Wrote this in the bathroom oops
The bass from the main floor of Swing Land pulsed through the walls like a living thing. Neon bled under the door of the private suite in shifting pink and violet. You lay on your stomach across the wide bed, chin resting on one hand, the red wine silk robe draped over your body in soft folds that only hinted at the perfect figure and curves beneath. Your long hair spilled open down your back in thick, wavy curls that nearly reached below the curve of your ass. You weren’t taking clients tonight. Everyone in Gotham’s most exclusive swing club knew the rule.
Until the floor went silent.
Bruce Wayne walked in like the night itself had decided to wear a tailored black suit. No tie. Top button open. Conversations died mid-sentence. Glasses froze. Strippers missed their poles. Every woman—and more than a few men—turned toward him with open hunger. A redhead in pasties and a g-string slid up first, nails trailing down his lapel. Twins in matching lace followed, whispering offers that would bankrupt most men. Bruce barely looked at them.
“I’m looking for her.”
No one needed a name.
Johns appeared at your door less than a minute later. He didn’t knock. You didn’t sit up.
“I don’t take walk-ins,” you said, still on your stomach, hips shifting just enough to make the silk ride higher. Your ass swayed once, lazy and deliberate. “You know that.”
Johns’s jaw flexed. He crossed the room, gripped your bicep, and pulled you upright. You brushed his hand off sharply, but he leaned in close, breath hot against your ear.
“Just make him feel good, doll. In the end, that’s what you’re good at.”
He left. The door stayed open.
Bruce knocked anyway—two soft raps against the open frame—before stepping inside. The door clicked shut behind him. You stayed where you were for a second, then looked him over slowly from head to toe.
“I don’t take walk-ins,” you said coolly. “Especially not rich men in suits who think they’re superior.”
No reaction. Not even a flicker. He simply stood there, hands in his pockets, watching you with calm blue eyes.
You sighed loud enough to be theatrical, rose in one smooth motion, crossed the short distance, and shoved both palms against his broad chest. His big, bulky frame dropped onto the oversized leather couch behind him. Fur pillows scattered. His head rolled back slightly before he lifted it again, gaze locked on you as your fingers found the tie of the robe.
“I didn’t take you for a secret admirer.”
“I’m full of surprises,” he answered, voice low.
The air between you thickened. You circled the couch slowly, letting the silk gap just enough to tease. He never looked away from your face.
“Most men who come this far already know what they want,” you said. “You’re either very bold… or very stupid.”
“Neither. Just thorough.”
You almost smiled. Instead you stopped in front of him again, fingers working the knot free. The robe started to slip from your shoulders—
Bruce rose in one fluid motion. One large hand caught the silk and tugged it back into place with a soft tsk.
“I’m not here for your services,” he said quietly. “I’m here to talk about what you’ve been doing. You know exactly what I mean. The men who leave your bed and never wake up the same. Poison.”
You shrugged, eyes half-lidded, the sluttiest, most unbothered expression you owned. “Huh? Me? What are you talking about?”
You stepped into his space, pressing the full soft heat of your body against the hard lines of his suit, trying to derail him the way you derailed everyone else. Hands slid up his chest. Mouth brushed the edge of his jaw. “Maybe you’re just jealous someone else got there first.”
Nothing. Not a shift in breathing. Not a single tell. Bruce Wayne stood like carved stone. The longer the silence stretched, the thinner both your patience grew. Finally he stepped back and turned toward the door.
You dropped onto the couch on your back with an exaggerated roll of your eyes and a half-moany, frustrated sigh that left no doubt how little you cared.
The door opened.
Then it opened again.
Bruce stood in the threshold, one hand still on the knob, expression almost casual.
“Will you consider walk-ins,” he asked lightly, “just for me?”
What’s funny is he wasn’t even the one who needed this. You were. And that was rare.
The red silk robe slid off your shoulders completely, pooling at your feet. Underneath, leopard-print sheer lingerie clung to every curve—cups barely containing your breasts, the bottoms high-cut and translucent enough to show the soft shadow between your thighs. You didn’t move to cover yourself.
He stepped back in and sat, letting the door close, letting you take the lead.
You crossed the space, planted both hands on his shoulders, and shoved him deeper into the leather. Then you sank to your knees between his spread thighs. The sight of him—perfectly pressed suit, powerful body, calm eyes—made something hot and restless coil low in your belly. Frustration sparked sharper. You had the real charms. They worked on everyone else. They should have worked on him.
But Bruce Wayne was different. Big. Charismatic. Something god-level different.
Your eyes started to glisten. Soft moans slipped out, turning into broken little mewls as your hands found the expensive fabric of his trousers. He watched every second. Then one big hand fisted in your long hair—not cruel, just firm—and he bent forward. His mouth found the back of your neck.
Hot. Almost too hot. His tongue dragged slow across your skin, leaving wet trails of spit that made you shiver and nearly drool. He worked his way up, devouring, tasting, painting you with deliberate hunger while you knelt there trembling. When he finally turned your face up, the kiss was devastating—mouth claiming each of your lips in turn, licking, sucking, like a cat taking its time with something it fully intended to ruin. You were already making soft, broken kitten sounds against his tongue.
He pulled back just enough to speak, voice rough but still measured.
“May I?”
Permission. Respectful. Careful.
You couldn’t let him keep that control.
You went wild.
Hands tore at his belt. Mouth found his again. Body climbed into his lap, grinding, demanding. He let you—for a while. Then the fist in your hair tightened and he took over, turning you, spreading you across the fur pillows, peeling the sheer lingerie away with maddening patience until you were bare and flushed under him. His mouth moved lower. Lower. Devoured you until your thighs shook and your voice broke into continuous, desperate sounds. When he finally pushed inside, the stretch was overwhelming—thick, deep, relentless—and still he stayed mostly dressed, suit barely rumpled, as he fucked you through climax after climax on that leather couch.
By the end you lay naked and wrecked, skin marked, lips bruised, pussy swollen and thoroughly used, streaks of his cum painted across your stomach and between your breasts. Bruce stood, adjusted his cuffs, and looked as composed as the moment he’d walked in. Only the faint flush at his collar and the scent of sex on him gave anything away.
He leaned down and pressed a soft, almost tender kiss to your forehead.
“I’ll take this as you won’t poison any more men,” he murmured. “At least not men who aren’t me.”
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving you in the quiet aftermath with the taste of him still on your tongue and the red silk robe puddled forgotten on the floor.
