Ivy slept with Harley vined around her. Usually, she thought of herself as a mighty oak, with Harley perhaps a tart fruit growing from her vines. She didn't feel that way now. She felt rootless, unmoored. When Harley cuddled her, her body stung. The sting made her nipples tingle.
She detached herself from Harley, fleeing guiltily into the spacious bathroom. She closed the door behind her, able to breathe once more. Occasionally she could hear Harley's heavy snore coming through the door. She was safe. Alone with her memories. Her breath was coming quicker.
She turned to the massive mirror and pulled her nightie from her shoulders, letting it fall down around her shapely hips. Her eyes were aglow as they examined her reflection—the viridian sheen of her chlorophyll-body marred by the darkening bruises of bodies crashed together. Her stingily puffed lips were also from Bruce. She should destroy him for blaspheming the perfection of her body, but she couldn't think about that now. She could only think of how the little hurts excited her.
She stared at her large breasts, their perkiness making them seem to softly thrust upward in the night air. She cupped one and lifted it before letting it fall free, to quaveringly float before her. Finger and thumb pinched her nipple again; she watched it swelling to life, becoming pointed and tight, as if her arousal were gathering in it.
Both hands went to her breasts. Her mouth opened slightly, her eyes half-closed: she dug her nails into the tender flesh of her cleavage, her nipples coming thrillingly awake. She wondered if Bruce could do this: be rough with her as he had been, but also loving, like Harley was; like Harley said he was with her. She wondered if that cold, calculating man could touch her roughly as part of their lovemaking. Her hands shook as she helped her nightie off her voluptuous ass, letting it pool on the floor.
In the mirror, her bare thighs squeezed tightly together, sending her body into a spiral of needy spasms, lewd excitement. Her sex was swollen, moist, a fire that needed to be quenched. Being naked wasn't enough. Having an orgasm wasn't enough. She needed to be fucked,
defiled,
not just once but over and over again. Maybe by a man—maybe by more than one man. Maybe by Bruce...
She imagined her reflection in front of Bruce... she imagined him telling it all of the horrible, loving things he was going to do to Harley. She imagined watching them together. She imagined Harley watching as
she
was used—her body used—used until she was a screaming, writhing mass of need—until they both were puddles of fulfillment—until Bruce was satisfied with them.
It wasn't her. It was her reflection.
"What's your name?" she asked the mirror.
"Pamela Isley."
Ivy went back into her room, not caring if she was loud enough to wake Harley, not caring if she left the bathroom light on and it spilled onto the bed. She went to her dresser and retrieved one of her strap-ons and threw it onto the bed, hitting Harley in the face.
"Oww! Red, what the—this isn't Bruce's, is it?"
"No, Harl, it's red. Put it on. I need you to fuck me."
If she had known, right at that moment, that her erstwhile husband had been kidnapped, it's hard to say what her reaction would've been.
***
They flew for long enough that even Bruce was disoriented, dangling from Roxy's rocket-cycle. He wasn't particularly worried. Roxy was an adrenaline junkie, not a killer. Whoever hired her wouldn't be especially dangerous. He had already activated the tracking device on his belt buckle, but only one click—telling his soldiers to hold back and let him handle things for now.
They landed at a farmhouse outside the Palisades, one of the many that had dried up over the years. No one wanted produce that might've been tampered with by Poison Ivy or the Joker. Roxy dismounted her parked rocket, pulling a flour sack from a compartment on its side. Bruce laid nearby, his arms still pinned to his sides by the cable Roxy had lassoed him with.
Roxy looked good as ever. Her flame-red hair shot out from under her cowl and glasses, leading down her flight jacket and black tanktop to a pair of the nicest, firmest breasts Bruce had ever seen. Following the smooth line of her body down to her black tights, brown leather boots, and gunbelt, he saw a perfectly flat belly of obvious musculature, hips that curved seductively into slender thighs, and a pair of runner's legs. There was a reason she was a stuntwoman and not a beauty queen actress—her body was clearly built for speed, not just sex—but Bruce had to admit, in a city like Gotham, she was the kind men would literally kill to get their hands on.
She pulled the sack over his head, blinding him, and jerked him up. She had strength in her limber frame. He cooperated as she shoved him along.
"Sorry about this, handsome. You might've been fun for a playdate, but rocket fuel ain't cheap. Move it!"
He was barreled forward, catching a shift from exterior to interior, creaking floorboards under him—closing, locking doors behind him. Finally, he was seated roughly. The sack flew off his head, Roxy carrying it away with her.
The inside of the room had been filled with mirrors, interspersed with cut-out pictures of himself from magazines and newspapers. Both were sporadic, a frieze that circled the room from waist-level to a man's height. Bruce stared at his lonely reflection, real and photographed.
"This whole wretched society revolves around you. White. Male. Young. Rich." The voice was haunting, familiar. Serious. "A standard of beauty entirely constructed to serve you, which women have to slave under. And now, thanks to the Evilutionist, your sexual desire counts as clemency. Women like Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn are now beholden to you for their freedom—all because they give you a hard-on."
"Nice work if you can get it," Roxy muttered.
Bruce followed the direction of her words to a woman in the shadows. He hadn't seen her in her dark clothing, but now she was removing it, revealing a luscious body, creamily soft flesh deliciously accented by black bra and panties. She was a slender woman, her curves modest, her limbs delicate, her musculature sleek. A model. Near-naked except for the white kabuki mask that covered her face, a sharp delineation of femininity.
Page Monroe—the Calendar Girl.
"I hired Roxy here to help teach you a lesson. Roxy?"
The stuntwoman drew a switchblade from her flight jacket. Working fast, she cut Bruce out of his clothes. Even he had to wince at the speed with which she moved the blade, but she was good. Didn't even nick him as he was stripped nude.
"I love this job," she muttered.
"You're going to answer for your crimes, Mr. Wayne. I'm going to parade you before all the women you slighted by choosing a pair of deranged fantasy objects over them, and you're going to explain to each one why they weren't worthy of your Republican dick. Starting with me."
