Marry The Knight Ch. 04

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Bruce gives Vicki Vale an exclusive.
5.9k words
4.6
45k
68

Part 4 of the 25 part series

Updated 06/07/2023
Created 12/14/2013
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Zev95
Zev95
1,580 Followers

L'enfermer was the hottest restaurant in Gotham. The waiters were curt, the food was good but expensive, and the wine was also good—but more expensive. The reason it had succeeded where restaurants that fawned more over their patrons had not was because it was run by Lyle Bolton—the reformed Lock-Up. And he guaranteed the safety of every man, woman, and jewel that entered his restaurant, whether it be from laughing gas, killer plants, or Lazarus Pit bombs.

In the lobby of the skyscraper L'enfermer was located in, his specially trained waitstaff/guards carefully scanned everyone with a dinner reservation to the point of invasive procedures—something like the TSA with competency. Only afterward were guests admitted into the express elevator that took them to L'enfermer, with the elevator operator a black belt in karate.

Finally, they reached the roof of the building, where dining was done in individual ten square foot cubes of mirrored glass. Inside each cell, there was a passable view of the city, and no way to tell who or even if someone was inside one, aside from the muted noise of conversation (the cells not being truly soundproof; something Lyle was working on).

Bruce and Vicki submitted to the security measures, rode the elevator up making pleasant conversation with the operator, then were taken by the maître d' and led to their cell, all the while having it explained to them how absolutely impenetrable the material of their dining area would be. For Bruce, who had seen Superman punch through battleships, it was a bit amusing.

Bruce wore an unremarkable business suit, coordinated mainly with the dull gleam of his wedding band, and with enough obvious expense and tailoring in it to make up for its unobtrusive style.

Vicki, on the other hand, wore the make-up of an expensive courtesan and a few pieces of jewelry that, if they hadn't come from affluent admirers, had most definitely cost a great deal of her salary. Her fingernails were long—a change from Ivy and Harley, who kept theirs short for obvious reasons—and filed carefully to a common curve, painted the same dark red as the toenails visible at the end of her high heeled pumps.

She was a tall, slim girl, toned, but far more curved than muscular—another refreshing change from the women Bruce usually encountered, who threw a punch more often than they checked their make-up. And she was enough in tune with her sexuality for Bruce to take notice, in far more than a deductive sense. Her hips swung like a pendulum as she walked, and she made sure to walk in front of him on her way to the table.

Maybe it was his interludes with Harley and Ivy. For a while now, he'd been using sex not even as stress relief, but as another aspect of the mission. Now it seemed a lot harder to repress certain urges than it once had been.

They sat to read their menus. Vicki sat on the side of her chair, long legs crossed, and in full view of Bruce—not hidden under the tablecloth. Bruce tried to distract himself by paying careful attention to her hair—golden blonde, but dyed at some point. He recalled her being a redhead in the recent past. Her hair was feathered, though more in a European style than that of seventies nostalgia—clearly the work of a skilled coiffure. And she smelled heavily of perfume. Delicious perfume...

Bruce took out his smartphone to check if he had any messages. You never knew when the JLA might need you.

"Can I take your coat, madame?" asked the maître d', who had never set foot in France in his life, but did know forty ways to kill someone with a three-inch blade.

"Thank you," Vicki said, shrugging it off. "It is rather warm in here."

It did not take Bruce long at all to notice what she was wearing. When he did, he put his smartphone away.

Her Jill Stuart strapless ruched silk evening gown plunged between her cleavage, while still being tight enough to show the curve of her belly and the firmness of her breasts. Those seemed far too large to wear with such a revealing garment, especially without a bra on, and her innocent look just made it worse. Bruce found himself riveted to her cleavage, which stretched her bodice nearly to the point of bursting with each jiggling breath, but was too well-tailored to come off as classless or obscene. It was simply an excessively gilded frame on a beautiful painting.

Bruce did manage to look away, and caught the maître d' staring down Vicki's décolletage from where he hovered over them. At a throat-clearing from the billionaire, the maître d' hastened away to await their order.

"Mmmm," Vicki said, eying the menu and Bruce with equal hunger. "Everything looks so good; doesn't it?"

Bruce found himself coughing. He never coughed. "Yes. Reasonable prices too," he added with a touch of irony.

Vicki let her menu flip down to the table, totally revealing her bosom once again. "Hard to know where to start, isn't it?"

With a deep, mediatory breath, Bruce forced himself back under control. "Perhaps I'll order for the both of us. I can't imagine you have much taste for haute cuisine on a reporter's salary."

"I wouldn't know about that. I have a few book deals..."

"I insist. It's my treat; I feel obliged to make sure you don't have an unsatisfactory meal."

"Just as long as whatever you feed me tastes good." Vicki grinned, steepling her forearms under her chin and leaning forward. His view of her cleavage becoming enough to make any man drool.

The maître d' was kind enough to return then. Bruce suspected they would normally be tended to by a simple waiter, but for 'madame's' neckline. Normally, Bruce would've been offended, but he himself was having a tough enough time keeping his eyes off Vicki's burgeoning bodice.

Bruce ordered for them, sending the maître d' off with a curt nod, and Vicki fished her Dictaphone out of her clutch. She set it on the table between them, her fawning hand and coy stare making it an erotic a gesture as her passing him a condom. "Shall we get started?"

Bruce took a deep breath, ignoring her perfume. He had to retake control, of himself and the situation. Vicki took it as assent, reaching to press Record, but Bruce intercepted her hand over the recorder. He gave it a subtle squeeze.

"What would you say about having this interview off-the-record?"

Vicki laughed in surprise. "Mr. Wayne, my publisher is paying your charity a great deal of money for an exclusive interview. It needs to be on the record."

"I'm aware of that. But what say tonight we just... get to know one another a little better. Feel each other out. We can have an interview anytime."

He saw her eyes whirling with quick calculation and could almost guess her thoughts. She needed his answers. She needed something she could print. But... he was effectively offering her two interviews for the price of one. Almost a practice run to get her bearings before she really got started. But could she trust him to give her her second interview?

Her desire to assert herself battled with her desire to put him at ease, and finally she decided to go with the first rule of interviewing a reticent subject: always roll with what they're running.

"Of course. If you don't mind me camping out on your driveway to get the official statement."

"I promise not to make you sleep on my driveway."

Vicki's nipples were hardening.

She uncrossed her legs and set them under the table, just as their wine arrived. They toasted, Bruce declaring something in Arabic he promised to explain to her later, and drank. Like all wine, Vicki didn't get much out of it beyond a tickle under her nose. She'd never be a connoisseur.

Bruce's laser-focused eyes scaled her body again, like there was something he could've missed on his last dozen passes. Vicki enjoyed the scrutiny. It wasn't like it was any secret what some women were willing to do for a scoop. I spent the night with Superman, anyone?

"So, how's life with the terrible twosome?" Vicki asked, dangling her wine flute from an outstretched hand.

Bruce smiled in consideration. "Interesting." He tilted his head to the side. "Challenging."

"Very specific. Not a hundred thousand dollars' worth of specific."

"Mmm." Bruce crossed his legs, clenching his hands atop his knee. "Well, if you must know our sleeping arrangements—"

Vicki leaned back in her chair, inviting another examination she graciously endured. She wondered which he liked best. Her tits seemed a bit obvious; she always felt her slender calves and smooth legs were underrated. And her sultry face in its halo of honey-blonde hair... there was a reason all her books had it up front and center. "I must, I must."

"Pamela and Harleen share a room in the same wing of the manor as mine."

"You don't sleep together."

"I didn't say that. But we have differing sleep cycles; I'm something of a night owl. It's an issue of comfort. When I proposed to the two of them, it was knowing that we'd all have to work to accommodate each other."

"But it is a sexual relationship?"

"Yes."

Vicki blinked at Bruce's forthrightness. "I'd always understood that Ivy and Harley were more interested in their own company than—forgive me—some man."

"Depends on the man, I suppose. I certainly don't have any complaints."

"And do you... take turns or...?"

"Off the record?" Bruce asked again. Vicki gave a nod. "We do whatever works."

"Such as?"

Bruce smiled. "You seem a bit fixated on our bedroom, Ms. Vale."

"Call me Vicki. Since we're off the record."

"Only if you call me Bruce."

"Certainly. You do rather roll off the tongue."

Vicki slipped her feet out of her heels. One set of toes felt the chill of the one-way glass they were dining on. The other stretched under the dinner table to press lightly on the toe of Bruce's shoe.

He rapped his fingers on his knee as if he wasn't even aware of her foot. "Harleen and Pamela are my wives in every respect. But they're not harem girls, and I didn't marry them because I wanted them in my bed. First and foremost, they're my guests. I want to see them happy and healthy. I don't want there to be any danger to either them or to anyone around them."

"Spoken like a press release. Come on, Bruce. You can't tell me a man with your reputation wasn't thinking at all about the side benefits of being married to two attractive women, both bisexual, neither strangers to—" Vicki lightly drew her instep up Bruce's calf, finding it shockingly firm with muscle. "—whatever."

"What's next? Are you going to suggest I had an ulterior motive in asking an attractive reporter with a certain reputation to dinner?"

"What reputation?" she insisted, even as her toes climbed his thigh.

Bruce was trying very hard to understand his reaction to her. He wanted to tell her about Harley and Ivy—turn her on with all the sordid details of how he'd fucked them both. More than that, he wanted inside her. His cock felt like a sword hot from the forge, demanding to be cooled in the soft waters of her sex. Already it strained at his boxers. All he could do was decide whether to go with this sudden, errant impulse or excuse himself, go to the bathroom, call the Watchtower and have himself teleported up—

He couldn't even think further than that. Not when Vicki's tits were right then, begging to be looked at and demanding to be touched. He couldn't think. He could barely breathe, locked in the stiffness of his resolve. All he could do... was leave the decision up to her.

"I hear you were roommates with Summer Gleeson in journalism school. And you shared a lot more than clothes. Not to mention all the times you've been taken hostage by Calendar Girl, or Nyssa al Ghul, or Magpie—never any male villains..."

Her eyes flashed. "Are you insinuating I'm 'easy', Bruce?"

"No. I think you're difficult. I'm just good." He spread his hands. "Two wives."

"How good do you have to be when they sleep with each other?"

"How good are you when they stop sleeping with each other?"

Vicki decided to find out. With her massage of his thigh not making him move an inch, she pressed on and touched the bulge between his legs.

The muscle there was hard too.

"Is there anything wrong, Bruce? You seem a little... stiff." With impressive control of her body, she leaned forward even as her foot stayed exactly where she wanted it. Her creamy breasts pillowed up and out of her bodice, showing their curvature all the way to the areola.

Bruce watched her without any apparent enthusiasm. As he hid his anger, his hatred, so he hid her lust for her so deep that it had all the room in the world to grow. "Nothing's wrong, except you're going to knock the wine over with your tits if you don't keep that flimsy dress pulled up," he said, voice monotone.

Then, very calmly, he undid the top button of his trousers and slid the zipper down as far as it would go. The sound was inaudible to Vicki, who stared at his poker face for cracks. Hidden under the table, Bruce soon had his cock free from its prison. With his other hand, he gripped Vicki's foot. Quite naturally, he brought it against the swollen shaft of his erection.

Vicki's leg tensed up, then released as she realized what hard, naked flesh she was touching. She saw nothing wrong with flirting a little with her subjects; it was one more tool in her reporter's arsenal, and if male reporters could use their male privilege, she could use her feminine charms.

But going all the way? Not a handjob, not brushing her tits against his arm, but actually having him inside her? Wouldn't that make her a whore?

No. It'd make her a woman who had sex with Bruce Wayne and maybe even got a story out of the deal too. For that, she'd get Whore tattooed right on her.

"Oh, Mr. Wayne, I'm ever so sorry!" she said in sweet apology. "How inconsiderate of me! I've let you see so much of my great big tits that you've gone and had an erection, haven't you?" She moved a theatrical hand to her mouth. "I'm sooooo sorry. That was very rude on my part! I just have to make it feel better. Let me kiss it and make it better..."

She slid under the table, happy to lay eyes on just what a long, hard present he had for her. Pulling her hem out of the way, she knelt down and placed a kiss on the purpling head. His manhood vibrated in anticipation of more.

"Did that make you feel better?" she asked, looking up Bruce's lap. His erection nearly blotted out her view of his face.

"It's a start," Bruce told her, setting a firm hand on the crown of her head. He was cold as a glacier and about as implacable, his very lack of response presenting a challenge to her that she couldn't resist.

She lapped at his shaft now, teasing it for no other reason than she wanted to know just how big it could get. Already, he looked bigger than the largest man she'd ever deep-throated. A big dick and a billion-dollar inheritance. The guy must've been the Pope in his previous life.

"So," Vicki asked, "does Harley Quinn do this for you?"

Bruce's silver-blue eyes bore into Vicki until she was almost ready to admit defeat. "Yes. She does. And if you'd like the juicy details of what I do with her..." He pushed down hard on her head. In the direction of his upright phallus.

The reporter opened her mouth wide, placing it at the tip of his cock. His steady pressure on the back of her head worked her over his first few inches. Vicki knew she had a small mouth, but he was truly gargantuan. Her jaw was stretched so far it was aching. But Vicki had to admit, there was nothing wrong with the heady taste and pungent smell of his aroused manhood.

Once she was sure she could take the flaring head, she vacuumed down the broad inches of his prick, pulling him down her throat as fast as she could. She shut her eyes as she went down on him, wanting to focus only on the presence of his meat between her lips.

Bruce's expression might have been carved into stone. Aside from the steady pulse of his nostrils, not one muscle twitched in his impassive face. He simply clamped his hand on the back of Vicki's neck and applied even more pressure, the veins on his forearm standing out as he forced Vicki's willing mouth down on his cock.

The reporter almost gagged as the tip of his staff lodged in the back of her throat, smearing precum in her gullet, but she thought of other reporters he'd been seen with: Summer Gleeson, Lois Lane, Cat Grant. She was determined to do better than them!

Tears swam in her eyes, but she gave into the pressure he exerted on her and allowed Bruce to feed his cock not only into her mouth, but deep into her throat. Bruce didn't stop his descent into that satin-soft, vice-tight grip until her nose was flattened against the wiry hairs of his pubis. Then he looked up and greeted the returning maître d'.

"Oh! Where is Ms. Vale?" the maître d' asked once he'd come through the door, not seeing her under the tablecloth.

"Something came up that she had to attend to. I'm sure she'll be back shortly," Bruce said, with all the emotion he'd put into a discussion of the Italian cinema.

A waiter pushed in a tray containing the varied entrees and dishes of the meal, which the maître d' described in detail as each was unveiled and presented on the table. Vicki didn't hear what was vegetarian and what wasn't. Bruce's thick, coarse fingers were in her hair, ruining the elaborately effortless coif as he pulled her up and down, forcing her to bob her head on his huge cock again and again. Vicki tried not to suck too nosily, even if it meant her saliva ran down over his manhood, forced out by each pump she made on his shaft.

The maître d' finished and departed, clearly disappointed that he hadn't been given another opportunity to leer at Vicki. Bruce bid him and the waiter adieu, then calmly sliced up his steak tartare. He took one bite, then another, chewing politely as if Vicki were sitting across from him instead of between his spread legs, her head rocking upon his cock.

Gently cupping Vicki's head again, he pulled her off his cock. It sprang up from her mouth as soon as it left it, hitting her in the nose. Vicki was left gasping for air, his cock looming over her.

"You really should try this; Chef Boussard has outdone himself," Bruce said, offering her a forkful of the steak tartare. "I think I detect a hint of black pepper. Tell me what you think."

Vicki took the bite he offered her, chewed distractedly, and swallowed. "It's good," she reported dully.

"Maybe we should get on with the interview. I'd hate for your food to get cold."

Vicki stared at his intensely erect cock, offended by his continued tumescence. "I want your cum!"

"Well, they have Hollandaise sauce."

Almost growling, Vicki tried to stuff his cock back in her mouth. It'd gotten bigger since the last time; her lips were pulled so far apart by taking him inside that she felt like they would snap. But she loved it. As much as he played it cool, him being even harder meant that he was responding to her overtures.

Vicki went down on him with all her might; his cock came rushing into her mouth and she cradled it with her tongue, massaged the underside of his shaft. She let her own lust propel his cock down her throat like a battering ram. It jerked and bucked in her gullet; she knew she was getting to him.

If only her mouth could accept such a big dick. If only she could breathe. It'd been months since she'd given a blowjob; between journalism and her book deals she hadn't had time for so much as a one-night stand. She just wasn't used to deep-throating such a massive slab of meat, and when her world turned black and red at the edges with no more to show for it than a steady trickle of precum, she pulled herself off him.

Zev95
Zev95
1,580 Followers
12