A Necessary Evil - Part 3 by nycherolover@yahoo.com
DISCLAIMER: The following story is a work of fiction. All the characters depicted in the story belong to and are copyrighted by DC Comics and/or its subsidiaries. I am in no way related to the company and have no ownership over the characters. This is fan fiction. This story depicts males in sexual situations - if that offends you, please stop reading now. Thanks.
And thank you to all the great writers out there who inspired this work. This is my first fiction attempt, so feedback is greatly appreciated and welcome, at nycherolover@yahoo.com
"You??"
Tanner saw the irritation on Batman's face at Nightwing's surprise, and quickly began explaining. "We had no choice. You are both targets, and we had to see if our theory - that tolerance increases with exposure - was correct. Before it was too late and either, or both, of you, were forced to face this substance in less favorable conditions."
Nightwing pondered on this for a moment. "How many times? I mean, how many 'exposures' have you had?"
The doctor responded again, as Batman turned once more to look out the window.
"Two. Just two. And we've already noticed an - improvement - in his ability to control his own reactions."
"Nightwing," said Batman softly, "there really is no option. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can get Gotham - and possibly Bludhaven - under our control. I -- you -- really have no choice."
Now it was the younger hero's moment to be silent. He looked at his boots, then back at his mentor's massive back, hidden behind the cape. Then he spoke, quietly.
"What's the guarantee there isn't something else mixed in with that - shit?"
"None," said Dr. Tanner.
Batman turned back toward both men. "The only guarantee, Nightwing, is this. If we don't get control of it, it will take control of us." He pointed to the stack of photos, then motioned to the Doctor.
"Tanner, it's now or never. Nightwing, what will it be?"
The younger hero couldn't help notice that a small bead of sweat was snaking its way down his upper back, sliding slowly along his spine.
"Fuck it. Do it."
Tanner moved into action immediately. He reached for a small phone on the desk under the medical cabinets. "He's ready. Move it."
Nightwing raised an eyebrow, suddenly very aware of the small size of this room, and his increasing heart rate. Still. If Batman had done it, there was no reason why he could not undergo this - treatment.
A side door to the testing room opened, and two young men entered the room, both dressed in bland white cotton pants and t-shirts. Tanner was now constantly in motion, reaching into a drawer as he spoke without interruption.
"Please meet two of my best graduate students, Nightwing. David Burk and Ryan Maddock. I have asked them to help monitor your treatment, and stand by to assist in any way possible."
As he spoke, he pulled out two towels and a piece of rubber, shaped roughly in a triangle, from the drawer.
It was all happening very fast, thought Nightwing, even as he extended a hand to each of the new arrivals. "Grad students huh? Have you, uh, also been his guinea pigs?"
Neither of the students spoke. "Yes, they have. And they were the first to prove that our theory may be correct. Five treatments - each," replied the doctor.
The students seemed like they were moving in a familiar routine. Each moved to either side of Nightwing, and waited. The younger hero was taller than both, but they were of similar powerful build - the white t-shirts on both students showed a clearly defined chest beneath.
Batman watched the scene unfold from across the room. He watched as Dr. Tanner picked up the vial, attached it to a small spray bottle, and advanced toward Nightwing, halting in front of the hero.
In this moment, the heat in the room seemed to increase, and all movement stopped. Nightwing stood with his back to one wall, his dark wavy hair already streaked with some signs of perspiration. Flanking him were the two students, arms at their side, clearly at the ready for what was supposed to happen next. This was not their first time assisting. Batman stood silently in the far corner of the room, standing upright, eyes watching the procedure as it unfolded. Finally, there was Dr. Tanner, standing in front of Nightwing, only a foot or so away, starting directly into the younger man's eyes.
"Before we proceed, Nightwing, I must ask for your promise. We cannot initiate this process without completing it. You must promise me you will return here tomorrow, no matter what you may experience today. If you have any doubts --"
"Do it," Nightwing shot back. "Enough already."
"Very well. One more word of advice. The first exposure can be of surprising strength. I suggest you take a deep breath, and then tell me when you are ready." He held up the small spray bottle directly in front of Nightwing's nose.
A pause, then a response. "Shoot," said the hero, and closed his eyes.
It only took a second for the fine mist to pass the space between the small spray bottle and Nightwing's aquiline nose, and in that moment all five men held their breath. Four of them knew what to expect - the fifth held out a few seconds longer before he inhaled the drops of the solution deep into his nostrils.
Like a cold blade the substance ignited something in the hero's body, traveling at light speed through his nervous system. A second after inhaling, Nightwing noticed a deep sense of calm, peace, and the slight smell of something he could not put his finger on, but it reminded him of his youth - before he had met Batman, before this life of struggle, battle, exhausting pursuit of twisted criminals. He smiled.
Before the second was out, though, the blade stabbed deep below his stomach.
Nightwing's eyes snapped open.
The sensation was reaching down into his groin and pulling, he was sure of it, on the root of his balls. And - oh fuck - it was... incredible, it was...
A look of shock crossed his face. His mouth dropped open slightly, a raised eyebrow over his right eye as he sought out Batman's face. Complete surprise in the face of...
The students knew the sign, and each grabbed hold of one of Nightwing's upper arms, their fingers digging into his biceps, pushing him back against the wall.
Only a mere four seconds after first contact, Nightwing felt it. Their fingers, their touch, like fire, but incredibly - good fire. He whipped his head to the right, and stared into the eyes of the student named Ryan, pleading with his eyes for an answer and then - oh, mother of.... Ryan moved one finger along the silky suit that barely contained Nightwing's upper arm, and the hero's mouth opened wider.
And he moaned. That one finger seemed to be caressing his entire body, reaching down and, under, and along, and stroking - everything.
He constricted his abs, trying very hard to curl downward against the mix of pain and excruciating pleasure that was even now snaking around his balls, up and through his solid thighs, through his toes - but the students held him fast.
Seven seconds. He lasted exactly seven seconds before the first words came out, led by a deep groan that transformed into: "B... BATMan???" His eyes seeking out his former mentor, his face a mix of complete surprise and shame as he realized, in that moment, that there was nothing he could have done to prepare himself for this.
Another second, and the moan grew louder. He continued to try to crunch down, raising one leg, attempting to kick at David on his left, but it only made the material of his suit grip the back of his thigh, and under this thigh, and - holy shit - stroke the underside of his manhood like the tongue of the best whore in Bludhaven.
At the 12th second, he could hold it in no longer. It began low, but belted out of his mouth at a level that surprised even him. "nnnnnnnNGGGHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAH!"
Thrashing against the two men that were holding him, he was a blur of muscle and lycra. His feet struggled for a hold on the floor, but his legs failed him. He heard only the sick sound of the rubber bottom of his boots squeaking on the floor. The substance had found a new hold on him, stimulating every nerve in his body, until he could swear he felt the breath of the doctor on the nape of his... neck... standing a few feet away.
"Make. It..... Oh my Fucking GOoooooooooODDDD!" Spit flew out of his mouth as another convulsion hit him, forcing him to kick so hard against the floor that one of the students almost lost his grip. Pulses running up and down his cock, reaching down and under his balls, his suit stretching along his chest and teasing his now impossibly erect nipples to the point of painful pleasure.
Two seconds later, Nightwing caught sight of it. His own crotch. His own - cock. There was no other word for it - it was raw, pure sex. It was. Enormous. Snaking down his left leg, he could see the outline of the head of it, he could feel its heat and every pulse. His eyes opened wide and his mouth dropped open, a small drop of saliva falling from his bottom lip.
For a moment, the sight of this grotesque show of obvious arousal angered and shamed him, and he snapped upward, turning to David on his left, and barking out the start of a sentence: "Get. The. Fuck. Off -nnggggHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAH!"
Another convulsion. Another pulse down inside of him. His balls seemed to throb, and he knew he could not hold it much longer. He panted, and pleaded. And he could not stop marveling at how fucking wonderful his body felt at this very moment. If he could only....
"God...fuck... Bat.. Batman... p.. please!"
At exactly 27 seconds after the first drop of mist had entered Nightwing's body, he exploded. The scream that came out of his mouth was half anger, half animal. It was a howl, and his knees collapsed under him as his cock expelled throb after throb of semen down his left leg, encased tightly in the black lycra, the jets of cum staining his leg further and further down with each contraction.
The students supported him while his body was racked with wave after wave of orgasm, until they felt him weaken, his arms no longer flexing, in complete submission. They finally let go, and he fell to the floor, panting like a dog, on both knees, his body still jerking slightly from the continuing, but weaker, waves of pleasure flowing from the root of his cock. When Nightwing's hands reached the floor, he looked like a man in prayer.
Nobody moved. The small room was quickly filling with the scent of sweat and cum. For a brief moment, only Nightwing's gasps for air punctured the silence.
"Move, we only a few minutes before the next one," Dr. Tanner ordered.
His head still low to the floor, they heard Nightwing mutter weakly, "The .. next..?"
The two students worked quickly, pulling the young hero's legs straight out under him, and then flipping him over on his back. Nightwing's eyes were wide open, staring into the faces of the two men, then seeking out Batman and the doctor. Splayed out on the floor, he tried to lift himself with his left arm, but the suddenness of the assault on his body had weakened him considerably.
Batman couldn't help but notice the state his younger partner was in. He had been there himself, barely a few days before, and he felt a sickening feeling deep in his stomach. He imagined what his friend must be feeling: fear, revulsion, shame, and the churning deep in his groin that was just below the surface, spent but preparing for another resurgence.
One student reached to release the buckles lining Nightwing's left boot. Working quickly, he had the boot nearly off before the hero uttered his first protest.
"Wha.. what the fuck.. are you doing?" he managed.
"Do it - get the other," snapped the doctor, turning on his heels and motioning to Batman to assist him as he moved toward the examining table.
Nightwing had managed to prop himself up on his elbows, staring in disbelief as both of his boots were removed. Above him, behind his head, he heard the distinct noises of metal against metal, a clanging, then pieces snapping into places. Dropping his head down, he caught sight of the dark stains snaking away from his groin down his left leg, all the way to his knee.
"Oh my God," he whispered. "What the hell... did you just do .. to me? Get your fucking.. hands - off me." He tried valiantly to kick at the four hands of the students, but they were already reaching for the slim fastenings above his waist.
"Nightwing," said the voice of Dr. Tanner, behind him. "You agreed to comply. We must get you out of those tights before you succumb again. It is the only way."
Before he could respond, one student - he vaguely remembered his name to be David - the handsome one, the one with the strong jaw and beautiful hands - and, what, what was he doing? Nightwing's head was spinning. Where the fuck did that come from? David had reached into the top of the hero's reinforced spandex tights, and the tip of his index finger grazed the bottom of Nightwing's abs, as he began to pull.
A moan, more a whimper, escaped the hero's lips at the sense of that slightest of touches. He struggled to hold down a sense of nausea mixed with pleasure as signals shot out from the point of contact with his skin deep into his balls, all the way down to his toes.
"Oh.. mother.. fucker," he moaned, head dropping back. Another finger, another hand. He could feel them pealing the material away, pulling it down. Then, a rush of air across the top of his pubic hair. Another rush of sensations, and Nightwing collapsed backward, toes curling. In a second they were pulling his tights down along his muscled thighs, snagging them on the base of his still engorged cock, forcing it down before it snapped free, slapping against his abdomen.
"F.. FUCK!" Nightwing shouted, lifting his head up suddenly.
"Move! Get him on the table!" The doctor's voice was urgent.
The two students grabbed both legs of the hero's tights, and pulled them off completely. The clanging around the table had stopped, and Nightwing groaned silently, terrified of another wave of intense feelings, but powerless to do anything but be completely stupefied by his situation.
Returning to a safe distance away from the table, Batman stared at the humiliating image: Nightwing sprawled on the floor, clad now only in the top of his suit, his smooth muscled legs bare, splayed wide on the floor in front of him, the bottom of his skintight upper suit riding up his ridged abdomen. And right in the middle, his friend's manhood on full display, resting back against the bottom of his abs and still -- good God -- still throbbing slightly, twitching, his thick balls pulled up tight beneath it. With a pang of shame, Batman remembered his first encounter with the sick liquid, and he knew he could do nothing to help his former partner. He could do nothing but watch, back against the wall, jaw clenched. It was not just the shame he was feeling, but the slightest tingle of physical memory, deep between his own thighs, along with a grim certitude of what would have to happen soon enough. He kept his eyes locked on Nightwing's muscled form on the floor.
"Ready? Grab his legs," ordered the doctor, as he assumed a position behind Nightwing's head. The two students complied, and grabbed hold of the hero by his ankles. "Ok, lift - now!"
Nightwing's head swayed and fell forward as the three men hoisted him up like a ragdoll, swinging him over the table and moving him into position. As they slowly lowered him into place, Nightwing suddenly felt cold steel on his exposed ass, and flinched. The new sensation seemed to snap him out of his daze for a moment, and he spoke with new energy, finding his former mentor in the room and speaking directly to him: "Batman - don't just - fucking - stand there - what the fuck are you letting them do?"
He gazed down at himself as the two students pulled his legs into the stirrups Nightwing had glimpsed upon entering the room earlier. Lycra straps, first one, then another, then two more were stretched over and around his wide feet and shaking limbs, securing them into place against cold footrests and stirrup bars.
The two students and the doctor worked quietly, but efficiently. From under the left and right sides of the table Nightwing heard the slick sound of more lycra bands being extracted and extended. He watched in horrified fascination as David lifted one long black belt and tossed it across the hero's abdomen, just under his shirt line, to Ryan, standing on Nightwing's left, the strap cinching across his stomach just above his belly button.
It was now or never, Nightwing knew. He had to regain the control he was losing with each instant. "Batman," again pleading directly to the man standing in front of him now, "why don't you say a fucking WORD??" He spat out the last sounds, a deepening anger spreading across his face in a moment when the potion's sensations had subsided somewhat. His abs tensed and contracted as he gasped for calming breaths, grasping at the shreds of his training even as his body betrayed him.
The older hero remained frustratingly silent. He watched the younger man being strapped to the same table he had been corralled on, like a bull, memories of spasms of pleasure shooting up and down his legs, thighs, along his ribcage, teasing the nipples that, like Nightwing's now, and his before, were so pronounced under the slick costume. Beneath the sculpted cowl, Batman's eyes began to glaze over -- like before -- and he could not help staring down at the throbbing manhood of his former student, lying flat but pulsing on the hero's left hip.
"Fuck YOU then!" Nightwing finally managed, and willed his agile body into rebellion, pulling at the straps but suddenly surprised that, in the passing seconds, his arms had been stretched out and secured to metal beams that extended outward from either side. His pecs strained to pull his body inward and off the table, but by then it was too late.
"Mother... fucking... sick.. fuckers..", the tirade spilled from his panicked mouth, words flying in all directions at the four men subduing him. Sweat poured down his face and throat, reaching down under the collar of his tunic, highlighting strained muscles and veins.
Dr. Tanner stared down at his latest test subject and remarked quietly, "It should start again now."
Nightwing continued to buck and struggle on the table, his arms and limbs spread wide, exposing the most vulnerable parts of his body. An abdomen slick with sweat, powerful trunks of legs pinned and spread open against the supports, and toes curling and uncurling as muscled feet attempted to pull away from unforgiving metal.
Then the man in heat on the table paused, and all the others in the room knew it was the start of another attack on his body's defenses.