Ibis - Leviathan Laroche (love letters to the dead .txt) 📗

and find you watching TV, or doing anything other than lying right here, just like this, we'll shake hands and call it a night, and I'll have to hunt down Batgirl after all."

She leaned back down, so her breath rolled over my face again. It smelled of some kind of mint or licorice, I realized. "But if you haven't escaped my trap, then... well... Let's just say you won't be going anywhere after that, and cats do like to play with their food. You will have a long night ahead of you. ...Okay. Don't say anything. Just nod that you understand. Good."

She crawled back off me, and her weight left the bed. I felt her fingers at my waste, unbuckling the utility belt, and I arched my back so she could slide it out from beneath me. That was a relief – one of the pockets had been pressing uncomfortably into my back. I heard her shuffling some things at the foot of the bed, then she walked out of the bedroom. A moment later the door to the hall shut behind her.

I didn't know if I had thirty minutes or five to do it, but I really had to pee.

*

I had tried to disturb as little as possible. I slid my hands off the hook on the headboard and raised the blindfold just enough to see underneath, but not enough to loosen the knot. The room was dark, but my eyes had been closed long enough that the LEDs on the clock and TV and a few other red and green dots around the room showed me the way out of the bedroom, and through the suite to the bathroom. By the time I'd made it back to the bed and gently rolled into the depression I'd made earlier, replaced the blindfold and found the hook, the toilet noise had subsided and I was sighing with bladder comfort. When you really have to go, a good toilet break can be almost orgasmic.

Then I waited.

And waited.

I might have dozed here and there, for a minute or two, but at last the outer door to the suite opened. I heard the light pad of feet crossing through the suite, approaching the bedroom. The footsteps stopped at the door, and I heard purring – not some onomatopoetic attempt at the word or the titillating rolling of 'R's, but a husky, rasping breath in the back of a woman's throat – it sounded more feral than silly. The feet continued, and the bed sagged beneath a sudden pounce. A booted calf and thigh slid over my stomach, hips settled over mine, the warm breath returned to my face, and Catwoman's deep voice uttered a matter-of-fact, "Meow."

And then,

"What have you been doing?" The question was accusatory. "You've been out of the bed. Haven't you?"

I didn't know how she knew, but I had no doubt that she did. There was no sense in lying about it. I nodded.

She rolled off the bed. Disappointment dripped from her words. "I'll cut the bonds. Forgive me if I don't take off your blindfold – I don't want you to see my room number and bring Batman back."

"Wait!" I didn't mean it to sound desperate, but I think it did. "Wait. I just really had to go to the bathroom. Too much to drink, you know? I didn't see anything, or touch anything." Not the row of latex boots I saw by the door, or the half-dozen whips hanging in the coat closet. Certainly not the half-open bag by the side of the bed.

I could feel her standing there, just beyond my feet. Then she walked around and sat beside me. "Hmmm. I see." She ran a clawed glove through my hair and grabbed a lock. Her voice was terse, but still thoughtful. "I think you're telling the truth." She paused for a few moments, then continued. "I should have to prepared you better. I forgive you." 

I sighed, releasing a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, and I thought she might have, too.

She unhooked my hands again, crossed them and rehooked them, and bid me, "Roll over."

I did so, turning to uncross my forearms, and scooted back to the center of bed. Then, 

Whack! Whack, whack whack!

"Stop! What are you doing?" My ass cheeks smarted. I'd had my share of spankings as a kid, but honestly, I didn't remember it hurting this much. She wasn't using her hand; it was something more like a strap or a stick. I clenched and unclenched, trying to wince away the pain. "I thought you'd forgiven me!"

"Oh, I have. That's why you're still here. But I can't have my captive thinking it's okay to rethink any of my commands, even if he's sure he has a better idea. Now if you'd simply told me earlier that you had to use the potty before I left, we wouldn't be in this mess, would we? That part was your fault. I might have the whip, but you still have to communicate." Her weight shifted on the bed, like she'd lifted her hand again.

I tried to communicate. "I'm not into pain."

"Neither am I, Robin." I noticed the way she said the name. "I'm into pleasure – my own. But we're only at four of ten lashes, so if we're going to get past this to the part I like, you're going to have to bite your little tongue and take six more, okay?"

I nodded. The earlier sharp pain had already faded to heat, and I really didn't want to leave. I pushed my head into the pillow and gritted my teeth.

Whack! Whack! Whack! 



Oh yeah... that's how much it hurt.



.. Whack! ...Whack! ... Whack!



She drew out the last few strokes. I thought it was because she liked to see me flinch, to see my ass tighten in anticipation. Once she was done, after she'd put away whatever she was striking me with, she massaged my cheeks through the tights. I winced and tried to roll away. God, it hurt. It throbbed like my heart was down there, pumping pain into my flesh.

She chuckled and leaned over me to untie the blindfold.

It didn't make much of a difference, since I was face down on the bed in a dark room, but if I twisted my neck all the way, I could just make out her shadow behind me. 

"Now, Rrrobin, let's start over. I'd love to just rrrip off that costume of yours and rrrape you – make a man out of a boy – but it's such a nice costume. It would be a shame. So let's try to take it slowly, shall we?"

She tugged my boots off, one at a time; they fell to the side of the bed.

"Socks?" She tisked as she peeled them off; they were thrown into a corner. "Never wear socks to bed with a lady, Rrrobin. I guess Bruce isn't such a good influence after all."

Her voice was low and sultry again, her 'R's rolling deliciously at the back of her mouth. She cat-crawled up my back and reached over my shoulders to loosen the yellow and black cape. "What is it with you heroes and your capes?" she hissed from right behind my ear. "At least I have the courtesy to put my tail on display." The cape sailed away from the bed. "Better... Now let's see yours." For a moment she caught the top of my ear between her teeth, rolling the cartilage between thick wet lips, before her claws slid down my flanks to my beltline – which was loose without the belt – and then beneath the leggings to bare skin. She followed her hands down my body, letting her nipples slide over the curve of my back. Now kneeling on either side of my calves, she yanked down the tights in one clean pull.

I bit my lip, and she purred. "Mmm. That's better. Commando." (Actually, I think she had just taken the briefs with the tights.) The tips of her claws traced lightly around my ass, stopping to circle the rising red welts. She leaned down again, grasping my inner thigh with one hand and placing the other firmly in the small of my back. I felt a light dab on one of the wheals, and then a cool breeze. I jerked against the touch of her tongue, but her hands were well-placed to keep me still. More dabs followed, along with more cool, wet relief to the burning lines. 

The relief didn't last more than a second, so I twisted my neck the other way to she what she was doing. I couldn't make out much beneath the long drape of her hair, which had fallen around her shoulders, but when I saw the tilt of her head and felt the long, slick stripe up my cheek, I knew. She glanced up to see me watching, and I saw a flash of a smile beneath her mask – a flash of bared teeth. Throwing her hair back so I could watch, she bathed my entire ass with her tongue, in long, smooth strokes like a painter. Her eyes flicked between mine and my skin, and her smile stuck as she watched me in return, watched me anticipate each lap. 

She moved down my thighs then, paying less meticulous attention to complete coverage as she danced from spot to spot, delighted to find them as hairless as I had promised. What she didn't lick, she kissed with wet, open mouthed kisses, or bit, gnawing hard enough to leave teeth marks but no bruises. She used her claws to stroke or tease, but also to pinch or scratch whenever I seemed too comfortable, whenever my moans were too faint to reach her ears. 

She was training me to be vocal, I realized – rewarding me with kisses for honest, audible responses, and punishing me when I retreated into the pleasure of the tongue bath. 

She also liked it when I squirmed, and it didn't take her very long to figure out how to have me wriggling like a worm on a hook.

You might have guessed that I hadn't done anything like this before. You might also have surmised that I governed my backside with a strict exit-only policy, which seemed to be both natural and proper. So you can imagine how I felt when, while she was nibbling on the inside of my knees, one gloved hand snaked up inside my thighs, and a couple fingers slid between my cheeks. My entire body stiffened, and I said something along the lines of, "Wha – ahh!"

Of course, if I wanted her to stop, I should have simply ignored it. Her interest in the flesh of my legs waned for a moment while she concentrated on her fingers, focused on spreading my cheeks to trace the inside of the crack with a clawtip, to run circles around my anus. Then she lightly pressed, directly on my anus, teasing like she might push right in. I was overwhelmed by the conflict of the sensation – the unfamiliarity, the reflex to pull away, and the surprising pleasure. She chuckled. I would never admit to it, but she would probably tell you I pushed back just a little. She fell back into my legs, nipping and biting, but that glove stayed high on my thigh, threatening to find its way back inside.

Before she'd finished with my legs, her tongue went dry. She didn't stop to swallow or gather saliva; she simply continued with a dry tongue, and when her mouth produced more lubrication, she let it drip from her lips, then lapped it back up and spread it around. 

Once she was satisfied that I was completely shaved (she checked down to my toes, and yes I was thorough), she slid back up my legs, running her hands between them to spread them apart. She had long since freed my ankles from the bunched-up tights, which were somewhere on the floor. Her face followed her hands, her tongue skipping over my skin. She stopped at the