The Birdcage


At first she kneeled above me, hovering an inch or so over my face, while I explored her. Internet advice flashed vaguely through my brain: don't go straight for the clit. Tease her first.

But she was impatient – when I flicked around her labia, she firmly steered my head with a glove directly back into her pussy.

So I followed her lead and nuzzled in. My tongue pushed, first flicking, then thrusting deeper, as far as I could stick it in. She wanted more. When I lifted my head her hands slipped behind it, grabbing it for leverage, and she pressed down and began grinding back and forth.

She released my head, and I fell back into the pillow, gasping. My neck and chest was slick with sweat. I looked up, past her two ripe breasts, to see her flashing eyes. Her mouth hung open, accommodating her heavy breaths. She glanced down, and for a moment our eyes locked through our masks. Her claws scraped over my cheeks, and she chortled, or moaned, or both.

Then she settled back over me, resting her arms against the headboard for support. She sat on her heels, but I lifted my face to trace between her outer and inner lips with the tip of my tongue, then drew them into my mouth for light suck and lip-nibble. It was too much for her – her heels slipped out and her full weight fell on me. One glove caught my forehead, cupping it tightly to hold me in place while she squirmed against my mouth. Her clit found the knob of my nose and she mashed into it, spreading herself over my upper lip and the tip of my tongue.

I remember my view through the wide 'V' of her thighs, the rotating, jerking motions of her hips, the way she gripped her breasts so tightly and dug her claws into her own skin. Her tongue rolled over her lips, not to keep them wet, but in some kind of vicarious fantasy of what I'd do to her. I tried to match her flicks with my own, and was rewarded with a vice-grip as her thighs tried to squeeze my head as tightly as she did her breasts. Her breath caught. After a long, tense moment, she exhaled, her thighs relaxed, and her head lolled down. Her convulsions had shifted her mask, so she nudged it back in place with a knuckle as she began her slow, forceful gyrations again. With her vision unobstructed, our eyes locked together.

She seemed to delight in my reactions to each thrust of her hips, her moans, her nibbled lips. Her grindings were thoughtful, experimental, like she was searching for new ways to fit us together. She judged her success as much by my expression as her throbbing pleasure. When I gasped and my eyes blinked with relief after she finally released me from minutes of suffocating thigh-kneading, she laughed aloud, low but melodically.

I remember the aching stiffness in my cock. It ebbed between bobbing aright, hard and yearning, as I was aroused by the soft skin of her inner thigh, the way she shuddered when I suddenly thrust my tongue into her, the raspy surprised cursing and vulgar demands for more, and the promise of the pussy I now knew so intimately, then falling limp against my thigh while she satisfied her own needs and left me straining against the empty air. I couldn't even twist over for friction against the sheets; the best I could do was squeeze my thighs against the growing ache in my balls from their lack of release.


She was somewhere between two and twenty orgasms – her insistent moaning, quick gasps and thrusts, and relentless urging of clawed gloves in my hair left me with no idea where – when she finally rolled off me. She left one leather boot sprawled across my chest. "God, Robin!" She took a deep breath, clutching her ribs, and let it out in a shuddering sigh. "God, Robin," she repeated, "are you still alive down there?" She slipped a claw under her mask to wipe away the sweat collecting there. My own hair was slicked to my face with a mixture of sweat and her juices; she brushed it from my forehead, then leaned down for a gentle kiss. She pressed in again, and her tongue flicked between my lips, brushing my teeth before it slid out of my mouth. She slicked it over my cheek and painted saliva around the bottom profile of my mask before lashing over my mask to my eye, which I quickly shut. She sucked lightly at my eyelid, cupping her thick lips lightly in the bowl beneath my brown, then crossed over my nose to keep the other eye company.

"I taste good, don't I."

I nodded.

"No, Robin – I'm fishing for a compliment here. Tell me."

"You taste... I'll remember your taste for years, and it will still make me horny. It makes my mouth water. It makes me want to bury my face between your legs."

"Mmm... Good." She opened my mouth with a finger, catching my lower lip between two clawtips to pull it open. I thought she was going to kiss me again, but her face just hung over mine, inches away. Her breath was hot, and smelled slightly of her own juices. But her hand slide down my chest and circled my cock, which was once again hard and begging for her touch. "But it's not really about Robin eating out the Catwoman, is it? It's about the Cat eating the birdie. Don't watch."

She left her right hand draped over my face, blocking my view, while she swung her leg off my stomach leaned over me. A hard nipple slid over my taut skin, then pressed down when she settled into place. She made a tight ring around the base of my penis with what felt like a thumb and finger; while she held me thusly, the soft, wet touch of her lips and tongue dabbed and lapped up the shaft.

Then she shifted over me again, and her voice was right in my ear. "If you cum before I tell you to, I won't be the one swallowing it. Good enough for me, good enough for you, right? So I hope you have some self-control. Don't watch." She tugged my mask up a half inch or so, leaving me with a great view of the headboard, then took both hands and her mouth down to tease me.

Tease me she did; while she rolled my balls between her fingers or slid her claws up the inside of my thighs or reached beneath to threaten the resistance of my asshole again (this time, combined with her other attention, I gasped), she took just the head of my cock into her mouth and squeezed or lightly sucked, daring me to let go.

How can I describe the battle I fought with myself? Is it enough to say that I arched and bucked, fighting my restraints until I cramped in both a calf and a finger? That I felt like I was holding back an entire flood of churning heat with the tenuous obedience of one lazy muscle somewhere deep in my pelvis? That I begged her to stop, then not to, that I sobbed I was going to explode (she threatened against it between sloppy mouthfuls) and somehow I managed to contain myself while her lips and tongue insisted all the harder that I shouldn't? If she'd ever released that tight ring grip she'd kept at the base of my...

But she had? I caught a glimpse of her the bottom edge of the mask, pawing quickly through the nightstand while I still fought the broiling froth inside of me. Still that tight grip kept me from release. But I could see both of her gloves?

It was only a moment, though, before she was back on the bed, and rolling a condom down over my cock. Then she crouched on the bed, and, positioning the head with one hand, slid down, slowly, slowly down over it. I couldn't see her face, but I could tell from the small jerks of her shoulders that she'd rubbed against something good along the way. Then she reached all the way to the base, and she slouched for a moment, taking long, slow breaths.

Once she'd gathered her strength, she began moving over my cock the same way she had on my face, grinding against the shaft, squeezing and sliding in jerky figure eights. She slapped my mask back down my face so I could watch her arch exultantly, so I could appreciate the curves of her silhouette. She cupped her breasts and began kneading them again before she realized she could make better use of me now. Falling down over my chest, leaning forward to keep her own chest above my head, she positioned a nipple over my open mouth. She didn't have to pull me to her – I was straining to close my lips over her areola, to flick the erect teat with my tongue – but once I was in place she caught the back of my neck and held me there. Her deep voice, breathless and ragged, directed me to suckle, to wet my lips, to intensify the pressure.

"More.... Harder! Yes! There!"

She reached up awkwardly, already off-balance, to break my hands free. She had no intention of letting me free of her nipples (she'd already moved me to the other), so pulled me up with her while she loosened the ties on each of my wrists.

Once I was free, her arms crossed behind my neck and she leaned back, sitting us both upright. My hand quickly found their way up her hips, her sides, to cup and squeeze her breasts, which now bounced against my cheeks. She was moaning and riding up and down now, squeezing tightly with every part of her body each time slid up, like she was trying to milk me. Still, somehow, I held.

As her moans became louder, she started to be a bit more rough, forcing me into her cleavage, squeezing her thighs around my hips like she wanted to crack them, biting randomly at my ears or forehead, when suddenly she reached beneath her, found the base of my penis, and with trembling fingers clicked something free. The blood rushed from my face as my whole body shuddered and I came, with such unexpected force that I nearly collapsed beneath her. I could feel my cock swelling and throbbing to fill the space inside her. She was shuddering too, her claws digging into the flesh of my back, but I barely noticed. I'd been so long at the edge of orgasm that it had lost its sharp pain; I was completely unprepared for the flood of hot euphoria that washed through me.

I said something like, "Gahhhh...d"


Finally she slid off me, and I fell back limply to the bed. I barely registered when she re-tied my hands and left for a few minutes, or when she came back to remove the condom and clean me with a warm washcloth.

Maybe twenty minutes later she was laying on the bed beside me, stroking my hair and smiling with unrestrained satisfaction. Her lipstick was fresh, and she smelled more like some night flower than sex.

I'm sure my face bore nothing less than adoration. I was just starting to chill where the moisture left by washcloth was evaporating.

"Well, Rrrobin," she purred, "I think you're about spent for the night. But I've got one more big one left in me that I don't want to waste. And while I've worked you pretty thoroughly, what kind of a Catwoman would I be if I didn't take just a little bit of your boyish innocence?"

"What do you want, Selina?"

"Tsk, tsk, Dick. No more names. Selina and Dick might be lovers. But not Catwoman and Robin."

"What do you mean? ...Catwoman?"

"Catwoman – she rrrapes poor little Robin."

My eyes widened, and I think my mouth might have fallen open when I saw what she had placed on the bed between us: a curved, black dildo, attached to straps and a harness.


She covered my mouth with her glove, then, sliding her fingers in and spreading my teeth apart, pushed a hard rubber ball on a flat strap – something like an oversized evil pacifier – into place and buckled the harness behind my head.

"No more talking from you. You can cry or whimper if you'd like – I may like that – but it hardly seems fitting from Batman's protégé."

My eyes described my fear to her while she polished the dildo between the fingers and thumb of her glove, bringing the exaggerated veins to a polish. I shook my head vigorously, and I could tell from her low chuckle that she really enjoyed my anxiety.

"Robin, Rrrobin – I thought you and Bats liked it in the bum? That's the rrrumor. But maybe just not from women, though?" She laughed now. "You forgot already – this isn't about your pain, it's about my pleasure. I have no interest in fucking your little ass; not this time, anyway. Maybe later. Now hold still." She caught my chin firmly in her palm slid the dildo through a metal ring on the outside of the gag. The ring snapped tightly into place, and the black cock sprung up, away from face. "There. Now I can rrreally fuck with your head."

I sighed in relief and relaxed muscled I hadn't even realized were knotted. But that's because I didn't know what I was in for.

She grabbed the base of the dildo and started polishing it with her other hand again. The gag and dildo were a very effective handle – she could move my head however she liked; my neck was not prepared to offer resistance to that kind of leverage. She turned me to the side, and leaned down to slacker her tongue along the length of the black rubber. Her eyes stayed on mine while she sucked and kissed the rubber cock, fellating it with a hungry vigor. Of course I felt nothing, but I saw everything, which was her point. I began squirming.

"Some people don't like the taste of rubber," she told me between licks, "but I love it. I was so pleased when Bats changed to a latex kit." She chomped on the dildo and shook it between her teeth like a shark, wagging my head along with it.

Pushing off my chest, she sat on the edge of the bed and dug back into the nightstand. At the edge of my eyesite, I watched her squeeze gobs of clear liquid into the palm of her glove, then rub it into her still-bare crotch. With her hand still cupping her pussy, both caressing it and keeping the lube inside, she once again climbed up onto the bed. This time she stood, a boot sinking into the mattress to either side of me. Her knees clenched and unclenched. She pushed her middle fingers up inside, wetting the walls of her vagina and encouraging her own lubrication to flow again. She bit her lip, and for a moment I thought she was going to just stand over me and masturbate where I could watch.

But once she was ready she crouched down to her heels, slowly swallowing the dildo with her pussy, mere inches from my eyes. The rubber cock was tight inside her; my tongue and jaw fought back against her weight as she kept pressing down. But I quickly realized that my neck would lose any fight to support her, so I let her push me down into the pillow, which folded up on either side of my face.

With half her weight on either my jaw or on my forehead, where she grasped with both palms, she began to fuck the dildo. Not like she had my cock, taking it all the way in and grinding, but sliding up and down, in and out. My head bobbed up and down with her as she moved, not really of my accord, but when I relaxed completely she growled, grabbed my hair, and began yanking me up and down against her.

I had no fight in me, so she fucked me, or fucked on me. Since she'd orgasmed so many times already, she didn't seem to be in any hurry. Her hips rocked back and forth, rolled up and down, while I could do nothing but watch and try to hold still for her. Occasionally she glanced down, smiling at my wide eyes, but mostly her neck and shoulders arched back and she drifted in her own world.

This might sound anti-climactic, but it was a little frustrating for me. Granted, her gasps and groans were electrifying, and the sight of her pussy slurping up the rubber should have been enough to make me hard, if I had anything left to work with. But between the smell, and the sight of her so close, and the motion of her hips, I just wanted to taste her again. And there was nothing I could do. I couldn't even squeeze her butt, which quivered so ripely, nearby but out of reach. I could only watch.

At last, after a long, satisfied sigh, she slid off the dildo and knelt over me, sitting on my collarbone. She paused only a moment before laying back, reclining on my stomach, and stretching her legs up over my head against the wall. The muscles in her meaty thighs, which were still clad in the sweat-damp purple catsuit, knotted and released as she worked through them. My cock suddenly bobbed as blood rushed to it, trying to bring back to life.

"Ahh... I'm so sore..." She massaged the tops of her thighs, pushing the ache she must have felt down toward her knees. "Next time I break in a superhero, he's doing all the work."


We lay together on the bed for quite awhile, just talking. She unstrapped my legs and bid me bend my knees so she could sit on my stomach and lounge back against my thighs. She told me things about herself. Not where she lived, or what she did – she still never broke character – but I learned about her coffee obsession, some of her favorite songs, some of the things she had thought about doing to me that night – a few of which she wouldn't describe in detail – they were for "next time".

She used the toes and heels of her boots to play with the flesh of my face, and as she spoke she idly swirled her claws over my skin. Her low voice stayed mostly to a whisper, like we were conspirators sharing secrets, and the huskiness of the whisper, the smiles I heard but couldn't see, made even her most casual comments sensual. But while we became more intimate, we never so much as kissed.

Later she untied me entirely, and after we had both stripped to our bare bodies (even as far as removing our masks, after we jokingly swore not to peek), after she'd reduced the bed to a single, airy sheet, we spooned. It wasn't like I'd ever spooned before – she stayed behind me and curved to fit my bottom. She slipped an arm beneath my elbow and pressed her breasts against my back, then slid a leg between mine.

Thus enfolded, with her lips and a cheek lying against my shoulder, she asked me to recount the night for her – what I liked, what scared me – what I thought was going to happen. I think that, normally, talking about sex in such detail would have left me embarrassed and halting, but I felt so close to her now that it was easy just to talk. I barely worried about how I sounded – how what I said would make me look, or if I would say something she wouldn't agree with. I just talked. Her guiding questions trickled down to "Mm-hmms" and barely audible murmurs, and then she was asleep.

With the replay of the night fresh in my head, I couldn't sleep – or I didn't think so. I was awash in that happy glow that warms you from the stomach out. I didn't want to move an inch, to risk her rolling away from the press of our flesh. I smiled, and I must have slipped into sleep.


God! I still remember that night so well, as long as it's been. I can't believe that I could write so much, but I still haven't even gotten to what happened the next morning. Or the next day – what a day! But I suppose that will have to be another tale, saved for another night. I have to go dream about that first night in the birdcage.

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