Author's Note: I will repeat, this story is MATURE. This chapter his non-consensual sexual acts in it. Do not read if that bothers you. There will also be some violence.

Chapter 6

Dick was sitting by himself in his pajamas, a towel wrapped about his recently wetted hair, when a special report interrupted the Spanish soap opera he had been watching. Alfred had left him a cup of tea for when he got out and he sipped it slowly now, glad that his stomach had settled. In fact, he had felt better almost as soon as he got away from the table. He was only half watching the show, half falling asleep. Just as one of the women on the TV was getting particularly melodramatic, and Dick was wondering if he wouldn't rather watch the movie on the other channel instead, even if he had seen it twice before and hadn't liked it much either time, a male reporter took over the screen.

"This is an emergency news broadcast," he declared, trying to convey with his tone the urgency of the situation while at the same time flashing a grin at the camera, "A mysterious substance has somehow been added to the emergency sprinkler systems of various public…"

At that moment, the television was shut off. Dick looked up with a noise of protest, half expecting to find Alfred behind him. There was a person standing there, remote in hand, but it wasn't the butler.

"We don't want to sit around watching TV all day, do we?" Myrie asked him sweetly.

"There's something going on," Dick answered, frowning as he stood to face her, "There was a special…"

"In fact, I think we should go for a little trip," she continued, "Just the two of us." Dick could not even begin to express what he thought of the idea. He had hoped he'd scared her off after the throw up incident at breakfast. Besides, if this was something to do with Poison Ivy, then Batman might need him. He wasn't really feeling sick anymore, or he wasn't until Violet Myrie came closer. And she was acting very strangely.

"Come, now, Dicky," she purred, gliding around the furniture until she stood between him and the TV while extending her arms towards him invitingly, "Don't you want to spend some time with me?" It wasn't a motherly look she was giving him. It was as though she were looking at Bruce, except he wasn't there. Dick felt his stomach clinch, and he felt his face redden as his body began to react to her proximity. It was like being hit by Poison Ivy's phero-fertilizer all over again. He used to dream about woman like her, looking at him like this, except in his dreams they were younger, more innocent. And that was before the nightmares came, before Myrie came.

"No!" he managed to choke out, pulling backwards. His legs hit the edge of his chair and he fell down into it. She pouted darkly for a moment, before leaning over him, her bosom right in his face for a brief moment and then her eyes were looking directly into his. Dick stared into her eyes and made an effort to pull away, but only managed to sink deeper into the chair. He didn't like the way fire coursed through his blood, the way his limbs felt awkward as a newborn colt's. It was like he wasn't himself anymore, he wasn't Robin able to fly gracefully through the air. He was supposed to be able to take down thugs twice her weight, yet here she wasn't even really holding him and he couldn't escape. He felt sick.

"Poor, poor dear," Myrie murmured, her manner changing on a dime back into concerned mother, "Are you feeling bad? Is that why you don't want to come with me?" Dick nodded his head nervously, not trusting his voice. Her hand came up to his forehead, resting against his flushed skin and he shuddered. Her other hand slid beneath his shirt.

"What are you…" Dick began when her lips descended upon his, choking his words as her tongue slid inside his mouth. He whimpered, partly in fear, partly from feeling sick, but also because it felt good. And that made it worse. She broke away abruptly at the loud clatter of breaking glass.

Swiftly, Myrie pulled Dick up, spinning him around and holding him tightly to her chest. Alfred was standing at the doorway, a tray and broken glass lying at his feet. His look of shock, a look Dick never thought he would see in the butler's face, was quickly being replaced by one of dark, stony anger. But he didn't move, and slowly Dick became aware of something cold and metallic digging in to the side of his head.

"Alfred, dear," Myrie purred, "Me and Dicky here are going on a little car ride. Let Bruce know we'll call him later." And normally Dick would have escaped by now, normally he wouldn't have let himself get grabbed like that in the first place, but his limbs still didn't seem to be working right, and his heart was pounding in his ears, and his lungs were struggling to find air, and his vision was blurring and…Alfred was saying something. His tone was scathing and sharp, and just the slightest bit worried, like when they came back to the cave and one of them had gotten hurt. But the words weren't really making much sense, just the tone, and for a moment he was afraid he had done something wrong. Then he felt the gun digging into him again, pushing his head over to the side so it hurt, and he concentrated on the pain because that was the only thing that felt real. He knew he needed to get away from her, he really really needed to get away from her hands and the violets and the way he could feel her grinding her body up against his. He couldn't get his arms to throw her or his feet to do more than kick feebly at her shins, and he was facing the wrong direction to try throwing up on her again. Finally he did about the only thing he could do; he went limp.

Myrie may have had a gun, and she may have been bigger than Dick, but even being small for his age he was still quite a substantial weight for anyone to hold. Myrie couldn't. She made a soft grunting noise and they both fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Dick tried to roll away while Myrie tried to hold onto him and the television played unexpectedly in the background; someone must have sat on the remote. Alfred was there too, suddenly, and then something exploded. And Alfred wasn't there anymore, just Myrie.

He was in her lap and she had a gun in one hand and her cell phone in the other. On the television, the special bulletin was still going on, except the male reporter had been replaced by a young woman. She was dressed casually and had a nervous, stuttering air about her as though she hadn't expected to be filmed. Dick noticed this without really paying attention as she said something about men being effected but his eyes were on a pair of feet. The feet were wearing very good shoes, and they weren't moving.

"Alf'ed?" Dick managed to say, his voice sounding sick and weak in to his ears. The feet didn't respond. Then more people were in the room, everyday thugs, and even if Myrie couldn't lift him they had no trouble at all. He looked down from his new height, squirming ineffectually, but still all he could see were shoes. Myrie kicked one, holding the side of her head as though it pained her and said something in a dark, low tone. She led the way out of the room.

Soon they were all in a car together, Myrie and Dick and the thugs and a driver, and Dick was half in Myrie's lap while she cooed calmingly in his ear while one of her hands ran through his hair and the other slid beneath the waistband of his pajamas. The towel had been lost long ago, which Dick knew was bad, because that meant more work for Alfred, if only his feet had moved. He whimpered and one of the thugs laughed and the car began to move.