Night 
by blank_sugar (zcon_disk@yahoo.com)
(nc, bdsm, pierce, anal, drug)



Barbara awoke to the feeling of claws stroking her face.

When she opened her eyes, Catwoman was staring into her eyes and smiling.  "Good 
morning, Barbara."

"Wh...?" Barbara mumbled, still groggy and unable to get a focus on the world.  

"Don't bother sitting up if you can, darling," Catwoman said gently, "Those 
bonds are well-secured.  You've been out for days," and she smiled again, 
viciously, "I'd have dropped the dosage if I'd known you constitution was so 
weak."

"Where am I?" Barbara asked.  The room stayed out of focus, she could make out 
figures but not details.  

"Still in your apartment," Catwoman said standing up, "It seemed like a good 
idea to make sure we hadn't killed you before passing you on."  

What was Catwoman doing in her apartment?

As if Barbara had asked, Catwoman said from somewhere in the haze, "Your secret 
identity was a bitch to penetrate, darling - until you dropped your wallet when 
I kicked you at the museum last week.  Careless!"  

Claws on her face again.  Breath in her ear.  "If it makes you feel better, 
Barbie dear," Catwoman whispered, "At least this way I won't have to thank your 
father personally for all the trouble."  And then everything went into darkness.

***

Barbara came fully to her senses sometime later.  She could feel the van - or 
truck, or whatever she was in - bouncing, she could feel the cloth over her 
head, she could feel rope on her wrists and legs and a gag in her mouth, she 
could feel duct tape all over.  She could smell ripe old fish.  She could taste 
the gag, it tasted flat and smooth like rubber.  She could hear nothing.  She 
could see nothing.  Think.  Think.  What would Bruce do?  He'd try to think of 
the last thing he remembered; he'd trace it back.  She thought back.  The last 
thing she remembered was setting down her book, turning out the light, and lying 
in the darkness waiting for sleep.  Catwoman must have come in while she was 
asleep.  Without waking her.  Surely Barbara didn't sleep so heavily?  

Catwoman.  Cat burglar.  Good at quiet B & E jobs.  Obviously.  

What had Catwoman said?  "Pass you on."  They weren't going to kill her.  At 
least, not yet.  "Won't thank your father."  Her father was safe from Catwoman 
at least.  Would Catwoman spread the word?  No, she was too solitary for that.  
But was she taking Barbara somewhere to be publicly unmasked?  No, that would be 
useless.  Even if Barbara had been wearing her batsuit - or anything, for that 
matter - it would prove nothing.  "Dropped your wallet."  Nothing more need be 
said about that.  Punish yourself for mistakes when the danger's passed.

***

That was Barbara's last thought before her mind went black - another drugging, 
presumably.  

She woke up sometime later in a small, white padded room.  'I've gone off the 
deep end,' Barbara thought, 'That's the first thing yet that makes good sense.'

Her hands were cuffed behind her, and her fingers were taped together.  
'Clever,' she conceded, 'Keep me from manipulating the lock.'  

There was a window in the corner of the room.  Her legs felt like jelly, and the 
padded floor didn't help, but after some struggling, she made it and looked 
outside.  All she saw was green.  Nothing outside but fields.  Nothing to 
identify the terrain, and from what she estimated must have been four stories 
up, she couldn't even see the grass well enough to identify it, and with it, at 
least a general indication of climate.  

Of course, for all she knew she could be looking into a television monitor 
anyway.  

She walked carefully along the walls, sliding her nude body against the cold 
padding as she went.  When she'd half-crossed the room, she felt a few stray 
strands of her long, auburn hair catch behind her, and she decided she'd found 
the door.  She tried examining the crevice with her bound fingers, her feet, and 
even her little nose, but the white padding was too thick, and all she could 
make out was a hint of steel underneath.  The light blinked out suddenly, as did 
the "window."

***

Barbara sat in the absolute darkness a long while.  She would have guessed days, 
but without even a hint of natural light to discern them, it might have been 
hours or weeks, and she'd never have known.  

Not a single way out occurred to her.

***

She woke up on the fifth day - she took her sleep to be night, and assumed that 
the time between waking and reasonable tiredness was night, not with the 
expectation of accuracy, but only because delineating time made things easier 
for her - to an ugly surprise.  

The "window" no longer showed a field, instead it showed an image of her on a 
closed-circuit camera - in the TV itself she quickly deduced.  Somewhere along 
the line, she must have lost more than a night's sleep, she was sure.  This much 
couldn't have happened to her in one night.  

Her breasts struck her first.  The left one said in huge, red letters that she 
hoped were done in marker, but dreaded weren't, "SLUT," and the right one said 
"EASY."  And they were huge letters indeed, since her breasts provided ample 
space for them.  This made the shock easier by comparison when she realized that 
her small, sore nipples had silver rings through them, connected by three chains 
that rattled as she shuddered.  On closer inspection, the rings had been welded.  
As had the ones pressing her labia together, the ones that ran through both 
lips, sealing inside of her vagina what she assumed with horror was a dildo.  An 
enormous dildo.  She could feel the tip brushing against her cervix, and from 
the bulge her sealed labia made over it, she guessed it must have been three 
inches wide.  On her left thigh was the word, "FUCK" and on the right one, "ME."  
A plastic tube - a catheter, she guessed - ran out through between the rings and 
snaked around her thigh to her ass.  Which was a story in itself.  When she 
turned around, she could see in the camera that the catheter ran into the center 
of a butt-plug.  No wonder her ass had hurt so badly.  She wondered what the 
point was, since in her time here - which, she decided, must have been much more 
than five days - she had never been fed or given water that she knew of.  Her 
hands were by far the worst, though.  She could see that a metal band that 
covered her fingers from knuckle to tip had been welded on and attached to metal 
bracelets on her wrists.  With her hands fully immobile, escape felt less and 
less likely.  Strangest of all was that through her grogginess, every sensation 
seemed terribly acute.  She brushed against the padded wall, and the soft 
padding made her arm _tingle_ with sensation.  Barbara wonder if perhaps she'd 
been drugged with something new.  

When the vibrator in her cunt - and it _was_ a vibrator, she was sure of that 
now - was suddenly switched on by whomever held the remote, all doubt on that 
subject fled from her mind as her body burst forth in a supernova of bliss, and 
she screamed with joy in spite of herself and fell on the floor, writhing and 
thrashing her head in futile denial.  Physical constraint she could handle; 
this, on the other hand, was too much.  She flailed and sobbed and came and came 
and came.

***

Someone was feeding her and giving her water while she slept, she was sure of 
that now.  The waste that built up in her ass throughout the day (or what she 
had learned to take as the day) attested to that.  And she was fairly certain 
that her sleep cycles were being regulated by her faceless captor, since she 
always woke up with the pressure in her ass relieved.  And for all intents and 
purposes, she was just as happy with this.  The plug in her ass and the rings 
through her pussy lips (which were welded shut) assured that she wasn't being 
raped in her sleep (odd, but no odder than anything else that had happened since 
she had first woken up here), and at least she was being taken care of in some 
way.  Whomever was doing all these things to her had no intention of letting her 
die... at least, not yet, she thought with a shiver.

***

"Where is she?" Batman asked without a trace of anything in his voice but the 
demand itself.  Catwoman hung limply in his arms, trying to slice through the 
bat-rope that tied her wrists with her long, thin claws.  

"Can't say for sure," she muttered, pretending to be delirious and submissive 
from having lost the fight.  "Perhaps you should ask Joe."  There was, of 
course, no one involved named Joe that she knew of.

"You're lying," he said.  "Where is she?"

"All right," she said, stalling for time.  The cables were strong, but not 
unbreakable.  "all right.  You'll find her in no time if you ask this guy... he 
lives down on the pier... his name is-" and then she swung her claws at him, 
aiming for his mask.  If he wasn't blinded, a maskless Batman could never turn 
in a criminal.  

Batman caught her arm in mid-swing without ever looking away from her eyes.  
"The name, Catwoman.  Who did you sell her to?"

"The highest bidder, darling!" Catwoman laughed.  And then she smiled.  "his 
name is Frank.  He calls himself 'Frankie D.,' and he operates out of the Gotham 
Arms hotel, room 216.  He'll have registered under the name Frank Danielson, 
although I doubt that's his real name.  I hear he'll be there Thursday."

Batman scowled at her for a moment, and she smiled.  Everything she had said was 
true.  Finding the girl would be worse on Batman and Commissioner Gordon than 
not finding her.  Batman tied her arms and legs with two ropes apiece, and hung 
her from a lamppost for the Police, who were already coming down the street.  He 
turned and threw his batarang into the air, and Catwoman called out, "Oh, and 
Batman, dear!"  He turned and looked at her.  She smiled, and purred, "Good 
luck."

***

Who knows how long had passed?

Barbara had long since stopped even trying to count the days.  There was no way 
to know if she slept for and hour or a week, to say nothing of trying to keep 
track of time when she was awake.  She had tried judging time by the length of 
her hair for a while, but when she realized that it had been getting shorter 
rather than longer when she slept, she gave up trying to reckon time altogether.  
Though she never thought of it that way, this was her life now.  She woke up in 
the morning expecting nothing from the day but the white walls and an uncertain 
time of anticipation until the vibrator would blast her senses again.  The 
television screen showed nothing but white anymore.  She didn't even dream of 
escaping now, and she never stopped to remember her life before all this began.  
For all her strength, any spare memory of the time before this that slipped 
through her mental defenses was too much to handle, and she would shut her eyes 
and sob and try to black it out until the dildo would fire up and distract her.  
And in those moments, everything went away.  In those moments, everything was 
all right.

***

Which made it all the stranger when she woke up in a real bed one morning.  She 
started and yelped when she realized she was wrapped up in silk sheets, that her 
hair - which had become matted and limp with filth - was suddenly clean, that 
her hands were free.  She shook violently in the bed, praying this was a dream.  
Predictability was all that had made her life bearable.  It didn't matter if she 
had overnight been crowned queen, she'd rather have woken up in her little cell 
with her little white screen and the butt plug - which was conspicuously absent 
- between her cheeks.  She howled and skittered back against the wall.  She 
looked down and saw that the rings were gone, felt the horrible void where the 
vibrator had been, and she started to cry.  She flung open every drawer in the 
room.  She squeezed under the bed.  She looked under the dressers and in every 
closet.  There were fancy clothes, and expensive jewelry, and every piece of 
finery a human being could wish for, but her dildo was nowhere to be seen.  

The door flew open, and a man with red hair stepped in.  He was of medium build, 
and he wore a polo shirt with a tiny red alligator on the pocket.  "Good 
morning, my darling," he said; the first words she'd heard other than her own 
delirious babblings - which themselves had become nothing but background noise 
to her - since Catwoman had promised not to harm her father.  

Catwoman, however, did not come to mind, nor did anyone else.  To Barbara, there 
was only one man anymore, the man who had fed her in the night, the man who held 
the switch that would make her fell good, the man who allowed her to go blank.  
The man who had put her here, she decided, the man whose cruelty suddenly 
extended beyond all she could have possibly imagined - that is, if she imagined 
anything anymore.  She looked into his eyes, broken, and whispered in a cracked 
voice, "What have you done to me?"

The man reached out to her; she jumped backwards.  "I've set you free, my love.  
I know the woman who had you before was cruel, but I promise you, my darling, 
you're safe now.  Now you're mine and you'll never be harmed again.  Not if it's 
not necessary."

"...woman?" she mumbled.

"The one who had in that awful cell.  The one who first captured you."

Woman?  Which woman?  Catwoman?  The thought was foreign to her; it was as if a 
word in a language she had never spoken before suddenly popped into her mind.  
She mumbled the name.  Unwelcome images suddenly burst forth.  Spandex.  Claws.  
That slinky, purring voice.  The eyes.  The goggles.  The way she moved; the 
grace; the agility.  The purple.  And try as she might to avoid it, Barbara 
began to remember herself.  Her name was Barbara.  She knew that; sometime after 
the piercings had gone in (she looked down, half expecting the chain between her 
nipples to be gone) she had taken to chanting it.  What was her last name?  The 
word was on the tip of her tongue.  It was almost there.  She pushed for it now, 
what was it?  G.  Go.  Go.  Gore.  Gored.  Go.  G-g-g...

"Catwoman Gordon?" the red-headed man said suddenly, breaking her concentration.  
"No, no, that wasn't it.  It doesn't matter now who it was, darling.  The only 
thing that matters now is that I love you."  He reached down again.  He put his 
hand on her cheek.  She reached up with a limp hand, and pressed it against his.  
He got the message; his eyes went hard, and he went tense suddenly and she was 
afraid.  But like a cloudburst, his anger vanished as quickly as it had come and 
he smiled again.  "I won't hurt you," he said in the same measured, well-
practiced tone he had been speaking in originally.  You needn't fear me, my 
love.  Come here."  He bent down, unzipping his pants, and he whispered, "You 
will call me master, and you'll be my slave.  I love you; you'll see."  Before 
she even realized what was happening, she thrust her foot into the air and 
kicked him square in the face.  

She remembered kicking the Joker like that.  Her foot connecting with the solar 
plexus of the Riddler.  Both had gone down in a moment, when she had kicked 
someone, it was almost always the end of the fight.  No man could stand up 
against her martial arts training; many had already tried and failed.  When 
Batgirl kicked someone, they were done for.

What Batgirl could do, of course, bore little resemblance to what a weakened and 
emaciated (and she was; she had grown so skinny in that cell, her muscles felt 
weak and useless; her hands were in agony from the shock of movement) Barbara 
Gordon could do.  If the man jumped at all, it was from surprise alone.  To say 
her kick had no effect, however, would be incorrect.  The man's smile had turned 
into a glare like daggers, his teeth were clenched, and his fist was shaking.  
"You... ungrateful..." unable to even form words, much less attempt the calm 
tone he'd rehearsed for so long, he used the only form of communication 
available to him, and punched her square in the mouth.  Her head snapped back 
against the wall, and before she could process the first impact, she was already 
dealing with the second, and the third, the forth, the fifth, sixth, seventh...

***

When Barbara awoke, the first thing she realized was that she was moist and 
warm.  There was something on her legs.  Something that smelled awful.  She 
looked up, and saw she was in a basement with a gravel floor lit only by one 20-
watt bulb.  Across the room, through a set of bars, she saw the redheaded man 
standing with his hands in his pockets, looking cross, but in control again.  
"Darling slave," he said flatly, "Understand that I do love you.  But love must 
be tempered with discipline, and it's clear that you have none.  No discipline, 
no respect, no control - my love, you can't even control your bowels anymore."  
She looked down and realized with disgust what was on her legs.  "I'm going to 
leave you down here for a few days to think about what you've done.  Perhaps 
when you're ready, we can discuss allowing you to eat again."  And he turned and 
walked up the wooden staircase.  The 20-watt bulb blinked off, and the last 
shaft of light vanished as he closed the door behind him.

Alone in the darkness, Barbara was helpless to survey her surroundings, so she 
decided to survey the damage her previous captor had done to her body instead.  
The rings were still there, but as she slid them through her nipples, she was 
certain that they were nothing simple wire cutters couldn't take care of.  She 
slid her hand into her pubic hair.  The holes were still there, but the rings 
were gone, as was the catheter, but as she slid a hand into herself, she 
realized that the dildo had left her permanently stretched out so much so that 
her entire hand slid into herself with relative ease.  Her asshole was in the 
same condition, and she realized glumly that if she ever got out of this it 
would be diapers under her batsuit for a very long time.  Her hands were still 
stiff and her wrists were screaming with pain, but she was sure she could get 
past that.  'Just focus, Barbara,' she thought, sitting on the gravel with her 
hand shoved into herself up to the wrist, 'Freedom is just a moment away.'

***

Barbara was far past the point where the lack of knowledge of day and night 
would bother her anymore, but the lack of light seemed impossible to cope with.  
Her captor had left her no distractions in her cell, and although she was weak 
from malnutrition and lack of exercise, there were only so many hours a day she 
could sleep.  As the days (weeks?) went on, she fell into a cycle: stretch and 
exercise to try to get herself back into shape, then collapse from exhaustion 
and masturbate futilely, just trying to stay blank for a little while.  Even 
with her whole hand it was hard to get much friction up, but she managed, and 
could usually fist herself to orgasm in a relatively short time.

***

"Good morning, slave," the redheaded man said.  Barbara squinted and put her 
hand over her eyes.  The light stabbed into her after so long in the darkness.  
"I've brought you food."  He set a bowl down in the far corner of the room, 
outside her bars, then walked over and unlocked her cage.  Barbara suddenly 
realized just how hungry she was.  She hadn't eaten real food - or eaten at all, 
as far as she could remember - since all this had started.  When he stepped into 
her cage (which was quite filthy by this point), she let him cuff her and put a 
black collar around her neck without even thinking about it.  Anything was all 
right, so long as there was food in that dish.

The man led her by the hand to the food, and she followed docilely.  "You're 
doing better," he smiled warmly, assuming her passiveness meant she was giving 
in.  He hooked her collar to a chain that dangled from the ceiling, then tied 
her nipple chain to a hook that was set into the ground, which left her kneeling 
on the gravel with her rear sticking up into the air.  She shoved her face into 
the bowl, oblivious even of what she might be eating.  It just didn't matter.  
She didn't even hear his fly unzipping, and hardly noticed as he slid his cock 
into her ass (unsurprising, as loose as she was), and for all the noise he made 
when he came, she couldn't have said when he had finally pulled out.

***

They went round on this routine several times - she'd refuse him, he'd lock her 
up again, and when finally offered food, she'd submit to nearly anything - 
before he decided to shrug her off as damaged goods and make this a permanent 
state of affairs.  Barbara saw very little light over the coming months, save 
twice a week (and she was sure it was a week now, since he had said at one 
point, "Time for your weekly meal, slave"): once when he came to feed and fuck 
her, and once when he came with a hose to clean the filth out of her cage 
(which, with her poor bladder and bowel control, badly needed it).  By this 
reckoning, it was seven weeks before the day finally came.

The man had no kindness in him anymore, which was a bit of a relief.  Barbara 
always preferred to know where she stood with people.  When he switched on the 
light that morning (afternoon?  night?) he simply said, "Up, slut."  As usual, 
she was ravenous and got up without a word.  He hooked her to the floor and 
ceiling, and she shoved her face into the food and ate.  He unzipped his pants, 
pulled out his cock, and slid it into her loose, messy asshole and had just 
begun to thrust when he heard a crash from upstairs.  He paused.  Maybe it was a 
mistake.  Maybe he was just imagining things.  Heavy footsteps above him said 
no.  He pulled out.  Whoever it was was in the living room.  No way to get his 
gun.  Had he closed the basement door?  Thieves wouldn't look for anything in 
the basement, would they?  The door at the top of the stairs creaked.  He froze 
and started looking around for a weapon, but there was nothing except him and 
the girl and the cage.  He'd made sure of that the first time he'd put her down 
here.  The stairs creaked one at a time.  Black boots came into sight.  Barbara 
kept eating, oblivious.

Catwoman's contacts had done their jobs well.  Even Batman had had a hard time 
tracing Barbara's whereabouts, and when she hadn't shown up at the place in 
Mexico that she had been initially sold to, Batman had wondered whether he might 
never find her at all.  Finding her, then, in the awful state she had been 
reduced to - starved, pierced, chained, sodomized, and filthy, her long, red 
hair matted with dirt and shit, gobbling out of a bowl on the floor like a dog - 
would have been an ugly blow to any man.  A lesser man (although truth be told, 
even the best among us might well have been lesser men by comparison) might have 
hesitated, or cringed at the sight, but Batman hardly gave her a glance.  
Although behind his cowl, his eyes might well have been anywhere, the man had no 
doubt that Batman was looking straight at him.  "This... it's not what you 
think," the man whispered.  "She's my girlfriend.  She likes this.  You see..." 
Batman just stared.  "Look, you don't - un-understand.  See... it's like..." and 
his words caught in his throat, and it was all he could do to gasp, "Why are you 
not in Gotham?"

Batman shook his head, and for the fist time spoke: "Because there's scum like 
you everywhere," and at that, the man ran as fast as he could for the stairs, 
and when he made it past Batman, he nearly sighed with relief.  Let off with a 
warning.  He hardly had time to register his mistake before Batman was on him, 
and had knocked him unconscious and tied him to the bars of the cage.

Batman walked across the room to where Barbara was still eating.  He undid her 
chains and put his hand on her shoulder.  "Barbara," he said, but if she heard, 
she gave no notice.  He gently pulled her away from the food, and she jumped and 
began thrashing and kicking to get back to it, but he grabbed her hands and 
after a moment, she looked at him and stopped.  "Barbara," he said again, "it's 
all right.  It's all right now." 

She stared at him with haggard eyes like those of a feral cat and after a pause 
whispered, "Bruce."  Batman pulled her close and began stroking her hair, and 
she curled into him, sobbing and whispering his name over and over again.


______________________________________________________
Drop me a line and tell me what you think, kids.  Seriously, if you don't do it, 
nobody does, and perfectly good writers quit because they think no one's 
reading.  Even flames are better than silence.

If you liked this one, the wonderful folks at ASSTR host an archive of my 
stories at http://www.asstr.org/~blanksugar

last revision 8.20.03
