Of course you do

You hesitated—Hypnotic’s tech was unpredictable, and Penguin would gut you if he found out—but the way Dove arched against the alley wall, her hips grinding against nothing as she fingered herself with **** strokes, made the decision for you. "I saw how you stared at my ass, put the goggles on and all of this is yours," she gasped, biting her lower lip hard enough to dent the fabric of her mask. The goggles slipped over your eyes with a faint hum, the lenses flickering to life—suddenly Dove’s body glowed with pulsing heat signatures, her arousal mapped in vivid neon. Her breath hitched as the hypno-circuitry synced with your pulse, her pupils dilating behind her mask. "Oh fuck, they work," she whimpered, her thighs trembling as the goggles’ feedback loop fed directly into her nervous system.

You didn’t even have to speak—the goggles translated your thoughts into subliminal commands, and Dove’s back arched violently, her cunt clenching around her own fingers as the first wave of **** pleasure wracked her body. "Y-yes, master," she slurred, her voice thick and syrupy as the tech rewired her resistance into obedience. Her free hand scrabbled at the brickwork behind her, seeking purchase as you mentally dialed up the intensity—her muscles locked, her toes curling in her boots as an artificial orgasm ripped through her. Spoiler would’ve fought it. Huntress would’ve spat in your face. But Dove just moaned, her head lolling forward as drool soaked her mask. "Please...more," she begged, her hips stuttering in midair like a marionette with cut strings.

The goggles’ display flickered with biometric data—heart rate spiking, endorphins flooding her system—as you fed her another pulse of pleasure-pain. Dove screamed, her back bowing off the wall, her thighs shaking too violently to keep standing. She collapsed onto her knees in the alley filth, her leggings still tangled around one ankle, her gloved hands pawing weakly at your thighs. "Wanna be good," she whimpered, her voice stripped of its earlier steel. "Wanna be your good little slut, master." The goggles translated your cruel grin into a jolt of electricity straight to her clit—her whole body seized, her cunt gushing as she came again, her scream echoed into the dripping dark.

You smiled, "Follow me," and she scrambled after you as you lead her to a your apartment. Her movements were jerky and puppet-like, her muscles still twitching from the goggles' neural stimulation. The door barely clicked shut before she was on you again, fingers clawing at your belt like a starving woman—but you caught her wrists, shoving her against the peeling wallpaper. "Not yet," you growled, watching her whimper through the goggles' lurid display. Her arousal spiked hotter than the nicotine stains on the ceiling.

Dove’s breath hitched as you traced the outline of her mask with a knife from your kitchen drawer—the blade dull but cold enough to make her shiver. "Take it off," you ordered, and she obeyed instantly, peeling away the domino to reveal wide, **** pupils and lips bitten raw. The goggles flickered as you mentally dialed up her sensitivity; she came just from the scrape of your teeth along her collarbone, her scream muffled by your palm. "Strip," you growled, and she tore at her own suit with frantic fingers, the spandex ripping at the seams like wet paper.

She stood in front of you, mindless, obedient to every command—completely naked, her tits heaving, her pussy dripping onto the filthy carpet. The goggles' neural feedback kept her teetering on the edge of another orgasm, her thighs trembling with every twitch of your fingers. You traced the edge of Hypnotic’s goggles, watching her pupils dilate further as you whispered, "Get on the bed and present that pretty ass." Dove scrambled onto the stained mattress, her movements jerky and eager, arching her back until her asshole fluttered inches from your face. The goggles’ heat map showed her pulse pounding in her cunt—she wanted this just as badly as you did.

You spat on her hole, watching her flinch, then pressed two fingers inside without warning. Dove howled, her back bowing violently as the goggles amplified every sensation—her ass muscles clamping down on your fingers like a vice. "That’s it, take it like a good slut," you growled, twisting your fingers deeper, delighting in the way her breath hitched. Her thighs trembled, slick with sweat and arousal, her cunt dripping onto the sheets below. The goggles’ display flashed red—her body couldn’t handle much more—but you cranked the intensity higher anyway, watching her writhe like a live wire.

Dove’s fingers clawed at the mattress, her voice raw from screaming, but she didn’t protest—just kept arching her back, begging wordlessly for more. You slicked yourself with her juices, lining up against her entrance, you threw the goggles off your face—you wanted her to see this, she was going to remember this. You shoved into her ass without warning, her body clamping down around you like a fist. Dove’s scream shattered into a broken sob, her hips jerking involuntarily as her muscles spasmed around your cock. The goggles lay discarded on the floor, their lenses still pulsing faintly, casting eerie reflections across the ceiling.

Her cunt dripped onto the sheets beneath her, her body betraying her even as she whimpered protests into the pillow. You gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, fucking her with brutal, unforgiving strokes—each thrust punctuated by the wet slap of skin and her choked gasps. The bedframe slammed against the wall in a steady rhythm, the sound echoing through your shitty apartment like a drumbeat. Dove’s fingers tangled in the sheets, her knuckles white, her body caught between resistance and surrender.

The goggles lay forgotten, but their effects lingered—her muscles twitched with oversensitivity, her breath coming in ragged hitches as you drove deeper. You leaned over her, biting down on the nape of her neck, tasting salt and sweat as she arched beneath you. “Say it,” you growled, your voice rough with exertion. Dove’s lips parted, her voice broken and syrupy. “I—I’m your good little slut, master,” she whimpered, her thighs trembling as another **** orgasm wracked her body. The words sent a jolt of dark satisfaction through you—Gotham’s sweetest vigilante, reduced to a shuddering, fucked-out mess.

Her fingers scrabbled at the sheets, her back bowing as you pinned her hips down, fucking her with relentless precision. The bedframe groaned in protest, the sound drowned out by Dove’s choked moans. You twisted a hand in her hair, yanking her head back to watch her expression—her pupils blown wide, her lips swollen and slick with spit. “Look at you,” you hissed, your thrusts turning brutal. “Batman’s little helper, taking it up the ass like a back-alley whore.” The insult sent another pulse of shameful arousal through her; her cunt clenched around nothing, dripping onto the mattress beneath her.

The air smelled of sweat and sex, the stale apartment suddenly alive with the sounds of skin slapping skin and Dove’s ragged whimpers. You dragged her up onto her knees, her back pressed flush against your chest, one hand circling her throat as the other groped her bouncing tits. Her head lolled against your shoulder, her breath coming in shallow gasps as you fucked her harder, deeper—chasing your own release now. “Cum for me,” you demanded, your teeth sinking into her shoulder. She came instantly, her body seizing like a live wire, her scream muffled by your palm clamped over her mouth.

Dove’s legs gave out as the aftershocks wracked her, but you held her upright, pistoning into her with brutal efficiency. Her whimpers turned into sobs, her fingers clawing at your forearm as you chased your own climax. The room blurred at the edges, your vision tunneling as you buried yourself to the hilt, spilling into her with a guttural groan. She shuddered beneath you, her cunt pulsing around nothing, her body still twitching from the residual effects of Hypnotic’s tech.

You collapsed onto the sweat-soaked mattress, Dove’s limp form sprawled beside you, her breath ragged and uneven. The goggles lay on the floor, their lenses cracked but still flickering faintly—casting eerie, strobing shadows across the ceiling. Dove’s fingers twitched toward them instinctively, her pupils dilating at their proximity, but she lacked the strength to reach. A wet spot spread beneath her hips, the sheets clinging to her thighs as she trembled through the comedown.

You wake up the next morning with Dove's thigh draped over yours, her breath warm against your neck. The goggles lie abandoned on the nightstand, one lens shattered like a drunk’s promise. Outside, Gotham’s perpetual rain drums against the fire escape—a steady rhythm that almost drowns out the distant wail of police sirens. Dove stirs, her fingers twitching against your chest as if reaching for something she can’t remember.

"Morning, master," Dove murmurs against your collarbone, her voice still syrupy from the goggles' lingering effects—but when her lashes flutter open, there's a sharpness returning to her gaze that makes your pulse stutter. Her thigh tenses against yours like a coiled spring, her fingers tracing the bruises she left on your hips last night with something between reverence and regret. You just smiled, oh you are gonna have fun with one of Gotham's vigilantes at your beck and call.

Dove Ending