Author's Note: Thank you for your patience. I am now back from my trip, and should resume writing quickly. You may all climb down from the edges of your seats now.
When the Joker arrived in Adria's room, he found her fast asleep, her pillow sodden from crying.
"Whaddya, lazy? Half the time I see you, you're asleep." He said, giving her a little shove. She woke with a start and stared up at him.
"I mean… It's not like I didn't give you somethin' to do." He indicated the pile of rags on the dusty vanity table.
"I'm… really… not in the mood right now." Adria grumbled, and turned over to go back to sleep. She was really starting to get sick of his games.
"Aww, but Honey, Sweetpea, Angelface… I am."
"What?" Adria found herself sitting bolt upright, more than awake now.
"Well, Kitten… I've been thinking." He replied, folding his hands and doing his best to look serious and professional. In any other situation, it would have been comical, Adria thought, looking at his painted up face and his permanent grin contrasted with his serious expression and slightly frowning lips.
"I've been thinking and, ah, I think it's time that we lay out the rules, as it were. See, I've been going about things all wrong, Sugar. I've been giving you a grand idea of punishment, but no real clue as to your potential, ah, rewards. And it appears that you don't seem to mind your punishments as much as I'd hoped…" He licked his lips.
"Kinky bitch…" He murmured to himself.
"What was that?" Adria asked, suspiciously.
"Nothing, Sweets." He grinned devilishly. "So… I thought maybe… maybe I could clue you in to the grand prize… What happens if you just, ah, relax a little and play my game."
"What are you going to do to me?" She asked, eyebrow raised.
"Me? Do anything?" He looked offended. "Angelcakes, look at me. I'm a saint."
He turned out his pockets, looking innocent.
"What do I have to do?" She asked.
"You just have to remember how to be a good little girl." He smiled. "Good little girls are obedien-t. They listen to their superiors. Good little girls know that I know best, and try to take that to heart. But most of all, good little girls know exactly when the right time to fight is."
"And when is the right time to fight?" Adria asked.
"Too many questions, and you'll only get yourself in trouble." He admonished, snatching her by the jaw and shaking her head.
"Then how am I supposed to know?" Adria asked.
"Because, Muffin. I'll let you know." His eyes were engulfed in hungry flame. "Good little girls have the same, ah, desires as bad little girls. But good little girls want them so much more. But they can't let anyone know how much they desire bad things… That is when my good little girl fights." He had climbed on top of her at some point, though she was still safe within her cocoon of blankets.
"I wanna see how much you fight." He grinned. "Because you know I'll always win. And, ah, I expect you might enjoy the thrill of my victory just as much as I will." He had seized her wrists and, before Adria knew what was happening, he had dragged her out of bed. And mysteriously disappeared.
Adria spun around, looking for him. What was that for? She had turned 360 and then some, and suddenly felt two arms wrap suffocatingly around her from behind. He had her by the waist, and one arm wrapped around her, petting at her exposed throat, pushing her head back against his shoulder. She whimpered for a moment, instinctively.
"Shush, shhh…" He growled, but it wasn't the terrifying growl of an enraged animal now. "No need to fear the things that you want."
He was mocking her, but not harshly, or with the cool indifference he usually used. He was nuzzling her, she felt his face at her temple, felt the jagged scars, shivered. He paused for a moment, grip tightening. She grew still. His hand lingered on her throat for a moment, just a warning, but he resumed a steady, slow stroking of her neck, and she relaxed.
It was control, but not the same, rough, obvious control that he seemed to love exerting over her. He was taunting her with it. It was true, she could fight all she wanted, but in the end she would have to give in. But at the same time, he was working a much more sadistic sort of magic. He was lulling her senses into a dull murmur, seducing her. She closed her eyes.
He was enjoying this thoroughly. His sweet little peach, just waiting to be picked. He hoped she would at least put up a good fight. He could feel her melting, forgetting her surroundings. He was feeling compassionate this evening. He would allow her a moment in her fantasy.
She was slipping away, eyes closed to the horror of reality, the fear and the fighting. She was dreaming, allowing herself to dream. Right now, at this moment, she could be with anyone. Anyone at all. She hadn't so much as had a date in months, and suddenly the attention was overwhelming.
He had had enough of this little fantasy of hers… She was putty in his hands, but it was time to wake up. He took one of her hands, drew it up, and kissed her fingertips. He waited for her audible sigh, then, grinning, nuzzled the palm of her hand, and felt it go rigid. Her whole body tensed. So much for fantasy.
She felt the roughened scars move across her fingertips and suddenly felt ill, confused. She was inwardly horrified by the reminder of where she was. But outwardly, she wasn't sure she wanted him to stop. After all, it had been such a long time… This was crazy.
"Dreaming, Sweets?" He giggled. "So sorry to have, ah, disturbed you." He let her wriggle away from him, though he kept a deathgrip on her wrist. He periodically reeled her in, like a fish, to tease her, before allowing her to attempt escape again. Finally, the little voice from somewhere immediately below his stomach grumbled that he should stop playing with her, and get down to business. So he swept her clear off her feet.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you." He ordered. She peeked up at him, feeling her heart sink further with the reminder of what was real. If he would only take off that damned face paint, it might not be so bad. She could concentrate on a pair of real, human looking eyes, and maybe, just maybe, forget.
But he didn't want her to forget. He wanted her to burn. Not for the weakness that his own human eyes represented in her lonely and battered mind. And not for the dream that she could dream when she closed her eyes. He wanted her to burn for him.
"Are you going to be a, hmmm, good little girl?" He purred. She nodded swiftly, momentarily afraid that he would drop her, if only just to grab at her face and force her to agree.
"Good. And I didn't even hafta ask you twice." He smiled, flashing those disgusting, yellowed teeth. Adria swallowed hard, forcing down a wave of revulsion. He laid her down, leaning over her, pinning her arms above her head. "Are you afraid?"
She didn't answer. Truth was, she wasn't sure. Part of her was terrified, yes, but a small, infinitesimally tiny part of her was utterly calm. She wanted to say she was just accepting her fate, but that wasn't quite it. Because consenting and accepting one's fate are two totally different concepts.
"Guess not." He snorted, looking down at her. "Better for you then."
He pinned her wrists with one hand, and began unbuttoning her shirt with the other. She wriggled a bit, uselessly. She watched his eyes flash hungrily, inwardly wishing she could feel the same.
"Don't move." He ordered. She fell silent, and he let go of her wrists. What was he doing? He loosened his tie. She tried to slide away, just a little. "I said don't move."
She went dead still.
He removed his tie calmly, taking a moment to undo the Windsor knot that held it in a loop. Then he seized her by the wrists and dragged her further up the bed, tying her hands securely to one bedpost with the tie.
"Never know when I might need these." He said, grinning and flexing his fingers. He peeled off his gloves, revealing long, thin fingers smeared with old paint. Did the man ever wash?
He undressed her methodically and in silence. He wanted her to be utterly exposed for a moment, to revel in her weakness. He wanted to watch her rise above it.
He stood over her, grinning maddeningly. She was livid. She found herself tense, waiting. She had begun to wish he would just get it over with, but then, he couldn't possibly do that, now could he? No, he wanted to see her squirm, waiting for him. She began to wonder if he would even bother undressing, or if he was planning on making the quickest of quick getaways when he was finished.
"What's on your mind, Sugartits?"
"What are you waiting for?" She asked.
"Ah, ah, aah." He wagged a white-smeared finger in her face. "What did I say about good little girls?"
"They never admit what they really want." Adria sighed.
"Good girl." He patted her cheek… and allowed his hand to wander a bit. Adria's face turned an appropriate shade of pink, and he stopped, taking a moment to remove his vest, slide his suspenders off his shoulders, and undo the buttons of his bizarre silk shirt.
Adria let out a badly hidden gasp when she saw his chest. As if the scars on his face weren't enough, he had several healed over gashes intersecting his chest, as if someone had tried to cut his heart out. He ignored her and continued.
By this time, Adria's body was screaming for attention. He watched her, could practically feel her aching for it to just be over with, and then joined her.
.
.
.
Adria woke up in the middle of the night, shivering. He had left her alone and exposed, hadn't even had the decency to cover her with a blanket before leaving. At least he had untied her… She rubbed her wrists, and then climbed out of bed. It was nighttime. She hadn't been awake after dark yet, and he told her she could open the curtains at night, take in the view.
The 42nd floor penthouse of the Gotham Edison Hotel was not the highest vantage point in all of Gotham City, but it was the highest point in this particular neighborhood. She opened her curtains and stood in the window, temporarily forgetting she was unclothed. Not like it mattered, no one would see her up here, in the dark. The moon shone in a sky she had already nearly forgotten, hazy clouds drifted by, obscuring the stars. The lights of the city twinkled all around her. She could see the darkened tenements in one direction, the luxury high-rise apartments in another. Lights beamed up from the theatre district, despite the late hour. Theatre people never seemed to sleep. She reached for her camera by instinct, but remembered that it had no memory card. Pity, as the view really was a priceless one.
Even in the middle of the night, her room held plenty of light. This had once been an airy structure, dozens of windows to be thrown open on the night. Now the windows remained tightly curtained, locking her within the walls, all alone with him.
He had surprised her with his gentleness. She supposed, after all, that it was because he wanted it to be a reward. If nothing else, it had been a relief. He had spent enough time building up the sexual tension before hand. She wasn't sure what to think of the night. He hadn't lingered long, at least she didn't think so. Her mind and body were so overwhelmed that she had fallen asleep nearly immediately after the fact.
She wasn't sure what would happen when she saw him again.
The Joker was awake, as usual. He assumed most people would call this insomnia, but he wasn't an insomniac, his mind just kept on moving. The coming of night always caused his senses to tingle, there were Bats out at night. He was thinking, he wanted to have more fun.
The girl had been more receptive than he expected. Not like he would have given her a choice. But he hadn't had to put her in her place. And he was right, after all. Blind prostitutes definitely left something to be desired. He wanted more. More of that sweet little tart. And he wanted it as soon as possible.
