February 3rd, 2018
Had Master Dick and Master Jason over today on business. Served cucumber slices and some soup I had in the crockpot, as I had little time to prepare. Nonetheless, the meal met with their approval. Jason, in his zeal for uncouth behavior, raised an interesting point when he inquired as to why I persisted in my current employment. He reasoned that I could've reported Master Wayne to the authorities ages ago, had him committed, and continued as the executor of the estate with my ward safely ensconced. My duties would be far less dangerous, taxing, and unconventional, while I would've acted not at all ignobly by societal standards.
Dick somewhat conceded the point, and asked why indeed I had chosen to support Master Wayne rather than put a stop to the vigilante activities to which at many points I have vigorously objected. The question brought to mind an occurrence far earlier in Master Dick's career, while he was still the child Robin rather than the man Nightwing. Master Bruce, though constant as the North Star in many and often negative respects, was less experienced, more cocksure, and even, it must be said, somewhat more fit than age and depreciation will allow him to be today.
Barbara Gordon was then Batgirl, Master Dick's fellow assistant under Batman's leadership, but also—if you'll pardon the colloquial expression—something of a 'third wheel'. Master Wayne had decided that she was too inexperienced to accompany Robin and himself against the more dangerous criminals such as the Joker. Thus, Ms. Gordon was 'benched,' as it were. I came upon her in the Batcave. Master Wayne had given her her own special entrance to it, miles away from the manor, as his true identity was still hidden from her. For that reason, I was obliged to wear a rather silly domino mask as I attended her. As the man said, hi-ho Silver, away.
***
When Alfred brought down refreshments for Batgirl, he found her working the punching bag. She'd taken her cape and cowl off, which Bruce might disapprove of—what was the point of training if you were without all the conditions you'd have in the field?—but Alfred doubted honing her skills was strictly speaking what Barbara had in mind.
She was dancing around the heavy bag, punching it savagely, muttering disparaging comments toward his masters. Alfred's gaze roved up and down the girl's body. What he saw was very pleasing to the eye. She was five feet four inches, and a little over one hundred pounds. Innocent and young, with adorable freckles fully revealed with her mask off, as well as frizzy red hair, disheveled from her cowl. She was petite, slender, and fine-boned, while the yellow bat on her chest drew attention to her curving breasts and the authentic way they jiggled as she bounced around. Paradoxically, her trim ass barely so much as rippled as she danced, so taut with muscle was it.
Alfred cleared his throat. "I take it you disagree with the master's command decisions."
"No," Barbara replied. "Yes! I mean, I know the Joker is dangerous and all, but doesn't that just mean they could use my help anymore? I wouldn't get in the way—at least, I don't think I would get in the way." Groaning, she delivered a rapid-fire combo to the punching bag. "Ugh! I guess I'm just steamed that they don't think I'm ready, so I'm steamed that I'm not ready and I have to just sit here while they go off and have all the fun."
"Take it from someone who both 'sits here' and cleans up after 'all the fun'—there's a great deal of hard work to be done right here, long before and after the fisticuffs. And it is every bit as important as your thrilling heroics... with respect, Ms. Gordon."
"Sorry, Jeeves," she said, not knowing his name. "I didn't mean to imply what you do isn't important."
"Of course not. You're merely overwrought. I find that sometimes, the more one tries to vent their anger, the more anger is then produced."
Barbara looked at her hands. "And I'd so like to be ready, but all I'm doing is wearing out my gloves, aren't I?"
"I fear that to be the case, Ms. Gordon. Might I suggest a less energetic way of releasing your stress? A drink, perhaps?"
"I don't think you have a drink strong enough for me. All of this has me wishing the Joker was here right now so I could show all three of you that I can knock his teeth in."
"I don't believe that disagreeable gentlemen's teeth are what you need worry about. But you have a point—strenuous exercise might suffice at dispelling the tension you feel."
"But no hitting, right. I suppose I could run the obstacle course. How about it, Jeeves? What do you people do for fun around here?"
"Well, I can't speak for my charges, but when an enchanting young lady such as yourself is about, I endeavor to find an activity both guest and host might find stimulating."
And with that, Alfred reached down to the fly and lowered his zipper. Barbara could only watched, shocked, as it dropped to its lowest extension. Now she could see the bulge his prick made, even slack, against his boxers. And then Alfred reached into his undergarments and drew out its full length and width, revealing himself to be thirteen inches long and rapidly hardening, even growing!
"Oh my God... is that... that cannot be real... you're like a... shit... I never thought you'd be the one who..."
Alfred only smiled genteelly. He'd noticed that young Miss Gordon had nursed a crush on both Master Dick, who returned her affection, and even the unattainable Dark Knight. The mystery and excitement they represented to her could not be overstated. But it applied to him as well, as soon as he made her see him in a sexual light.
Grasping the collar of her costume, he pulled her to him. Her lips came up to his, parting against his mouth, and her tongue yielded to his determined suction in a long, domineering kiss. When it was done, Barbara ducked her head, and saw that his manhood was indeed reaching a full size it had not been at before.
"That thing has to be fifteen inches," she breathed.
"I would prefer the metric," Alfred said, "but yes, that would be the standard measurement. I imagine it'll take some doing to fit to your tiny cunt, but where there's a will, Miss Gordon, where there is a will!"
Moving the hand hooked on her neckline only slightly, he located the zipper at her clavicle and pulled it down all the way to her belly. Barbara could only shuffle about and moan gently as he stripped her, tearing her utility belt away and then opening up the crotch of her costume. He left her mostly inside its skintight confines. Alfred was under no illusion he was making love to Barbara Gordon at the moment. No, he was fucking Batgirl.
He pulled her to him again, and this time her crotch was bare, there was nothing to keep her from feeling the hardness of his manhood against her naked flesh. His breath hitched with excitement as his cockhead slipped slowly into her slick warmth. Holding Barbara steady and pushing evenly, he forced his engorged cockhead into her sex, tight and little though it may have been.
"Wait, wait, Jeeves!" she whimpered, clinging tightly to him even as she urged separation. "Please, take it easy, take it... your cock's so fucking big..." She was half fearful and half impressed.
Ignoring the girlish whinging of her plea, Alfred continued until he'd stuffed almost half of his brutal length into her little pussy. Admittedly, she was cruelly stretched by the effort, but the feeling was sensational. He imagined she was feeling it quite intensely as well, and he'd learned that a bird valued intensity no matter what she might spew.
"No, stop!" she cried out. "You're too big! It's too big!"
"Too big for your little cunt?" Alfred asked solicitously, getting a big nod in agreement from her. "Don't worry, Miss Gordon. We'll soon have that fixed."
He kept driving and twisting his massive prick until the entire length of it was deeply buried in Barbara. She was so widely stretched, he could feel her walls clinging to his shaft like cellophane.
"God, oh God!" Barbara shrieked. "Take it out! It hurts! IT HURTS!"
