Joker Fantasy

byLydiaRowans©

It was a stormy night. She laid in her bed and listened to the rain as it poured down on her roof. Eventually though her drowsiness won out and she succumbed to unconsciousness. When she woke up she was still in a drowsy state, but she quickly became more alert when she looked around her and realized that she was no longer in her bedroom. The room was dimly lit by two bedside lamps.

She recognized the bedroom to be the kind that would be standard in a penthouse type of setting. She started to get up from the bed that she was in to investigate her new surroundings, but as she did she felt a pressure on her wrists and was immediately yanked back onto the bed. She looked up above her and saw that there were shackles around her wrists and that they were attached to the backboard of the bed.

"You're not going anywhere." She heard an odd, deep, raspy, kind of creepy voice say.

She looked to one side of her and saw that there was a man with his back turned to her, staring out the window, out into the city skyline. From what she could see of him he was wearing a purple trench coat, had wavy, dirty blonde hair with earthy green highlights that fell just past his chin and looked kind of oily.

He appeared to be 6 feet, 1 inch tall. He slowly turned around toward her. He was wearing what appeared to be clown makeup. His face was covered in a white, pasty powder, on his eyelids and all around his eyes he wore an excess of black eye shadow, and his lips and all the area around his mouth was covered in a red type of face paint that made him appear to be smiling, though he was not. It took her awhile to put the pieces of the puzzle together, but she eventually came to the conclusion that this man was in fact the Joker.

This startling conclusion should have made her blood run as cold as ice, it should have made her scream in blood curdling terror, it should have made her go into a wild, frenzied panic! She should have been frightened for her life! She knew this man's reputation quite well, just as everyone else in the city did. She knew that he was crazed, mad, insane; a psychotic, blood thirsty lunatic. She knew that taking other people's lives came easy to him, just like it was his second nature, but this knowledge that she had of him didn't do anything to frighten her, in the least. There was something in his aura, something that emanated from him that told her that he wasn't interested in causing her any particular

harm.

"You don't look frightened." He observed as he slowly made his way toward her.

"Strangely enough, I'm not." She admitted.

"Hmmm." He said more to himself than to her.

In an abrupt, swift motion he pulled out a switchblade and had the tip of the blade pressed ever so lightly to the side of her face.

"How about now?" He asked her.

"I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't more than a little concerned." She responded.

"Hmmm." He said once again, retracting the blade before dropping the switchblade back into the pocket of his purple denim jeans.

She looked over his face curiously, inquisitively.

"What?" He questioned.

"There's something about you." She said, her voice colored with intrigue.

"That deeply disturbs you?" He asked.

"No." She answered. "There's something about you that draws me in."

"Humph." He retorted.

"Do you mind unshackling my wrists?" She asked him.

"Why? So you can run for your life?" He questioned.

"I wouldn't think of doing such a thing." She reassured him.

With a resigned sigh he retrieved the keys to the shackles from his coat pocket and unlocked them.

Her hands free, she placed one of them on the side of his face. With her fingers she gently began to trace the many scars that were around his mouth.

"Thank you." She told him, softly.

"Humph." He retorted once again, abruptly recoiling from her touch.

He went back to the window.

She got up from the bed and walked toward him.

"I know how bad it must hurt." She told him. "To feel like a leper."

"You have no idea." He grunted. "How could you?"

"You're right." She said. "I don't. How about you tell me?"

"I don't need your sympathy." He snarled. "I don't need anyone's."

"I know." She told him, softly, hesitantly placing a hand on his shoulder. "I just want a chance to understand."

He abruptly whirled toward her. She retreated a step backward.

"My father was an abusive drunk!" He shouted, his hands flailing about all over the place. "My mother was a drug using whore! She left me with that miserable son of a bitch when I was only 3 years old! Every night when he'd come home from the bar I'd receive another one of his infamous beatings! Until one night the bastard completely lost it! He pulled out his pocket knife, said, 'why so serious, son?!' and started carving on my face like I was some kind of damn jack-o-lantern!" He then started laughing wildly, deliriously.

"RUN!!" He boisterously screamed, still laughing.

"No!" She shouted back at him in defiance. "I will not!"

His laughter started to die down. With a stern, psychotic look on his face he began to run toward her at full speed, his palms outstretched toward her. She ran backward.

"What's the matter with you?!" He shouted at the top of his lungs, his face animated with crazed, deranged expressions as he spoke. "Don't you know I'm dangerous?! There are worse things than murdering you, you know?! I could torture you! I could chop you in little, bitty pieces! I could burn you alive! I could have you begging and pleading for death by the time I was finally finished with you!!"

He stopped abruptly, but then pushed her against a wall. "You should be afraid of me! Deathly afraid!"

She pressed her lips against his, suddenly and kissed him with feverish, hungry, ravenous passion.

"I want to be your Harley Quinn." She told him, breathlessly. "I want to be with you. I never want to leave your side."

She then started to kiss him again, but he abruptly pulled away.

"You don't have any idea what you're saying." He said quietly and then turned away from her.

"The hell I don't!" She shouted. "It doesn't matter what you did in the past! It doesn't matter what your father did or what your mother did! The only thing that matters is now! I could help you!"

"If you'd let me." She added softly.

"I'm beyond help." He scoffed.

"Don't say that!" She raised her voice once again. "All you need is someone patient, someone understanding. Someone like me."

"And the fact that I've killed hundreds, thousands of people doesn't bother you?!" He questioned.

"That's in the past." She said.

"Ha! You think you can change me! Save me from my wicked, sinful ways!" He exclaimed, turning toward her once again.

"I can sure as hell try, and nobody said you couldn't be sinful. You can be all kinds of sinful in all kinds of different ways." She told him.

A mischievous grin spread across his face, "Is that right?"

"Mmm-hmm." She replied. "Just no killing people."

"And just how do you think you're going to keep me from it?" He asked.

"Oh, I know of ways to keep you more than preoccupied. You won't have time to even think about it." She told him.

"Mmmm, I like the sound of that." He said.

He swung her up into his arms, carried her over to the bed and laid her down on it. He positioned himself on top of her and pulled open her pajama top so forcefully that the buttons tore loose from the fabric and scattered all over the room. He took both of her breasts in his hands and squeezed them firmly. He began to knead them with his fingers as if they were some kind of dough, allowing her nipples to slide back and forth between his fingers. Her whole body started to heat like he had just turned up one of the dials on her oven.

She closed her eyes, allowing her physical senses to take over. She suddenly felt his warm breath on one of her breasts and then she felt his tongue licking one of her nipples, swabbing it in warm, wet saliva. When he'd finish with that one, he started on the other. Her nipples became engorged and hard. Her body kept getting warmer and warmer until she felt like she was going to burst into white hot flames.

He started to trail hot, open mouthed kisses from her lower chest all the way down to her stomach. He cupped her behind in the palms of his hands, squeezing it so gruffly with his fingers. Nobody had ever filled her with such aching, needing desire like he had.

"Take off my pants, please." She pleaded, breathlessly, almost panting, trying to regain proper function of her lungs.

He instantly complied, curling his fingers around the waistband of her pajama pants and pulling them all the way down to her feet and then tossing the discarded piece of clothing to the floor. He then removed her panties, tossing them down to the floor too before returning to the task at hand. He took her behind into the palms of his hands once again and continued to squeeze it.

She suddenly rose up in the bed, taking her pajama top the rest of the way off and hastily throwing it to the floor before winding her arms around him and pressing her eager, engorged lips to his lips. She then yanked his coat off his arms and threw it to the floor. She pulled his pale teal striped tee shirt up over his head and then off of his arms, throwing it to the floor also.

He unsnapped and unzipped his jeans, removing them and then removing his briefs before tossing them both onto the floor on top of the rest of the discarded clothing. She then started to kiss his neck, his skin warm and soft against her anxious, hungry lips. She placed her mouth over his shoulder and started to nibble. She heard a low growl rip through his throat. He took her down to the bed, forcefully grabbing a hold of her wrists and pinning them down to the bed.

She parted her legs as if it was nothing, but sheer instinct. She looked deeply into his eyes. He stared back into hers. His manhood grazed her external genitals. He then slowly lowered himself into her warm, moist inner depths. He lifted himself up and then lowered himself back down, doing this until it became more of a rhythmic motion.

He explored her more fully, going deeper inside, enjoying the feeling of her feminine muscles tightening so marvelously around his masculine appendage. The heavy pressure that he was applying to her wrists started to ache, but the delicious pleasure that she was feeling more than compensated. He kept the rhythm slow and easy, wanting to prolong the intensely torrid experience as long as possible. Neither one of them ever wanted it to come to an end.

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