CHAPTER 11: SEDUCTION
After checking the innards of the pack, along with each separate card, for hidden messages (fortunately, this time around there are none) she spends the rest of the week playing solitaire and thinking.
She keeps coming back to that impromptu performance of hers, her improvised cries of excitement and how they made him – him – The Joker, blush. She feels their little meeting was a great success, and that not only has it gained her more time to work with, but also his trust, and the fact that they are both back on affable terms with one another certainly can't hurt her chances of escape, or so she likes to think.
During the start of the seventh game, as she's setting up the card, everything comes together, like a row of doors opening all at once to reveal something that has before gone totally unseen. She stops dead in her activities, letting the cards slip lightly out of her fingers. It is as though she is given a vantage point from a great distance away, far past her own experience, and all at once she understands what needs to be done. It's funny, how the cards will factor into it. It's almost as if he's trying to help her get out.
She concludes that she will seduce The Joker.
And when the time is right, she will draw the gun and take him for her shield (my how the tables have turned), ascend the staircase, and walk out the front door. She is invigorated by this grandiose proposal, but she is also slightly frightened by it.
The variables present themselves accordingly.
Even if his men don't let her leave, even if they (or he) shoots her dead, she'll have left a lasting impression, something to be proud of. That, and she figures he'll immediately regret her death, and probably miss her once she's gone. She snorts; not too likely, but a fun thought nevertheless.
And then there's the other scenario.
Supposing he decides to blow the wine cellar before they can strut casually out of the delicatessen? At the very least she knows he'll die too, and won't that be a happy little coincidence.
In-between rounds of the game she practices her lines, works on her movements. She knows she has to make it look natural, unpracticed. If it isn't, he'll know.
She hasn't got much to go on beyond the romantic films she's seen and the various books she's read. But then again, she also knows that most men don't need much enticement to feel aroused. Albeit, The Joker is not most men.
Still, she spends a great amount of time on the art of attraction, honing her posture, her movements, and making a mental list of various seductive techniques she thinks may come in handy when the moment arrives. A soft lick of the lips, a slow uncrossing of her legs, prolonged eye-contact with mouth partially parted. She wonders if he'll prefer her as the meek and powerless type, or if he expects her to take control. She finds it is very difficult to master both at once, and at first she feels ridiculous even trying. Eventually, she becomes less self-aware, learning to focus on her imaginary projection of The Joker rather than her own feeble attempts and beguilement.
Eventually the day comes when she feels ready enough to try her little act out on one of the men that feeds her. When he enters she is on the couch, dressed in a simple sweater and nothing more (although her lower-half is well enough hid). She is splayed out across the cushions in the traditional Venus pose, and the man is hit with her innocent-yet-flirtatious look as soon as he steps into the cellar. She initiates small-talk, making sure to use deep, soothing tones and a small smile. She thanks him for the food he's brought, asks after him, about his name, about what he does, adding inconspicuous amounts of innuendo wherever she can. It goes surprisingly well, even despite several verbal fumbles on his part.
In the end the goon is left visibly fighting with his inner urges before at last half-dashing out of the room.
Good, she thinks, but still nowhere near perfect. She continues to practice, confident that the goons she's come-on to won't dare risk telling their boss, for fear of immediate execution via that first man she claimed to have come at her. She becomes an actress in her own way, adding these bazaar rehearsals to her exercise routine, and soon feels confident that she could catch the appeal of any man with her eyes alone – even in spite of her disheveled, slightly malnourished appearance and second-hand wardrobe.
At night she still dreams about him, but now the dreams are varied. The majority of them are still very sexual, with a smaller, lessening percentage continuously dedicated to his nightmarish side, but soon she starts to remember her old life. She dreams about everyday things – grocery shopping, paying bills, watching television, going to work. She figures she'll probably take up smoking if she ever gets out. Something to do with her hands. She imagines the sunlight on her face and sees it when she sleeps, and while it is fleeting, it shines down as one, weakly defined ray of hope.
Escape is imminent.
It's late evening when Martha Aiken asks for The Joker to grace her with his presence one last time. She can only hope she won't incur his wrath by calling for him now, and feels relieved when he wastes no time in coming.
He arrives at her room only slightly anxious, but as he opens it he feigns calm in order to put himself at ease and catch her off her guard. When he finds her standing in the center of the cellar clad in the same satin gown from their dinner date (simply stunning) he inhales sharply at the unexpected attractiveness, memories of their dinner date flooding into his mind and the air catching in his throat.
In the dull quiet of the wine cellar they both hear him take his next breath.
His eyes scan over her, trailing down the nape of her neck to her exposed cleavage. The dress fits her so well, and he regrets omitting mentioning it aloud when she had originally worn it those many weeks ago. He had pinched his own attire for that evening on a whim, plucked off the hanger because it was the easiest and nearest thing to grab. For her, though, he had put a little more though into it. He sees it again now and is glad he did. It's like seeing it for the first time – a narrowly but deeply delicate thing, much like herself, with everything in place to the utmost perfection, and as unaccustomed as she is to this level of dress she seems to sway easily in it.
"You're very beautiful." He hears himself say. He tries not to question it, hoping she's done it for some other reason than to try and peak his already heightened interest.
Her face remains still; "Looks are accidental, Mr. Joker."
"Sometimes they're self imposed, Miss Aiken – Martha." And he grins, licking at the edges of his scars. "What's the occasion?"
"Boredom." She replies.
"You decided to play dress up?"
A flash of him, making her perform his makeup ritual. He wishes he'd brought the face-paint with him, wondering what the combination of the dress and mask might bring out in her.
"Why not." Martha holds up the bicycle deck he gave her and says "Play with me?"
He raises an eyebrow, intrigued. She goes to the couch, sits, and waits for him to follow suit.
So, he thinks happily as he sits down beside her, the dance has begun.
She shuffles the deck, fingers quick and light. He has no idea where this is going, and it occurs to him in this moment that with all his knowledge and intrusion, he could never entirely predict her, or own her at all. He could water the seed, he could sing to the bud; what blossomed followed its own nature and was beyond him.
"I took the jokers out." She remarks coolly.
"I'm a bit busy for games." He doesn't mean it, but he feels it deserves stating nonetheless. Almost everything to do with Gotham 1st National has been taken care of, save for the actual heist, and that would occur in two days' time.
"Liar."
"Fine." He snaps and reaches for the deck, but she quickly pulls away. He grumbles to himself, and she doesn't look at him.
"You don't have to play. You can keep me in here to entertain myself, I'm accustomed to it. I guessed you might need a time-out from your business is all. Like we talked about? A break from the stress."
A fractional turn of his head is enough to dash his annoyance like a vase thrown against pavement.
"What games do you know?"
"Besides solitaire? Just the one."
A beat.
"Bullshit."
"Excuse me?" He hisses.
"Bullshit – it's a game about lying. You'll probably win."
She hands him a total of seven cards, keeps seven for herself, and places the rest of the deck on the coffee table in front of them.
"The rules are simple. You tell me something, and if I think it's true and it is, you discard a card. If I think you're lying, and you are, you pick up a card."
"What if I'm not lying, but you think I am?"
She smiles, pretty, devious, like him, and for a split second he is lost in self-congratulation at his own manipulative cunning.
"If I think you're lying and you insist you aren't, I pick up a card. Understand?"
"How will you tell if I'm lying?" He really is quite curious.
"I'll rely on my instincts. It works both ways, of course. We don't have to play Bullshit. It isn't vital. We can go right into other things. I just figured, since I'm going to be staying here a while –" She dismisses this apathetic mentioning of their reality in a loose and uncaring way, "Well, it seemed like the right game to play. I'd like to get to know you. Properly. I am your pet, after all. Your mistress."
There is a sultry touch to her voice when she says this last word, something undeniably alluring.
"Oh, and nothing boring." She adds, eyes flashing a come-hither look. "This game is for excitement, so whatever you tell me, whatever I tell you, we have to make it pop."
He nods, and without another word the game gets underway.
The elephant in the room is a big one, but strangely both players are able to cope. If the heat between them, the tension and attraction, were some tangible thing it might be an electric wave generating around them, containing them in a beautiful, anomalous way. Both ignore it, focusing only on what the other is saying. Each meticulous body movement, a slight toss of the hair, a twitch and a lick, a lingering of a hand on the knee or a stolen glance, is overlooked by the individual player in order to attend to the here and now, the game at hand. Much effort goes into this, and a secondary game emerges, one of temptation and self-denial that is too subtle for either of them to immediately pick up on at first.
"I'll start." Says Martha.
The Joker holds up a hand to interject; "May I propose something?" She nods. "If you're intent on playing this little game of yours, I recommend viewing yourself from a distance for a while. If you like, I'll do the same."
She eyes him suspiciously.
"What do you mean?"
"It's simple. If comments are made, and you find them - ah, how shall I put it . . . unpleasant? Well, better to see them in context. It should give you a kick."
She ponders this. "The things you say aren't always droll. Most of the jokes you make aren't funny, either. At least not to me."
"Oh, I don't know. I think I'm growing on you, Martha." He replies, voice low and treacherous.
"I'll laugh when I think it deserves laughing, but I refuse to force it tonight. I've stopped caring." And with that she looks him strait in the eyes, taking nothing back.
His grin widens. "Good for you! The first step to enlightenment is to stop caring! Also, no coward business. I'll never let you live it down, Martha. I suspect we'll both say things that are painfully true, and hear things that are delightfully twisted, but we should both agree to see these remarks as the simple passing of truth. Nothing to get offended over or upset about, right?"
"You want to keep things light."
"It beats being serious all the time."
"Okay. It's a deal, and you can go first."
He leans back and puts his feet up in an effort to better relax. This is turning out to be an interesting night.
"I once owned a dog. Perth was his name, after this town in West Australia. He was a mutt, no real defining breed in him. Just a big sloppy mess of genetics. Sort of like Jackson Pollock made a dog instead of a painting. Nice animal, plain but pretty, like you. Annoyed the hell out of me most times, but on occasion I found I enjoyed his company."
He pauses, and then, smirking – "When I was twelve I took a hatchet to his head."
"Leave it to you to start the game off with honesty." She says, motioning for him to discard one of his cards.
With a whoop of a laugh, "I lied." And he hands her a card. "His name wasn't Perth. It was Heath, and I ran him over with a car. On purpose, of course." He adds happily, fidgeting slightly in his excitement.
Martha picks up a card and proclaims "I lost my virginity when I was eighteen. His name was Dennis Ford, and he was my next door neighbor."
"False!" Cries The Joker, pointing firmly toward the ceiling. "I've been lied to and I demand justice!"
She sighs and picks up another card.
"Your turn."
"Aw, but what about the real story?" He pouts playfully. "I told you about Heath, didn't I?"
"It's not in the rules to have to –"
"Do I look like I care!" He roars, suddenly vicious.
"His name was David," She explains, unruffled. "I was nineteen, we were drunk. He never called me back."
"And what was it that you did together, again?"
"We fucked."
"Don't say it that way, please." His anger is small, fleeting, enough for the request to sound more like a warning. "Profanity does not become you."
"Fine. We made love, I guess."
"How?"
"You mean the position? Or the environment."
"Either or." He chirps.
"Standard position, in a car. Nothing particularly fantastic about it."
"Did you climax?"
Eyes wide, she nods slowly, deliberately looking at him.
"I've killed over fifty men." He remarks flippantly, avoiding her gaze.
"Bullshit."
"Correct. It's well over a hundred by now." He scoffs with a wink before picking up a card.
"I have a phobia."
"Let me guess. Clowns?"
"Lightning." She confesses despondently. "You never know when or where it's going to strike. I guess, metaphorically, lighting describes this situation too."
"Well you ought to be over your phobia then." He asserts, taking a card. "I'm twenty eight, by the way."
She peers hard at him for a minute or two, searching, doing her best to try and examine his face through the concealing makeup and the disfiguring scars. Through it all, she manages to see the youthfulness.
"God," She gasps, "You really are."
His smile is one of crafty arrogance. "Your turn."
"I liked it." She begins. "When we kissed. It turned me on."
He does his best to keep himself from derailing.
"I'm not surprised. I'm a pretty amazing human being." He shrugs then, handing her a card.
"It's the truth." And with that she takes the card and puts it at the base of the pile, smiling slyly.
"And how do we feel about this newly exposed truth, darling dearest?" He sneers.
"Well, either it's Stockholm syndrome, or you really are an amazing human being. I think I've been here long enough to accept either as a viable explanation."
"You sound like a shrink." He mutters.
"Is that a good thing?"
"No." Growls The Joker. "I hate shrinks. I hate all psychiatrists. They disgust me."
"I'll wager that's true. Why?"
"Why not? It's the insane trying to cure the insane. It's disturbing enough, funny enough and I'd love if it if it weren't so awfully depressing." Here he hangs his head, all sorrow and sadness like some moping child. She goes to put a hand on his shoulder and he lurches away, smiling again and laughing at her surprise.
"What is it about me, hmm? What's the bate on the hook that caught you?" Inquires The Joker, sounding mischievous.
"Chloroform."
"Be honest." He cautions, simpering. "What did it for you?"
"Is that really important right now?"
"I need a self esteem boost." He fibs.
"I'll tell you if you tell me now whether or not it was intentional."
"What's that?"
"This. Us. Was it intentional, or was it an accident?"
"You oughta know, you made the first move." He replies, guileful, adding as an afterthought "I suppose I'd call it more of a coincidence. You know – serendipity."
"But it wasn't planned, was it."
"Martha, you know better."
"I didn't think so. I'd ask you why me, but I guess I don't really need to know. And for your information, I can't exactly say what it is about you that gets me going."
"Try." He whispers.
"I suppose it's a combination of things." She begins. "I think you're ugly. Thought you were ugly. Now, I don't know. Would you believe me if I told you I used to hate looking at your scars, and your eyes even more so. But now, it's all I can do to keep from looking, and I don't mean that in the impolite way either."
"So in other words, if I looked like every other pretty boy in Gotham you wouldn't give me the time of day. I'm touched, but honestly, Martha. What about my sparkling personality? I've gone out of my way to show it to you." He beams with a twitch and a lick.
Her face remains devoid of emotion.
"You took my control away. You stole the wheel as I was driving. Part of me wanted to kill you, and the other part wanted you to keep on driving. But now that everything's been settled, well, I find that it's nice in the passenger's seat. No responsibility, nothing to worry about, no purpose to my life either."
He reflects on her words.
Has he really stolen her purpose? He has usurped it, definitely, but he had fully intended to give her back her dreary, uneventful little life after all had been said and done. Her continued captivity was all her own doing. Even if he had caused her to want him, she was the one who had acted on those feelings. He had abstained, so why hadn't she? She had proposed the terms and conditions, she had wanted to make it organized. He catches himself leering at her, something between a cross glare and a hopeless gaze, and discerns the fact that, if she were to leave right here and now, he would be overcome with a crippling wave of loneliness.
"It's your go." She reminds him.
Several rounds later and he has two cards left, and Martha is struggling to juggle nearly the entire deck. She's partially given up on winning, resting some of them on the small patch of cushion between herself and The Joker. She's noticed him becoming more content, more at ease. All according to plan. She tries to act as casual as she can, for her own good it can not look rehearsed.
She scoots a bit closer to him. "I laugh at funerals. I don't know why. I think it's how nervous I get. I can't help it."
"Yes, well, they can be pretty fun. At least the ones I cause anyway." Declares The Joker, handing her yet another card. "You're bad at this, Martha."
"Am I?" She retorts with blithe. "Oh well. I told you that you were likely to win."
She licks her lips to moisten them, and he finds their shine intensely moving.
"And what do I get if I win?"
Martha Aiken turns to face him directly and in a perfectly clean tone of voice asks "What do you want?"
In a rare stray from character, he pounces on her. She is just as taken aback by him as he is with himself. He holds himself against her, pushing her down onto the couch with hardly any effort, body on autopilot and blissfully unaware of his indignant mind's outraged cries of protest. The cards fall off the couch, out of her hands. He doesn't care. For weeks he hasn't moved, on her or his plan, and the unease of his men came to his ears in gossipy whispers whenever he ventured out of his room for dinner. Why was she still here? Why did he never go to talk with her anymore? Why has the jester locked up such a strange queen in the dungeon? The crowd had grown restless. But he had seen to them after his walk, and he had seen to her after seeing to his men, and now, locked in this tight embrace with Martha Aiken, behind closed doors, he chooses to ignore it all and see to himself – to give in to his primal hunger.
Managing to hold most of the animistic lust at bay, despite the fact she is practically begging for it, he hoarsely asks her "What's my name? I told you to give me one."
Her tongue is not an unwelcome visitor in his mouth, and he can feel himself growing ready, just as she can.
Finally, he manages to pull away, gasping for air. He continues to hold her while maintaining a kind of distance.
"Well?"
"Jack." She whines.
"Jack who?"
"Just Jack. The Jack who become a Joker."
His cheeks are burning and he's sure she can see the red, even under the makeup.
"I want you." He snarls, trying desperately not to look at her. It's the most honest he's ever been with her and he can't decide whether or not he likes it.
She silently hands him a card, the last one she has, reminding him of their little game that's apparently still in motion.
"I'm not lying."
"I know." She breathes.
He looks at the card and sees that it's a joker. He gapes, grins, and the manic laughter starts. Such sweet, addictive madness. Then he's back on top of her, pressing her into the couch, stroking her hair gently with the one hand and savagely parting her legs with the other. His gray sweater is discarded, as is his black vest, and the top four buttons of his deep purple dress-shirt are undone shortly thereafter, loosened and failing to cover his smooth, youthful chest no thanks to Martha's nimble digits. The heat he feels is incredible, close to the completeness he gains whenever he destroys some giant chunk of the world around him with dynamite. Desperation overtakes him and he's groaning in to her, all bliss and heaven and God's trumpets playing to his brisk, almost clumsy movements. He lets all self consciousness go as his lips trail up her cheek in an arc, tongue peeking out to lick her ear seductively, and trailing down her neck to find her collarbone.
He puts all of his mental and physical effort into exploring this woman to the best of his ability, taking note of every curve and crevasse, making sure not to exclude a single feature, no matter how seemingly inaccessible, and striving only for personal satisfaction.
Meanwhile, her hands are working on pulling his shirt, currently down around his forearms, off of him altogether. This small feat is accomplished in no time flat, and soon his hands have found the zipper at her back. Eventually they become entangled, both bare chested with The Joker urgently trying to unbutton his trousers and Martha's beautiful gown scrunched down around her waist, just above her hips. His white makeup is almost gone thanks to a combination of sweat, and his rapid kisses smearing it across her chest and down her stomach.
He rears back up and yanks her dress off past her ankles, tossing it effortlessly across the room, eyes always on her. He is ecstatic to see that no more time and energy will have to go into disrobing her, because, to his excited surprise, the dress was the only garment she had on.
He pauses a moment, taking in the sight of her. She is flushed as well, and something about seeing the remnants of his makeup streaked and smudged across her fragile torso sends him over the edge.
He drops back down on to her, hungry lips finding hers instantly. The feel of her skin on his is fantastic, warm, soft, smooth, and he moans openly as she starts to grind under him. While she is not terrifically endowed, there is certainly nothing disagreeable about her breasts. He kneads and tugs at them, pulling keenly at each nipple and chuckling in to her mouth when he manages to earn a sharp whimper of pain from her. She makes a move to caress his scars, gently massaging them from the corners of his mouth and back again, and he lets her, savoring the feel of such unusually specific attention.
The problem of his trousers still being on is accentuated by the hardness of his length. Pulling himself away from one another, they both take a second from their exploration to help remove them, and just like that both bodies are devoid of clothing and pleasantly entwined on the couch.
They kiss for a while, neither keeping track of the time. As he lays atop her he can feel the warmth pooling at her crotch, and he yearns to taste her. She wiggles under him and he tenses, on fire, and she smiles and the reaction, pulling his head back down into hers. He continues to inspect her midriff, at first with his hands, and eventually parting from her mouth and coming to her center. Letting his tongue slide furtively over it, he tastes her anew and finds it positively delicious. She cranes her head back, mouth agape as she moans the name Jack over and over. He licks each fold with a certain amount of loving attentiveness until he's sure she's as close to the edge as he wants her to be. Then his lips are back on hers and she can taste herself swirling in-between their connected mouths, sweet like honey.
He breaks away for air and she is given another chance for observation. She stares at his member, impossibly large, and her entire body shivers as his eyes lock with hers. He starts to manipulate himself. With his left hand he caresses his now-exposed, half-hard cock with steady, smooth strokes while his right hand rests just beside her head for balance. Small beads of sweat collect on his brow and sprinkle down from above as she watches his face, expression twisted into one of pleasurable agony. The action of his self-gratification is hypnotizing in it's own rite, and Martha gazes with awe-struck wonder as the first drops of precum begin to accumulate on his head.
Unabashed, she takes him firmly in her hand, pointing the glistening head of his flushed organ toward the space between her legs, and guiding him to her entrance. At first he is too dumbstruck to react, her fingers on him – like that oh god she's touching me there like that – but she gives a quick, firm stroke and to her delight his body quakes at her touch, and right away he is back on track.
In the small space of time before the initial penetration, as he positions himself over her, his cock hard in her shaking hand, she has a moment to contemplate what is about to occur.
Martha comes to the conclusion that this man she is coaxing into coitus is not Jack. And while giving him that name provides her with a certain amount of evasion, a last thin shield that allows her to pretend this is a different scenario altogether and turn a blind eye to what's actually happening, she can no longer ignore the fact that she's about to be fucked by The Joker. She should grab the book, take the gun out, now, while he's at his most vulnerable. She doubts he would call the men in to see him like this, bare bodied and in mid-concupiscence with a gun pointed at his stomach.
She could get out now, she should try.
A tiny alarm sounds in her head, but before she has time to stop what's happening, to react appropriately, he is pinching impatiently at her thigh. Pressing his tip against her, he slowly pushes until he's inside. She tenses at the intrusion, and he quirks an eyebrow at her, enjoying the distress in her face. She grits her teeth and bears through the resistance, making sure to keep her eyes on him as he pumps away at her. A sizzling thrill shoots through her body with each repetitive, sliding movement, and it does not take long for her to loosen up. Still, she thinks about the book, but as his pace increases her thoughts begin to muddle. Finally, the sensation becomes too great, the want too monumental, and before she can put a halt to her own wild behavior she's constricting her legs around his hips, pushing him deeper into her. For a moment he just hovers above her, breathing ragged and eyes vast. She gives him a single, curt nod, and he proceeds, driving into her with a series of enjoyably violent thrusts. She attempts to match his momentum by rolling her hips into each thrust, happily listening to the hushed and needy noises pouring from him, but after a time she looses the race and lets him have at her in the way he likes best.
The sex is fast and sloppy and absolutely phenomenal – something brimming with passion and lust, and perhaps just a taste of actual intimacy. To her it's incomparable, like nothing she's ever experienced, although those past instances had the unfortunate luck of being disappointingly forgettable. Nevertheless, he seems to handle her with some kind of underlying knowledge that leaves her positively bewildered.
Buried within her, he stops abruptly for the second time, leaning in to suck playfully at her nipple.
"Don't – Don't stop." She begs, "Keep going. Keep going."
He does, smiling proudly as he shoves back in with a single, fluid motion that makes her gasp. His breathing gets heavier, and the slightest hint of a moan accompanies the edge of each breath. As his tempo builds the sharp, wet sound of his continuous pumping shatters the silence of the tiny wine cellar. Somewhere in the back of his head The Joker concedes that fucking Martha Aiken feels indescribable – her tight, wet flexing pulling him inward with each taken plunge is a bliss far grander than any amount of gunpowder or gasoline could ever provide.
With her legs clenched around his hips, thrusting against his cock, she whines urgently, and he slams against her, back arching at the unexpected force of him. They both hit their peak early on, each with a different reaction. From Martha comes a long, drawn-out, wordless chorus for which there is only the accompaniment of The Joker's fierce, guttural growling. She is left winded, whereas his recovery is impossibly quick. Something about the knowledge that he can have her, like this, at any time he wants now, Gotham and the Batman be damned.
The second time is less rough but just as enjoyable. It happens almost instantly after the first, but this time it's slower, more deliberate, a thing to savor. He's out of her not more than three minutes before he's rock hard again and shoving himself back inside. Martha's cries of protest become desperate mewls, peppering each labored inhalation as he starts. She claws at his back, leaving deep, bloody scratch marks that she's sure he'll appreciate come morning.
In the middle he has her flip over so that he can continue to take her from behind. She finds she prefers this position to the last, as it allows him much better access and thus, much more sensation for her. He shows her the upmost amount of tenderness and devotion to her satisfaction.
He feels her body tense, hears her breaths growing short and strained. He continues, quickening the pace. Eventually he joins her with his own unrestrained, panting cries. Hearing his low, husky groaning combined with her high pitched quivering sends Martha over the edge. Her second climax for the evening shakes her to the very soul. The Joker slows but is reluctant to stop, riding out the waves of Martha's climax and enjoying that quick, unpredictable tightening she gives him with each diminishing wave.
The third time is a surprise. That glorious crest was lost on The Joker during the second run, and despite her exhaustion, he convinces Martha into haphazardly climbing on top of him, totally upright while he sits on the couch, in order to finish him off. She does her best, with her soreness bringing a new level of unforeseen pleasure as she bounces gingerly on top of him.
She stops halfway to ask "Why the Batman?"
At first he is speechless, and it is everything he can do to stop himself from pushing her to the floor and having her that way.
Attempting to be as respectful-sounding as he can, he manages to choke "Could I please just finish?"
"No." She teases, raising herself up and shoving herself back down hard. He gasps, eyelids halfway closed, and she tells him that she absolutely needs to know. "Now."
This inquiry has him stumped, and impatiently so. What could he possibly say about the Batman?
"Fine." He pants, trying to rock under her. "Just keep going."
Martha continues to slide herself up and down, riding him in a way she can tell he enjoys. She can't help but smile as he struggles to concentrate on his answer.
He tells her that he has always been 'mad' (not really mad, just ahead of the curve), but up until the Batman came into the picture, he had been nothing but a mad dog. Useless, without purpose, barking for no good reason. But afterward, after the Batman flew into town, he became a man on a mission.
He pauses here and there to kiss her, to yank her down to his mouth and nip at one of her nipples.
Pulling away, she says "Go on."
He strains to regain his train of thought – tells her that he saw somebody on one end of the spectrum and said to himself, well, if this freak can do it so ridiculously and get credit, up the stakes for heroes, well maybe I should adopt the habit as well and up the stakes for the criminals. Hell, I alone could create a better category, a better class of criminal. Something for men to shoot for. I could inspire if I so chose! And doesn't that just bring us back to our little motto regarding the mathematics of chaos? If you have one extreme on one end of the spectrum enter the picture, it is only inevitable that the other extreme, the opposing end of the spectrum, will enter the picture as well. And so, a friction between the two opposing forces must ensue.
"Speaking of friction –" She coos as she bucks on top of him, suspending herself at his head and twitching her hips several times before easing back down.
His response is nothing more than a deep hiss.
At the time he first met the Batman he was simply a lean thug trying to make a living by using his 'gifts', hiring them out to mob men and the like. He tells her that he worked briefly as a freelance assassin. It meant receiving ends-meat for doing what he loved, being artistically violent for pay. But the day came when he lost the inspiration for it, to the point where his self-esteem had plummeted to a dangerous level (he had even contemplated suicide at one point during this brief creative slump). And then came the Batman, flying into the picture on a zip-line, and The Joker knew right then and there that he was either going to have to evolve or be lost to the winds of change—
"As cliché as that sounds." He murmurs in-between shuddering gasps. For such a mousy little thing, Martha Aiken, he decides, is one hell of a lover.
Speaking of Martha, she can feel the sensation building, getting steeper. It's getting very difficult to listen to what he's saying and she does her best to focus.
Well, change he did, although at first it was only a minor change. He started doing things just for the hell of it. Beforehand, his mischief had always been a byproduct of some well-organized captor, something where the focus had always been dollar signs. Now he was embracing the chaos—not worrying about 'planned' heists and the like, but going with the flow, having fun with it all, like he used to do (as a kid, although he purposely leaves this bit out, remembering that Martha had heard the sob story about the chemicals factory and the men who cut his face). The Joker tells Martha that he created all manor of chaos, and would continue to do so until Gotham City came to know him.
"And why shouldn't they?" He reels, rocking in to her. "Just when they thought it was safe to go back out at night, here I come, bringing a new rein of insanity into their lives."
That's all The Joker really ever wanted. Just to meet him, to inspect and study the specimen that is the Batman—to test him like he would test the rest of humanity, in the ways he himself had been tested. To see how low the Batman could sink, if he was really as much of a diamond in the rough as The Joker figured he might be.
"Almost." Is all The Joker says before shoving up hard, one last time.
He watches with pride as her body goes rigid and then slouches against his, totally spent. Arms hold her closely as he does the same, straining as he empties himself into her warmth.
"That . . ." He sighs, sleepy and content once the last pulses of pleasure have receded, "That was fun."
Martha goes to give a cold retort, but finds she can't quite put the effort into it. It's almost like he's undeserving.
They stay together for a time, lounging, appeased in their mutual want for flesh. Martha rests her head on the crook of his neck, staring off into space and trying to battle back the reality of what she knows must come next. The Joker, meanwhile, listens intently to her breathing, focusing on the rise and fall of her back. He moves a hand up to rest between her shoulder blades, and can just about feel her heartbeat through her ribs. The contact leaves him feeling strange, some bazaar combination of disgust and tenderness, of fondness and aversion. He is unsure whether the distaste is meant for himself or fir her.
He considers saying something but what is there to say? He could tell her something he thinks she'd want to hear, something romantic or perhaps something poetic. In the end he decides against it. Even if he meant what he was saying, she wouldn't believe him. This thing that they had done together, the fucking or love-making or copulation – whatever it was that society or psychiatrists might want to label it after the fact – it had been her chore, not her choice. She had done it because of their agreement, not because she had wanted to. In this moment of bittersweet realization he both adores and hates Martha Aiken, and for the first time in his life, he yearns to be normal.
To be Jack.
The desire is fleeting.
She feels his hands squeeze her backside and go completely slack.
"Off." He barks, and she slides away, aiming for the furthest cushion of the couch.
He looks down at himself, at where she had been straddling him. He sighs and ponders what could have been, had he been a good, law-abiding, sane-headed man, and she a woman who liked him for himself, liked him because it was him rather than because she feared for her life.