Marry The Knight Ch. 04

His cock came out and out and out of her mouth, resuming its flagpole vigil over her, now dripping with her saliva almost—but not quite—to the root. Vicki spoke almost as viciously as she gulped in air. "No way is that fucking Juggalo Quinn better at this than me! What does it take to get you off!?"

Bruce looked down at her apologetically—as falsely sorry as she had been to provoke his erection. "I'm sorry, how rude of me. You were asking what I did with Harleen for sex. It's this."

His strong fingers tightened in her hair, almost hurting her. Powerfully, he pulled her back down to his cock. She sucked on him, but not fast enough for his liking. Bruce forced her into the rhythm he desired, slamming her down on him and pulling her back up with no regard for her sputtering gagging, her lost breath. She couldn't escape his grip and she didn't want to.

Again and again she was flung onto his prick; it drove into her throat with more speed, more force, always more. And yet her lips formed a perfect O around the swollen circumference of him. She even let her teeth clamp down, raking over his cock to leave fiery red in their wake. Bruce moaned for the first time; a low and broken sound.

As if angered by his own passion, he pulled on her hair so demandingly he almost ripped it out by the roots. Distantly, Vicki wanted to slow down, wanted to savor his engorged cock being buried in her mouth, but she also wanted him to have his way with her. To satisfy his every desire with no more than her mouth.

His hips jerked uncontrollably, further gagging her, and when she managed to focus enough to look up at his face, she saw his stony façade was crumbling to reveal the unrestrained lust underneath. He was her prisoner now: trapped in her sucking mouth, controlled by the pressure of her tongue. Now she wanted him to come.

Her tongue dragged roughly over the tip of his cock when he pulled out, reached for his balls when he was embedded in her. And when he moved, Vicki let the very tip of her tongue drag over his underside, setting him bucking between her lips like his phallus was electric.

Bruce exhaled, hard enough for her to hear, and that was it. She found her mouth filled with burning hot cum. She swallowed; she just had to. And immediately, her mouth was once more stuffed with his salty ejaculation.

Bruce took a deep breath. Then fucked her mouth, hurtling into her throat, letting loose a gulping blast, then slowly retreating. She suffocated the exploding cock, gave it all the tongue she had, sucked as hard as she could. He groaned, engulfed his phallus in her throat once more, and she felt another stingingly hot load traveling directly to her belly.

After three or four repetitions, his fingers went limp in her hair. Bruce's hips went still. The torrential downpour dwindled. She tapered her mouth up his slackening cock and sucked hard on the head. Another rope of cum fired into her mouth, this one belonging to her tongue and cheeks and the roof of her mouth. She wanted him to know he'd had a goddamn professional between his legs.

Vicki milked another barrage of seed from his cock before releasing him. His cock became flaccid only slowly, painstakingly slow; she licked it all the way down. Sucking up every drop that was left in his balls. Even as Bruce said nothing, she washed his cock clean. And when she was finally done—when his cock and groin and balls were all shimmery with the dew of her licking—she looked up at him, lips wet with cum. "Not bad, huh?"

He smiled benignly. "Maybe I should've married you."

Vicki got off her stiff knees and resumed her seat, washing down his prodigious cum with the remaining wine in her glass. Then she started on the food.

For a few minutes, they ate in silence. Vicki's mind seemed to flee from what they had done; she prided herself on returning to a journalistic mentality with the taste of cum hot on her tongue. Once more she went over the questions she had prepared for him. She was so engrossed in her planned conversation that it took her a moment to notice the nudge of Bruce's foot against her calf. As the caress continued, she pulled herself back to reality and looked across the table to Bruce, vibrantly enjoying his meal.

You slut, she thought. Two wives and you still can't get enough.

She pressed her leg against his wandering ankle. That slight pressure, she had to admit, was reawakening her pussy so fast... Christ, what was wrong with her? Even in journalism school, with Summer Gleeson for a roommate and a campus lecture from Lois Lane, she hadn't been this slutty.

With utter contrivance, she brushed her salad fork off the table and then, with the false apology they'd come to share, bent to pick it up.

Under the table, Bruce still had not replaced his cock in his trousers. And it was not the limp beast she had killed five minutes ago. It jutted up from his groin like a monolith, the knob at the end larger than ever, visibly pulsing with his need for her. She was both fascinated and revolted by the sheer degree of lust he possessed; to be so hard after fucking her in the face so recently. Vicki's mixed feelings were surprisingly arousing for her. She wondered if birds felt this way about snakes. Hypnotized whilst on the verge of being utterly devoured.

She sat back up, the salad fork forgotten, and Bruce gave her a knowing smile when she realized its absence. His foot now rested on Vicki's chair, up under her dress, toes stroking her groin. His sock and her panties stood between skin contact, but that just made it worse. She thought of how it'd be to be skin to skin with him like she was planning a three-part article on it.

Vicki ate faster. She was now distinctly worried about her food growing cold. Bruce was pressing into her pussy with inexorable rhythm: pushing in steadily, then silently withdrawing. She could've almost ignored it if it weren't truly pleasurable.

Her cunt was now soft and wet inside her panties, her body similarly warm with lustful hunger. Vicki's thighs spread wide. She pushed her sex into the ball of Bruce's foot. It felt...!

Bruce's grin was not smug. More like he'd been working out a thorny problem, and now come up with an acceptable solution.

"Shall we..." Vicki was surprised by how her voice shook. "Shall we continue on with the interview?" Her expression begged him, but even she didn't know for which answer: yes or no.

Bruce finished his wine. "Well, that was what I do to my wife Harleen," he said conversationally. "Now, would you like to know what I do with Pamela Isley?"

Slowly, deliberately, he fingered his salad fork off the table. Crawled under the tablecloth to retrieve it.

Vicki felt a tug at her legs, as soft and irresistible as the undertow to an exhausted swimmer...

***

It was most unusual, the maître d' thought. He'd returned to deliver the check to his esteemed guests, only for both Mr. Wayne and Ms. Vale to be missing, their food half-eaten and their salad forks on the ground beside their chairs. None of the waiters or bathroom attendants had seen them about.

He was sure they'd turn up, of course. Such an august personality as Bruce Wayne wouldn't think of pulling a 'dine and dash' like some common fratboy. For now, he simply put the check on the table and left.

He hoped the food had been satisfactory. His mission in life was to ensure everyone had a satisfying experience at L'enfermer.

As soon as he shut the door, the table gave a wobble. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Wayne," Vicki breathed. "Your cock's still so big and hard and it's all my fault! Let me take care of that for you—"

Then the table really shook.

***

A plate of foie gras worth more than a month's salary in some jobs crashed to the ground. But even if Vicki had noticed it, she would've had far more important things to worry about.

Her dress, for one thing. It had cost a thousand dollars and she was sure Bruce had ripped it in his haste to grope her breast. Her make-up could probably do with a touch-up; if one of Bruce's nearly painful kisses hadn't smudged it, then having her face smushed against the floor as he took her from behind most definitely had. Her hair certainly needed a comb; Bruce had pulled at it even more, to the point that she wondered if it was a fetish with him. And of course, there was the business of the condoms in her clutch—she hadn't gotten them. Having Bruce Wayne inside her had seemed much more important than seeing to it he was wrapped in latex first.

Not that she was worrying about any of these things, any more than she was about the foie gras. No, she was only concerned with the white-hot blasts of pleasure that went through her every time Bruce pumped his thick cock inside her, the hoarseness of her throat as she screamed explosive ecstasy into the gag of Bruce's hand, and the hot juices flowing around the sides of Bruce's cock that she would've taken for his ejaculation if he didn't just keep wracking her with thrusts straight from his loins. Which meant they had to be hers. Oh well.

Bruce hadn't spoken—for an interview, he hadn't said much at all—but he did grunt and groan and start a roaring sound that didn't make it to his lips, but rumbled in his chest like the raging water behind a dam. And as he gripped Vicki tightly by the hips and pulled her violently to his monstrously stiff cock, lifting her clear off the ground each time, lips wet with her sweat approached Vicki's lustfully contorted face and he made words that, to Vicki, seemed intrinsically linked to his shaft's expansions and orgasmic convulsions—just like a speaker vibrating as it pumped bass.

"Look down there," he said. She knew he was staring over her shoulder, down through the translucent glass floor/skylight to the dining room below them. The milling business of waiters bringing meals up, cooks preparing them, customers waiting for tables, all on transparent display. Another of Bolton's security measures. "Imagine if they looked up. Imagine if they could see through this floor."

Vicki whimpered as she felt electric shivers of lust working their way through his powerfully built body, making his cock quiver inside of her. Another hellish drag of her sex against his unyielding manhood and she whimpered even louder.

"They'd see what a slut you are, Vicki. Would you like that? Everyone seeing how much you love being fucked? Men? Women? Would you like them to know how hard you're coming?"

"Yes! Yes! Oh God, yes!"

Bruce came thick and hard, deep into her hungry pussy, and he didn't stop until she was filled up with fresh cum. His delicious brutality finally cooled, becoming a slow, luxurious dance of his hips, in and out of her, as the blast of his seed tapered off inside Vicki.

They ground to a stop, Bruce rolling off her and Vicki limply dropping beside him, against his body, laying her head on his outstretched arm. They were still connected, and she moaned with regret as he dwindled inside her.

Vicki hadn't come when he did. But then, she'd already orgasmed six times. Seven seemed excessive.

"Ivy," he said gently, "loves it too."

***

Bruce finished his meal, but Vicki seemed to have lost her appetite—at least, for the food. She still hadn't quite recovered after Bruce paid the bill; fainting into her crème bavaroise. Bruce picked her up and wiped her face off with his napkin. A little too much wine, he explained.

Then he escorted her down to the limo, letting her rest her head on his shoulder and clutch firmly to his arm. Her legs didn't seem able to support her. But finally the limo was brought up to the curve and he loaded her into the backseat, where she tipped over, exposing the white cream trickling down her thighs.

He righted her, then went up to the driver's window, slipping him a hundred. "Her apartment's on 320 Baxter Street; the valet will know the apartment number. See that she's tucked in safe. I'll make my own way home."

"Very good, sir," the driver said, rolling up the window.

Bruce went back to Vicki. She'd slipped off again, but at least she was upright this time. Smiling half apologetically and half not—which seemed to sum up their relationship—Bruce slipped her panties out of his pocket and hid them in her hand. "You're probably be needing these... If it's any consolation, I promise to have that second interview with you very soon."

Vicki groaned dreamily. Bruce shut the door for her. Watched the limo speed off.

Someone had tampered with his biochemistry. He hadn't been sure before, but it was obvious now. He was lucky he'd been with someone so open to—relieving him.

That, or very, very unlucky. Hard to tell sometimes.

Planning his next move, Bruce did not notice the shadow breaking off from the night sky and speeding down, pulling up at the last moment and skimming over the traffic outside L'enfermer's lobby. He might not have noticed it at all, owing to his semi-drugged condition, except a lasso shot from it as it rushed past. The rope coiled around him, pinning his arms to his sides in an instant. In another instant, the line went taut and he was dragged right off his feet. Bruce had a sudden sympathy for Vicki Vale having been yanked around so thoroughly by him over the course of the evening.

Only he didn't think he would enjoy this half as much.

"Come on loverboy!" Roxy Rocket called back, pulling up on the rocket before she could be smeared by an oncoming semi. Dangling behind her, Bruce narrowly avoided the same. "You're flying Roxy Air now!"