Fun in Gotham City

By Palinurus

November 25, 1998

"I can't believe that I'm letting you do this," he muttered, feeling resentful and horribly exposed, naked, face down on the bed, with Mulder kneeling over him.

"Shut up, Walter. It's not like you're letting me torture you. I'm sure you'll enjoy it, after a bit."

Mulder squirted some more lube out of the bottle and slowly pushed in one finger. The reaction was a gasp and immediate tension. He began to doubt that it would ever work, and if it was a good idea at all. Maybe he should have been a little less insistent, allowed a little more time. On the other hand, there was no guarantee that there was ever going to be a better time.

He withdrew his finger, waited a bit, then entered again, even more slowly. It seemed a little easier this time. He held still for a second, then twisted it. Another gasp, more tension.

"I don't think this is going to be fun at all," Skinner said plaintively.

"Why don't you just concentrate on relaxing, instead of challenging every move I make?" Mulder snapped, trying hard to suppress his exasperation. The moment Skinner had finally, grudgingly agreed that morning, he had felt his eyes bulge with arousal. The day had been wasted in a haze of daydreaming and steamy anticipation. But now that his moment had finally arrived, Skinner complained and procrastinated every step of the way. The slow progress and the looming threat of seeing the whole operation aborted were grating on his nerves.

Patience, Mulder. If it doesn't happen this time, then... But by now he wanted it so badly that it almost hurt, and that thought was almost unbearable. He gritted his teeth and moved his finger, slowly, gently.

Skinner tried to relax. It wasn't that it hurt, exactly; it didn't even feel all that bad. But to surrender his supremacy, to have Mulder lean over his naked, prostrate body, telling him what to do, invading him, urging him on... he could barely bring himself to accept it. Half his mental prowess was needed to suppress the urge to box the pushy brat's ears. A small kernel of obstinacy was lodged inside his gut, refusing to budge. Well, maybe it would budge if he could convince himself to really want it to budge...

He was fairly sure their relationship was balanced in all other fields of life. He had formed a mental image of them ('traveling the roads of life' - the cliché made him wince) in which he was a draft horse, plodded on, keeping the course, with Mulder a small terrier, trotting along next to him, weaving around his ankles, yapping and snapping. If the yapping and snapping became too loud, Skinner would generally stop, change course, or perform whatever trick was required to calm his partner down again. And they generally traveled in reasonable (albeit noisy) harmony.

Unfortunately, in bed it was a lot harder to yield to Mulder's whims. Skinner had held out for a long time, ignoring the deafening yapping and snapping, steeling himself, trying everything he could think of and several things that surprised even him to keep Mulder happy, and avoid this... indignity. Until this morning, when in a weak, sappy, lust-drunk moment, he had faltered and given in.

He should have known it wouldn't work. Mulder was beautiful, sexy, endlessly fascinating and completely adorable. But Skinner had decided years ago that if he'd ever let himself be fucked, it would have to be someone, certainly as good-looking as Mulder, but also at least as big as he was himself, as strong, as self-assured, and certainly not younger. After many years of mental experiments and thinking about the problem, he knew that only one person in the entire universe could be entrusted with the job. Only one man was powerful enough, mysterious enough, persuasive enough, dominant enough to impose his will to that extent. One man to whom he could surrender, would have to surrender, without embarrassment, without thought... Batman.

He had had this fantasy for years, and it had withstood Hollywood's horrifying attempts to turn Batman into a psychologically damaged human being. The real Batman had no face, no faults, no doubts, and he certainly didn't sound like George Clooney. The real Batman was superhuman, a demigod maybe, or a demon, with his all-black latex outfit, faceless, ageless mask, bulging muscles, and very importantly, the flowing black cape that would gracefully fold itself over everything that didn't have to be seen. Batman never grew older, but he was always the eldest; he never sagged, never changed, and rarely spoke (and *certainly* not during the act). Skinner had decided many long years ago that Batman's cock, like everything else, would be covered in black latex, with the bulging veins standing out in exaggerated silhouette, the thick foreskin rolled back (Batman couldn't possibly be circumcised) to give an extra bite in the beginning, which would make things even better once he was far enough inside...

He felt Mulder's finger slip out, and knew what would be next. Steeling himself again - the wrong thing to do, of course. Mulder pushed in, felt the resistance, stopped, sighed deeply.

"Walter."

"What!? I'm doing my best, I'm..."

"This isn't going to work. I can't tell if you're doing it on purpose or not, but if you go on like this, it's not going to work."

"Look, I'm trying, it's just that... I'm not sure I'm ready for this."

"I think you don't want to be ready for it," Mulder said bitterly. He was about to give up, frustration angering him so much that he knew he might really mess things up at this point. He sat back, stared at the wall, then decided to try a different route.

"How about... what if I give you a massage? Would that be acceptable to your fragile ego?"

Skinner gave himself a few seconds, mustering all forces to hide his elation and get the look of triumph off his face. Then he raised himself on his elbows and looked over his shoulder. "That would be very acceptable, my humble slave. As well you know."

"Afterwards I'll probably still fuck you," Mulder warned, deliberately crude, angered again by the provocation.

"Oh. Well. If you put it that way, I'm sure I'll be happy to try to oblige you," Skinner answered, lying down again, thinking he'd cross that stream when he got to it. Mulder's massages were worth some sacrifice.

"Why is this such a problem for you?" Mulder demanded, trickling a trail of oil along the spine of the now pliant body below him.

"It's not a problem for me at all. It's a problem for you. Why are you so desperate to fuck me?" Skinner countered, relaxing, eyes closed.

"God damn it, Walter, don't give me that reversal crap. I just want to try it. I can't die with dignity without ever having fucked you, can I? They'd hoot at me at the Pearly Gates, and rightly so. It's just plain ridiculous to stay in this rut until the end of our days. Should I remind you what would have happened if I hadn't gone against your instincts before?"

"I was wondering when you'd bring that up," Skinner grunted, looking over his shoulder again. "Do I have to listen to that until Kingdom Come? One little mistake, and you bash me over the head with it at every turn."

"Just to remind you that you stay on your path even when you know there's an abyss ahead, Walter. You should be a bit more adventurous. You're turning into a conservative old fart this way."

That got to him. Indignantly, Skinner began, "A conservative old fart? In my midlife crisis I take up an SM relationship with an employee, a younger, *male* employee I may add, and I end up getting called a conservative old fart? Just because I'm not crazy about the idea of getting fucked up the ass?" His own crudity now shocked him a bit. And his voice sounded rather like a whine in his own ears.

"Conservative old fart," Mulder chided, kneading his lover's deltoids. "One of those people who live in the same town, drive the same car, stay married to the same wife, and have sex in the same missionary position all their life, because it was good enough for their parents, and it's good enough for them. The stuff America is made of."

"But I'm... Oh, never mind," Skinner snapped, and dropped his head on his arms again, determined to ignore the taunts and enjoy the massage. After a minute his mind began to drift, and as usual, he was getting a bit worked up.

Of course Batman would never dream of starting out with a massage. However, it was conceivable that he would assign that task to his trusted sidekick Robin, also no scrawny chicken by any means, although his musculature paled in comparison with that of Batman. He could actually feel Robin's hands on his back now, slow, soothing, patiently preparing him for the event that would inevitably follow. Batman wasn't in the room yet, but he might be following the proceedings via the in-house video circuit. Skinner felt his muscles warm under the gentle but strong touches, enhancing the muscle tone and making his skin tingle. He flexed his shoulders, pleased with the way he felt the muscles move under his skin.

The hands moved lower, now kneading his lower back, gradually closing the distance to his ass; he could feel his stomach begin to knot up a bit. It would probably hurt, but he was sure that the overwhelming feeling of being penetrated by that big, black, latex-clad cock would easily offset any initial pain; in fact, the pain would sensitize him, would make his surrender easier, and enable him to feel the ensuing sensations much more acutely. He had often imagined what it would be like, but the details had always remained fuzzy. Now he was finally going to find out, and the prospect was exhilarating. Though (he had to admit) slightly unnerving as well.

The muscles in his ass cheeks were now under assault; the massage from the strong hands almost made him squirm, but he held still. Suddenly a slick finger inserted itself, but it disappeared again immediately. Batman must have joined in the massage, he told himself, because surely he would never allow Robin to - a second finger. His heart slowly climbed into his throat as the fingers stretched him. It didn't hurt, but it was scary; scary and immensely arousing. He could feel his sphincter begin to give, slowly relenting under the pressure. He imagined the black fingers moving, pushing -

"Are you OK, Walter?"

God damn.

"Yeah, I'm fine, Mulder. Why don't you just go on without talking, OK? I was just getting in the mood. I'll complain if it hurts, don't worry." Hoping for the best, he sighed and closed his eyes again. Back to the mysterious, dark forces, the bulky, gleaming black-clad bodies of Gotham City.

Mulder had no idea what he was doing right this time, but he was happy, and getting more aroused by the minute. Skinner's beautiful, rounded ass under his hands, the strong muscles flexing and relaxing, giving when he spread them, and then the tight little opening, now accepting his entry without protest... He gulped, breathed deeply, and slowly pushed in again with a third finger, feeling the muscle grip him, holding him, but not resisting. He began slowly thrusting, watching for signs of pain, of resistance, but there were none. Acceptance, surrender almost. And obvious arousal. He remembered his own throbbing cock, and deepened his finger-fucking. He was beginning to worry if he would even last long enough to make it in.

Skinner was squirming under the invasive touches of the black-gloves fingers. He could almost see the dark, masked figure towering over him, opening him, preparing him for the inevitable siege. Almost feel the gaze from those hooded eyes burn into the muscles of his back. He spread his legs slightly and the fingers went still deeper, brushing strongly against his prostate, making him arch up. He suppressed a moan, forced himself to stay still, all muscles flexing except that one. When the fingers disappeared, he tried not to tense, thinking of the foreskin, the thick veins outlined on the black latex.

It hurt, but not much. He pulled up his knees a bit to make it easier, and the penetration was exactly as he had hoped it would be. Overpowering, humbling, unstoppable - it took his breath away. Once the head was in beyond the grip of his sphincter, he felt the shaft smoothly enter him, pushing on, an inch, another, another... He began to moan, partly in arousal, partly in awe - it was too much, too long, it would... Then it stopped, and there was a silence, in which his panting was disturbingly loud.

He struggled to recover his breath. Before he could do so, the intruder pulled back, making him gasp again; then pushed back in, now even deeper. He gave up every attempt to breathe normally, too busy with the sensations assaulting him. There was another brief pause before the next tidal wave, rushing out and taking half his soul with it, then forcing its way back in, battering him mercilessly for even thinking about resistance. The sheer force of it was overwhelming; there was nothing to do but surrender, and hang on to his pillow.

He tried to keep quiet, but it was impossible. Not that it mattered much; the roar in his ears deadened most of the sound. He vaguely felt hands gripping his hips, hauling him to his knees. One arm slid around his waist to keep him in place, while the other grabbed his cock. The thrusting became faster, more urgent, and he realized he wasn't going to last ten more seconds. It was too fast, too good...

"Wait!" he ground out.

But it was useless; nothing stopped, nothing waited, and he was pushed on, chased over the edge, into a brief vision of paradise that dissolved almost before he'd really seen it.

The thrusting went on for another few seconds, then he was crushed under a heavy weight and the silence returned. Except for that silly whimpering: "Oh... ohhh..." which he now recognized as his own voice. He shut himself up and floated, without direction, without destination, in the deep, silken darkness.

Suddenly Mulder's voice pierced the blissful silence, and planted hooks in his spine. Merciless light melted the cardboard and cheap plastic pillars of Gotham City, leaving him exposed on the bright white plain of the bed.

"Walter... Are you OK?"

He blinked, slowly, and then lifted his head. "Yeah. I'm fine."

"Was it... was it any good?"

He immediately felt bad, but there was no way to atone for his guilt; not now. "It was great."

Mulder stirred, moved to lie down beside him, and he reached out to pull the other into a one-armed embrace. Then he turned over and it became a two-armed embrace; turned another 90 degrees to stare at the ceiling, pulling all of Mulder that would move onto his chest.

He had cheated, but God... It had been... had been... He closed his eyes and drifted off again.

Minutes later, Mulder asked, "Walter. What happened?"

"Um? What do you mean?"

"Why did you suddenly change your mind during the massage?"

He realized he was on dangerous ground again. That morning's post-coital languor was what had led to all this in the first place. But hard as he tried, it proved impossible to come up with a convincing lie at that moment. "I... fantasized."

Mulder raised his head, a glint in his eye. "Really? About what?"

Red and yellow lights flashed, alarm bells went off, but it was already too late. Staring at the ceiling with intense concentration to avoid Mulder's eyes, he tried to think of another fantasy, but they fled, scattered, deserted him like rats a sinking ship. After a longish silence, he admitted, "Uh... about Batman."

Mulder's mouth opened, and didn't close again for several seconds. Then he said, "Batman? How?" His voice sounded strained.

"Well, I just..." Oh shit. You're such an unbelievable cretin, Walter... "I just... uh, fantasize that, um, that he fucks me."

Mulder pushed away from his chest and sat up. "Batman? In that suit?" A tremendous belly laugh was visibly building, rippling the surface, only kept from exploding by politeness; a very thin crust of it.

"Don't laugh at me again, Mulder. You've done enough of that in the past weeks." He tried to sound threatening, but failed dismally, and sounded plaintive instead.

And it was too late: the laugh was out. Mulder was whooping with it, big guffaws, bringing tears to his eyes. "I'm sorry, Walter," he gasped, as helpless as Skinner had been earlier. After a while he calmed down a bit, then whimpered, "Batman..." and began again.

Skinner looked at him, torn between chagrin and amusement.

Finally, Mulder breathed deeply a few times, blinked, and looked at Skinner apologetically. "Sorry..." There were a few more muffled minor explosions, and then he rolled over and wrapped his arms around his lover. "So... would it help if I dressed up in a Batman suit?"

Skinner barked a laugh. "No way, you wouldn't..." He changed his line in the nick of time. "You wouldn't look very good in it."

Mulder looked at him suspiciously, but didn't say anything.

"George Clooney also doesn't look very good in it," Skinner amended.

Mulder glared. "So now you're into George Clooney."

"No, no, that's not... Damn it, Mulder, you *know* that's not it. I'm not into Michael Keaton either, of Val Kilmer, or even... what's his name. I hate all of them. I want the real Batman."

"The real Batman..." Mulder was visibly torn between genuine bafflement and another laughing fit.

"I mean, the real comic book Batman. The one with a big flowing cape and no face." And a black latex cock, he said to himself, suspecting that the words might fight their way out if he didn't at least allow them to form in his mind. With thick veins. And a foreskin that...

"So you want to get fucked by a guy with a black cape and no face," Mulder summarized, turning on his back, apparently still trying to wrap his mind around the image.

"Yes. Is that so strange?" That's right Walter, to arms. Offense is the best defense.

Mulder looked at him, the corners of his mouth trembling. "You mean statistically?" His voice sounded brittle again.

"Mulder. Don't *laugh* at me." This time it came out right. He also managed the right expression to accompany the words, as was evident from the change in Mulder's face.

"OK, alright Walter, whatever you say. Batman." He stretched out one arm to switch off the light. "Well, I guess I should consider myself lucky. It could have been Mary Poppins."

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