The Ox Who Got the Cream

Personal circumstances have, for once, given me good reason to slow down. But to the contrary, I enjoy writing more than ever.

Thanks, Rumpole, for glancing over this and supplying wise adjustments.

This is fun. Thanks again, readers. X

***

Pretty lips pursed into a ferocious pout, Layla sat in the Oxmobile with her arms and legs crossed, glaring out the window as though the view offended her.

What was most offensive was that she couldn't see a damned thing. The dark outside was a fast blur of nothing. All she could really see was the interior reflection, Truce often glancing her way, his teeth flashing in a triumphant grin she wanted to shatter with a hard punch.

Still, she stared out the window with a riveted fascination because there was no alternative.

After the call with her father, Truce was satisfied enough not to tease her. After a time hurtling down a seemingly endless black tunnel, the car finally slowed to a seamless stop.

"What a fucking night!" Truce remarked, deeply pleased. Stopping the engine with the gentle push of a button, he unlatched the piece connecting his mask to the body armour and peeled the Oxmask away.

Layla's sullen stare cut to him, the handsome, carefree sight of the great Oxman only spiking her temper. His dark hair was ruffled, jutting about in shiny tufts like after-sex bed hair. For a brooding crime fighter, he appeared annoyingly upbeat, smiling at her with an almost boyish exuberance. Then again, he'd finally caught her, and the challenge for him was no secret.

Layla huffed and turned away. Before she was ready, he was out of the car and the passenger door clicked open, noiselessly sliding upward. When she stared ahead resolutely, Truce laughed.

"You know, this silent treatment isn't going to last. Not one bit. You're too sassy."

"Fuck you."

"There it is." Still grinning, Truce crossed his arms over the gleaming, matte leather coating his chest. "Believe it or not, my cock is hard, and my heart is racing."

"Go fuck Ralphred," Layla sneered.

Truce's large frame shifted and he uncrossed his arms to lean against the extended passenger door, aroused by her attitude. "I'm going to fuck that sassy mouth of yours."

Layla snorted disdainfully. "Good luck with that."

"Don't need luck." Truce's grin didn't waver, but his gloved fingers began to drum against the car. "Now are you going to step out, or do I get the pleasure of carrying you?"

Paranoid, Layla peeked up at him, arms still crossed. She felt recklessly stubborn, digging herself a hole when she knew there was no way out. Like those dire situations when the disadvantaged party is offered a lifeline, and they rudely tell the lifeline to get fucked.

She knew he was being civil when he didn't have to; that it would be better, more dignified if she cooperated. Truce was generally a gentleman, until he wasn't. Layla knew if she was a good girl, accepted her defeat with grace, timidly wriggled into his bed and let him rock her world, she could probably evade the dungeon.

But she was too angry to consider what was good for her, if it meant swallowing her pride. She couldn't help being a sore loser, because the whole thing was freaking unfair. Fuck him. She would rather make things more difficult for herself, than easy for him.

"I'm not getting out!" she snapped venomously, the green of her eyes sharp with anger.

Truce's smile widened and he pulled off his gloves. "Good."

He leaned into the car as Layla shrank back, preparing to kick him, grimacing at the gooey spunk sliding between her thighs with the movement, sticky on her silky folds. The rip in her pants tore wider, Truce's cum slick on her recently fucked naughty parts. Just thinking about it made the area tingle, and Layla's rage mounted.

"I'll tell my dad everything!" she threatened as a last resort, the worst kind of bluff; a bald-faced lie.

Truce's cocky grin disappeared, and he hovered, resting his forearms on the roof of the car and peering interestedly at her flushed face. "You'll tell him what, exactly?"

Spurred by his pause, Layla began to ramble. "I'll tell him you attacked me! That you're a molester! You forced yourself on me, and that you...you..."

Truce's mouth fell ajar with amazement, his eyes deeply amused. "You're going to give him all the details? Can I be there to see the look on his face?"

Layla slumped into the seat when Truce threw back his head with a delighted laugh.

"Kitty, are you

trying

to turn me on? At this rate I'll cum in my pants before I can play with you." Still chuckling, he ran a hand through his hair and then slammed it back to the roof, signalling his impatience. The car didn't budge but the sound was startling. Layla jumped.

"I'm going to tell you some hard truths, Layla," he murmured, his dark eyes suddenly intense on her heated face. "You can come inside and let me romance you; we'll make love. Or I can carry you in causing whatever scene you want to display, and make you pay for it." He let that sink in.

"But whatever I do, everything I do, you're going to enjoy it. You're going to like it. Because as much as you say you hate me, I don't buy it."

Layla rolled her eyes with a disgusted sound to suggest he was insane. Observing her silent denial, Truce's lips curled to a small perceptive smile. "You desire me so much, you have no control over it. You can't even conceal it. You're hot for me, when you don't want to be. That's a fucking powerful thing, Layla."

Layla's fingers curled and twitched, itching to scratch his eyes out. Reigning in her temper, she tossed her head in a 'blah, blah, blah' gesture.

"I know you have a huge ego, being Oxman, and all," she drawled in her best bored and unimpressed tone, except her cheeks were angrily pink. "But you're seriously barking up the wrong tree."

"Am I?" Truce cockily replied. When she glared at him, Truce leaned into the passenger door, his tone tuned intimate.

"I can smell it in the air between us," he murmured with revolting confidence. "I can taste it on you. The first time I took you, I knew your tasty little puss was drenched before I even flipped your dress up. Tonight, I could feel your cunt pulsing for me before I even opened your suit. You were so wet when I fingered you, my fingers pruned..."

"Is this a tactic to get me out of the car?" Layla snapped, reaching her limit for confronting truths. "Talk disgusting until I can't take it anymore?"

"I know everything, Layla," Truce announced with an arched eyebrow, watching her eyes uneasily dart to him.

Layla stiffened when Ralphred lightly knocked on the wall. Who knows how long he'd been standing there, listening to Truce talk filth at her.

"Do you need assistance, Sir? Are you wounded?" the old man inquired with a pained tone to suggest Truce often returned home injured.

"All that's hurting is Layla's pride," Truce chuckled, straightening from the vehicle.

"Miss Brandles?" Ralphred blinked rapidly with surprise. "Is she in the Oxmobile?"

Layla bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut for a horrible moment, then ripped the Foxmask away and forced her face into a more ladylike expression.

"Hi, Ralphred!" she lightly greeted him, peeking out of the car. The moment was slightly awkward, but if there was anything her father taught her, it was never to make a scene in front of staff.

"Oh, dear! Miss-! Master Cain, the hour is

very

late!" Ralphred chastised.

"I know, and a cold evening, too," Truce replied with false repentance. Unclipping his cape, he held it out to Layla as a final olive branch. "Would you like my cloak, or shall I bring you in as you are?"

If looks could kill, Truce would be on the ground in burning pieces. Though Layla had entertained the risk of forcing Truce to carry her, the option was significantly different if Ralphred was watching. Although the butler seemed to know everything, Layla didn't exactly want him to see everything. Namely, her provocative skin-tight black leather and gaping, cummy suit-hole that recently accommodated Truce's thick cock.

Layla ungraciously nodded, and Truce held the cape up to shield her exit from the car and wrapped it about her trim figure to conceal her shameful, tarnished outfit. His arm remained banded around her and Layla grimaced, feeling fluids squelch between her legs as she stood stiffly by his side.

"Shall I prepare a guestroom?" Ralphred queried.

Truce tilted his head, pretending to consider. "No, thank you, Ralphred."

"Very well, Sir. Do you require anything else for the evening?"

"I have everything I need, right here." Truce pressed a cheeky kiss to the top of Layla's mussed blonde hair.

Ralphred lightly raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Very well, Sir. Enjoy your evening. Good night, Miss Brandles."

"G-Goodnight, Ralphred," Layla answered on autopilot, her voice hoarse with disbelief at the entire situation.

Truce beamed down at her. "Oh, Ralphred!" he called on an afterthought. When the butler turned back questioningly, Truce grinned wickedly. "You're about to lose our bet."

Ralphred nodded, expressionless. "I'll see the necessary supplies are in your playroom, Sir."

"Add a bottle of Dom Perignon. Just the bottle; no glasses."

"Very well, Sir."

***

Once Ralphred was out of sight, Layla immediately struggled to break free. Against his strength, she was like a toddler trying to distance from a parent.

"What are you doing?" he narrowed his eyes at her hands desperately pushing his chest. "I thought we had an agreement."

"There is no fucking agreement!" Layla raged, hopelessly tangled in his cape.

"Oh." Truce looked her up and down with a predatory smile. "Well then, you've done most of the work for me." At that, he took her by surprise with a brisk twirl, then smoothly bent and lifted her over his shoulder, the cape completely restraining her limbs.

Ignoring her protests, he cheerfully strolled along a charcoal corridor until he reached the elevators. Pressing a button, one immediately opened with a ding, and he set Layla onto her feet.

Gasping with exhaustion and outrage, wrapped like a giant spring roll, Layla had no time to prepare for what came next. With a smug grin, Truce cupped her face and kissed her.

"MMFFF!" she groaned against his lips, fighting to extract her arms.

"Mmmm," Truce moaned saucily, his hands holding her prisoner until they reached his selected level.

Once Layla's face and mouth were finally free, she was suddenly suspended, staring at the shiny floor and Oxman's heavy boots strutting along to wherever he was taking her.

Deciding to conserve her physical and mental strength, Layla shut her eyes. When Truce set her down in a chair, she realised too late that it was no ordinary seat.

"NO!" she shouted, managing a good hit to his temple with her left hand when he restrained her right wrist to the metal chair-arm.

"Ow! Forgot you're left-handed," he winced, quickly catching and securing her other wrist.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing!" Layla shouted, kicking at him.

"Kitty!" he warned, grunting when her knee sharply jabbed his back. "Geesh." He turned and trapped one leg, secured it to the leg restraint, then the other. But not before copping her foot to the back of his head.

"Ouch," he frowned, rubbing the sore point. "I should have kept the head-gear, wildcat."

Layla's fists clenched and her eyes flared warningly. "Let me out."

Truce cocked his head. "Why?"

"This is a fucking gyno chair, you, prick!" she snarled.

"Language, Kitty!" he admonished with false shock. When she just glared at him, he selected a small knife. "Let's get this sexy gear off you."

Truce glanced up and saw her face tighten, hurt in her eyes through the defiant glare. He put the knife down. "How ruffian of me," he mused. "I'd rather unwrap you by hand, anyway."

Layla bristled, but a flash of relief crossed her face. He'd ruined her suit, but she didn't want him to destroy it entirely. Her relief quickly dissolved into rage when Truce easily dismantled her suit, finding the little zips and hooks that kept it in one piece as though he'd designed it himself. Layla had thought the design was clever and convenient; parts easily discarded if they got caught on something, or if she was injured. It was too fucking convenient for Truce.

"Wow," he stood back to admire her. He'd left her arms and legs sheathed in shining black, unwilling to release her wrists and ankles. The centre of the suit splayed open, baring her breasts and smooth belly, currently heaving with indignant panic, only making her more desirable. The sight of her pale pink nipples caused a sudden rush of saliva; her full, bare breasts momentarily held his attention, perfectly rounded and calling to his hands and mouth.

Controlling his primal urges, Truce adjusted her stirrups, raising her legs to get a view of her pussy and ass. "I think this section is a write off," he decided, and fetched the knife to slice away the entire crotch area.

Layla bit her tongue, shaking with rage, not the cold. The room was quite warm. It was the size of a common bedroom. It was clearly a dungeon, but of a softer kind. The chair she was strapped to was comfortable with cushioning layers, even the wrist and ankle clasps were lined with a soft material to prevent abrasion. There were tables and cupboards and other things she couldn't quite make out in the dim lighting, mostly due to the bright spotlight centred on her body.

For a while neither spoke; Layla sullenly stared at a darker part of the ceiling while Truce happily cleaned the cum from her thighs, pussy and ass. His technique was too thorough, too gentle; targeting her naughty parts with the perfect pressure to build a familiar needy ache and make her blush. Satisfied with his handywork, Truce went to inspect his toys.

"There is the rather important question of how you'll address me, while we're in here, at least." He pursed his lips with consideration. "'Master' seems a little draconian to me."

"I think 'Oxymoron' will do," Layla sniped. "Want to know why?"

Truce raised his eyebrows with calm interest, still inspecting his tools. "I have a feeling you're going to tell me anyway."

"'Ox' and 'Moron' are applicable," she snarled. "And you are a walking contradiction. Business in the day, Hero in the night. Fucking asshole in private."

"Very clever," he chuckled. "But no. I like 'Sir'."

"Bring Ralphred in here often, do you?" she taunted with rude insinuation.

"This attitude won't reward you in the short term," Truce said mildly, picking up some little wires.

Layla tensed when he approached her. As he stood at her side, so close she could feel his warmth, she closed her eyes with a gulp. She'd asked for trouble, and here she was.

An inkling of doubt prickled up her spine. Truce was the good guy, wasn't he? Then again, if he wasn't, who could stop him? If he really hurt her, he would have to answer to her father. Unless she vanished completely. Villains commonly disappeared; their bodies surfacing in 'accident' scenarios...

After feeling so tough about battling villains, Layla registered that she was actually scared of the good guy. The fear was so humiliating she could have cried.

Truce wasn't all niceties. When the Fiddler kidnapped three boys, Oxman had only three hours to find them. He saved them with seconds to spare, as usual. The Fiddler went into hiding, retired. One of his prior henchmen clarified that Oxman painfully confiscated 'everything that would matter to a man' during interrogation.

Well, she wasn't a villain. Oxman was in the wrong. Regardless, she uneasily shifted, very unsettled by the little rubber pincers at the wires' ends that Truce cradled in his hands.

Is it too late to take up the bed offer?

Layla flinched at the thought, hating herself for even thinking it, still frozen as Truce's fingers slowly threaded through her hair. Nope, she wasn't going to plead with him. She had a high pain threshold. If he killed her, she'd find a way to haunt the fuck out of him.

"I feel stupid that I have to say this," Truce said quietly, interrupting her neurotic thoughts, still petting her. "You're very important to me. I'll never hurt you, Layla."

Her eyes still closed, Layla gulped again, wishing she weren't so visibly nervous. Truce was in front of her now. His had smoothed down her face and cupped her cheek. She could feel his warm gaze on her face. Realising she held her breath, Layla forced herself to calmly exhale. When she did, her eyes flew open when Truce pressed their lips together.

Startled, Layla strained against the restraints. Despite her tension, the kiss was gentle, sending little delicious messages to her erogenous zones, stiffening her nipples, her pussy beginning to throb, raising her heartbeat. His kiss became forceful, guiding her mouth open, engaging her tongue, teasing her.

Layla gasped with alarm when one of the rubber nibs clasped onto an already erect nipple, shortly followed by the other. Truce smiled into her face as she struggled futilely.

"Chill, kitty," he cooed, kissing her forehead as she stared down her chest, too distracted to notice anything else. The little wires were connected to something. An ominous grey box with lots of buttons.

Her eyes darted to the item beside the box. Sharp metal pincers with a mean glint, looking like a curled-up spider. If he put those on her, they would definitely break the skin. Tear into her flesh.

"Not for you," Truce reassured her, following her panicked gaze. "Those were designed for bad guys. And I mean guys. They latch onto balls, to be precise. I'm saving them for Three-Face. He's been seriously fucking with me, lately."

Layla shivered, way out of her comfort zone; confused, alarmed and undeniably aroused.

Bruce sighed dreamily and went to the little box. "This is going to make you mad," he said with shameless cheer. "Because you're going to enjoy it."

Layla angrily shook her head, then shuddered when the tiniest zing reverberated from the wires. It wasn't quite an electric shock; more like a light clothing static that tantalisingly encompassed her nipples, the pleasure flashing down her torso between her legs. The sensation was undeniably erotic. Her heart was pounding, and not just from anger.

Truce's hungry eyes were locked on her pussy. Layla winced as her wetness begin to show; trickling out to make her soft, pink parts a glistening invitation.

"Well, look at that," Truce said softly, his voice husky with lust. Picking up the bottle of champagne, Truce took an initial swig, still staring between her legs.

Layla squirmed when he knelt in front of her, fascinated by her bare pussy. His eyes lifted for a second, entirely mischievous, before he poured a little booze onto her belly.

Layla hissed irritably at the chilled fluid quickly flowed down her abdomen and through her pussy. Truce's warm mouth was there, sucking, lapping it up. Without stopping, he continued to top up the stream, tonguing her sex as though it was a mouth kissing him back.

Layla arched and gasped, squirming from the sensations. Her nipples were intermittently zinging, sparks of unwanted pleasure shooting through her body. Cold liquid, hot mouth working on her.

"Truce!" she cried out, and felt his lips curve into a grin, his tongue poked into her, the stubble of his chin prickling the soft sensitive area with a stimulating effect.

Truce smugly leaned back on his haunches, took another swig from the bottle and moved up her body, kissing her stomach, the curves of her breast. For a moment he rested his head to her heart, feeling it hammer by his temple. At the same time, his fingers were searching.

"Truce! You can't! You can't do that!" Layla squeaked, the mouth of the bottle pressing against her throbbing hole.