Chapter 10: Clinical Documentation
The peace of their bed was a shallow tide, receding quickly. Bruce lay awake long after Zatanna’s breathing deepened into sleep, his mind not on patrol routes or corporate mergers, but on the digital footage now encrypted deep in the Cave’s servers. On the precise, geometric opening of her body. It wasn’t enough to have recorded it. He needed to understand it. To quantify it.
That’s how she found herself, hours later, not in the warm dungeon, but in the Batcave’s medical bay. The transition from silk sheets to cold, antimicrobial polymer was jarring. The lights here weren't candle flames; they were blazing, sterile halogens that eliminated every shadow, exposing every pore, every faint bruise, every lingering trace of their earlier activities.
“Bruce, this is…” she started, her voice still husky with sleep, trailing off as she took in the array of gleaming, sinister-looking instruments laid out on a steel tray beside the main examination table.
“Necessary,” he finished, his tone devoid of its bedroom growl. This was his Batman voice. Calm. Analytical. Relentless. He wore a simple black t-shirt and trousers, but his demeanor was a full uniform. “I need baseline measurements. Post-stimulation dilation, tissue resilience, recovery rate.”
A slow, wicked smile spread across her lips despite the clinical setting. “You’re going to science the hell out of my fucked-out holes, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” He didn’t smile back, but a dark spark ignited in his eyes. He gestured to the table. “Assume the position.”
The table was wider than the dungeon’s bench, punctuated with solid metal rings at the corners and along the sides. He guided her onto her back. The material was cold against her skin. He didn’t use the plush leather cuffs from upstairs. Here, he used reinforced surgical restraints, wide bands of heavy-duty nylon that locked with a definitive click. He secured her ankles first, widely spaced to the lower rings, then her wrists above her head. The finality of the sounds sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with temperature.
He stepped to the tray, selecting the first tool. It was a speculum, but unlike any found in a typical clinic. It was metal, polished to a mirror shine, with a series of small, calibrated gauges along its hinged arms. He warmed it with a gel that was clear and odorless.
“Cold,” he stated, not an apology, a fact.
The chilled metal touched her inner thigh, a stark contrast to her own heat. She gasped, a sharp intake that echoed in the sterile space. He applied more gel directly to her exposed folds, working it in with two professional, unyielding fingers.
“Lubricant is sufficient,” he noted aloud, as if for a log. His fingers slid into her pussy, not to pleasure, but to assess. “Initial internal temperature is elevated. Residual lubrication from earlier session is present.” He withdrew his fingers, shiny with her, and reached for the speculum.
The instrument’s blunt, closed beak pressed against her entrance. “Relax your pelvic floor,” he instructed, his eyes on her face, not her cunt. She forced a breath out, letting her muscles go slack. With a firm, steady pressure, he slid the closed speculum into her vagina, the metal a smooth, alien invasion.
Her hips twitched against the restraints. “Fuck, that’s…”
“Dimension one,” he interrupted, his hand finding the screw mechanism. He began to turn it. A soft, precise click-click-click filled the air, mechanical and inexorable. Inside her, the hinged arms of the speculum began to part.
The stretch was immediate, profound, and intensely different from his cock or the toys. This was a spreading, an opening that moved outward, putting deliberate, measurable pressure on her inner walls. Click. Click. Click. Her channel was being unfolded, laid bare for his inspection. She could feel the cold air from the room hitting newly exposed, sensitive tissues deep inside her.
“Oh, God, Bruce,” she whimpered, her head pressing back into the table.
“Observe,” he said, his voice low. He wasn’t talking to her. A holographic display flickered to life beside the table, a glowing, blue-tinted rendering of her pelvic region. A cross-section schematic showed the speculum’s arms as two diverging lines, a digital caliper measuring the increasing gap between them. “Cervical os is visible. Vaginal walls are flushed, showing marked vascular engagement.”
He stopped cranking. The speculum was locked in place, holding her open at a relentless, fixed width. She felt impossibly wide, a living display. He picked up a narrow, pen-like light and shone it into the cavern he’d created. “No micro-tears. Excellent elasticity.” The clinical praise made her cunt pulse around the cold metal.
“Now the labia,” he stated, setting the light down. He selected a pair of long, curved hemostats from the tray, their polished steel jaws looking like the legs of a sinister insect. He clicked them open and shut once. The sound was crisp, final.
He used his thumb and forefinger to gently grasp her outer labia, pulling the swollen flesh taut. The cold jaws of the hemostat closed over the fold, not pinching, but clamping, holding it firmly out and away from her body. He repeated the process on the other side, clipping her inner labia as well. Her entire vulva was now spread and immobilized, her pink, glistening interior utterly displayed, her clit exposed and throbbing.
“You’re so fucking open,” he breathed, the clinical mask slipping for a second, revealing the raw hunger beneath. “I can see every detail. You’re dripping directly onto the table.”
She was. A steady stream of her arousal was welling up from inside the speculum and dribbling down in a clear, shameless trickle. “Need more,” she begged, her vision blurring. “Spread me wider. Please. I want to feel it in my bones.”
A low, approving hum vibrated in his chest. “Since you asked so nicely.” His hand returned to the speculum’s screw. The click-click-click started again, slower this time, each rotation a deliberate, stretching revelation. The metal arms inside her pressed outward with incremental force, a spreading fullness that made her breath hitch. She could feel the strain in her deepest tissues, a burning stretch that bordered on pain but was eclipsed completely by a surge of dizzying, deep vulnerability.
“Look at the readout,” he commanded, his voice rough. Her eyes flicked to the hologram. The digital calipers jumped with each click, the number climbing—35 millimeters, 38, 41. Her cunt was being mathematically dissected. “You’re taking it so well. Your body just opens for me, doesn’t it? It knows it belongs to me, that it exists to be displayed and used.”
He stopped cranking. The width held, a permanent, aching gape. Her inner walls fluttered helplessly, trying to clench around the unforgiving metal. The cool cave air flowed directly into her, a constant, shocking reminder of her exposure. “It’s in my bones,” she whispered, dazed. “I can feel the stretch in my spine.”
“Good.” Now his touch changed. The clinical detachment evaporated. He picked up a fresh, clean glove, but instead of another tool, he simply used his thumb. He placed it directly on her swollen, protruding clit, which peeked from the mess of spread flesh held by the hemostats. He didn’t stroke. He pressed. A firm, grinding circular motion that made her whole body jolt against the restraints.
“This little thing is so hard,” he murmured, leaning close, his breath hot on her ear. “Begging for attention while your cunt is split open for me. Dripping all over my clean table. You’re a mess, Zee. A beautiful, open, soaking mess.”
He increased the pressure, his thumb moving in tight, ruthless circles. Pleasure, sharp and almost painful, shot up from her clit in electric waves. She cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound that echoed off the cave walls. “Yes! God, right there, don’t stop!”
“I can see everything,” he growled, his eyes fixed between her legs. “I can see your juices pooling around the speculum. I can see your asshole, right there, tight and untouched while your pussy gets all the fun.” He slid his other hand down, his index finger finding her sopping entrance beside the cold metal. He pushed two fingers in alongside the speculum, a tight, slick fit that made her gasp.
He curled his fingers upward, searching. He found the raised, spongy patch of her G-spot almost immediately. He pressed against it, not a tease, but a firm, persistent bullying pressure. A guttural moan tore from her throat. Her hips strained, a futile attempt to fuck herself on his hand.
“There it is,” he said, a dark triumph in his tone. He maintained that constant, maddening pressure on her G-spot while his thumb continued its assault on her clit. “You feel that? That deep, needy pulse? That’s your body begging to squirt. But you’re not going to. Not yet.”
He pressed harder on her G-spot, a relentless internal nudge that made her see stars. The dual stimulation was unbearable, a coiled spring of sensation tightening in her core. “Bruce, please, I’m so close, I need to—”
“No.” His voice was absolute. He eased the pressure, just slightly, letting the tension recede from its peak. She whimpered in frustrated agony. “You’ll come when I say. You’ll gush all over this table when I’m buried in your other hole.” He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. “I’m going to slide something thick and cold into that pretty little ass while I’m milking this spot. You’re going to feel yourself open up in both places at once. You’re going to scream, and then you’re going to flood this room.”
The promise was obscene. Her cunt clenched violently around his fingers and the speculum at the mere idea. A fresh torrent of fluid seeped out. “Do it,” she panted, her sanity fraying. “Fucking do it now, put something in my ass, I can’t wait, I need it—”
“Patience.” He withdrew his fingers slowly, then increased the pace of his thumb on her clit, a brutal, focused rhythm that had her trembling on the edge once more. He reached for the tray, his movements calculated. His fingers closed not around a toy, but around a smooth, glass cylindrical object she recognized—a lubricant vial, thick and cold. He coated his fingers generously.
She felt the blunt, cool tip of his middle finger press against her tight rear entrance. He worked it in a slow circle, teasing the nerve-rich ring of muscle. “This is going to feel so good,” he promised, his voice a filthy whisper. “You’re going to be so full. You’re going to come harder than you did with the machines.”
He applied steady pressure. Her ass yielded, the muscle relaxing from the long conditioning of the dungeon, accepting the first thick digit. He slid it in to the knuckle, the cold lube a shocking contrast to her internal heat. She cried out, her back arching off the table.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, beginning a slow, in-and-out rhythm with his finger, fucking her ass with it while his thumb never ceased its ruthless circles on her clit. The dual violation, clinical and intimate, shattered her. The coil inside her wound tighter than ever, a knot of pure sensation centered on his bullying G-spot touch and the invading fullness in her rectum.
“Now,” he snarled, his composure breaking. He curled the finger inside her ass, pressing upward, and simultaneously pressed his thumb down hard on her clit. “Squirt for me. Soak my hand. Do it.”
The command unleashed her. Her orgasm detonated, not a wave but a catastrophic rupture. A powerful, uncontrolled jet of fluid erupted from her, splashing over his wrist and the table below with a sound like a burst pipe. It kept coming, a second, third, fourth wave, each one wrenched from her by the relentless, twin-point stimulation. Her vision whited out. Her scream was a triumph, his fingers never failing her.