The silence that followed his question was a palpable thing, thick and heavy, broken only by the ragged rhythm of Dick’s breathing. He was suspended in that agonizing space between humiliation and desperate need, the neural stimulant making every second feel like an eternity. The camera’s red light was a burning brand, a thousand eyes seeing the sweat trickle down his temple, the helpless tremor in his bound wrists.
Jason let the moment stretch, a conductor relishing the quiet before the symphony. He reached into a compartment on his own leather-clad thigh, the movement fluid and deliberate. When his hand emerged, it held a pair of shears. They weren’t industrial bolt-cutters; they were sleek, menacing things, with polished black handles and blades that gleamed with a cruel, surgical sharpness under the studio lights.
“Now, for the main event,” The Cock purred, his voice a dark velvet promise that dripped through the speakers and straight into Dick’s soul. He held the shears up to the camera, letting the audience admire the instrument of Dick’s final surrender.
He knelt, the black leather of his suit creaking with the movement. The first touch of the cold metal against the blue fabric of Dick’s suit, just below the knee, made him jerk. So cold. So final.
Snip.
The sound was obscenely loud. A clean cut, and the lower portion of his right pant leg fell away, pooling on the floor to reveal the powerful, corded muscle of his calf. A light dusting of dark hair covered the skin, and the muscle twitched involuntarily under the intense scrutiny.
“Mmm, would you look at that,” Jason murmured, his voice a low, appreciative hum. He ran a gloved hand over the exposed calf, squeezing the firm muscle. “All that leaping across rooftops pays off, doesn’t it, Nightwing? Such strong pillars to hold you up. The chat is loving this. They’re commenting on the definition.”
Snip.
The left leg followed, baring his other calf to the humid air and the watching world. He was acutely aware of the contrast: the cool metal of the table against his back, the heat of his own flushed skin, the ghostly touch of the glove on his bare legs.
“Now,” Jason said, his tone shifting to one of theatrical ceremony. “The final barriers.” He moved the shears higher, to the seam running along Dick’s inner thigh. He didn’t cut yet. He let the sharp point of the blade rest there, a silent, terrifying threat. Dick held his breath, every muscle in his body strung tight as a bowstring.
With a series of quick, efficient cuts, Jason dismantled the rest of the suit’s legs. The fabric parted and fell away, leaving Dick from the waist down clad only in the deep blue material that had been beneath, the equivalent of tight briefs that were now straining desperately to contain the overwhelming evidence of his arousal. The neural stimulant made the feeling of the cool air on his exposed, powerful quadriceps an almost unbearable sensitivity. He could feel the twitch of every fiber.
“Look at those quads,” Jason commanded the audience, his hand smoothing over the taut skin of Dick’s thigh. The touch was deliberate, possessive, as if he were presenting a prized exhibit to a gallery of eager onlookers. “A hero’s legs. Built for running, for fighting… for holding on.” The implication hung in the air like a thick fog, seeping into Dick’s mind and stirring a fresh wave of heat in his gut.
Jason’s fingers kneaded the firm muscle, tracing the lines of strength with an almost reverent precision. “Every leap, every kick, every moment spent soaring through Gotham’s skyline—it’s all right here, isn’t it?” His voice was low, a dark rumble that vibrated through Dick’s body as much as the neural stimulant coursing through his veins. “These legs have carried you through battles, through pain, through triumph. And now…” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “Now they’re carrying you to your own undoing.”
The camera’s red light seemed to bore into Dick’s skin as Jason continued his exploration, his gloved hand sliding higher up his thigh. “The chat is going wild,” he murmured, a smirk playing at the edge of his lips. “They’re commenting on the definition, the power. Some are even suggesting… other uses for these legs.” His hand tightened just above Dick’s knee, a subtle reminder of who was in control. “Imagine that, Nightwing. All those people out there, watching you, imagining what it would be like to have you… bound, controlled, owned. Doesn’t that thrill you?”
Dick shuddered, his breath hitching as Jason’s fingers brushed dangerously close to the hem of his strained briefs. The humiliation was overwhelming, but so was the raw, undeniable arousal that thrummed through his body. The neural stimulant amplified every sensation, turning the barest touch into an electric shock. He tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry.
“They’re admiring how perfectly sculpted you are,” Jason continued, his tone dripping with dark admiration. “But I think they’re missing something… something only I can show them.” He leaned in closer, his breath hot against Dick’s ear as he whispered, “They don’t know how strong your legs feel when they’re wrapped around someone. They don’t know how it feels to have you hold on for dear life.” The words sent a jolt of shame and desire straight to Dick’s core, leaving him trembling and exposed.
Jason straightened, his hand lingering on Dick’s thigh as he addressed the camera once more. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, a major reveal. Let’s see what these heroic legs have been hiding.” With a theatrical flourish, he gripped the remaining fabric and began to peel it away, exposing Dick’s straining briefs to the world. The collective gasp from the unseen audience was almost audible, and Dick felt a fresh wave of heat flood his face. This was it. The fantasy he had craved was unfolding in all its humiliating glory.
Then, with a strength that was always startling, Jason manhandled him. He gripped Dick’s shoulders and spun him around.
“And now… the pièce de résistance,” Jason’s voice was husky, intimate, yet projected for the mic. The shears found the remaining fabric of the suit on his back. With a few more precise cuts, more the Nightwing uniform were severed. The material fell away, and the only thing left was the strained, blue jock strap, a futile flag of modesty in a hurricane of exposure.
A collective, digital gasp seemed to echo in the room. The chat must have been moving at light speed.
With his back now to the camera, Dick's eyes faceda giant monitor, showing what the world was seeing -- a high def view of Nightwing's famously shapely ass.
A new, deeper humiliation bloomed. They couldn’t see his face now, but they could see almost everything else.
Jason didn’t speak for a long moment. He just… looked. Dick could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical pressure. Then, a low, appreciative whistle. “My, my. The legendary ass of the Flying Grayson. The chat is going absolutely feral, hero. They’ve seen glimpses in the past, teased by spandex, but this… this is a masterpiece.”
A leather-clad hand came down, not with a slap, but with a possessive, kneading squeeze. He groped one globe of his ass, his fingers digging into the firm muscle with an intimacy that was far more violating than any punch. Dick choked back a moan. This is what you wanted. This is the fantasy. The thought did nothing to quell the storm of shame and electric pleasure.
Jason fondled him openly, lovingly, for the camera, a visual feast for the unseen audience. “So perfect,” he mused, almost to himself. “So ready.”
Then, he bent Dick over further, spreading the muscular cheeks apart, presenting him to the audience. Revealing his hole to the entire world. Exposing him completely. The cool air hit a place that had never known anything but darkness and privacy. Dick squeezed his eyes shut, a broken sound escaping his lips. He was laid bare, his most secret self shown to the world.
The camera’s light felt like it was burning him there.
Jason made a show of peeling off his own gloves, tossing them aside. The audience saw his bare hands for the first time—strong, calloused, capable. He held them up to the camera, a silent promise, before bringing one down.
The touch, when it came, was a shock. Not leather. Not fabric. Skin. Jason’s bare, warm fingertip touched him there, at his most vulnerable apex. It was just a point of contact, a gentle, almost curious press against the tight, furled ring of muscle.
Dick’s entire body seized. A jolt, white-hot and terrifyingly intense, shot up his spine. The neural stimulant amplified it a thousandfold, transforming a simple touch into a seismic event. He gasped, a ragged, desperate inhale.
Jason traced the outer edge with an unbearable slowness, a artist outlining his subject. He didn’t push. He didn’t penetrate. He just… claimed. The pad of his finger was slightly rough, a testament to a life of violence, now engaged in an act of exquisite torment.
“So responsive,” Jason breathed, his voice dripping with dark wonder. He leaned down, his lips close to Dick’s ear, his words a hot, private secret in the very public room. “They can all see how your body jumps for me. They can see everything. And they know… they know you’ve never been taken like this.”
His finger continued its slow, maddening circle, a promise of what was to come, a boundary not yet crossed.
“Are you ready to give them what they truly want, Nightwing?”
