New Story: A Necessary Evil (Batman/Nightwing) Part 8
JM
depicted in the story belong to and are copyrighted by DC Comics and/or its
subsidiaries. I am in no way related to the company and have no ownership over
the characters. This is fan fiction.
--- 8 ---
The two students grabbed both legs of the hero's tights, and pulled them off
completely. The clanging around the table had stopped, and Nightwing groaned
silently, terrified of another wave of intense feelings, but powerless to do
anything but be completely stupefied by his situation.
Returning to a safe distance away from the table, Batman stared at the
humiliating image: Nightwing sprawled on the floor, clad now only in the top of
his suit, his smooth muscled legs bare, splayed wide on the floor in front of
him, the bottom of his skintight upper suit riding up his ridged abdomen. And
right in the middle, his friend's manhood on full display, resting back against
the bottom of his abs and still -- good God -- still throbbing slightly,
twitching, his thick balls pulled up tight beneath it. With a pang of shame,
Batman remembered his first encounter with the sick liquid, and he knew he could
do nothing to help his former partner. He could do nothing but watch, back
against the wall, jaw clenched. It was not just the shame he was feeling, but
the slightest tingle of physical memory, deep between his own thighs, along with
a grim certitude of what would have to happen soon enough. He kept his eyes
locked on Nightwing's muscled form on the floor.
"Ready? Grab his legs," ordered the doctor, as he assumed a position behind
Nightwing's head. The two students complied, and grabbed hold of the hero by
his ankles. "Ok, lift - now!"
Nightwing's head swayed and fell forward as the three men hoisted him up like a
ragdoll, swinging him over the table and moving him into position. As they
slowly lowered him into place, Nightwing suddenly felt cold steel on his exposed
ass, and flinched. The new sensation seemed to snap him out of his daze for a
moment, and he spoke with new energy, finding his former mentor in the room and
speaking directly to him: "Batman - don't just - fucking - stand there - what
the fuck are you letting them do?"
He gazed down at himself as the two students pulled his legs into the stirrups
Nightwing had glimpsed upon entering the room earlier. Lycra straps, first
one, then another, then two more were stretched over and around his wide feet
and shaking limbs, securing them into place against cold footrests and stirrup
bars.
The two students and the doctor worked quietly, but efficiently. From under the
left and right sides of the table Nightwing heard the slick sound of more lycra
bands being extracted and extended. He watched in horrified fascination as
David lifted one long black belt and tossed it across the hero's abdomen, just
under his shirt line, to Ryan, standing on Nightwing's left, the strap cinching
across his stomach just above his belly button.
It was now or never, Nightwing knew. He had to regain the control he was losing
with each instant. "Batman," again pleading directly to the man standing in
front of him now, "why don't you say a fucking WORD??" He spat out the last
sounds, a deepening anger spreading across his face in a moment when the
potion's sensations had subsided somewhat. His abs tensed and contracted as he
gasped for calming breaths, grasping at the shreds of his training even as his
body betrayed him.
The older hero remained frustratingly silent. He watched the younger man being
strapped to the same table he had been corralled on, like a bull, memories of
spasms of pleasure shooting up and down his legs, thighs, along his ribcage,
teasing the nipples that, like Nightwing's now, and his before, were so
pronounced under the slick costume. Beneath the sculpted cowl, Batman's eyes
began to glaze over -- like before -- and he could not help staring down at the
throbbing manhood of his former student, lying flat but pulsing on the hero's
left hip.
"Fuck YOU then!" Nightwing finally managed, and willed his agile body into
rebellion, pulling at the straps but suddenly surprised that, in the passing
seconds, his arms had been stretched out and secured to metal beams that
extended outward from either side. His pecs strained to pull his body inward
and off the table, but by then it was too late.
"Mother... fucking... sick.. fuckers..", the tirade spilled from his panicked
mouth, words flying in all directions at the four men subduing him. Sweat
poured down his face and throat, reaching down under the collar of his tunic,
highlighting strained muscles and veins.
Dr. Tanner stared down at his latest test subject and remarked quietly, "It
should start again now."
Nightwing continued to buck and struggle on the table, his arms and limbs spread
wide, exposing the most vulnerable parts of his body. An abdomen slick with
sweat, powerful trunks of legs pinned and spread open against the supports, and
toes curling and uncurling as muscled feet attempted to pull away from
unforgiving metal.
Then the man in heat on the table paused, and all the others in the room knew it
was the start of another attack on his body's defenses.