The Aerie was never truly silent. The low hum of its advanced computer systems was the breath of the place, a sound so constant Dick Grayson only noticed it in its absence. Tonight, the hum felt different. Thrumming with a new, predatory frequency.
Electronic ghosts. He’d felt them the moment he’d grappled up to the hidden Blüdhaven rooftop entrance. A prickle on the back of his neck that had nothing to do with the night air. His own counter-intel, a web of informants and digital tripwires he’d woven with paranoid care, had delivered the warning an hour ago. Spyral. Cameras. Microphones. Livestream.
Their plan was obvious: Exposure. Humiliation. The destruction of Nightwing.
A slow, wicked smile spread under his domino mask. They had no idea what they’d just signed up for.
He moved into the center of the main chamber, a spacious area with mats for training and a panoramic view of the city lights. He knew they were watching. He could almost feel the weight of a hundred invisible eyes on the blue bird emblem across his chest. A familiar heat, one he usually buried deep under the persona of the hero, began to uncoil in his gut. This wasn’t fear. This was thrill.
He began slow, a performer finding his light. He rolled his shoulders, the Kevlar-weave of his suit stretching and pulling across the dense musculature of his back. He brought his hands up, gloved fingers tracing the contours of his own pectorals, feeling the firmness there. For them. He dragged his palms down, over the ridges of his abdomen, a defined six-pack that tensed under his own touch.
“Long night,” he murmured, his voice a low, carrying pitch meant for the microphones. A confession for an audience of enemies.
His fingers found the first seal at his collar. With a deliberate, almost teasing slowness, he released the hidden clasps one by one. The sound of each click echoed in the silent lair. He peeled the top of his suit down to his waist, the material catching for a moment on the broad sweep of his shoulders before he shrugged it off, letting the top half of the suit hang loose around his hips.
The air was cool on his skin. He saw himself reflected in the dark glass of a monitor—a sculpture of muscle and shadow. He knew what they saw. The deep, masculine cleft of his chest, dusted with a dark, fine trail of hair that narrowed over the hard plane of his stomach. His skin gleamed under the low light, a canvas of honed strength.
He turned his back to where he’d calculated the primary camera would be, giving them a view that was legend in certain circles. He flexed, the muscles in his back rippling in a complex symphony of latissimus dorsi and trapezius, leading down to the firm, jaw-dropping curve of his buttocks, perfectly outlined by the tight suit still clinging to his lower half. He heard a sharp, almost imperceptible intake of breath from a hidden speaker—a spy forgetting to mute their feed. The sound sent a jolt straight to his groin.
Facing forward again, he let his hands roam. He massaged the thick, rounded deltoids of his shoulders, working down to the defined biceps and triceps. His fingers, now bare as he tugged off his gloves, traced the dark, flat nipples centered on his pectorals. A spark of electricity shot through him, a direct line to his now-stirring cock. God, they must be loving this. He pinched one gently, his breath hitching, and was rewarded with the distinct feeling of thickening, of hardening within the confines of his suit.
He stepped back, lowering himself onto the edge of the training mat with casual grace. The movement was fluid, practiced, as he bent one knee and brought his booted foot to rest on his opposite thigh. His gloved fingers worked at the laces with deliberate slowness, each tug a tease, each movement calculated to draw their attention. The boot came off with a soft thud, and he began on the next, pausing to flex the arch of his now-bare foot before moving to the final boot.
With both boots discarded, he peeled off his socks one by one, rolling them down his calves with a sensuality that felt almost obscene. His feet were as sculpted as the rest of him, high arches and strong toes, the skin soft yet bearing the faint calluses of a man who spent his life in motion. He stretched his toes, letting them curl and relax, before bringing a foot up to cradle in his hands.
His fingers dug into the sole, kneading with a firm, practiced pressure. He worked his thumb along the arch, circling sensitive spots, his touch both self-indulgent and performative. A low hum escaped his lips, barely audible but resonant through the microphones, as he continued the massage, switching to the other foot with the same unhurried precision.
He leaned back slightly, propping himself on one arm while the other hand worked expertly over his foot, his eyes half-lidded beneath the domino mask. The camera’s focus shifted downward, capturing every detail—the flex of his toes, the way his fingers pressed into his skin, the faint sheen of sweat that had begun to form on his body.
“Long patrols,” he murmured again, his voice a velvet purr, “take their toll.” He dropped his foot to the floor and shifted, turning to face the lens more directly. His hands rested on his knees now, his posture relaxed but commanding, as though daring them to look away.
The moment hung in the air, charged and intimate, before he stood once more, resuming his deliberate procession toward the inevitable.
The audience was spellbound; he could feel it. This was his stage. His exhibition.
His thumbs hooked into the waistband of his suit, the tension in the room palpable. This was the main event. He pushed it down with agonizing leisure, revealing the deep V-cut of his hips, the muscles there taut and leading the eye down. The suit slid over his upper thighs, but instead of bare skin, he revealed something else—tight, skimpy black briefs that hugged his form like a second skin.
The fabric clung to every curve of his lower body, leaving little to the imagination. The briefs emphasized the full, perfect shape of his ass, the material stretching taut over the firm, rounded globes. He bent forward slightly, a graceful, acrobatic move that showcased the defined muscles of his backside, the briefs riding up just enough to reveal the lower arches of his cheeks. The fabric seemed to shimmer under the low light, a teasing contrast against his smooth, lightly haired thighs.
He straightened, his hands moving to the waistband of the briefs now. He paused, letting the anticipation build. His fingers traced the edge of the fabric, drawing attention to how snugly it fit, how it barely contained the growing bulge beneath. With deliberate slowness, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband once more and began to peel the briefs down.
The movement was excruciatingly gradual, each inch of skin unveiled a revelation. The fabric slid over his hips, revealing the taut muscle and faint trail of dark hair that led downward. As it passed over the swell of his buttocks, he arched his back slightly, ensuring the camera captured every detail. The briefs finally slipped down his thighs, pooling at his feet, leaving him bare before the lens.
He stood tall, his body a masterpiece of strength and allure, every muscle defined and ready for their undivided attention. The moment hung in the air, charged with unspoken promise, as he prepared for the next act in his performance.
He let the moment linger, the weight of his hard, naked form commanding the room. Then, with a slow, deliberate grace, he bent forward at the waist, folding his body in half until his palms rested flat on the mat. His legs remained straight, the powerful muscles of his thighs taut and defined. The camera had no choice but to focus on the perfect, rounded globes of his ass—and between them, the tight, pink furl of his hole, now fully exposed.
Dick held the position, letting the lens drink in every detail: the faint sheen of sweat glistening across his skin, the way his cheeks parted ever so slightly to reveal that most private part of him. He flexed, just enough to make the muscles in his ass ripple, drawing a soft, involuntary gasp from somewhere in the hidden surveillance feed.
Still bent over, he shifted his weight to one leg, raising the other off the ground in a slow, controlled stretch. His foot pointed skyward, elongating the already impressive line of his body. The movement pulled his cheeks apart further, exposing more of that delicate, forbidden center. He held the pose, letting the tension build, before switching legs with the same unhurried precision.
The air in the room felt thicker now, charged with an electric heat. Dick straightened slowly, his hands sliding up his thighs as he rose. He paused mid-stand, crouching slightly to stretch his hamstrings, his ass once again on full display. The faintest hint of smirk tugged at his lips beneath the mask. They were hooked, and he knew it.
The performance was calculated, every move designed to prolong the exposure, to keep their eyes glued to him. He was in control now, and they were following his lead—just as he’d planned.
He stood up, naked from the waist down, his back to the camera. The cool air kissed his skin, but he was burning up from the inside. He could feel the weight of his genitals, heavy and full between his legs. He slowly turned, a full, glorious rotation, letting them take in every detail before he finally presented himself to the primary lens.
And there he was. Fully exposed. Mask on.
Nightwing stood before the lens, his body a masterpiece of discipline and power. His legs were thick, powerful pillars, each muscle group defined with the precision of a sculptor’s hand. His quadriceps bulged with every subtle shift of his weight, the skin taut and smooth over the dense, corded muscle beneath. His calves were equally impressive, carved with sharp lines that hinted at years of acrobatics and high-intensity combat. And between them, nestled in the shadow of his thighs, was his cock.
It hung flaccid but undeniably impressive, a thick, heavy length resting against the soft curve of his sac. The skin was darker than the rest of him, a rich, deep tone that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. His balls were full and heavy, the weight of them pulling slightly against his groin, a testament to his virility. A neat, trimmed patch of black hair framed the base, a perfect contrast to the smoothness of his shaft and the taut skin of his scrotum.
The camera behind its hidden panel seemed to zoom in, its focus unwavering as Nightwing began his deliberate display. He reached down with one hand, his fingers brushing lightly against the soft skin of his inner thigh before trailing upward to cradle his sac. He lifted gently, letting the heft of his balls rest in his palm for a moment, the warmth of his own touch sending a faint shiver through him. His thumb rubbed slow, circular motions over the delicate skin, the movement almost meditative. He could feel the tension in the room, the way every eye—human or mechanical—was glued to him.
Next, he slid his hand upward, his fingers dragging along the underside of his cock. The skin was smooth, velvety against his touch, and he traced the length from base to tip with deliberate slowness. When he reached the head, he paused, running the pad of his thumb over the sensitive ridge where the shaft met the glans. The sensation was soft, tantalizing, and he marveled at the way it made his breath hitch ever so slightly.
He wrapped his hand around his cock then, not to stroke but to demonstrate. His fingers encircled the thickness with ease, though they didn’t quite meet around it. He squeezed gently, letting the camera capture every detail: the way his grip emphasized the girth, the way the skin stretched and shifted under the pressure. He tilted his hips slightly, angling himself so the lens could see every inch of him in perfect clarity.
With his other hand now free, he reached up to trace the length of his shaft again, this time with two fingers. He followed the path from base to tip once more, but this time he lingered on the head. He rolled his finger over the very tip, a feather-light touch that sent a jolt of electricity straight to his core. His breathing deepened, though he remained in control, flaccid but exhilarated by the game he was playing.
Finally, he released himself, stepping back slightly to give the camera a full view. He turned slowly, displaying himself from every angle: the thick curves of his thighs, the powerful lines of his hips, and the undeniable beauty of his genital region. He was a work of art, and he knew it. The lens drank him in, capturing every detail, every movement, every breath.
Nightwing smirked beneath his mask. This was his show. And they were just along for the ride.
He placed his hands on his hips, striking a casual, powerful pose. His heart hammered against his ribs. This was the most dangerous, most exhilarating stunt he’d ever pulled.
Then, he began to harden.
It was a slow, mesmerizing transformation, unfolding with a deliberate, almost primal grace. At first, the change was subtle—a faint swelling, a gentle thickening that stirred between his thighs. Then, as if responding to the weight of a thousand unseen eyes, his cock began to rise, lifting from its resting place in a proud, undeniable arc. The flesh darkened slightly, veins surfacing along the shaft like intricate tributaries on a map of arousal. Each one pulsed faintly, tracing the path of his growing excitement.
He reached down with deliberate slowness, not to stroke, but to cradle the burgeoning length in his hand, letting its weight rest against his palm. He marveled at it, even now, after years of familiarity. His cock was substantial—8.5 inches of thick, perfectly proportioned flesh, with a girth of 6 full inches that made his fingers strain to encircle it fully. He squeezed gently, feeling the heat of it, the way it seemed to throb under his touch, as if alive and hungry for more. The head was broad and smooth, crowned by a glistening slit that already showed signs of his arousal. A single, clear bead of precum welled from the tip, catching the light like a precious jewel. He swiped a finger through it, holding the moisture up for the camera to see before bringing it to his lips, maintaining eye contact with the lens. Taste the show.
Dick smirked beneath his mask, pride swelling in his chest. He was no stranger to admiration—his body had always been a weapon, a tool, and a canvas—but this was different. This was raw, unfiltered exhibitionism, and he reveled in it. He shifted slightly, angling himself so the camera could capture every detail of his arousal: the way his cock twitched in anticipation, the way the skin stretched taut over its length, the way the veins seemed to throb with every heartbeat.
His hand moved again, this time with purpose. He wrapped his fingers around the base, gripping firmly but not tightly—yet. He dragged his hand upward in a slow, deliberate stroke, savoring the sensation of his own touch. The skin was impossibly smooth, heated, and he could feel every ridge, every vein as he moved. When he reached the top. Now came the second stroke-He took his time, working from root to tip with a torturously slow pace. The way he moved wasn’t frantic or desperate—it was deliberate, almost reverent, as if he were worshipping his own arousal.
His cock twitched against his palm, as if begging for more.He tightened his grip ever so slightly, squeezing another droplet of precum from the slit.The second stroke upwards brought another drop of precum. And now he was getting sensitive. It would only take him about 10 strokes to cum. He knew from experience. Stroking upwards again, he felt the pressure building in his core.His cock swelled impossibly harder,a deep rush of blood filling it to its limit.The bulbous head was dripping with precum now.He stroked the head with two fingers,smearing the slick liquid over it.He played with the frenulum when he got that far down,circling round it with his fingertip.His balls were tight.He knew he should stop soon if he didn't want to cum right there on camera.
The rhythm of his strokes was steady, unhurried, each one drawing more precum to the surface like a spring bubbling up from deep within him. By the fourth stroke, his cock was glistening. Hardness radiated from the very core of him, a throbbing pulse that seemed to echo through every muscle in his body.The firm circular motions weren't helping either.He squeezed tightly now, feeling the head grow hotter under his grip. Precum began dripping now from the tip like water from a faucet.
Nightwing’s breath hitched visibly but quietly, his chest rising and falling with the effort to remain composed. The mask hid half his face, but the tension in his jaw,the clenching of his fists,the quiver in his thighs betrayed the intensity of what he was feeling. His legs—thick, powerful columns of muscle—trembled faintly, the strain evident in the way his quadriceps flexed and rippled with every movement.
He bent forward slightly at the waist, his free hand gripping the edge of the training mat for support as he continued to stroke himself with measured precision. The motion was hypnotic, each pull eliciting a faint twitch from his cock, each release making it bob slightly in the air before he gripped it again crooning to himself softly. Every breath was deliberate, controlled.A n audience of spies watched awed. He was on the precipe of exploding.
Then, unexpectedly, Dick stood up straight and slowly stopped. He dropped both hands onto his hips as he looked directly onto where he knew the primary camera lens was. He stood tall. Naked. Monumental. Covered in sweat. He squeezed his hard cock, gave a sultry look directly into the camera, tilted his chin up defiantly, then smiled slyly, saying "that's enough" while hitting a button on the floor that deactivated the spy cameras entirely.
Smiling and till stroking his mostly hard dick, Nightwing reached to a nearby table, picked up a transmitter, and starting typing an encrypted message to someone.
He hit send and then chuckled, saying “your move.”
More to cum . . .
