Camgirl Vigilantism

Slowly, Barbara Gordon opened her bleary blue eyes and gazed up at her ceiling sleepily. If there was one thing she hated about her life, it

had

to be her condo's ceiling. That hate got her out of bed every day -- and every night, for that matter.

The only daughter of Gotham City's famous police commissioner had a strange sleeping schedule that bewildered all of her friends and family, waking up bright eyed and bushy tailed for the morning but hitting the hay in the middle of the afternoon. She would then wake up a few hours from midnight and stay up until the wee hours of the morning, catching a nap until seven forty-five AM sharp.

The unusual routine was like clockwork to her, something she fully meant to rinse and repeat ad nauseam for the rest of her life, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty five days a year. Not that she'd take a vacation on a leap year or anything like that. Babs crooked a little smile and stretched out languidly in her tangled sheets, before reaching down to the warm and fuzzy lump laying over her thighs. She scratched her cat Huntress right behind her ear, relaxing and just enjoying the noisy vibrations of the kitty's purring.

The only thing that would

ever

stop me is a stray bullet to the spine,

Barbara thought to herself. Her sleepy smile dimmed down just a shade.

"That's a very specific example," she mumbled to herself, though she decided not to dwell on why it jumped to the forefront of her mind, and why she could almost feel a phantom pain in her spinal column. Barbara let out a slow breath, then turned her head and peered at her clock. Seven fifty PM. She didn't need to get up for another ten minutes. Her night job wouldn't kick off for another hour after that. Deciding to just enjoy her feline company while she had it, Barbara looked back up towards the ceiling she loathed so much.

Some people called it an acoustic ceiling. Others called it a stucco, or a stipple. Most people knew it as a popcorn ceiling. But to Barbara Gordon, it was just an ugly ceiling that

had

to go. One year ago, when she broke up with Dick Grayson and he

ever-so-generously

let her keep the fully-paid condo before fucking off to Bludhaven to roleplay being a Kryptonian bird, she told herself that when she could afford to, she would remove that stupid, ugly eyesore that Dick loved so much. He thought it was

classy

. Well, they'd see how classy he felt it was when she sent him all the scraped-off parts of it in an expedited parcel.

The pair's ugly breakup caused no shortage of problems for Barbara. Chief amongst them was how difficult it made balancing her school with her moonlight job as Batgirl. While Dick was covering her bills and their living expenses, Barbara didn't have to work. She could even fit in a little bit of a social life into her day-to-day routine. Without him, well, she

desperately

needed cash.

The only way she could possibly fit a real job into her routine was if she cut back on her education or if she cut back on crime fighting. Barbara wasn't willing to do either. For the first two weeks, she relied on her father's support, but as a public servant he wasn't exactly rolling in cash. Bruce, her mentor for almost a decade at that point, offered to cover her living expenses when he walked in on her in the Batcave going through a copy of

The Gotham Globe

, cutting out job advertisements in the classifieds.

It was a tempting offer, but Barbara realized that was where all of Dick's money came from. Hell, it was the money that paid for the condo she was living in. Her pride wouldn't let her say yes to Bruce, even though her brain screamed at her to just say yes. She told him he had it covered. Of course, the moment Bruce left her alone, she just about had a nervous breakdown, cussing at herself for her own stupidity. Her pride wasn't worth her stress, but unfortunately for the caped crusader, it was as stubborn as a bull.

The next day, she hit a bar with some of her friends, all of them eager to help their friend get over the loss of her handsome, rich boy toy, the one they were all certain she was going to shack up and settle down with. When she had the liquor flowing in, her worries started flowing out. Not that any of them knew about her double life as Batgirl -- she mostly just complained about how stressed she was over money. They probably all thought she was dreading the kinds of part-time jobs available in Gotham, and all the free time that work would take away from her. All of them made appropriately sympathetic noises to Barbara without ever saying what most of them were really thinking: "Sorry you lost your sugar daddy, but be glad you had one who

left you a fucking fully-paid condo

, woman."

Some of them suggested she rent out her two spare rooms, but that was straight up impossible. One of them housed a computer terminal that connected to the Batcave's supercomputer, while the other was her armory slash training room. Renting them out would really just mean fucking with her crime-fighting career, and that was a hard no for her. All the girls started talking about employment opportunities after that, and for the most part Barbara tuned them all out. She just took shot after shot, wallowing in her little pool of self-inflicted misery, even considering calling Bruce and begging for his help.

Until one of her friends admitted, her voice hushed, that she had an easy job that paid extremely well while asking very little from her. Barbara's ears practically pricked up, and her attention left her glass to focus on her girlfriend -- the second hottest of the bunch, right behind Barbara herself. An upper-class socialite with a rich sugar daddy of her own. No one ever questioned where she got the money for her designer clothes and accessories. That she had her own income, largely discreet, her earnings disproportionate compared to the amount of work she put in? That surprised them all.

"What is it?" one of them asked, and the table went quiet as everyone waited for her answer. When it came, they all burst out with laughter and gasps, surprised and scandalized. They all started grilling her after that... Barbara most of all. She smiled crookedly at the memory, then gave a start as her alarm went off. Once again, Barbara glanced at her clock. It was eight. It was time to get ready for another night of crime fighting.

* * * * *

"Now," Barbara whispered softly to herself, affecting a playful tone cut with just the slightest bit of throatiness. She had studied up on Marilyn Monroe to perfect it. The boys

loved

it -- and the men, far more. "Observe how the mighty bat stalks her prey." It was ridiculous, but that was the point. Shifting, Barbara -- now wearing her Batgirl costume -- adjusted herself carefully, in more ways than one. Perched atop a street light in a thighs-splaying crouch, her balance was a precarious thing.

Most people would have fallen flat on their face within minutes if not seconds, but not Barbara. She had years of experience as Batgirl at that point, and it helped that she had three times as many years of gymnastics, acrobatics and ballet training. "Any moment now," she sing-songed under her breath as she watched and waited, patient as a cat waiting to pounce a rat. Though, considering

she

styled herself after a winged rodent...

She cut the thought off, her blue eyes brightening as her stake-out began to pan out. The Falcone family thugs rolled up in their unmarked black van, all four of them piling out as soon as it rolled to a stop. Barbara couldn't help but smile. If only one of them would stop and look up, they'd get quite the eyeful, the kind of eyeful that would make them certain a life of crime was worth it.

Though each wore a handsome, fitted Italian suit, they matched them with black ski masks and small arms -- two handguns, a sawn-off shotgun and even a submachine gun. They took a moment to discuss their plan. Barbara already knew everything from interrogating one of their cohorts earlier that night; they expected to storm the office of a nearby biotech company and make off with an expensive vaccine in development there. She was going to make sure they didn't get past the lobby. "No one ever took the time to teach these guys how to accessorize," she quipped softly. "Let's fix that, boys and girls."

Barbara was alone, but that didn't mean she was talking to herself. There was just one thing left for her to do before descending on her quarry. She reached up to her chest and tugged off her bodycam, turning it around and grinning right into it. "See you all on the flipside," she whispered, winking sassily before turning the camera about again. She leaned down and stuck it to the street light, where it would have a bird's eye view over most of the action that would soon follow, peeking through the soon to be open doorway.

A year ago in that bar, her friend admitted to being a cam girl. Barbara followed in her footsteps, in a way no one would have expected the bookish beauty to ever do -- and in a way that only she, as Batgirl, ever could.

The thugs smashed in the door, careless of the alarm they immediately set off. They filtered in quickly, the shouting and warning shots starting immediately -- both from them and from the security guard. Barbara felt a tinge of guilt for making him go through this, but it would make for a better show, a better story. She already had everything plotted and planned out in her head. Of course, she felt less guilty towards the scientists staying late that night, who were most assuredly panicking, unaware of how safe they were with Batgirl on the scene.

She counted to five in her head, and then it was go-time. Grabbing her grappling gun off her utility belt, she shot it into the sign just above the smashed door, then leaped off her perch and swung in behind them, feet first. Barbara took the four by surprise, swing-kicking the uzi-toting mobster square in his lower back. He yelped in surprise, flying forward and losing his grip on his weapon. As it went skittering across the floor, he hit the floor face first, body sprawling out. Though Barbara was sure he was taken out of the fight, she knew better than to take any chances; as her momentum continued to carry her forward, she released her grapple's tight line and transitioned into a flip that had her twisting mid-air. The high heels of her yellow boots gave a solid click as they touched down on the floor, with Barbara smoothly lowering herself into a squat near the fallen thug's head.

As Batgirl, Barbara sold herself as elegance and grace incarnate, but justice sometimes had to be a bit more brutal and ham-fisted than that. She grabbed the back of the thug's ski mask, jerking his head back and then slamming it down. Not

too

hard, but enough to put him out like a light. A hush fell over the room as the thugs and the guard hiding behind the reception desk absorbed what happened. They were all surprised, though the former group was baffled and the latter was relieved. The silence felt much longer than it actually was. Barbara glanced up, flashing her winning smile at the men she was about to trounce. "I'm loving the coordinated outfits, but you boys

have

to know how much the masks clash with your shoes," she told them, her pretty blue eyes flaring wide. "Tell me you do."

None of them reacted to her quip. None of them ever did. Instead, panic struck them. "Shit! It's the Bat-Bitch!" one of the thugs shouted, lifting his handgun to take deadly aim at the heroine, holding the gun sideways. Barbara was embarrassed for the apparent newbie of the group and decided to take pity on him before he could empty his entire magazine without hitting everything in the room

but

her. Quicker on the draw, she snapped her wrist back from the thug's friend to grab a batarang from her utility belt and threw it forward with a flick of her wrist. Just as he squeezed the trigger and put a bullethole in the wall, the boomerang hit his wrist. He grunted in pain and surprise, the combination of his weapon's recoil and the impact of the patented bat weapon sending his arm jerking back and his fingers flying open.

The gun hit the ceiling several feet behind him, clattering to the floor. The other thug with a handgun knew better than to bother with firearms when it came to the Bat Family, though. He was probably a veteran of the Falcone family, and most likely bought into the old myth that Batman, Batgirl and Robin had superpowers and were impossible to hit with a bullet. Some of them believed it was because they were aliens; others believed it was an eldritch pact made with some demon bat-god called Barbados. The thug dropped his uzi and let out a wordless shout as he dived to tackle Barbara, but he was so big and so slow that he made her feel like she was the Flash.

Quick and nimble, Barbara shifted her weight and arched her back, showcasing her natural agility and trained flexibility as she followed the motion through all the way. One of her hands went behind her, pushing off the ground hard, the other following suit right afterwards. The backward handspring was almost more of a cartwheel, one leg kicking up after the other. She caught the thug in the gut with one of her heels, knocking the wind from him along with all of his momentum. The second caught him square in the jaw as he doubled over, rattling his skull and knocking his lights out. As he fell, she completed the maneuver, her heels clicking on the floor as she stood up straight and turned to face the last remaining thug, the one with the shotgun.

He saw the writing on the wall, and was already lowering his shotgun to the floor. "T-treat," he stammered at Barbara as she planted her gloved hands on the curves of her hips. "Treat! Treat, I swear to god! Not trick, treat! I pick--"

"Treat?" Barbara threw her head back and laughed at him, far more delighted than she should have been. She held her pose for a moment, making sure her viewers at home had ample time to appreciate her costume and body in all its glory. When she first became Batgirl, she wore a skintight black suit. In spite of its fit, that original suit left a lot of her body to the imagination. While its dark colors helped her blend into the shadows, it also smudged out the distinct curves, lines and contours of her body. She did a complete overhaul of her costume when she began livestreaming her patrols, knowing her viewers weren't coming for any justice that wasn't purely euphemistic.

'Overhaul' was generous, of course. She kept her cowl, her utility belt, her thigh-high high heeled boots and of course her elbow-length gloves. The rest of her original suit was just

gone

, revealing most of her body to any curious eye, all pristine, sinfully soft skin over feminine toning. A g-string bearing the Bat Symbol just over her mound covered her pussy's lips, her sweet bubble of an ass all but swallowing its butt flossing string. Most of her breasts were left on display, too. She barely skirted Gotham's nudity laws with a pair of bat-shaped pasties stuck over her hard nipples. With her tits being far more than ample handfuls, she wore a modified cage bra that only served to support her girls throughout the night as she flipped through the air and fought criminals.

"I-- yeah," the standing newbie, disarmed of his handgun, quickly added. "I pick treat, too. So, uh-- shit, lady, I don't have health insurance--"

For Halloween, she let any criminal who surrendered and picked 'treat' get an up close and personal preview of her goodies. The really lucky ones got to watch her get off. One unlucky criminal -- or maybe exceptionally lucky -- even got a front row seat to her first squirt, surprising them both. The ones that picked 'trick' got a coupon code for the site she was streaming on, doubling their first purchase.

"Then

maybe

you're in the wrong line of work," Barbara laughed again, shaking her head, her long red hair left tousled from her acrobatics. "You two do know that whole

trick or treat

thing was just for Halloween, right? It doesn't exactly make sense to do it in July," she pointed out, relishing in how the two were now staring at her body in the calm after the storm, lust winning over their common sense over the danger they were in.

Maybe that was her fault for garnering such a slutty reputation, though. Her new 'costume' was effective at drumming up business as well as leaving her enemies horny and distracted. These two probably thought they were going to get laid, which was of course

ridiculous

. Just because she chose to dress like this didn't mean she wanted their dirty old cocks, so she sure as hell wasn't about to touch either of their dicks. But... well, they had surrendered, and her viewers ate stuff like this up.

Barbara glanced through the window at the street light, winking. "Fine," she told the two of them. "But we're doing it right here and right now, and you only have as long as it takes for the police to arrive." She glanced over at their limp cohorts for a moment, then sashayed towards them. "Kneel down and take off your pants," she ordered them. Beginning to grin like a pair of fools, they hurriedly obeyed. She inspected the

real

heat they were packing with a critical eye, unable to deny how nice they looked. 'No criminal cocks' was a hard line for her, though.

"There's a good pair of boys," Barbara whispered. A small microphone built into her cowl ensured her viewers wouldn't miss a word of what happened. The bodycam itself was no ordinary piece of tech. Developed by Lucius Fox, it was equipped with a machine-learning AI that tracked and zoomed in on all of the best parts of what would soon follow. She slowly turned on her heel to show the pair her backside, hooking her thumbs into the sides of her thong. Bending at the waist, she peeled the skimpy pair of underwear down and over the curve of her ass. Down her thighs, down her knees, until she could simply step out of them.

She twined them around her wrist with a deft movement. Once, she left her thong behind by accident. It went up on uBay and sold for just shy of a million dollars. Bruce sent them to her the next day, along with a

very

stern note. He tried to be supportive of her choices, but that was one big fuck-up that she knew she deserved to be chewed out over. That done, Barbara reached behind herself and spread her bubbly ass wide open, giving the pair a clean look at her unspoiled asshole and the shaven, flushed and damp lips of her pussy.

"See what law-abiding citizens can get a piece of?" she purred, glancing over her shoulder at them. She didn't bother looking at the security guard, sure that he was either calling the cops, filming this on his smartphone, or jacking off. She didn't care which.

"If you let me get a taste of that," the veteran grunted, already touching himself, "I'll never break another law in my life." His junior thug accomplice quickly mumbled his agreement, face flushed with embarrassment and arousal.

Barbara smirked. "Sorry, honey. Maybe when you can pass a background check." Holding herself open with one hand, she used her other hand to open a pouch on her utility belt and slip out her batabrator. It was time for her to get to work. She only had a few minutes at most before the police arrived, but with how horny she was -- and with two well-hung gentlemen to watch jerking off -- she knew she wouldn't take long to get off. Barbara always came easily. The last time she faked it was with Dick, and that was only because he fucked like his money made his

other

dick into candy.

She took the tip of her best friend into her mouth, lidding her eyes as she ran her tongue all over it and got it slick with her saliva, not that the batabrator would need it with how wet her cunt already was. Still, the boys -- both the pair with a front row seat and the ones watching her from the comfort of her own home -- would appreciate the sight. Once she was satisfied with its slickness, she slid it free of her mouth and down to the waiting delta between her thighs. It penetrated her cunt's folds so easily that her pussy might as well have been pulling it in. "Fuck," Barbara groaned softly as it went one inch into her, and then another. Four in and then she hit the switch that made the batabrator's powerful motor buzz to life. She gasped sharply, then bit down savagely on her bottom lip, starting to fuck her tight little hole with her favourite toy.