader. Fumbling for his phone, shaking, he stuttered, "T-thank you. I-I never thought I'd see the day."
"Call the police," Batman instructed him, "but don't mention me. They still have a lot to learn." And with that, he was gone again into the night, his cape fluttering behind him like some cloak of invisibility.
The night was yet young for the new protector of Gotham. With every leap over house rooftops, his enhanced hearing picked up the faraway wail of a siren-there was a bank robbery in process. Across the city, he flew, the wind whipping past his pointed ears, the adrenaline surging through his veins. He needed to get there before things spiralled out of control.
Inside the Gotham National Bank there were the felons themselves: armed to the teeth, taking all employees and customers hostage. Wearing ski-masks, the robbers were laughing it out-no, yelling it out-through the marble hall in twisted symphonies of greed. That is, until they heard the sound of shattering glass, followed by a figure landing in the lobby.
"Freeze!" one of the robbers shouted, his gun now pointed at the new entrant. The rest of the thugs spun about, eyes wide with surprise and terror, as they saw unmistakably the outline of Batman. The room suddenly grew cold; it seemed that even the very shadows coalesced into the shape of the Dark Knight.
"You're just a kid!" one of the robbers snarled; his voice broke with the strain of his own nerves. "What kind of pull are you trying to make?
He stepped closer, eyes flared with angry white LEDs, growling in a low tone of menace: "I'm not here to pull anything-I'm here to stop you."
A furor of nervous glances was exchanged among robbers upon the whispered notion in the street of the young vigilante who had taken Gotham by storm. The cops had thought that was one incredible hoax, but here he was, in flesh and blood, and they could feel the amount of fear he was radiating; it felt palpable, thick in the air around them, hearts racing, palms growing sweaty.
"W-we have hostages," he stuttered, appearing to be the leader of the bunch, his gun raised above a cowering teller. "Back off, kid, or we start shooting."
Batman's eyes went wide; white LEDs blazed in them, able to cut through steel. "You're outmatched and outsmarted," he said calmly. "The only way this ends is in cuffs. Drop your weapons."
The shaking hand of the leader was laid on the trigger while the rest of the robbers were getting jumpy; the fear in their eyes was growing bigger with every second. They had seen what this "kid" was capable of, and not one of them wanted to be next, to take another blunt of his attack. The teller changed her gaze from side to side, breathing very rapidly while uttering a silent prayer for some sort of miracle. 

The silent alarms went off, and in came the GCPD: flashing lights, blaring, guns drawn, surrounding the bank as they shouted commands through bullhorns. Inside, the robbers were frantically looking around, knowing their way out had just gotten shut. A note of confidence deserted the leader; his voice went to cracking as he yelled back at the cops through a window: "Back off, or we start executing hostages!"

Meanwhile, Batman was on his way. Smoothing his motion with an ease that belied both size and strength, seizing the advantage of the momentary lull in distraction the bank had been plunged into-the robbers were turned toward the cops outside; they hadn't noticed this dark form closing in-he took out the first with a swift kick to the back that sent him sprawling across a display of fake plants.
The others turned about, their faces wild-eyed with terror.
Another thief shot wildly in his direction, a possibility Batman had factored into the flow of his movements, gloved fingers catching the bullet. The only sound in that room was the echo of the gunshot, the hammering of the criminal hearts.
It hung there in mid-air for a second, barely, a testament to terrors turned into flesh and blood in the underbelly of Gotham. A flick of his wrist later, he had it ricocheting into the lock of the vault, the disarming sounding with a metallic clank.

"Now," Batman calmly said, his low voice rumbling and seemingly coming from the very foundations of the bank. "I would advise that each and every one of you reconsider your life choices."

The others stared at each other in wide-eyed horror as the life drained from their features and realization began to creep in. They let their weapons fall to the ground, one by one, hands upraised, and instead of the laughter and bravado of a moment before, whimpers and mercy pleas resounded. Thick in the room, as clear as the stench of fear hung in the air, the air was thick with it-the criminals knew they were not in any condition to square off against such a predator.

But the police department of Gotham City had other plans, and there they were when entering into the bank, fcatching their first view of the Batman-which left them dumbfounded and perplexed, their eyes large with wonder. One of them, a captain by the name of Gordon, had actually heard the rumors, but to see him for oneself was different altogether.
"Freeze!" Captain Gordon yelled as the muzzle of the gun moved to rest on Batman's chest. The young vigilante turned to him, a fire dancing in his eyes.
"I'm with you," he said to him, "Let's get these civilians out of here."
The finger of Captain Gordon hovered upon the trigger; his jaw was clenched. "You're not on anyone's side," he spat, "not until I say you are."
Batman's eyes narrowed, the whites going down to a cold white; and it was now-was a first-ever sighting of the Batman, one of those moments that set the course between him and the GCPD, if only the unspoken trust was fragile, a whispered maybe in a city too used to betrayal.
"This isn't the time for this," he said-low and even, without raising his voice. "There are people here who need assistance."
The officers in the GCPD exchanged uncertain glances. The image of the cowering miscreants in front of the Batman was unsettling to say the least, but orders were crystal clear: to bring him in no matter the cost. The standoff grew tense amidst the thick scent of gunpowder and desperation.
"Drop the act," Captain Gordon growled. "You're coming with us."
It was annoyance, fluttering across his face, and Batman knew he had to act-and now. The safety of the hostages was the most important thing, and a prolonged standoff with the cops wasn't going to help that. He took a backward step, his eyes never leaving Gordon's. "You're making a mistake," he warned.
In an instant and almost surreal move, Batman pounced upon the robbers. The officers were taken by such surprise that even before a word could escape their lips, he had clutched the nearest thief and used his body as a human shield. "Drop your arms," Batman decreed, unflinching. 
The GCPD was used to criminals, not myths, and so they hesitated for a heartbeat. But that's all Batman would need. With a quickness that belied his bulk, he launched the thief into the air, & sent two more crashing to the GCPD. Cops opened fire, but he took no more than grazes, the slugs bounc­ing off the triple thicknesses of his suit's rein­forced fab­ric. As though a ghost, he strode through the storm of lead with no concern for the world.
Batman's eyes blazed a warning, the LEDs flickering for a moment. He wasn't going to fight the people he was trying to help. He launched himself in a leapfrog over a teller's counter, used it as a springboard to propel himself through the destroyed window. The cool night air whooshed in to fill the space he vacated as he destroyed the window. Cops were shouting in disbelief as the glass rained down, the criminals still on their knees, shaking.
With that, the Dark Knight was gone into the night, the siren fading into the distance. The GCPD secured the bank and tossed the robbers-pleading for mercy now-into handcuffs. Captain Gordon's gaze stayed upon the shards of glass, the terror in that room palpable. He knew they'd just been a part of something that was going to change the face of Gotham forever.
Batman, now Bruce Wayne, made his way towards the manor, lost deep in thought. It was now time to shift from this running, adrenaline-filled night into the calculated persona of Gotham's Golden Boy. The Wayne Manor stood afar, a beacon of light against the city smudged with darkness. Standing at the gates was Alfred, waiting and stiff, because of the chaos that had unfolded.
"Master Bruce," Alfred said calmly as the gates opened, "you have had quite an eventful night."
Bruce nodded, his shoulders strained under the cape. "More than I bargained for," he whispered, low, reaching up and flicking off the LEDs in his eyes to show his blue irises. The cape and cowl peeled back to a worn face-the face of a young man double-living.
A night of fists and fear blurred together, ending when he entered the safety of the manor, where he was Bruce Wayne again-a billionaire philanthropist.
Alfred waited patiently while Bruce took off the rest of his suit, the motions practiced, efficient, the armor hitting the ground with metallic clanks, one testament to the vow for justice now turned fear he brought upon all criminals dwelling in Gotham. Finally, the mask came off, revealing deep grooves of weariness below his mouth and eyes.
"You know, Master Wayne," Alfred said, taking the suit to mend the many bullet holes, "the day is not going to get any longer while you're sleeping."
Bruce nodded, his face showing the wear and tear of his secret double life. "I know," he rasped, the exertion from tonight leaving his voice husky. "I know."
He had to be Bruce Wayne, but all he wanted to do was sleep like a baby. Sighing, he tossed away the last keepsake of his other self and stepped under a scalding shower; the water washed the grime and sweat of his nighttime exertions from him. He could almost feel the weight of cape and mask lift from his shoulders as the weary teenager beneath the legend began to poke through.
The usual shower was taken, and Bruce fell into his usual wear: a tailored suit fitted across broad shoulders and a muscular physique-so little like the monstrous shadow he had been just a little while ago. Seated at his vanity, he judged his reflection. Eyes that terrorized now stared back at him, reflecting a mix of his weariness and resolution. He smiled, rehearsed a thousand times, one that coaxed the most stubborn pants off Gotham's elite, assuring them that he was nothing but a harmless playboy sprinkled with a pinch of philanthropy.
"Alfred," he called out, "I'll need the Wayne Chariot."
"Very good, Master Bruce," Alfred called from the hallway. "You're due at the opening of the elementary school in three hours."
Bruce just nodded, his mind overdrive. It was a beacon of hope, a haven amidst all the squalor, and a testament to what Gotham might have been had its citizenry was anything like him with which to fight the tide of crime and despair. The Gotham Elites were gathering there today, anxious for a chance to bask in the limelight of good will, but he knew them and what they wanted: to him, he was a pawn, a means to an end.
However, he would manipulate this desire for power into his goal of getting the school the funds that it really needed to prosper.
Coming down the great staircase of the manor, Alfred handed him a steaming cup of coffee. "You will be needing this, sir," he said with a knowing smile. Bruce took a sip, the bitterness of the brew a welcome jolt to the senses. The warmth spread throughout his body, a slight comfort against the cold façade he had to don.
A sleek black limo, the Wayne Chariot, sat under the moonlight with the Wayne Industries gleam, awaiting him in the driveway. The humming of the engine and he was hurtling across the deserted roads of Gotham, night his companion of silence. This private gathering of Gotham Elites had been organized within one posh hotel, gleaming windows reflecting the fluttering lights of the city below. He took a deep breath and psyched himself up for the farce ahead. He nodded to Alfred, who was driving the car, dropping his head back against the plush leather seat, closing his eyes, and letting the world fall away as he allowed himself to fall into unconsciousness.
Thirty minutes later, and as if ordained from heaven above, Bruce woke up to feel anew the life coursing through his veins. Thus the power of napping, Over the years, it was a skill he had developed, enabling him not to tip the precarious balance between his dual lives.
All he had to do was step into the hotel where the Elementary School was a part of, and he was bombarded by flashing cameras and jabbing reporters, all fighting for one word from Gotham's Golden Boy. He swam with the tide of bodies, his smile never faltering. Whispers went up as he gained the podium, expensive cologne and perfume thick on the air, underlain by the fainter hint of fear that always seemed to follow him.
As he came up to the microphone, the room instantly hushed into silent expectation. It seemed like the lights above were a spotlight, shining down at him as the most important man in the room. He knew the weight of his words that was going to be weighed, so he chose them carefully: "Ladies and gentlemen," he started off confidently, like an elocutionist. "Thank you for joining me tonight. We open the first page in a new chapter in Gotham's history, one promising to leave its mark on many children's lives yet to come."
He had paused, letting the weight of those words sink in.
"This elementary school is more than just bricks and mortar; it is a bulwark of hope in a city that so desperately sets its heart on the capture of such hope. It's an opportunity for the next generation to finally free itself from the cycle of despair that's plagued our streets for far too long." 

His blue eyes traveled round the room, his gaze locking onto the face of each cream, each hiding secrets of its own. "It is in our hands, the future of Gotham," Bruce said with firm command in his tone. "We got to come together so every child can reach the stars, whatever the darkness in the shadows shrouding their past may be." 

The moment was silent, save for the humming sound of cameras. Even the Gotham Elites stood in astounded silence, ears ringing from the sound of their voices echoing off the confines of such halls in anticipation.

His eyes found a certain reporter who'd made no secret of her desire to get to know Bruce better. She smiled, a knowing curve of her crimson lips, and winked.
Irritation flashed, yet he couldn't deny the zing that speared through him. It was days since he'd allowed himself the indulgence, and the thought of her was some sort of change which would not be denied.
Once the speeches and ribbon-cutting are over, Bruce is confronted with an encroaching phalanx of Gotham elites, all pressing handshakes upon him, whispers of sweet nothings in his ear. All around him, a cacophony of false smiles and empty promises, but it was a role he knew well-a character actor of some standing. Summer Gleeson, indefatigable reporter that she was, pushed her way through the crowd. She moved in closer, her perfume mingling with the cloying odor of money and power, and purred: "Mr. Wayne, I've been dying to get a few minutes with you."
Bruce's smile remained to be polite, his eyes flickering to the cameras, circling around him like vultures. "Miss Gleeson," he said. "What can I do for you?"
"Well," she started after lowering her voice a little, "I wondered whether you'd mind doing an exclusive interview with WGOB & Gotham Insider." Her gaze lingered on the man's lips, proffering almost lewd suggestions.
Bruce's smile chilled just a tad while his eyes narrowed. "I don't think my schedule is free for that," he said, courtesy mingled into his attitude.
Summers stepped a little closer, her arm barely feeling against his. "I think we can work something out," she said, whispering seductively. "My viewers would love to get to know the man behind the mask, so to speak."
Bruce felt the heat of her touch, the electricity of her proximity. Yet, even through the topsy-turvy chaos of balancing two lives, he couldn't help but notice the attraction of her curves, the firm swell of her adequate bosoms pressing against the snug material of her dress, making her poetics compelling because of the way her erect nipples looked. It was a round, firm ass that made Bruce's wild thoughts conjure images of his fingers squeezing her with tender pressure.
"Perhaps we could find a more private place," Summer suggested, that sparkle in her eye attesting to her merriment.
Bruce's heart skipped a beat, brain in overdrive once again. The thrill of the chase was as potent as Summer Gleeson who was an irresistible challenge. She was a total distraction, a plumpness of flesh that appeared to threaten eruption from her dress. Bruce knew there were many late-night fantasies from other men about her tight ass and the manner in which her hips swayed as she walked.
"That should be easy enough to arrange," he murmured, lowering his voice an octave. "But you must understand, my time is a valued commodity, Ms. Gleeson."
Summer's smile became ever more predacious, her white teeth glinting in the artificial light of the chandeliers in the hotel. "Oh, I assure you, Mr. Wayne," she said, her eyes glistening, "it will be time well-spent."
There was a pull into temptation, just like every time he pulled on the cape and cowl. The thrill of the hunt. The dark unknown. But he was not in control here; the Bat wasn't. Bruce Wayne, playboy billionaire. Another conquest added to a long string of willing women. He took a step toward her, eyes dropping to the ample cleavage bursting forth from her dress. "I'm sure it will be."
Summer's smile widened, and she placed her hand on his chest, her fingers tracing the outline of muscles beneath his shirt. "Then let's not waste any more time," she whispered, parting the throng with him. Her hips swayed purposefully, each step a silent promise of what the night would bring. Faces and voices blurred together in the room, but all he could focus on was her.
Hastily, they slipped into an unoccupied conference room down the hall, with the door clicking behind them. The tension was palpable, the air heavy with emotion. Summer pushed Bruce against the wall, her body against his, with her large breasts pressed in by her firm outfit. The blood raced through his veins as she approached him, lips tremblingly close to his. "I've been watching you for a while," she confessed at last. "I have to know what makes you tick."
Her hand traversed the pathway down his muscular chest, exploring the contours of his abs. Her fingers caressed the bulge in his pants. A little tension, combined with raging teenage hormones in the extraordinary situation, exerted a full rise. He moaned softly as she squeezed him, and reached up with one hand to scrunch the back of her head in her hair.
Desire twinkled in Summer's eyes. "Is this what you were seeking Bruce?" she murmured in a seductive whisper. Without waiting for an acknowledgment from him, she was kneeling before him, her skirt rising to expose the tops of her stockings. She unzipped his pants, freeing his erect cock, which sprang out, thick and veiny, an index of his strength and power.
Bruce's breath was shortened as Summer wrapped her red-painted lips around the tip, her tongue flicking out to taste him-spitting at him. His groan made his hand tight in her hair as she began to suck him off, her cheeks hollowing with every bob of her head. One of her hands moved to his ass, where she gripped the firm flesh and pulled him closer, her nails digging into his skin just enough that he gasped.
"You're so big," she says gibberingly, her mouth full, sucking him off. The compliment sent a rush of pleasure into him, and he felt his control beginning to slip. On a subconscious level, Bruce knew he could never reveal the other side of himself. He still had to act. Put on the Golden Boy's, Innocent and freshly minted. How he wished he were Batman.
Summer raised her eyes to his, shining with playful meaning as she knew she'd had him. With a mischievous smile, she clamped her lips more firmly onto him, moving her mouth down over his length as her tongue expertly licked the head of his penis. Bruce felt his eyes roll involuntarily as his fingers reflexively firmed in her hair-to hear the symphony of ecstasy churning inside of him.
"Mm, you taste wonderful," she purred, her voice husky, a sultry serenade of seduction. She relaxed into the moment, her throat muscles releasing to fit his size. Bruce let out a raw thrust of his hips into her mouth as his breathing got ragged. He wanted to reach up and grasp her, thrust his dick into her mouth like it was her pussy, wanted to lose himself, forget the world outside of them momentarily.
But he couldn't. Not here. Not now.
With a violent jerk of his hips, Bruce pulled away from Summer's avid mouth. "Not here," he managed to say, his voice rough with need. "It's too dangerous."
Summer's eyes blazed with exhilaration as she quickly rose, her dress falling back into its place. "Where then?" 

Bruce's eyes scanned the room, seeking some point of exit, some place where they could break down their barriers and be themselves without reservation. "The penthouse," he whispered, all seriousness. "My suite. It's more private."

The eyes of Summer were filled with readiness, and she nodded, her breathing quickly waxing anxious.
"Then let's go," she breathed into her ear, her hand went down and smoothed one last stroke over his warm penis before he tucked it into his trousers. They were gliding through the hotel now, moving with every passing moment faster. The elevator ride was all but a silent challenge as her eyes locked onto his and then released, the air between them crackling. 

Finally, upon reaching the penthouse suite, quivering with anticipation, Bruce fumbled with the key. Finally opening it, he saw there was soft, seductive light inside: a king-sized bed perfectly prepared, the sheet in deep red. Bruce didn't bother to turn on the lights since he knew the moonlight shining through the big window was good enough to illuminate the room.

Summer didn't wait for an invite and kicked her heels off, stumbling toward the bed, legs all wobbly with anticipation. She reached behind her back and unzipped her dress, which fell at her ankles in a heap, revealing red lacy lingerie underneath. Her breasts were just a perfect handful, nipples hard and erect. Her ass was rounded and firm-a statement of her commitment to her figure.
His eyes, afire with a growing need, followed her as his carnal need grew with each tick of the clock. He could feel the beast inside of him, the monster that haunted Gotham, begging to be let free & inside this penthouse suite, he was just a man consumed by sexual need. Kicking his shoes off, he moved closer to the bed, never taking his eyes off her.
"Take off your panties," he said, no more than a court order that sent a run of shivers down her spine. Summer complied, tugging the red lace down her lengthening legs, her hands shaking. She kicked them off, letting them fall to the floor like a discarded trophy. Her vulva was shining wet, emitting its heady perfume.
He reached out and grasped her hips, spun her around to face the bed. "Bend over," he growled, and the sound shook her knees. Summer nodded, placed her hands flat against the cool material covering the sheets, her rear offered temptingly. She threw a backward glance over her shoulder, watching as he moved closer, his gaze fixed steadily on the juncture of her thighs.
He reached out, his hand cupping her cheek before sliding down to her tight, pink asshole. She gasped as his thumb began to circle the puckered entrance, teasing and taunting. "You're so perfect," he murmured, his voice filled with awe and desire. He could feel her body tensing, her muscles tightening around his thumb as he applied gentle pressure.
Summer's breath was coming in short, sharp pants now, her eyes squeezed shut. "Bruce," she whimpered, her voice a mix of pleasure and desperation. "Please."
"Please, what?" Bruce challenged, his voice a seductive purr as he trailed his thumb along her crack, feeling the heat of her pussy radiate against his skin. Summer's eyes snapped open, and she looked back at him, her pupils dilated with lust.
"Please, fuck me," she begged, her voice a desperate whine. Bruce smirked, his hand sliding away from her ass to the bulge in his own pants. He unzipped them, freeing his cock with a sense of urgency that mirrored hers. It stood tall and proud, the head glistening with pre-cum. He stroked it once, twice, watching Summer's eyes follow the motion with rapt attention.
"Is this what you want?" he mocked, his hand clenching tighter on its length. "To feel this inside you?"
Summer's breath hitched in anticipation as her eyes refused to leave his cock. "Yes," she panted desperately, "fuck me, Bruce."
Bruce moved in closer, his cock nudging against her wet folds. He felt her shiver as the head of his cock stroked along her clit, sending a bolt of pleasure through her body. With one hand, he reached around and palmed her breast, his thumb rolling over the erect nipple. She arched her back, pushing her ass into him, silently begging for more.

"You're going to take all of this," he muttered, his voice husky with his arousal. Then, without warning, he plunged right into her, stuffing her pussy to the hilt. Summer screamed her head off into the pillows her face burrowed into, her body bucking with the power of his thrust.

He didn't stop; he didn't even pause. He kept pounding into her, stroke after stroke reaching that perfect spot and sending waves of avalanche-like pleasure crashing over her.
It was tight, tighter than he'd ever felt before, clamping onto his cock like a vice, urging him deeper, demanding more. He obliged, his hips moving with a rhythm almost mesmerizing as his cock slid in and out of her wetly with a squelching sound that seemed to resound through the room. Summer's body was a symphony of sensations: muscles that clenched around him, juices coating his shaft.
Bruce leaned forward, his hand reaching down and fisting a handful of her hair, yanking her head back until she bowed like a bow. Her eyes rolled back in her head, a moan low in her throat as pain and pleasure mingled in a sweet torture. He breathed hot in her ear, "You like that, don't you? You like it when I take control."
All she could do was whimper in response, her body quivering with need, having never felt so alive, wanted, and consumed by another person. Bruce's grip tightened, and he started pumping into her with renewed vigor, his cock slapping into her pussy with the force that shook her very frame. She felt herself being brought closer and closer to the edge, her muscles constricting around him.
"I'm going to make you cum," Bruce grunted, his own pleasure building. Summer's breath came in ragged gasps, her moans growing louder with each thrust. "Cum for me," he demanded, his hand moving from her hair to her clit. He began to rub it in tight circles, his other hand gripping her hip to keep her in place.
Summer's body tensed, her muscles coiling like a spring. She felt the pressure building, the heat pooling low in her belly. "Bruce, I'm going to—"
"I know," he grunted, his own need echoing hers. "Cum for me, Summer."
With one final, brutal thrust, Bruce felt her body spasm around him, her pussy clenching down like a fist as she screamed out her release. Her orgasm was a tidal wave, crashing over him and pulling him under with the intensity. He could feel her juices flooding out of her and coating his cock, friction even more intense. It was all he could do to hold on, his own orgasm just a heartbeat away.
She had moaned loudly as her body shook from the force of her climax. Bruce couldn't hold on much longer because the urgent need burning in his veins seemed like a wildfire. He pulled out of her, and his cock was glistening wet from her juices. She turned to him with her eyes glazed over with lust. She too had been lost in the depth of her arousal.
"Turn around," he ordered, his voice a gruff whisper. Summer obeyed, her legs trembling slightly as she turned to face him. She watched as he stroked himself, his hand moving faster and faster, his cock standing tall and proud.
"On your knees," he ordered, and she dropped to the floor, her eyes never leaving his. Bruce stepped closer, positioning himself in front of her, his cock mere inches from her face. "Open your mouth," he said, and she did, her tongue darting out to lick the head of his cock, tasting herself on him.
With a grunt, he reached behind her head and guided her down on him further. Summer's eyes teared up with the strain of trying to take all of him, but she didn't fuss. She was a journalist; she was used to taking it in stride. And she certainly wasn't about to let something as piddly as a gag reflex take away from this experience. She sucked harder, her cheeks hollowing with the effort, her tongue working him like a pro.
Bruce's breathing went ragged, his hips jerking as he neared his climax. It was like heaven in her mouth, a release he'd denied himself for too long. Tension coiled in his balls, tightening to the breaking point. "I'm going to cum," he warned, his voice strained.
Summer's eyes widened with excitement, her grip on his shaft tightening as she braced herself for the deluge. She knew what was coming, had felt it before with other men, but something told her this would be different. This was Bruce Wayne, after all, and she was eager to see what he had to offer.
With a roar of pleasure, Bruce erupted into her mouth, his hot sticky cum filling her to the brim. She swallowed reflexively, her throat muscles working overtime as he emptied himself into her. The taste was salty and bitter, a stark contrast from the sweetness of their earlier kisses, but somehow she found herself wanting more. His cock pulsed in her mouth, the head brushing against the back of her throat as he continued to shoot his load, each spurt hitting her like a warm, velvet punch.
Summer's eyes watered, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she sucked harder, eager to taste every last drop. She could feel his body trembling with the force of his orgasm, his hand tightening in her hair. "Mm, so good," she murmured, her voice muffled by his cock.
Bruce's grip on her head loosened, and he stepped back, his cock slipping out of her mouth with a wet pop. He was done, but she wasn't. Summer straightened up, her dress still hanging open, her breasts heaving with each ragged breath. She gazed up at him, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "Your turn," she whispered huskily, sending a shiver down his spine.
But the look on his face told her everything she needed to know. He was already retreating into his Bruce Wayne persona-the Golden Boy who had to play by the rules. "I'm a busy man, Summer," he said, his tone tinged with regret. "But I would love to continue this… another day."
Summer felt the sting of disappointment, but she knew better than to push. This was a dance they had to play out in public, and she was more than willing to wait for the next game. "Of course, Bruce," she murmured, her own voice a purr. She stepped closer, her hand reaching up to stroke his cheek.
She didn't break eye contact as she leaned down for her dress. She shimmied it back on as if she were a seasoned seductress, the fabric stroking against her skin like a lover's caress. Bruce's eyes followed her as she dove into her heels and treated him to a sultry smile. She tucked a business card in his pocket.
"Call me when you're ready for that interview," she said, her tone a promise of more to come. "And maybe a little… extra." With that, she sashayed from the suite, leaving Bruce to wonder just what kind of game she was playing.
As the door clicked shut behind her, Bruce's head began to spin, that's when it all made sense. He'd just fucked a reporter. A beautiful, hungry reporter who now had the juiciest scoop of her career in her hands. The thought hit him like a ton of bricks, and for the first time, he knew fear. He was The Darkest Knight's avatar, creature of the night, not some tabloid headline. Yet something about Summer Gleeson went through his veins like adrenaline.
"Fuck." Bruce whispered to himself. "At least, I have a hoe on deck."