The Cat's Cradle of Cruelty

Chapter 2: The Cat's Puzzle

The dressing room smelled like death and Dior.

Dick Grayson stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the rotting frame, and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. The Orpheum's backstage was a labyrinth of forgotten corridors and collapsed ceilings, but this room had been preserved. Deliberately. The cracked vanity mirrors still held their tarnished silver backing, reflecting fractured images of a dozen different angles. A moth-eaten feather boa hung from a chair like a dead snake. Somewhere in the dark, a clock ticked.

3:17. Always 3:17.

"You're late."

Her voice came from behind him. He didn't turn around. He'd learned that lesson last week—never give her the satisfaction of seeing him flinch.

"Traffic," he said. "You know how the Narrows gets this time of night."

"Mm." The sound was warm, almost purring. "I was starting to think you weren't coming. That I'd scared you off."

He turned then. Slowly. Deliberately.

She was sitting in a chair at the center of the room, legs crossed, one arm draped over the backrest. The chair was leather—real leather, old and cracked—and it was wired. He could see the pressure sensors embedded in the armrests, the thin copper filaments running down the legs to a battery pack tucked beneath the seat. A car battery. Modified. Probably enough voltage to stop a heart if she cranked it high enough.

"You've been busy," he said.

"I've been patient." She uncrossed her legs and stood, and the chair creaked like it was relieved. "There's a difference."

She was dressed differently tonight. No jeans, no sheer blouse. Instead, she wore a black corset that cinched her waist to something almost unnatural, paired with leather pants that laced up the sides. Her arms were bare, and he could see the muscle shifting beneath her skin as she moved. The spotlight from last week was gone. In its place, a dozen candles flickered from the vanity mirrors, casting dancing shadows across her face.

"New outfit," he said. "I'm flattered."

"Don't be." She walked toward him, her heels clicking against the cracked tile. "This isn't for you. It's for me. I wanted to feel... powerful."

"And the chair?"

"That's for you." She stopped an arm's length away, close enough that he could smell her. Jasmine and leather and something darker underneath. "Sit."

He didn't move.

"I said sit." Her voice hardened, just a fraction, and he saw her hand drift toward her hip. Toward the whip she wasn't carrying. Old habit.

"You're going to have to make me."

The smile that spread across her face was slow and genuine and terrifying.

"I was hoping you'd say that."

She moved faster than he expected. One moment she was standing in front of him, the next she was behind him, and something cold and metallic pressed against his throat. Not a blade. A cable. The same kind she'd used last week.

"Walk," she breathed against his ear. "Or I'll drag you."

He walked.

The chair was colder than it looked, and the leather creaked when he sat. She was on him before he could shift his weight, zip-ties whipping around his wrists with practiced efficiency. Not too tight. Just tight enough.

"You've done this before," he said.

"I've done a lot of things before." She knelt in front of him, her face level with his knees, and began working on his ankles. "Does that bother you?"

"What bothers me is that you're enjoying this."

She looked up at him through her lashes. "Of course I'm enjoying this. That's the point."

The last zip-tie clicked into place, and she stood. The chair was wired in a way he hadn't noticed before—not just the armrests, but the back, the seat, every point of contact between his body and the leather. He could feel the faint hum of electricity running through the frame.

"Here's the game," she said, stepping back. "Those sensors are calibrated to your heart rate. The faster it beats, the more voltage you get. Keep it steady, and you stay comfortable."

"And if I don't?"

She smiled. "Then you learn what it feels like to be electrocuted while I do whatever I want to you."

She reached into her corset and produced a small remote, no bigger than a matchbox. One button. Red.

"Any questions?"

"Yeah." He tested the zip-ties, found them unyielding. "What happens when I get out of this chair?"

"You won't."

"I always do."

Something flickered in her eyes. Something that might have been admiration, or hunger, or both.

"That's what I like about you, Dick. You never know when to quit."

She pressed the button.

The shock hit him like a fist to the chest. His back arched, his teeth clenched, and for a moment the world went white. When it faded, he was gasping, and she was laughing.

"That was barely a tickle," she said. "You're already at ninety beats per minute. I haven't even touched you yet."

"Fuck... you..."

"Promises, promises."

She set the remote on the vanity behind her, out of reach, and began to undress.

Slowly.

The corset came first. She turned her back to him, giving him a view of the laces that crisscrossed her spine, and began to pull them free one by one. The leather creaked as it loosened, and he could see the muscles of her back shifting beneath her skin. Acrobat's muscles. Built for balance and precision and violence.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" she asked over her shoulder. "To see me like this. To have me... vulnerable."

"I wanted to catch you," he said. "Not this."

"Liar."

The corset fell away, and she turned. Her breasts were small, firm, the nipples already hard despite the cold. A thin scar ran diagonally across her ribs—old, faded, probably from a job gone wrong. He'd never seen her without the suit. Never let himself imagine it.

"You're staring," she said.

"You're putting on a show."

"That's the point."

She stepped out of the leather pants, and he saw that she wasn't wearing anything underneath. The dark triangle of hair between her legs was neatly trimmed, and as she turned to drape the pants over the chair, he caught a glimpse of the curve of her ass, the strength in her thighs.

"Like what you see?"

"I've seen better."

She laughed. "Now who's lying?"

She walked toward him, naked except for a pair of thin silver bracelets on each wrist, and stopped just out of reach. The sensors on the chair began to hum louder. His heart rate was climbing, and he couldn't stop it.

"Tell me something, Dick." She ran her hands down her body, over her breasts, her stomach, the tops of her thighs. "When you think about me—and I know you do—what do you think about?"

"I think about putting you in handcuffs."

"You've already done that." She took a step closer. "Three years ago. Remember? The museum job. You caught me on the roof, and you had me pinned, and you could have called it in. But you didn't."

"I was waiting for backup."

"You were waiting for an excuse." Another step. "You wanted me to get away. You wanted to chase me."

"I wanted to stop you."

"You wanted to fuck me."

The bluntness of it hit him harder than the shock. His pulse spiked, and the chair responded—a quick, sharp jolt that made him grunt through his teeth.

"See?" She was close now, close enough that her knees brushed against his. "You can't even hear the word without reacting."

"That's not—"

"Shh." She pressed one finger to his lips. "No more talking. You're going to need your breath."

She straddled him.

The weight of her settled onto his thighs, and he felt the heat of her through the thin fabric of his suit. She was so close that he could see every detail of her face—the faint crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, the tiny scar above her eyebrow, the way her pupils dilated as she looked down at him.

"Comfortable?" she asked.

"No."

"Good."

She began to move.

It wasn't a grind. Not exactly. It was a slow, deliberate rotation of her hips, a circular motion that brought her pelvis in contact with his with every pass. Through the suit, he could feel the wet heat of her, and his body responded before his brain could catch up.

The chair punished him for it.

The shock was sharper this time, more focused. He felt it in his balls, his cock, the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. His hips jerked upward involuntarily, and the motion only increased the contact, which only increased the pain.

"Shh, shh, shh." Selina's voice was soft, almost maternal, but her eyes were bright with amusement. "You're making it worse. You have to relax."

"I can't—"

"You can. You just have to stop fighting it." She leaned forward, pressing her breasts against his chest, and whispered in his ear. "Stop fighting me."

The next shock hit him when his heart rate jumped again, and this time he couldn't hold back the groan. It was low and guttural, torn from somewhere deep in his chest, and she drank it up like wine.

"There he is," she breathed. "There's the real you."

She kissed his neck.

Not gently. Her teeth scraped against his pulse point, her tongue laved the spot where the shock had made his skin prickle, and he felt the vibration of her laugh against his throat. Her hips never stopped moving. Slow. Circular. Relentless.

"I could do this all night," she murmured against his skin. "Just like this. Watching you fall apart."

"Selina..."

"Say my name again."

"Selina—"

"Louder."

"Selina."

She bit down. Not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to make him shout, and the shock that followed was the worst yet—three seconds of white-hot agony that left him trembling and gasping.

When his vision cleared, she was smiling.

"Sixty-five beats per minute," she said. "That's impressive. Most people don't last five minutes with this rig."

"How long..." He had to stop, swallow, try again. "How long have you been testing it?"

"Six months. I have a lot of enemies."

"Friends too."

"None of them are your friends." She reached between them, her fingers finding the concealed zipper of his suit. "Not really. You know that."

"Barbara—"

"Is in love with you. And you keep her at arm's length because you're terrified of being hurt." The zipper came down, and cool air hit his chest. "Just like you're terrified of this."

"I'm not—"

"You are." She peeled the suit open, baring his chest to the candlelight. "You're terrified of wanting me. Which is why you keep chasing me. Which is why you're here."

She traced one fingernail down the center of his chest, over his abs, stopping just above his waistline. The sensors hummed. His heart was pounding.

"If you want me to stop, say so," she said. "And I'll let you go. No games. No tricks."

He should say it. He should tell her to stop, to uncuff him, to let him walk away and never look back. That was the smart move. That was what Bruce would do.

"I don't want you to stop," he said.

Her smile was radiant. "I know."

She slid off his lap and knelt between his legs. The zip-ties on his ankles kept him spread wide, and she took advantage of the position, spreading his legs further apart, pushing the suit down his thighs until his cock was exposed.

"Look at that," she said, almost reverently. "The golden boy does have a weakness."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

She took him in her hand.

Her fingers were cool against his heated skin, and she gripped him with exactly the right amount of pressure—firm but not painful. She gave him one slow stroke from base to tip, her thumb circling the head, and he had to bite down on his lip to keep from groaning.

"Impressive," she said. "Really. I expected more... compensation."

"I've never had any complaints."

"I'm sure you haven't." Another stroke. Slower this time. "But then again, most of your conquests don't have my standards."

She lowered her head and took him in her mouth.

Not all the way. Just the tip, her lips wrapping around him while her tongue pressed flat against the underside. It was warm and wet and utterly unhurried. She didn't move for a long moment, just held him there, breathing through her nose, watching his face.

"Selina..."

She hummed an acknowledgment. The vibration traveled through him like an electric current, and the chair responded—another shock, sharp and quick.

He screamed.

She pulled off him, laughing. "Too much?"

"Fuck you."

"Not yet." She began to stroke him again, her hand flying over his cock with practiced speed. "First, I want to see how long it takes you to beg."

"I'm not going to beg."

"You will."

She took him in her mouth again, deeper this time, and set a rhythm that was designed to break him. Her hand worked the base while her mouth worked the shaft, and every time his breathing sped up, the chair punished him. Shock. Stroke. Shock. Stroke. His body couldn't decide which sensation to focus on—the pleasure of her mouth or the pain of the electricity—and the conflict was driving him mad.

"Stop," he gasped. "Please—"

She pulled off him, leaving him slick and throbbing. "Please what?"

"Please..."

"That's it. Say it."

"I need..."

"You need what?"

It was the chair. The shocks were making his thoughts fuzzy, his words slurred. Every time he got close to the edge, the pain pulled him back, and every time he tried to pull away from the pain, she swallowed him deeper.

"You know what I need."

She tilted her head, considering. "I have some ideas. But I want to hear you say it."

Her hand was still moving. Slow, leisurely strokes. Just enough to keep him on edge without pushing him over.

"I need you to... to finish this."

"Finish what?"

"Please, Selina. Please just... let me come."

The word hung in the air between them. "Come." The thing he'd been fighting against since he walked through the door. The thing she'd demanded without ever asking for it.

She smiled.

"Was that so hard?"

She went back to work.

Not slow this time. Fast and hungry and brutal. Her mouth moved over him with a single-minded determination, her tongue tracing patterns that made his thighs shake, and her hand pumped him so fast that he could feel orgasm building at the base of his spine. The shocks kept coming, each one worse than the last, and he was crying out with every breath—not words, just noise, raw and desperate.

"Come on," she said between strokes. "Let go. Stop fighting. Just come."

The next shock hit him, and this time he welcomed it.

The pain and the pleasure merged into something he couldn't separate, couldn't control. He came with a shout that echoed off the cracked mirrors, his hips bucking upward, his whole body convulsing. Selina swallowed every drop, her hand still working him through the aftershocks, and when at last he sagged into the chair, completely spent, she pulled away and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Seventy-two," she said. "Not bad."

He couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.

She stood, walked to the vanity, and picked up a small knife. With two quick cuts, she severed the zip-ties on his wrists and ankles.

"The door's unlocked," she said. "There's a shower down the hall if you want one."

He looked at her. "That's it?"

"That's it."

"No more games?"

She shrugged, and the motion made the candlelight dance across her skin. "We'll see. I have a lot more ideas."

She reached up and pressed a small switch on the wall. The chair powered down with a hum, and the room was suddenly very quiet.

"Same time next week?" he asked.

"Maybe." She walked toward him, naked and unself-conscious, and pressed a single kiss to his forehead. "If you're good."

Then she was gone, swallowed by the shadow of the corridor, and he was alone with the clock and the mirrors and the ghost of her on his lips.

This is a work of fan parody and fiction. All characters are the property of their respective copyright holders.

The shower ran cold, which was probably for the best.

Dick stood under the spray for ten minutes, letting the water needle his skin, watching the evidence of what he'd just done swirl down a rust-stained drain. His wrists ached where the zip-ties had bitten in. His chest bore the faint red marks of the sensor pads. And his cock—still half-hard despite everything—throbbed with a dull, persistent ache that had nothing to do with electricity.

He pressed his palm against the cracked tile and closed his eyes.

You wanted this.

The thought wasn't new. It had been circling since he walked through the door, since he saw her sitting in that wired-up chair, since she called him a liar and he couldn't argue. The truth was simpler than he wanted to admit: he'd come here because he couldn't stay away.

Not because of duty. Not because of some half-baked plan to bring her in.

Because he wanted to know what she'd do next.

The water shut off with a squeal of ancient pipes. He dried himself with his undershirt—the suit was ruined anyway, the zipper warped, the fabric stretched—and stepped back into the corridor. His boots echoed against the tile, and somewhere in the dark, that broken clock was still ticking.

He followed the sound.

The main stage was a cathedral of decay. Moonlight poured through the shattered dome, illuminating the ruins of the orchestra pit, the collapsed balconies, the curtain rod that had nearly killed him last week. He'd spent three days in the Cave after that little adventure, letting Alfred stitch him up while Bruce pretended not to notice the rope burns on his wrists.

Bruce knew. Bruce always knew. He just didn't ask.

The chair from last week was gone. In its place, a single folding table held a bottle of cheap whiskey and two glasses. Selina sat on the edge of the stage, her legs dangling over the drop, dressed now in a loose black sweater and nothing else.

"You're still here," she said without turning around.

"Didn't feel like walking home."

"There's a perfectly good subway two blocks over."

"I don't take the subway."

She laughed—a real laugh, not the theatrical purr she used when she was performing—and patted the stage beside her. "Sit. You look like you're about to fall over."

He sat.

She poured two fingers of whiskey into each glass and handed him one. The liquid burned going down, and he welcomed it. Something to focus on besides the ache in his muscles and the smell of her still clinging to his skin.

"Questions," she said.

"Lots."

"Start with the obvious one."

He swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the moonlight. "Why me?"

"You're going to have to be more specific."

"Six months of planning. Six months of watching me, studying me, building that—" He gestured vaguely toward the dressing room. "That thing. And you could have used it on anyone. Bruce. Tim. Any of the others."

"Bruce would have broken the chair in thirty seconds." She took a sip of her whiskey. "Tim would have found the battery pack before I finished tying the first knot. You, though..."

"I'm the sweet spot."

"You're the one who doesn't know when to quit." She set her glass down and turned to face him fully. "You could have called for backup tonight. You could have brought the whole family down on my head. But you came alone. You always come alone."

"It's simpler that way."

"It's lonely that way."

The word landed like a punch to the sternum. He didn't have a response, so he drank instead.

"I've been watching you for a long time, Dick." Her voice had shifted, lost its teasing edge, found something softer underneath. "Longer than this little game. You think I didn't notice, back when you were still in the pixie boots? The way you'd check on me after fights. The way you'd pull your punches just enough that I could get away."

"That's not—"

"It is." She reached out and touched his wrist, her fingers tracing the red marks the zip-ties had left. "You've been letting me go for years. I wanted to know why."

"And?"

"And I think you're just as fucked up as I am." Her thumb pressed into the bruise, just hard enough to sting. "I think you like the chase. The danger. The way I make you feel like you're not just Batman's shadow."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know you came in your pants while I was electrocuting you." She smiled, and it was sharp and hungry and entirely without shame. "I know you begged me to let you come. I know you're sitting here right now because you want me to do it again."

"That's not—"

She kissed him.

It was different from the violence in the dressing room. Softer. Slower. Her lips moved against his with a patience that felt almost cruel, and he found himself leaning into her, his hand coming up to cup her jaw before he could stop himself.

She pulled back just far enough to speak. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're not wrong."

The words came out before he could catch them. Before he could remember all the reasons this was a terrible idea—the history, the complications, the inevitable disaster that followed Selina Kyle everywhere she went.

She kissed him again, and he stopped caring about any of it.

Her sweater came off first. He pulled it over her head and tossed it into the dark, and then she was bare from the waist up, her skin pale in the moonlight, those small firm breasts with their hard nipples pressing against his chest. He lowered his head and took one in his mouth, and she made a sound that was half-gasp, half-laugh.

"Eager," she said.

"Shut up."

He sucked harder, grazing his teeth against the sensitive skin, and she tangled her fingers in his hair—not pulling him away, holding him there. Her other hand worked at the waistband of his pants, which he'd never bothered to fasten after the shower, and then her fingers were around his cock again, stroking him with that same cruel, expert patience she'd shown before.

"Fuck," he breathed against her breast.

"That's the idea."

She pushed him back against the stage, and he let her. The wood was cold and rough beneath his shoulders, and she was warm and soft on top of him, her naked thighs straddling his hips. She reached between them and guided him toward her, and he felt the wet heat of her for just a moment before she stopped.

"Wait," she said.

"What?"

"Condom."

"I don't—"

"Lucky for you, I came prepared." She reached for a small clutch purse that had been sitting beside the whiskey bottle, unnoticed. Inside was a strip of condoms, the box still sealed. "You think I went through all this trouble just to risk getting knocked up by Batman's sloppy seconds?"

"Jesus, Selina."

"Relax. I'm clean. And you are too. I checked." She tore open the box and rolled one onto him with a practiced hand, and he tried not to think about how many men she'd done this with. "Still clean, right? No little side projects in Blüdhaven I should know about?"

"Nothing serious."

"That's a weird way to say no."

"It means what it means."

She laughed and lowered herself onto him.

The sensation was overwhelming—tight, wet, hot—and he had to grip the edge of the stage to keep from coming right then. She didn't move for a long moment, just sat there with him buried inside her, her eyes closed, her breath coming in slow, controlled waves.

"You feel that?" she asked.

"What?"

"Your heart rate. It's steady. No shocks this time." She opened her eyes and looked down at him, and there was something vulnerable in her expression that he'd never seen before. "Just us. No chair. No battery. You're not scared."

"I'm a little scared."

"Good. That's healthy." She began to move.

Slow at first. A gentle rock of her hips that sent sparks up his spine and made his toes curl. She was in no hurry, and neither was he. For once, there was no clock ticking, no clock hanging overhead, no sense of impending doom. Just the two of them, tangled together in the ruins of a forgotten theater, two broken people finding something that almost felt like peace.

The pace quickened.

She leaned forward, her hands braced on his chest, and kissed him—deep and messy and hungry. He could feel her thighs trembling against his hips, her muscles tightening around him with every stroke, and he knew she was close. So was he. The build was slower this time, more deliberate, but no less inevitable.

"Don't stop," she whispered against his mouth.

"Not planning to."

"Don't stop. Don't stop. Don't—"

He rolled them over, pinning her beneath him without pulling out, and drove into her with a new rhythm. Harder. Faster. The stage creaked beneath them, and somewhere in the dark a beam of moonlight caught the sweat on her collarbone, making her glow.

"Fuck, yes," she gasped. "Just like that. Just like—"

He felt her come first. Her whole body clenched around him, and she cried out—a raw, ragged sound that echoed off the broken ceiling. He followed a breath later, burying his face in her neck, emptying himself into her with a groan that felt like it came from somewhere deeper than his chest.

They lay there for a long time afterward. His weight sank onto her, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, holding him there. He could hear her heartbeat, slower now, syncing with his own.

"Seventy-two," she whispered.

"What?"

"The heart rate. From before. I lied." She pressed a kiss to his temple. "It was one hundred twelve. You were already breaking when I started."

"You're a fucking menace."

"I know."

He lifted his head and looked at her. In the moonlight, she looked younger than she had any right to—the sharp edges of her face softened, the constant wariness in her eyes replaced by something almost like contentment.

"So what happens now?" he asked.

"Now you go home." She pushed him off her gently and started gathering her clothes. "And I disappear for a while."

"Why?"

"Because this can't happen again." She pulled on her sweater. "Not like this. I've had my fun, and you've passed the test, and if we keep going, someone's going to get hurt."

"Someone always gets hurt."

"Exactly." She stood and looked down at him, and the wall was back up, the armor firmly in place. "You're a good man, Dick Grayson. Good men don't survive me for long."

She walked toward the back of the stage, toward the shadows that had swallowed her before. Three steps away, she stopped and turned.

"Same time next month?" she asked.

"You just said—"

"I changed my mind." She smiled, and it was the same predatory smile from the dressing room, full of teeth and promise and danger. "Don't you want to know what else I've been planning?"

She didn't wait for an answer.

And he didn't chase her.

But he thought about it. He thought about it all the way home, through the abandoned subway tunnels and the warehouse districts and the quiet streets of Blüdhaven. He thought about it every night for the next week, every time his phone buzzed, every time he caught a flash of movement on a rooftop.

She was gone. For now.

But he knew she'd be back.

And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that he couldn't wait.

This is a work of fan parody and fiction. All characters are the property of their respective copyright holders.