Bruce slipped into the Clocktower as easily as ever, even with Helena's unconscious form in his arms. Usually, he respected Barbara's privacy enough not to test her security, but he didn't feel like explaining Helena's condition to her. Not when it was so obvious.
He'd realized a ways into fucking Helena that her communicator was on, transmitting everything they did to her fellow Birds of Prey. It was... less than optimal... but now that others knew how he was rutting her, Bruce had decided he might as well let them know how thoroughly she'd getting fucked as well. Maybe it would add to Helena's dominance; knowing that not only was she his bitch, but that all her friends were aware of it as well.
Barbara was at her usual perch, working at the massive Delphi workstation. Three monitors, two keyboards, wires and cables snaking underneath the floor, bunched together in neat symmetry to keep out of the way of her wheelchair's tires. There was an unpretentious beauty to the redhead. She drove herself even harder than she had as Batgirl, keeping her muscles toned and tight under clear, freckled skin. She dressed simple: slacks, a tanktop, and high heels—Bruce felt a swell of amusement at the thought that, since it made no difference, Barbara had decided she might as well put on the most obscenely fashionable pumps she could afford.
Her clothes were comfortable—not even a bra—befitting a woman who expected to spend the night shut up in this cloister. But she still enjoyed looking good: her plain clothing and natural make-up largely got out of the way of her radiant beauty. The wireframe glasses she wore did more to enhance her good looks than anything else she had on. It put a cool, intellectual edge on the sexual frenzy promised by her wavy red hair, plump red lips, and the sizable breasts under her top.
Bruce could see it would be laborious... and rewarding... to rid her of that tightly controlled mentality. To reduce her, once again, to the eager, sensual schoolgirl she'd been as Batgirl. He knew that mischievous, girlish sexuality was lurking under all her maturity... perhaps only someone who'd known her then, like himself or Dick, understood that the first move had to be made for Barbara. That she no longer had the blithe foolhardiness to dare someone to seduce her.
The redheaded vixen was even more challenging now than she had been then, but Bruce saw no reason that a criminal like Catwoman or a renegade like Huntress should benefit from his unleashed urges, but not Barbara Gordon.
She desperately needed to be drawn out of her shell. Smashed out of it. And her old worshipful obsession with Batman was perhaps hammer enough to do it.
He announced himself by dropping Helena on a sofa set against the wall. Helena fell flat on her face, ruing the loss of Bruce's arms around her, but falling just as quickly into the comfort the cushions offered and her own exhaustion. She snuggled into the plush softness, not summoning herself back to wakefulness even when Bruce slapped her ass.
All that happened, as she struggled against her own tiredness, was that she lifted her head slightly, her eyelids fluttered, then she drooped back to the soothing decadence she'd found and slipped back under the waves of unconsciousness. She was well and truly asleep, without the energy to work herself into the waking world for who knew how many hours.
If Barbara didn't look up from the sound of the couch accepting a sudden weight, she felt compelled to turn away from her work when she heard the slap of Bruce's glove against Helena's bare buttocks. She saw Helena settled on the couch, wearing only her cape and her misaligned mask—her costume, boots, gloves were either trapped underneath her or fallen around her body.
Barbara could see Helena's bare flank, the swell of her ass through the cape that covered her like a blanket, and the curve of her breast, flattened against the couch's surface. Helena had never been shy, frequently parading naked around the Clocktower for whatever reason, but she'd never looked so voluptuous as she did then, clearly freshly fucked and reduced to an nebulous slumber by how good it had been.
But then, Barbara didn't need to be a detective to know what had happened. She'd heard every word Helena had said: how she'd cried out to be Batman's bitch, how she'd begged to be used, how her usual sexual aggression had turned against her as Bruce gave her everything she asked for and more.
It was hard for Barbara not to envy Helena. How many of her fantasies, back in her days as Batgirl, had involved Batman doing to her exactly what he'd done to Huntress? She didn't consider herself a submissive, but there was something about the thought of Batman both losing control and taking it, both punishing her and rewarding her.
Maybe taking her over his knee for the blistering spanking he felt a bad little girl like her deserved—maybe reducing her to the same fucked out bliss Helena had found as his way of showing her she wasn't nearly the adult and equal she fancied herself being to him.
Barbara didn't know why, but for all she was frustrated by how Bruce condescended and commanded to her—it most definitely turned her on.
And now Helena Bertinelli, like the prodigal son, had gotten the undeserved reward that Barbara had lusted after for so long.
"Jesus, Bruce—" Normally Barbara would never use his name, even with Helena unconscious, but she was in such a state and Bruce had clearly wanted her to feel that way, acting as he had, so screw it. He could
deal with her.
"I know you don't like her being on my team, but do you have to fuck the shit out of her before you drop her off like Chinese food?"
"I don't mind her being on your team. You just need to take a firmer hand with her."
"Like you did? I can't just drop her on her knees and shove my cunt in her face."
"If you say so." He left the curt statement hanging, the ambiguity deliberately provocative, like he was challenging her with the idea that she could. That she
