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An alley cat hissed, arching its back against the overflowing dumpster. Its yellow eyes reflected the flickering neon sign above – 'Joe's Pawn & Loan' – before it vanished into deeper shadows. Damian Wayne adjusted his grip on his grapple gun, scanning the grimy rooftops of Gotham's Bowery district. Patrol was quiet tonight. Too quiet.
Below, two men leaned against a battered sedan, their voices a low rumble. One scratched at a faded tattoo snaking up his neck; the other kept glancing nervously down the empty street. Damian noted the unnatural bulge beneath one jacket – not a gun, something bulkier, like restraints. His instincts prickled. Something was off.
He dropped silently onto a fire escape, intending to get closer. The metal groaned under his weight, louder than expected in the still air. Both men snapped their heads up instantly. Too fast. Professionals. Before Damian could react, a third figure melted from the deeper shadows behind him. A sharp sting bit into his neck.
The world tilted violently. Neon signs blurred into streaks of garish color as his grapple gun clattered uselessly onto the rusty grating. He tried to lunge, muscles sluggish and unresponsive. His vision tunneled, the men's faces swimming into focus – hard eyes, grim satisfaction. The one with the tattoo smirked. "Package secured. Move." Hands grabbed him roughly under the arms.
Darkness swallowed him whole. He fought it, teeth gritted, clawing at the edges of consciousness. The prick in his neck burned cold. He heard car doors slam, an engine roaring to life, tires screeching on wet asphalt. The stench of cheap leather seats and stale cigarette smoke filled his nostrils. His head lolled against the vibrating door panel. Father... The thought was thick, distant. Trackers... active... But Gotham swallowed signals whole in places like this.
Damian swam upward through layers of thick, syrupy darkness. His head throbbed, a dull drumbeat behind his eyes. Cold air pricked his skin, raising gooseflesh. He blinked, vision swimming into focus on cracked concrete floor littered with broken glass and oily rags. He tried to move his arms. Nothing. Coarse rope bit deep into his wrists, lashed tightly behind the cold metal frame of a simple folding chair. His ankles were similarly bound to the chair legs. Panic surged, sharp and metallic in his throat. He was naked. Utterly exposed. The chill wasn't just from the air. The only thing that remained was his domino mask.
Footsteps echoed in the cavernous space – an old warehouse, judging by the distant drip of water and the vast, shadowed ceiling. The two men from the alley approached, their faces harder under the flickering fluorescent light buzzing overhead. The tattooed man, who Damian decided to nickname Smirk, carried a heavy-duty flashlight. The nervous one, who Damian called Twitch, held a small digital camera, its red recording light blinking like a malevolent eye. Smirk crouched in front of Damian, the beam of light blinding him momentarily. "Welcome back, little bird," he rasped, his breath smelling of stale coffee and cheap tobacco. His eyes roamed slowly, deliberately, over Damian’s bound form. "The package looks intact."
Damian strained against the ropes, the coarse fibers tearing into his skin. Adrenaline sharpened his senses – the grit beneath his bare feet, the acrid tang of motor oil and mildew, the low hum of the distant city. His mind raced, calculating escape routes, pressure points, weaknesses. He locked eyes with Smirk, channeling every ounce of Wayne defiance. "Release me," he commanded, his voice low and steady despite the tremor in his limbs. "You have no idea who you're dealing with."
Smirk chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. He traced the flashlight beam deliberately down Damian's torso, lingering on the boy's exposed ribs. "Oh, we know exactly who you are," he murmured. "That's the point." Behind him, Twitch shifted nervously, the camera's red light unwavering. "The Demon's Brat. Worth a fortune to the right buyers." The beam dipped lower, cruelly deliberate. Damian flinched involuntarily, muscles coiling tight.
Twitch edged closer, camera whirring softly. "H-how long?" he stammered, avoiding Damian's glare. Smirk didn't look away. "Long enough to make him scream nicely for the camera. But you know the real fun is reserved for the boss.” His free hand, thick-knuckled and calloused, reached out. Not to strike. To touch. The rough pad of his thumb brushed Damian's inner thigh, a slow, invasive slide upwards. Damian jerked violently against the ropes, a raw snarl tearing from his throat. "Don't you dare!" Damian snapped.
Smirk ignored him, his touch deliberate, clinical almost. The flashlight beam pinned Damian like an insect specimen. Twitch whimpered, the camera trembling slightly. "Focus," Smirk growled. His fingers curled, digging into the soft flesh of Damian's thigh, forcing his legs wider apart against the chair's metal frame. The cold air was a bit sharper where skin was exposed. Damian's breath hitched, not fear now, but pure, incandescent rage. He visualized shattering Smirk's trachea with a single kick… but his body felt weak and heavy. the men planned to use him... rape him... fuck him sensless... but they couldnt do any real harm until the boss came back.
The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting stark shadows that danced with every tremor of Twitch’s hands. Smirk’s thumb dug deeper into Damian’s thigh, a cruel, possessive pressure. Damian’s muscles screamed against the ropes, raw skin burning where the fibers sawed into his wrists. He locked his gaze on Smirk’s, channeling centuries of al Ghul ice and Wayne steel. "Fight back," he hissed, voice low and venomous, "and I’ll ensure your last moments are spent drowning in your own blood."
Smirk leaned in, his stale breath hot against Damian’s ear. "Feisty. Boss likes ’em feisty." He withdrew his hand slowly, deliberately wiping his thumb on his jeans as if touching Damian had soiled him. The flashlight beam lingered on Damian’s exposed body, a visual violation. "But don’t worry, pretty bird. We’re just the setup crew." He straightened, casting a disgusted glance at Twitch, who was sweating profusely, the camera’s red light wavering. "Keep that thing steady, idiot. The auctioneers want pristine footage. No tears, no snot—just prime merchandise."
Twitch swallowed hard, adjusting his grip. "S-sorry. It’s just… he’s a kid, Vince."
" He’s a paycheck ," Smirk corrected, voice sharp. "One that vanishes if we screw this up.”
Vince. The man Damian named smirk was named Vince. That was good information.
"Prime merchandise. That's all he is. Now, shut up and film."
Damian remained rigid, every muscle coiled. The cold seeped deeper into his bones, a stark contrast to the burning humiliation crawling under his skin. He focused on the sensations: the bite of the rope, the gritty concrete beneath his soles, the low hum of the city outside these decaying walls. Escape wasn't just a desire; it was a calculation. The ropes were thick hemp, expertly tied – no frayed edges to exploit. The chair was flimsy metal, welded joints weak points… but bound as he was, leverage was impossible. His eyes scanned the immediate vicinity: scattered oil drums, piles of moldering canvas tarps, rusted chains dangling from ceiling hooks. Potential weapons, impossibly out of reach.
Vince circled him slowly, the flashlight beam a relentless spotlight. "Gotta show the goods," he muttered, more to himself than Twitch. The beam paused, intrusive and clinical, on Damian's exposed hip bone, the dip of his waist. Damian didn't flinch this time. He locked onto Vince's eyes, a predator assessing prey. Vince. Nervous system pressure points: temple, jaw hinge, carotid sinus. Twitch: weaker, likely targets knees, solar plexus.
The beam dipped lower, cruelly deliberate. Twitch made a choked sound, the camera lens dipping momentarily. "Vince… boss said just inventory shots. Not… not that close."
Vince whirled, his boot scraping harshly on the concrete. "You questioning me again, Mickey?" His voice was dangerously low. Twitch's name was Mickey. Damian filed it away. Vince jabbed a thick finger towards Damian. "The buyers want details . Proof of condition. That means everything ." He stepped closer to Mickey, crowding him. "You wanna explain to Mr. Colombo why the footage is shy? Huh? You think he pays top dollar for shy? Besides, you know the boss wants to prep him himself."
Mickey paled, shaking his head violently. "N-no, Vince. Sorry." He lifted the camera, forcing his trembling hands steady. The red light blinked, unwavering now, centered squarely on Damian's nakedness.
Vince grunted, satisfied. He turned back, the flashlight beam returning to its invasive path. This time, it lingered lower, tracing the line where thigh met torso. Damian felt the cold air acutely there. Vince leaned in slightly, his shadow falling across Damian. "Hold still, merchandise," he breathed, the flashlight beam unwavering. His free hand, rough and calloused, reached out again. Not to grope, but to position . His fingers, cold and impersonal, brushed against Damian's inner thigh, pushing his leg wider apart against the chair's metal frame for the camera's benefit. It was a violation of space, of autonomy, utterly dehumanizing.
The cold metal of the chair frame dug into Damian's inner thigh as Vince's calloused fingers forced his leg wider. The flashlight beam pinned him like a specimen—clinical, violating. Mickey's camera whirred softly, its red eye unblinking. Damian remained statue-still, every muscle vibrating with contained fury. Vince. Mickey. Colombo. Names etched themselves into his mind like gravestones.
Vince straightened, flashlight still trained on Damian's exposed vulnerability. "Good. Hold it." He stepped back, surveying his work with the detached pride of a butcher displaying prime cuts. Mickey shifted, sweat beading on his upper lip. The fluorescent light buzzed louder overhead, flickering shadows across Damian's bound form.
A metallic clang echoed from deep within the warehouse shadows—heavy footsteps approaching. Mickey flinched, camera dipping. Vince snapped rigid, flashlight beam swinging wildly toward the sound. "Boss," he rasped, voice suddenly tight.
Damian’s senses sharpened. Escape window. His eyes darted to the rusted chains dangling near a stack of oil drums. Ten meters. Impossible bound. But Vince's distraction was palpable—his knuckles white on the flashlight, shoulders tense. Mickey whimpered, lowering the camera entirely.
The footsteps grew louder, deliberate. A silhouette resolved from the gloom: broad-shouldered, draped in a tailored charcoal overcoat despite the warehouse chill. Silver hair gleamed under the buzzing light as he stepped into the circle of illumination. Mr. Colombo. His face was all hard angles and calculated calm, eyes like chips of flint scanning the scene. They lingered on Damian—naked, bound, exposed—then flicked to Vince."Report," Colombo commanded. His voice was soft, gravelly, carrying effortlessly.
Vince swallowed. "Package secured, boss. No resistance after initial sedation. We... we were just completing the visual inventory." He gestured weakly at Mickey's camera. Mickey fumbled, raising it again, the lens trembling.
Colombo's gaze returned to Damian. A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. "Inventory." He took another step forward, polished Oxfords crunching on broken glass. "Let me see."
He stopped inches from Damian. The scent of expensive cologne and cold mint washed over him, clashing violently with the warehouse stench. Colombo's eyes roamed, not with Vince's crude hunger, but with the appraisal of a connoisseur. His gloved hand—fine leather—reached out. Damian braced, muscles coiling like springs.
The glove didn't touch skin. Instead, Colombo's fingers hovered, tracing the air an inch above Damian's collarbone, then drifting lower, following the line of his ribs. "Remarkable conditioning," Colombo murmured, almost to himself. "The Bats training is evident." His eyes lifted, locking onto Damian's domino mask. "But this... this is theater. A child playing dress-up."
Damian's breath caught, not in fear, but in the sheer violation of Colombo's predatory assessment. The glove hovered, a phantom touch colder than the warehouse air. Colombo's words—"child playing dress-up"—struck deeper than any physical blow. It peeled back the mantle of Robin, leaving only Damian Wayne exposed: furious, vulnerable, bound. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding against the humiliation. Not a threat. Merchandise.
Colombo's gaze dropped lower, past the ribs, past the trembling abdomen. The hovering glove followed, drifting toward Damian's inner thigh where Vince had forced his leg open. Damian jerked violently against the ropes, the chair screeching on concrete. "Touch me," he snarled, voice raw, "and I'll carve out your eyes with my teeth."
Colombo paused. The hovering glove retracted slightly. A flicker of amusement crossed his stone face. "Spirit," he noted clinically. "A desirable trait... for some buyers." He turned abruptly to Vince. "The footage?"
Vince scrambled, nudging Mickey. "We got it, boss. Full inventory. Clean." Mickey lifted the camera, its red light blinking confirmation.
Colombo didn't look at the camera. His eyes remained fixed on Damian. "Good. Douse him."
Vince blinked. "Sir?"
"The scent," Colombo clarified, his voice devoid of inflection. "Industrial filth. Sweat. Fear. It clings to the skin. Unacceptable for presentation." He gestured toward a grimy hose coiled near a dripping faucet across the warehouse. "Cold water. Thoroughly."
Panic, sharp and primal, sliced through Damian's rage. Bound. Naked. A hose? The humiliation would be absolute. He strained against the ropes, skin tearing. "You won't—"
Vince was already moving, lumbering toward the faucet. Mickey lowered the camera, looking sick. Colombo watched Damian's struggle, that faint smile returning. "Resist," he murmured. "It makes the cleansing more... illustrative for our clients."
The screech of the faucet turning echoed. Water gushed from the hose nozzle, arcing a freezing torrent through the dusty air. Vince aimed it like a weapon, his earlier unease replaced by cruel eagerness. The icy blast hit Damian square in the chest.
The shock stole his breath. It was agony—a thousand needles piercing his skin, driving the warehouse chill deep into his bones. He gasped, arching against the ropes as the water plastered his curls to his forehead, streamed down his face, his neck, his exposed torso. Vince adjusted the nozzle, the spray intensifying, hammering Damian's ribs, his stomach, the vulnerable skin of his inner thighs where Colombo's gaze had lingered. Damian gritted his teeth against a cry, turning his face away, but the water found every angle, stinging his eyes, flooding his nose.
"Open wider, pretty bird!" Vince laughed, the hose sweeping lower, deliberately targeting the most intimate exposure forced by the chair and his bound legs. The water hit like a physical blow, cold fire spreading. Forty-one? Fifty? Her eyes snapped to the single gold piece pressed into her palm. Her fingers instinctively closed around its cold metal. He counted it. Instantly. Forty-one pieces. The generosity—no, the calculation —was staggering. Her throat tightened.
Colombo watched, impassive. "Adequate." He nodded to Vince. "Cease."
The water stopped. Silence rushed in, broken only by Damian's ragged gasps and the relentless drip-drip-drip from his soaked hair onto the concrete. He shivered violently, teeth chattering. Water pooled around the chair legs, swirling with grime. His skin glistened, pale and goosefleshed under the buzzing fluorescent light. Every vulnerable inch was laid bare, washed clean not of filth, but of dignity.
Colombo stepped closer. The scent of cologne intensified, cloying now. His gloved hand finally made contact—not hovering, but real. Cold leather traced the waterline along Damian's jaw. Damian flinched, a full-body spasm.
"Much better," Colombo murmured. His thumb brushed a droplet from Damian's lower lip. The touch was possessive, final. "Now, the real preparation begins. Bring him to the white room… loosen him. Tire him out. Sedate him with our usual dose... or more, if necessary.”
The cold leather against Damian's lip felt like a brand. He jerked his head away, water flying from his soaked hair. "Don't—" The protest died as Colombo's thumb pressed harder, silencing him with terrifying finality. White room. Loosen him. Tire him out. The words echoed with chilling implication.
Vince dropped the hose, the water still gushing onto the concrete floor. He grabbed the back of the folding chair, metal screeching as he hauled Damian backwards toward a heavy steel door recessed in the far warehouse wall. Mickey scurried ahead, fumbling with a set of keys, hands trembling. The camera hung forgotten around his neck.
The white room was blindingly sterile compared to the decaying warehouse. Fluorescent panels bathed everything in harsh, shadowless light. White tile floors, white walls, a single drain in the center. No windows. Only a stainless steel table bolted to the floor, equipped with thick leather straps at the wrists and ankles. The air smelled sharply of antiseptic and bleach, stinging Damian's nostrils. Vince shoved the chair toward the drain, its legs scraping loudly.
"Get him on the table," Colombo ordered, lingering in the doorway like a specter. He didn't enter fully, just watched, hands clasped behind his back.
Vince grunted, grabbing Damian's bound arms. Damian thrashed, muscles screaming against the ropes and the lingering numbness from the cold. "Get OFF!" His soaked skin slipped in Vince's grasp. Mickey hovered uselessly near the table, staring at the straps with wide, frightened eyes.
"Mickey! Stop gawking!" Vince barked. "Hold his legs!"
Mickey jumped, scrambling forward. His clammy hands clamped onto Damian's bare, wet ankles. Damian kicked wildly, catching Mickey in the knee. Mickey yelped, stumbling back. Vince cursed, using his full weight to pin Damian's torso against the chair back. The metal groaned dangerously.
"Sedative!" Vince yelled over Damian's snarling curses. "Now!"
Mickey fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a small syringe filled with a clear liquid. His hands shook violently as he uncapped it, before lunging forward and injected into Damian’s neck.
A sharp sting, then spreading numbness. The world softened at the edges. His frantic heartbeat slowed, muffled. Vince hauled him off Mickey, the broken chair clattering away. They lifted him onto the cold steel table. The leather straps felt thick, unyielding against his wrists and ankles as they secured him. He fought the sedative, trying to curl his fingers, to kick, but his limbs were leaden weights. The sterile light burned his eyes, before they were swallowed by darkness.
Damian drifted. Time lost meaning. The sterile light burned his eyelids. Voices swam in and out of focus—Vince's rough commands, Mickey's nervous stutter, Colombo's low, precise instructions. "...ensure he's pliant... not damaged... maximum receptivity..." Cold metal touched his skin—not restraints now, but something smooth, chilling. Fingers—gloved?—probing, assessing joint flexibility, muscle tone. He tried to flinch, but his body wouldn't obey. The sedative held him under thick, suffocating water.
A sharper sensation pierced the fog—a needle sliding into the crook of his elbow. Another dose? Or something else? He felt warmth spreading sluggishly through his veins, a counterpoint to the pervasive cold of the table and the room. It didn't ease the terror; it amplified it, trapping his racing mind inside an unresponsive shell. He strained to hear, to see anything beyond the blinding white ceiling.
The clatter of metal instruments on a tray. The wet sound of a sponge being wrung out. Then, hands—different hands, colder, more methodical—wiping the sponge over his chest, his stomach, his thighs. Cleansing him again, but not with water. The sharp, medicinal sting of antiseptic filled his nostrils. It felt invasive, violating its clinical thoroughness. The sponge moved lower, between his legs. Damian screamed inside his skull. No sound escaped his slack jaw.
He heard Colombo's voice, closer now, calm as ice. "Good. Proceed with the lubrication protocol. Internal assessment requires minimal resistance." A tube, cold and slick, pressed against him. Panic detonated, a silent supernova behind his eyes. He fought the sedative with every atom of will, muscles trembling with phantom effort. The tube breached him. It was cold, impersonal, a violation deeper than any touch. He felt the thick gel being pushed inside, a foreign, chilling fullness. Tears of pure, impotent rage blurred the white light above.
The hands withdrew. Silence pressed down, heavier than the straps. He was prepped. Opened. Ready. The antiseptic smell lingered, mixed now with the sterile scent of the lubricant. Footsteps retreated toward the door. Colombo's voice, fading: "Inform the buyers Phase One is complete. The merchandise is primed... and waiting." The heavy steel door clanged shut. Damian was alone in the blinding white silence, violated, helpless, the cold gel inside him a horrifying promise of what was to come. The sedative's grip tightened, dragging him deeper into the dark, silent water. Father... The thought was a dying ember. Find me...
When Damian woke up, he was on all fours on what looked like a medical table, his legs tied down, and his arms secured tightly to the table. He couldn't move an inch. He felt cold… exposed.
Damian woke abruptly, the sterile light stabbing his eyes. He was no longer strapped flat. His body was arched unnaturally—knees and elbows planted on the cold steel table, wrists and ankles secured with thick leather cuffs bolted to the surface. The position forced his hips high, his back curved downward, leaving him utterly exposed and vulnerable. The lubricant's cold slickness was still present, a humiliating reminder.
Panic surged, raw and immediate. He strained against the cuffs. The leather bit deep, unforgiving. His muscles, weakened by the sedative and the cold, screamed in protest. He couldn't move an inch. The antiseptic smell was stronger here, mixed with the sterile scent of lubricant and something else… a faint, cloying sweetness. Incense?
Footsteps echoed softly on the tile floor. Slow, deliberate. Colombo stood beside the table, silhouetted against the blinding white. He'd shed his overcoat, revealing a crisp charcoal suit. In his gloved hands, he held a long, polished wooden box. He placed it on a small stainless steel trolley beside the table with deliberate care.
"The sedative wears off quickly," Colombo observed, his voice calm, conversational. "Good. Consciousness enhances… receptivity." He opened the box. Inside, nestled in black velvet, lay an array of instruments. Not medical tools. These were smooth, silicone and plastic phallic shapes of varying sizes and thicknesses. Some were intricately carved; others were brutally simple. At the far end lay a thick, bulbous object made of dark, almost black silicone, its surface unnervingly smooth.
Damian's breath hitched. He understood. The "preparation" wasn't over. This was the "loosening." The "tiring out." His mind screamed denial, but his body, pinned and helpless, knew the truth. He twisted his head, trying to see, to glare defiance, but the position limited his vision to Colombo's polished shoes and the lower edge of the trolley.
Colombo selected the smallest implement first—a smooth, tapered, white dildo, no thicker than two fingers. He coated it meticulously with a thick, clear gel from a small jar. The scent of mint mixed with the antiseptic.
"No," Damian choked out, the word raw. "Don't—"
Colombo ignored him. His gloved hand rested firmly on the small of Damian's back, pressing down, immobilizing his hips. Damian felt the cold, slick tip press against him where the lubricant had already paved the way. He braced, every muscle locking in futile resistance.
Colombo pushed slowly, steadily. The dildo breached him with shocking ease, aided by the lubricant and the earlier violation. It wasn't pain—not yet—just a deep, invasive pressure, a stretching fullness where there should be none. Damian gasped, burying his face against the cold steel. Humiliation burned hotter than any physical sensation.
"Breathe," Colombo instructed softly, clinically. "Resistance causes tearing." He pushed deeper, the dildo sliding in until the base rested flush. He held it there for a moment, letting Damian feel the full, unnatural intrusion. Then, with agonizing slowness, he withdrew it almost completely before pushing it back in, establishing a rhythm—slow, deep, methodical.
Damian clenched his fists inside the cuffs, nails digging into his palms. Each stroke was a violation, a calculated assault on his control, his identity. He focused on the pain in his wrists, the bite of the leather, anything to escape the relentless, degrading rhythm. Colombo remained silent, his breathing even, his focus absolute. The only sounds were the soft slide of the silicone, Damian's ragged breaths, and the faint hum of the lights.
After what felt like an eternity, Colombo withdrew the implement fully. Damian sagged slightly, trembling with exertion and revulsion. It wasn't over. Colombo selected the next piece—thicker, darker one, carved with spiraling grooves. He coated it generously.
"Deep penetration requires gradual accommodation," Colombo murmured, almost lecturing. He pressed the thicker tip against Damian's loosened entrance. This time, there was resistance. A burning stretch. Colombo pushed relentlessly, the carved grooves catching slightly. Damian cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound torn from his throat. The stretch was intense, bordering on pain.
Colombo paused, applying more gel directly. "Relaxation is key," he stated calmly. "Fighting only delays the inevitable." He pushed again, deeper this time, the thick phallus forcing its way past protesting muscle. Damian panted, sweat mingling with the cold residue on his skin. The rhythmic thrusting resumed, slower, deeper, each stroke dragging against sensitized flesh. The carved grooves created a subtle, horrifying friction.
Damian lost track of time. The implements changed—thicker, longer, some ribbed, others smooth.
The slow, relentless rhythm continued. Each withdrawal felt like a cruel tease, leaving him hollow and exposed before the slick intrusion plunged back in, deeper, stretching him further. Colombo worked with detached precision, his gloved hand a steady weight pinning Damian's hips to the cold steel. The small dildo wasn't causing tearing pain, not yet—just a deep, burning ache of violation, a relentless reminder of his helplessness. Damian’s breath came in ragged gasps, fogging the metal beneath his cheek. He focused on the sting of his torn wrists against the cuffs, the sharp scent of antiseptic—anything but the obscene fullness moving inside him.
After what felt like an eternity of measured thrusts, Colombo paused. The dildo remained buried deep. Damian felt its presence like a brand. Then, the pressure lifted. Colombo withdrew the implement completely, placing it back on the trolley with a soft click. Damian shuddered, muscles trembling with relief and lingering tension. It was short-lived.
Colombo selected the next piece from the velvet-lined box. Larger. Thicker. A deep burgundy silicone, ridged along its length. He coated it generously with more gel. The mint scent intensified, clashing violently with Damian’s rising panic. Without a word, Colombo positioned himself again. The cold, slick tip pressed against Damian’s loosened entrance. Damian braced instinctively, but the resistance was less this time. The thick ridge breached him with a single, smooth push, deeper than the first. A choked gasp tore from Damian’s throat. This hurt —a sharp, stretching burn that radiated through his hips and lower back. Colombo didn’t pause. He established the same slow, deep rhythm, the ridges dragging against sensitive inner walls with each deliberate stroke. Damian squeezed his eyes shut, biting down on his lip until he tasted blood. Tears of rage and humiliation blurred his vision. Focus. Pressure points. Weaknesses. Vince’s temple. Mickey’s knee. Colombo’s… His mind raced, hunting for any shred of control.
The burgundy dildo was worked inside him for longer, Colombo occasionally adjusting the angle, probing deeper. Damian’s body betrayed him, muscles trembling not just from strain but from the invasive stimulation. A traitorous heat began to coil low in his belly, warring with the shame. He fought it, teeth grinding, pouring every ounce of will into resisting the unwanted sensation. Colombo seemed to sense the internal struggle. A faint, almost imperceptible hum escaped him—satisfaction? He withdrew the ridged implement, leaving Damian feeling gapingly empty and raw.
The silence stretched, thick with anticipation. Damian dared to lift his head slightly, straining against the cuffs to see Colombo’s hands. They hovered over the box. Not over the next largest dildo. Over the darkest one at the end—the bulbous, obsidian-black silicone monstrosity. Its shape was blunt, intimidatingly thick at the base, tapering slightly towards the tip. Colombo lifted it. It looked heavy, unnatural. He coated it thoroughly, the gel gleaming on its smooth surface.
"No," Damian rasped, voice scraped raw. "You can't—"
Colombo met his gaze for the first time since the violation began. His flinty eyes held no cruelty, only cold, clinical purpose. "Endurance is part of the assessment," he stated flatly. "Maximum receptivity requires maximum accommodation." He positioned himself. The cold, slick tip of the black silicone pressed against Damian’s stretched entrance. It felt massive. Impossible. Damian threw his weight against the cuffs, arching his back in a desperate, futile attempt to twist away. The leather held fast. Colombo’s hand pressed down harder on his spine, immobilizing him completely.
Then, with relentless, steady pressure, Colombo pushed.
Agony exploded. White-hot pain ripped through Damian as the thickest part of the bulbous head forced its way past the tight ring of muscle. He screamed—a raw, guttural sound that echoed off the sterile tiles. Tears streamed freely down his face now, mixing with the blood on his lip. The stretching was unbearable, a tearing, burning sensation that felt like it would split him apart. Colombo paused only when the widest part was fully seated, letting Damian gasp and shudder through the blinding pain. The sheer, obscene fullness was suffocating, pressing against his insides, stealing his breath.
"Breathe through it," Colombo instructed, his voice devoid of empathy. "The threshold must be crossed."
He began to move. Slow, shallow thrusts at first, just enough to make the thick shaft slide within the tortured channel. Each tiny movement sent fresh waves of agony radiating through Damian’s pelvis. He couldn't suppress the whimpers now, each breath a ragged sob. The black dildo felt like a branding iron, its smooth surface somehow moreThe black silicone stretched him beyond anything Damian thought possible. Each shallow thrust Colombo delivered was a fresh wave of agony, a tearing burn deep inside his core. Damian’s screams dissolved into choked, wet sobs, his body trembling violently against the restraints. Sweat slicked his skin, mingling with tears and the cold lubricant. The sterile air tasted metallic—blood from his bitten lip. He focused on that pain, clinging to it as an anchor against the overwhelming violation.
Colombo worked with terrifying patience. He didn’t force deeper penetration immediately. Instead, he maintained the shallow rhythm, allowing—no, forcing —Damian’s body to yield incrementally to the monstrous intrusion. The bulbous head remained lodged deep, a constant, crushing pressure against his internal walls. Minutes bled together. Damian’s vision swam, the harsh white light fracturing into blinding shards. He felt lightheaded, disconnected. The sedative’s lingering fog warred with the sharp agony, creating a nightmarish haze.
Then, Colombo shifted his stance. His grip on Damian’s hip tightened. The thrusts deepened. Slowly. Relentlessly. The thick shaft dragged through the inflamed, overstretched passage. Damian arched his spine, a silent scream locked in his throat. It felt like being ripped apart from the inside. The black silicone seemed to pulse with his own frantic heartbeat. He could feel every ridge, every contour of its unnatural shape grinding against raw, sensitive tissue. A strangled gasp escaped him as Colombo angled downward, hitting a spot that sent a jolt of electric sensation—not pleasure, but a horrifying, involuntary spark—through his wrung-out nerves. His traitorous body clenched reflexively around the invading object, drawing a low hum of approval from Colombo.
"Adaptable," Colombo murmured, almost to himself. He withdrew the dildo almost completely, leaving Damian gaping and shuddering, before plunging it back in to the hilt in one smooth, brutal stroke.
Damian blacked out for a heartbeat. When awareness slammed back, the pain was a white-hot brand. Colombo had resumed the deep, rhythmic thrusting. The thick silicone pistoned in and out of him now with shocking ease, aided by the brutal stretching and the copious lubricant. Each withdrawal felt like his insides were being suctioned out; each penetration was a hammer blow. Damian’s arms trembled violently in the cuffs. Spittle mixed with blood dripped from his slack jaw onto the steel table. He couldn’t think, couldn’t strategize. There was only the agony, the humiliation, the relentless violation of Colombo’s clinical assault.
Time lost all meaning. The thrusts continued, a metronome of degradation. Colombo’s breathing remained steady, unaffected. Damian’s body, however, began to betray him utterly. Exhaustion warred with the invasive stimulation. Despite the pain, despite the soul-crushing shame, a persistent, unwanted heat began to coil tighter and tighter low in his gut. His hips twitched minutely against Colombo’s controlling hand, seeking friction against the cold steel beneath him. A low, involuntary moan vibrated in his chest, choked off instantly by a sob of pure self-loathing.
Colombo noticed. Of course he did. He adjusted his angle slightly, targeting that sensitive spot with cruel precision with each deep stroke. The spark became a current, flooding Damian’s abused nerves. The heat surged, undeniable now, warring with the tearing pain. Damian’s cock, ignored and limp until now, began to stiffen traitorously against his belly, slick with sweat and precum. Humiliation burned hotter than the stretching agony. He tried to clamp down, to stop the rising tide, but his body, pushed beyond endurance, was no longer his own.
The rhythm intensified. Faster. Harder. The black dildo pistoned into him, a relentless machine. The bulbous head slammed against his deepest limits with every thrust. The coil in Damian’s gut wound impossibly tight, fed by the brutal friction and his own traitorous biology. Tears streamed down his face, silent now. He couldn’t fight it. His back arched sharply off the table, muscles locking. A broken cry tore from his lips as orgasm ripped through him—violent, involuntary, utterly degrading. His cock pulsed, spilling streaks of white onto the cold steel beneath him. Simultaneously, the brutal thrusting tore a ragged sob from his throat as the agony peaked.
Colombo withdrew the dildo slowly, deliberately, as Damian shuddered through the aftershocks, gasping and sobbing. The sudden emptiness was almost as agonizing as the fullness had been.
The black dildo slid free with a wet, obscene sound. Damian collapsed forward onto the cold steel, trembling uncontrollably. Every muscle screamed—a symphony of torn tissue, abused nerves, and soul-deep shame. The emptiness inside felt vast and raw, echoing the violation. His own release cooled stickily on his belly and the table beneath him. Tears blurred his vision, hot and silent. He couldn't lift his head. Couldn't face Colombo's clinical gaze.
Footsteps circled the table. Colombo's polished Oxfords came into view, stopping near Damian's lowered head. A gloved hand appeared, holding a damp, sterile cloth. It wiped efficiently across Damian's lower back, cleaning away lubricant and traces of blood. The touch was impersonal, like wiping down equipment. The cloth moved lower, swiping betweenDamian's trembling thighs, cleaning the aftermath of the assault with chilling thoroughness. Damian flinched violently, a choked whimper escaping him.
"Physiological response is expected," Colombo stated, his voice devoid of inflection. He discarded the soiled cloth onto the trolley. "It confirms neural pathways remain intact despite… accommodation." He paused, studying Damian's shuddering form. "Recovery time is minimal. Resilient."
He walked back to the velvet-lined box. Damian heard the soft click of the black dildo being placed inside. Then silence. Heavy. Suffocating. Only Damian's ragged breathing and the hum of the lights filled the sterile room.
Colombo returned. This time, he held not an implement, but a small, clear vial filled with viscous, pearlescent fluid. He uncapped it, the scent sharp and chemical—industrial lube mixed with something else… faintly metallic, like ozone. He coated his gloved fingers generously.
Damian tensed, bracing for another intrusion. But Colombo's hand didn't go there . Instead, cold, slick fingers pressed firmly against Damian's lower spine, right above the curve of his ass. They dug in, massaging with deep, circular pressure into the muscles around his tailbone. It wasn't painful, but intensely uncomfortable after the trauma—a deep, probing manipulation.
"What…?" Damian rasped, voice shattered.
"Neural calibration," Colombo replied calmly, his fingers working methodically. "The sacral plexus. Controls pelvic function, sensation." His thumb pressed hard into a specific point. A jolt of electric sensation shot down Damian's legs, making his toes curl involuntarily. "Post-violation assessment requires ensuring baseline responsiveness remains… optimized." He shifted his pressure slightly. Another jolt, sharper this time, radiating into Damian's groin. Damian gasped, hips jerking minutely against the restraints. The sensation wasn't pleasure, but a raw, invasive awareness flooding his abused nerves. Colombo noted the reaction, humming softly. "Adequate conductivity." His fingers continued their clinical exploration, mapping Damian's lower back, probing vertebrae, pressing into pressure points that sent involuntary tremors through Damian's bound limbs. It was another violation, subtler but no less absolute—a violation of his body's deepest wiring, assessed while he was pinned and broken.
Finally, Colombo withdrew his hand. He wiped his gloved fingers meticulously on a fresh sterile cloth. "Preparation phase complete," he announced, closing the lid of the wooden box with a soft, final click. He looked down at Damian, his flinty eyes sweeping over the exposed, trembling form. "Consignee arrives within the hour. Maintain position."
He turned and walked towards the heavy metal door at the end of the room, his footsteps echoing. The door hissed open, revealing a glimpse of a dim corridor beyond, then slammed shut with a resonant clang, leaving Damian utterly alone.
Silence crashed down, thick and suffocating. The harsh fluorescent light beat relentlessly on Damian's naked skin. The cold steel beneath him leached his remaining warmth. The lingering ache inside him pulsed with every heartbeat, a brutal reminder. The cuffs bit into his wrists and ankles. He was frozen in the degrading pose, hips high, back arched, utterly exposed. Vulnerable. Waiting.
Consignee. The word echoed in the hollow space Colombo's presence had left. Who? What fresh horror awaited? Damian squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the blinding light, the sterile smell, the phantom sensation of the black silicone stretching him beyond endurance. He focused on the pain in his wrists, the sting of his bitten lip. Anchors. Anything to stay present, to fight the seductive pull of unconsciousness. He couldn't black out. Not now. Not when the buyer was coming.
He strained his ears, listening past his own ragged breathing. Distant sounds filtered through the thick door – muffled voices? Footsteps? His heart hammered against his ribs. Every minute stretched into an eternity of dread-filled anticipation. The cold air prickled his skin. He felt a single bead of sweat trace a path down his face.
The next thing Damian heard was yelling, banging, and what could only be described as fighting.
The heavy metal door exploded inward with a deafening crash, tearing free from its hinges in a shower of sparks and twisted metal. Silhouetted against the corridor's gloom, the Batman filled the doorway—a nightmare rendered in armored kevlar and billowing shadow. Gotham's rain slicked his cowl, dripping onto the sterile floor.
Colombo stood frozen near the trolley, his clinical detachment shattered. His hand flew towards his overcoat—reaching not for a weapon, but for the velvet-lined box. Too slow.
Batman moved. A batarang whistled through the air, a black blur that struck Colombo's wrist with brutal precision. Bone cracked. Colombo cried out, stumbling back as the box clattered to the floor, spilling its obscene contents across the tiles.
Damian didn't scream. He didn't move. Bound, exposed, trembling on the steel table, he locked eyes with his father. The domino mask hid nothing from the cowl's white lenses. Batman saw the tear-tracks cutting through grime and blood, the raw, haunted fury in his son's eyes, the way his breath hitched with every tremor that wracked his abused body. He saw the viscous lubricant gleaming on pale skin, the angry red marks from the restraints, the traitorous evidence of his violation cooling on the steel beneath his hips.
A guttural roar tore from Batman's throat—a sound of pure, unbridled rage that shook the fluorescent lights overhead. He lunged, not at Colombo, but towards Damian. His gloved hands, usually so precise, fumbled with the cuffs' mechanisms, fingers slick with rain and urgency. The cold metal yielded with sharp clicks. Damian collapsed forward as the ankle restraints released, catching himself on trembling arms before his face hit the table. He couldn't stand. Couldn't speak. His father's arms wrapped around him, lifting him off the cold steel, pulling him against the rain-chilled kevlar. Damian buried his face in the rough fabric, inhaling the familiar scents of Gotham rain, ozone, and leather—scents that momentarily drowned out the mint and antiseptic horror. A choked sob shuddered through him.
Batman's voice was gravel, low and vibrating with barely contained violence, meant only for Damian's ear. "I have you. You're safe." But his eyes, fixed over Damian's shoulder, promised annihilation.
Colombo scrambled backwards, clutching his shattered wrist, face pale with pain and dawning terror. He kicked the spilled dildos aside, scrambling towards the ruined doorway. Batman gently lowered Damian onto a cleaner patch of floor, propping him against the wall. His touch was impossibly gentle. "Stay."
Then Batman turned. The shift was seismic. The protector vanished. The Dark Knight advanced.
Colombo bolted into the corridor. Batman followed, a shadow given lethal intent. The corridor was narrow, lined with dripping pipes. Colombo snatched a rusted pipe wrench from a wall bracket with his good hand, swinging wildly. Batman caught the wrench mid-swing, wrenching it from Colombo's grip as if disarming a child. He slammed Colombo against the wet brick wall. Bone crunched—ribs this time. Colombo gasped, spittle flying.
"Who paid you?" Batman's voice was arctic, devoid of humanity. He drove a fist into Colombo's solar plexus. The air whooshed out of the older man in a pained groan. "Who ordered this?"
Colombo wheezed, defiance flickering in his pain-glazed eyes. "Market... dictates... demand..." Batman's gauntleted hand closed around Colombo's throat, lifting him off his feet, pinning him against the dripping brick. Fingers tightened. Colombo's eyes bulged, feet kicking uselessly.
"Names!" Batman snarled, the word cracking like a whip.
A gurgle escaped Colombo's lips. Batman loosened his grip a fraction, letting him gasp. "Veronica... Vane..." Colombo choked out. "She... brokers... specialties..."
Batman's grip tightened again, silencing him. Veronica Vane. A name whispered in Gotham's underworld, a procurer of the perverse and impossible. The information seared into Batman's mind. He dropped Colombo. The man crumpled to the filthy floor, retching.
Batman didn't look back. He returned to the sterile room. Damian hadn't moved. He sat slumped against the wall, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tightly around himself, shivering violently despite the stifling air. His eyes stared blankly at the spilled implements on the floor—the burgundy ridged one, the obsidian monstrosity that had broken him. The clinical horror of the room pressed in.
Batman knelt, shedding his heavy cape. He wrapped it around Damian's naked shoulders, the dense fabric swallowing his son's trembling form. Damian flinched at the initial contact, then burrowed into the offered warmth and darkness. Batman scooped him up, cape and all, cradling him against his chest plate. Damian's head lolled against his shoulder, his breathing shallow and rapid.
"We're leaving," Batman stated, his voice softer now, but still vibrating with the aftershocks of rage. He stepped over Colombo's writhing form in the corridor without a glance. The Batmobile waited at the end of the ruined warehouse corridor, its engine a low, impatient growl in the rainy night. Alfred had already opened the canopy remotely.
Inside the warm, familiar cockpit, Batman carefully buckled Damian into the passenger seat, the cape still draped around his body.
He was grateful his father had saved him… but the damage was done.