Nightwing: Owned by the Cock

Jason finally his finger pulled back from Nightwing’s twitching hole, a predator satisfied with its mark. He turned his masked face toward the cold, unblinking eye of the camera. “Well, my eager viewers,” he purred, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the humid air. “Look at him. Trussed up, displayed… but still holding onto one last, pathetic shred of dignity.” He gestured with a flourish toward Dick’s straining form. “Don’t you think it’s time? Time to see all of him?”
A chorus of digital cheers and howls, fed through a tinny speaker on the tripod, was the only answer. The sound was a physical thing, a wave of heat that crashed over Dick, making his skin prickle with a fresh layer of sweat. They’re all watching. They all want this.

With a bruising grip on his shoulder, Jason spun him. The world tilted, the camera’s lens swiveling to capture the front of his body once more. The focus seemed to sharpen, zeroing in on the one remaining barrier: the deep blue jock strap stretched taut across his hips. The fabric was a stark, vibrant contrast against the skin of his abdomen and thighs.

“Mmm, just look at that,” Jason murmured, his tone one of faux-awe as he addressed the audience. He stepped close, his own leather-clad thigh brushing against Dick’s, a whisper of roughness against unbearable sensitivity. He didn’t touch the jockstrap itself, not yet. Instead, he hovered his hand just over it, making the audience—and Dick—wait. “So much power contained. So much… potential. What a delight it will be to finally unveil Gotham’s finest for the entire world.”

Dick’s breath hitched. He could feel the cool air of the warehouse on his damp skin, but beneath the elastic band, he was burning up. A low groan was trapped in his throat, part plea, part protest. Humiliation was a live wire in his gut, supercharged by the neural stimulant and a desire so intense it felt like terror. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat counting down the seconds.

Then Jason moved. Not with the shears, but with his hand. He brought two fingers down, not to remove the fabric, but to trace the outline of Dick's cock. He followed the thick curve straining against the cloth, his pressure firm and deliberate.

The effect was instantaneous. A violent, involuntary twitch rocked through Dick’s body, his hips bucking forward against the restraint of the cuffs, pushing his trapped erection firmly against the tracing finger. A sharp, ragged gasp tore from his lips.

Jason’s head snapped up, his masked gaze locking onto the camera with theatrical shock. “Did you see that?” he exclaimed, a laugh bubbling under his words. “He can’t help himself! The hero is begging for it with his entire body!”

He returned his attention to the jockstrap, his eyes narrowing. He leaned in, as if studying a rare specimen. Then, a genuine chuckle escaped him, dark and delighted. “Oh, but look here. Will you look at this?” He pointed, and Dick squeezed his eyes shut, knowing what was coming, wishing the floor would swallow him whole.

“It’s soaked through,” Jason announced, his voice dripping with salacious joy. He tapped the damp, dark patch of fabric at the very center of the bulge. “His own anticipation is betraying him. A pool of his own desperate want, right there for you all to see.” He looked directly into the lens, a smirk evident in his tone. “See what the Cock does to your hero? See how he ruins him?”

In a movement both swift and obscene, Jason hooked two fingers under the waistband at Dick’s hip and pulled it out just an inch before letting it snap back against his damp skin. The sharp sting made Dick flinch. When Jason pulled his fingers back, the tips of his fingers were shimmering, glistening with a clear, sticky fluid.

Holding his hand up to the camera, Jason displayed the evidence. “The taste of a fallen icon, my friends. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.” Slowly, with a performance meant to entice every single viewer, he brought one glistening finger to his mouth. He put his bare index finger past his lips. His eyes closed in a pantomime of ecstasy as he savored the taste. “Mmmm. Salty. Sweet. So potent. The very essence of Nightwing,” he moaned for the camera.

Dick watched, horrified and mesmerized, his own breath coming in shallow pants. The intimacy of the act was more violating than any touch yet.

Then Jason’s eyes snapped open, locking onto Dick’s. The playful villain was gone, replaced by something colder, more dominant. This was the real point of no return. He held up his other hand, the middle finger equally coated in Dick’s precum.

“Now,” Jason said, his voice dropping to a intimate, commanding murmur meant only for the two of them, though the microphones picked up every syllable. “For you.”

He stepped forward, invading Dick’s space. He cupped Dick’s jaw with his clean hand, his grip firm, unyielding. Dick tried to turn his head away, a final, feeble act of defiance, but Jason held him fast.

“Open,” Jason commanded, the word leaving no room for argument.

A war raged behind Dick’s eyes—shame, arousal, a lifetime of control violently upended. The stimulant hummed through his veins, amplifying every sensation, every emotion, until the need for release was a screaming imperative in his brain. The part of him that was playing the role, the part that had asked for this, won.

His lips, dry and trembling, parted.

Jason pushed the slick finger into his mouth.

The taste exploded on his tongue—himself, but filtered through the context of this humiliating spectacle. It was salty, musky, undeniably sexual. Jason held his finger there, not moving, forcing Dick to truly experience it, to taste his own desperate submission. The feel of Jason's hand, his rough skin, against his cheek, the stark, private intensity in Jason’s eyes behind the mask, the crude, wet sound of it—it was too much.

A deep, broken moan vibrated against Jason’s finger, a sound of utter defeat and overwhelming stimulation. His body went limp in the restraints, all fight leaving him, replaced by a shocking, dizzying wave of pure, unadulterated turn-on. He was putty. He was the Cock’s.

Jason slowly withdrew his finger, dragging it across Dick’s lower lip, leaving a wet, glistening trail. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Dick’s ear, his voice a hot, vicious whisper.

“Now they all know exactly what you are.”