Chapter 1: Madness in Full Bloom
Consciousness returned like a faulty radio signal, fading in and out through a haze of drugged confusion. First came the smell—damp soil, ozone, and the cloying sweetness of rotting orchids. Then, the chill. A cold, slick metal against her bare back.
Barbara Gordon’s eyes snapped open.
Her world was inverted, a dizzying panorama of glass and grotesque greenery. She was suspended in an X shape, high above the floor of a vast glasshouse. Thick, fibrous vines, pulsing with a faint bioluminescent green, bound her wrists and ankles to a cold metal frame. The structure held her spread-eagle, horizontal bar near her grasping hands, her body taut and vulnerable.
A gasp caught in her throat, less from fear and more from furious, immediate assessment. Her costume was gone. In its place was a cruel parody of it: stark black straps of some leather-like material that cut across her skin, doing little more than outlining her curvy, muscular frame. The strategic coverage was an insult, a lingerie-esque reduction of her uniform that left her midriff, the swell of her 34DD breasts, and most of her thighs exposed to the humid, watching air. She flexed, testing the vines. They gave slightly, like living muscle, but held firm.
“Rise and shine, Batsy!”
The voice echoed, singsong and unhinged. From a canopy of shuddering, carnivorous pitcher plants, Harleen Quinzel swung down on a thick vine, landing in a crouch on the horizontal bar just inches from Batgirl’s grasping fingers. Her blue and red pigtails bounced, her wide smile all teeth and madness.
“Comfy? Pammy did the interior decoratin’. Says it ‘complements your complexion’ or some boring eco-crap.” Harley leaned forward, her breath smelling of cotton candy and chemicals. “I just think it’s pretty.”
“Quinn,” Batgirl growled, her voice hoarse. She pulled against the vines, her biceps corded with the effort. “Where’s Ivy?”
“Oh, she’s around. Waterin’ the folks-eaters. This is my playdate!” Harley hopped off the bar and landed with a lightness that defied her chaotic energy. She began to slowly circle the suspended vigilante, her eyes roaming with a disturbing, possessive curiosity. “See, I been thinkin’. You’re always so serious. All grim and punches. You need to learn to have a little fun.”
Batgirl’s mind raced, calculating angles, tensile strength, weak points in the living bindings. “This is your idea of fun?”
“It’s a start!” Harley giggled, trailing a gloved finger along the outside of Batgirl’s tensed thigh. The touch was intimate, predatory. Batgirl flinched, the muscle jumping under her skin. “You’re all wound up. Gotta loosen the gears before they snap, right? So here’s the game.”
She produced a large, obsidian-black feather from behind her back, twirling it.
“You’re gonna be tickled. A whole bunch. And this bar here?” She tapped the cold metal rod near Batgirl’s hands. “You gotta hold on. Every time you let go ‘cause you’re laughin’ or squirm’ too much… you lose a strap. Piece by piece. ‘Til we really see the real you underneath.”
A cold, solid dread, entirely separate from the fear of exposure, pooled in Batgirl’s stomach. It was humiliation as weapon, chaos as doctrine. “You’re insane.”
“Ya only just noticed?” Harley grinned, leaning close again. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “And it ain’t just any tickle. Pammy cooked up a little oil. Makes the skin… super sensitive. Like, nerve-ending city. One drop and you’ll feel a breeze like it’s a hurricane.”
From a pouch on her belt, Harley produced a small, glass vial filled with a viscous, iridescent green liquid. She uncorked it. The scent of mint and something electrical hit Batgirl’s nose.
“No,” Barbara said, the word sharp and final. It was not a plea. It was a command that hung in the thick air, defiant and utterly ignored.
“Aw, don’t be like that. It’s science!” Harley poured a shimmering drop of the oil onto the flat end of the feather. It soaked in, the plume seeming to glow with its own malicious light. “Just let go and laugh. It’s easy! Everybody’s doin’ it.”
Barbara Gordon locked her hands around the metal bar. She inhaled, a slow, controlled breath that expanded her firm abs and settled her racing heart. She was not a woman being tickled. She was a puzzle, a system of pressure points and endurance. She braced her entire being—mind against body, will against nerve.
Harley Quinn, humming a off-key circus tune, approached the sole of Batgirl’s boot first. With a theatrical flourish, she brought the glowing feather closer… and then skipped it entirely, dancing the tip up the sensitive inner seam of Batgirl’s thigh instead.
With a theatrical flourish, she brought the glowing feather closer… and then skipped it entirely, dancing the tip up the sensitive inner seam of Batgirl’s thigh instead.
It was a whisper of contact, but the oil did its work. The touch erupted into a wildfire of sensation, a shocking, unwelcome jolt that bypassed all her mental fortitude. A sharp, involuntary jerk ran through her entire body. Harley’s grin widened.
“Told ya!” she chirped. “Now, let’s get to the main event.”
She skipped back, and with a flick of her wrist, a holographic projection shimmered into existence in the air behind her. Digital numbers glowed a sickly green: 30:00. It began counting down immediately.
“Thirty minutes of fun! Or… however long you last,” Harley said, her eyes glinting. She twirled the feather and aimed for the exposed, toned plane of Batgirl’s stomach.
Barbara locked her jaw. She focused on the cold metal in her palms, on the anchor points of her bindings, on the schematics of the glasshouse roof she’d memorized weeks ago. Anything but the feather.
The first stroke was a light, maddening scribble just above her navel.
Her abdominal muscles clenched, a hard ridge against the tickling invasion. She held her breath. The second stroke circled lower, dipping toward the sensitive crest of her hip bone. A tremor, small but undeniable, shook her thighs.
“Hehe… getting’ twitchy,” Harley cooed, increasing the pressure, tracing the same spot with relentless, swirling strokes.
It was too much. The engineered sensitivity turned every touch into a static scream under her skin. A choked, breathy sound escaped her lips. Her focus shattered. Her fingers, slick with sweat, lost their purchase on the smooth metal bar.
Her hands fell away.
The holographic timer froze. 29:47.
“Oopsie!” Harley sang, clapping her hands. The feather vanished. “A strap comes off!”
“No, Quinn, wait—” Barbara’s protest was raw, strained. She pulled frantically at the vines, but they only tightened in response.
Harley ignored her, hopping up onto the frame with acrobatic ease. Her fingers, still in their gloves, found the intricate clasp at the back of the harness where the top strap connected. There was a sharp click, and the tension across Barbara’s chest vanished. The black material fell away, leaving her completely exposed from the waist up.
The humid air felt shockingly cold on her skin.
Harley dropped back to the floor to admire her work. Her eyes went wide. Her smile shifted from manic to something genuinely awestruck, a slow, deep curve of pure delight.
“Well, helloooo, Nurse,” she breathed, her gaze fixed on Batgirl’s full, 34DD breasts, now bare and heaving with panicked, angry breaths. They were firm, topped with taut, pink nipples already hardened from the chill and the adrenaline.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Batgirl snarled, her voice low and venomous. She shook her head, a frantic, denying motion. The movement made her breasts sway, and Harley’s eyes followed the motion, hypnotized.
“Oh, I gotta,” Harley whispered, her playfulness morphing into a focused, hungry curiosity. She leaned in close, her face inches from Barbara’s. She made deliberate, unbreaking eye contact, a blue-on-blue challenge. Still holding Batgirl’s furious gaze, Harley slowly, teasingly, moved her open mouth toward Batgirl’s right nipple.
Barbara shook her head harder, a trapped, frantic rhythm. “No. Don’t.”
Harley’s hot breath ghosted over the sensitive peak. She hovered, a millimeter away, her tongue darting out to wet her own lips. Then, with a final, giddy giggle muffled by flesh, she latched on.
The sensation was immediate, wet, and profoundly violating. A disgusted, shuddering gasp was ripped from Barbara’s throat. It wasn’t pain. It was a deep, shocking intimacy that felt a thousand times worse.
Harley suckled lightly at first, then her eyes flew open. She squinted in pure disbelief, staring at the breast in her mouth as if it had just spoken to her. A low, confused noise vibrated against Barbara’s skin. Then, driven by some deranged impulse, she began mouthing at it more hungrily, her tongue swirling, her lips pulling with a desperate, exploring pressure. As if trying to solve a puzzle.
Driven by a need for more contact, more reaction, Harley then lifted her thigh, pressing it firmly up between Batgirl’s splayed legs, against the center of the remaining strap there.
The new, pressing intrusion elicited another sharp gasp from Barbara, this one tighter, more strangled. Her back arched involuntarily, pushing her breast deeper into Harley’s mouth.
Emboldened, Harley’s sucking intensified. She began to pull back slowly, her lips forming a tight, relentless seal. Barbara gritted her teeth, a low groan of effort and revulsion building in her chest. The tension built, a sharp, stretching ache—
With a soft, wet pop, Harley’s mouth came free.
Batgirl’s breast recoiled back against her body, the released flesh quivering. Harley stumbled back a step, panting slightly, her lips slick and her eyes wide with stunned, delirious wonder.
Harley stumbled back a step, panting slightly, her lips slick and her eyes wide with stunned, delirious wonder.
“Not bad,” she breathed, the words laced with a genuine, unnerving appreciation. The black feather reappeared in her hand, still shimmering with that iridescent oil. Her focus zeroed in on Batgirl’s chest. “Let’s see how ticklish these are.”
The feather’s tip, light as a breath, flicked against one taut, pink nipple.
Barbara sucked in a sharp gasp. The sensation was electric, a direct and humiliating line to her core. She clenched her hands around the cold bar, her knuckles bleaching white. She bit down on her lower lip, hard.
Harley began in earnest, painting light, maddening circles around one areola, then skittering across her sternum to the other. It was a relentless, teasing dance. Barbara’s entire body became a rigid board, every muscle locked in a war against the traitorous reflexes firing under her skin.
A sound built in her throat, a trapped, wheezing noise. She held it.
“C’mon, Bats,” Harley cooed, switching to rapid, fluttering taps. “Let it out! Everybody laughs.”
Barbara shook her head, a rigid side-to-side motion, her eyes screwed shut. The need to convulse, to twist away from the sensation, was a physical scream in her nerves. She focused on the pain in her palms where the metal bit, on the ache in her shoulders. Anything but the feather.
A high, desperate giggle escaped. She sealed her lips again.
“That’s it!” Harley cheered, increasing the tempo. She scribbled the feather back and forth, up and down each sensitive peak, exploiting every millimeter of exposed, oiled flesh.
The laughter broke through in short, explosive bursts. “Hah! Nohohoho— Quinn— stohahap—” The words fragmented, mixed with the helpless sounds. Sweat beaded on her forehead, between her breasts. Her abs quivered with the strain of holding still.
“You’re so red!” Harley giggled, watching Batgirl’s chest flush a deep, mortified crimson. “How’s a girl supposed to resist?”
Barbara lasted another two minutes. Two agonizing, endless minutes where her world shrank to the duel between her iron will and that feather. Her laughter became a continuous, breathless stream, punctuated by choked attempts at speech. “Pleahahase— god— it’s too muhuhuch— stoHAHAHAOP!”
Her vision swam. Every nerve was alight. The urge to curl in on herself, to protect herself, became an unstoppable biological imperative.
With a final, defeated cry that was half-laugh, half-sob, her sweat-slicked fingers lost their last ounce of strength.
Her hands fell from the bar.
The holographic timer froze. Her chest heaved, the abused flesh trembling with each ragged breath. She was spent.
“And that’s the game!” Harley announced, skipping over to the remaining clasp at the junction of Batgirl’s thighs. Her fingers made quick work of it. The final black strap fell away, clattering softly to the floor far below.
Barbara was now completely, utterly exposed.
The vulnerability was absolute. A different kind of cold seeped into her. Her protests were no longer strategic, they were raw and human.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” she snarled, her voice rough with exhaustion and fury. She tried to kick, but the vines held her legs fast. “Look at me all you want, you psychotic clown. Get your kicks. But you touch me there and I swear to Christ, Quinn, when I get out of here I will break every single one of your fingers. Fuck off!”
Her anger was hot, palpable. It was armor made of sheer outrage.
Harley paused, tilting her head. The anger seemed to genuinely intrigue her. She tapped a finger against her chin, pondering. “So touchy! Okay, okay. Jeez. I got somethin’ better in mind anyway.”
She leapt nimbly back onto the frame, crouching by Batgirl’s head. Her gloved hands reached for the edge of the black and yellow cowl, fingers seeking the seam near Barbara’s jawline.
Barbara’s anger transformed into pure, unadulterated panic. Her head thrashed side to side. “No. No, no, no. Don’t you— Harley, don’t—”
This was it. This was the line. Exposure of her body was one thing. This was her soul.
Harley’s fingers paused. She looked down at Batgirl’s wide, terrified eyes, the blue almost swallowed by the black of her pupils. A strange, quiet moment hung in the humid air. The chaotic light in Harley’s own eyes softened, just for a fraction of a second.
She leaned close, her breath ghosting over Barbara’s ear. “Nah,” she whispered, almost gently. “I’m just messin’ with you, Bats. I wouldn’t do that to ya.”
She hopped back down to the floor.
The relief that flooded Barbara was so profound it felt like a physical collapse. Her head fell back against the frame with a soft thud. She gasped, the fight draining out of her, replaced by a shaky, bewildered exhaustion. In some fucked-up, twisted way, the mercy felt almost… endearing. A promise kept in a room of broken ones.
The moment shattered instantly.
“But I’m definitely gonna do this,” Harley murmured, her voice dropping to a smooth, predatory purr.
She moved closer, her hands sliding up Batgirl’s toned, trembling calves. She placed a soft, closed-mouth kiss just above Barbara’s knee. Then another, an inch higher on her thigh. Her lips were a shocking, warm contrast to the cool, violated air.
Barbara froze, a new kind of dread seizing her. “Quinn… don’t.”
Harley ignored her, continuing a slow, deliberate path upwards. Each kiss was a brand, a claim staked on her skin. She kissed the quivering muscle of Batgirl’s inner thigh, her breath hot. She nuzzled the soft skin there, before placing another kiss higher, achingly close to her center.
Barbara held her breath, her entire body strung tighter than the vines that Bound her. Harley’s mouth was now on her lower abdomen, just below her navel, kissing a trail across her firm abs. She was moving steadily, relentlessly, toward the swell of her breasts.
Harley looked up, meeting Batgirl’s horrified gaze, and smiled. Then she dipped her head and pressed a final, lingering kiss to the underside of one breast before taking the peak back into her hot, waiting mouth.
Then she dipped her head and pressed a final, lingering kiss to the underside of one breast before taking the peak back into her hot, waiting mouth.
Barbara gasped, the sound sharp and involuntary. It wasn’t the same shocked violation as before. This was different. Harley’s mouth was relentless, sucking with a focused, rhythmic pressure that seemed to pull at something deep in Barbara’s core. The initial revulsion blurred, smeared by the insistent, wet heat and the embarrassing, direct connection it forged.
Harley released the nipple with a soft pop, her lips glistening. She didn’t pause. She turned her attention to the other breast, lavishing it with the same hungry dedication. She mouthed the full curve, kissed the sensitive swell, drew the taut peak between her teeth to graze it lightly before soothing the same spot with her tongue.
Barbara’s head rolled back against the metal. A low, trapped noise vibrated in her throat. Her protests died unsaid. Her body, starved of gentle touch, betrayed her utterly, warming to the attention despite the horror of the context.
Harley alternated between them, kissing and sucking, her motions becoming less chaotic, more deliberate. She buried her face between the generous curves, nuzzling, inhaling the scent of sweat and fear and something else. With a sudden, impish energy, she pressed her face deep into Batgirl’s cleavage and made a loud, sputtering pbbbt sound, motorboating with a gusto that was absurd and intimate and wildly inappropriate.
A choked, half-hysterical sound escaped Barbara—not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. She was starting to get used to the rhythm of it, the shocking warmth, the dizzying overload.
Just as that terrible, shameful acclimation began to set in, Harley changed course.
Her mouth left Barbara’s breasts. She placed a soft kiss on her sternum. Then another, lower, on the quivering plane of her abdomen. Harley was kissing her way down, a slow, deliberate descent along the defined ridges of Batgirl’s abs. Each kiss was a brand, a claim staked further into uncharted, vulnerable territory.
Barbara’s entire body flushed a deep, mortified crimson. The blush spread from her cheeks down her neck, across her chest, following the path of Harley’s lips. She could feel the heat on her skin like a fever.
Harley’s mouth hovered, a breath away from the trimmed red curls. Barbara could feel the ghost of her exhale.
“Quinn… don’t.” The protest was weak, quiet, a final whisper of dissolving will.
Harley didn’t listen.
She buried her face in Batgirl’s pussy.
The sensation was an electric shock, a white-hot jolt of pure, unfiltered contact. Barbara’s back arched violently off the frame, a strangled moan tearing from her lips. It was too much. It was everything.
Harley’s response was immediate and possessive. She slid her arms under Batgirl’s thighs, reaching up and around to grip the clenched muscles of her abs, locking her in place. Barbara was completely unable to thrash, held firm by the vines and Harley’s unwavering grasp. All she could do was feel.
And she felt everything.
The slow, losing battle was silent and internal. The ability to protest melted away, replaced by a tight, coiling tension in her gut. Sounds were coaxed out of her—soft gasps, hitched breaths, a low hum that vibrated in her chest. Harley’s tongue was relentless, exploring, lapping at her with a curious intensity that soon became focused expertise.
Barbara bit her lip, hard, trying to trap the noises. She looked down, past the heaving swell of her own breasts, to see Harley between her legs. Emerald eyes glanced up, met her stunned, embarrassed gaze. Harley didn’t stop. She simply winked, a bizarre, complicit gesture, and continued.
The coil tightened. Harley’s mouth worked her, tongue circling her clit with devastating precision before diving lower to taste her deeply. The pressure built, a wave gathering force, undeniable and terrifying in its intensity. Barbara’s moans lost any semblance of control, becoming open, desperate pleas for a release she didn’t want to accept from these hands, this mouth.
It crashed over her. Her body seized, back bowing against Harley’s restraining arms. A cry, raw and ragged, echoed in the glass cathedral. Pleasure, white-hot and absolute, ripped through every nerve, followed immediately by a hot, gushing release that Harley drank down with a satisfied, greedy hum.
Barbara fell back, gasping for air, her body trembling with aftershocks. She was utterly spent, hollowed out.
Harley didn’t let her breathe for long.
As Barbara’s chest heaved, Harley got started again. Her mouth returned, softer now, licking and kissing through the sensitivity.
“No… Harley, please,” Barbara begged, her voice wrecked. “I can’t… not again, not so fast. Stop.”
Harley ignored her. She pressed a single finger against Batgirl’s entrance, sliding inside with an easy, practiced smoothness. The stretch, the intimate fullness, on top of the oversensitive nerves—
A particularly loud moan ripped from Barbara’s throat, echoing off the glass.