Our protagonist claims his first victim: Harley Quinn

Brandon learned something real quick: men still noticed him. The male bus driver still asked him for his fare, and the grungy men near the back of the bus gave him an eye that told him to stay far near the front. It was a shame, too; a cute young woman nearly sat in his lap, completely oblivious to his presence, and he only slid to an adjacent seat because he didn’t want any strange looks from people who could see him. It was a nice wake-up call before he waltzed into the police station heedless of his limitations.

When he did make his way into the 71st Precinct station, practicing his excuses all the while, he at least only had to deal with a woman at the front desk—which was to say he didn’t have to deal with her, and he strolled past her without so much as a passing nod. By meticulously avoiding any male officers, a skill he had honed during long shifts at work dodging managers and co-workers who needed favors, he made his way to the back of the building. The place he wanted wasn’t hard to find; the Justice League had their logo on signs blocking off a hallway, either the work of a fan in the department or a heavy-handed act of branding. He stepped over the rope and hid around the corner, staying out of any officer’s field of vision by virtue of his new amulet. From there he milled about until he found an interrogation room with the lights on.

His heart soared and his stomach fell. He hadn’t let himself hope until this point. While he knew the station was being used by the Justice League, he could only cross his fingers and pray they were using it right this moment. But there it was, a place with nobody close enough to hear and the adjacent observation room dark. This was it. Behind this door sat his goal, his dream, and his greatest fear. He slapped his face to wake up and grabbed the handle, twisting it and bursting inside before he could second- (or seventh-) guess his actions.

Inside he found two women, neither of whom acknowledged his presence. As he turned to close the door he found a third woman tucked in the corner, the undeniable cape and scowl of the Batwoman herself. He froze, as statue-still as she, waiting to give her the explanation he had practiced for the entire trip. She raised her hands and he gave a brave, manly cower until she tugged off her glove, then the next. He blinked, rose, and actually laughed in her face before he realized what he was doing. It was working! In fact, it was working better than it had in his apartment! Was it because he’d worn it longer, or because she had already been subject to the amulet before? It didn’t matter. He just shut the door and watched the women strip as he pulled off his own clothes.

By the time he was naked, Batwoman was down to her cape, mask, boots, belt, and underwear, and her main struggle was getting her sports bra off without disturbing her mask (he understood the struggle—if he planned to wear the amulet much longer, he saw the wisdom in switching to button-down shirts). While he longed to get two handfuls of the Caped Crusader’s plump tits, he turned his attention to the more animated women around a table. He knew Batgirl immediately, both when she stood, arms crossed, in her purple suit and after she wore nothing more than her cape, her mask, and a pair of bright yellow boots. Her trademark red hair gave her away, as did the slender ass and perky titties he had watched for hours on his computer screen. The third woman escaped his memory until she spoke with the grating Brooklyn drawl of Harley Quinn, a voice he recognized even on a random slim woman with blond pigtails. With her wrists handcuffed to the table she couldn’t disrobe as effectively as her interrogators, but with some impressive gymnastics she did get her orange prison shirt and bra bunched around her hands and her pants and panties off her ankles. While the representatives from the Bat-family could finger themselves with ease, Harley had to make do grinding her hips against her cold metal chair.

Batgirl sighed, a shuddering moan indicative of arousal as much as exasperation. “Do you even remember where you got it?”

“Hmm…hm, hm, hmmmmmm…” Harley made a show of thinking while she bent forward to get a better angle. “Maybe Sal’s, you know, on Beech? Mistah J and I hit it up a couple of times. Nice earrings.”

“Stop playing games, Quinzel. Just tell us about the amulets and we’ll see if we can get you transferred back to Arkham. You like Arkham, right? More than Blackgate.” Batgirl leaned over the table, wiggling her tight rump back and forth under her cape with her smallish tits shaking as she pumped her own hole. “We just need a lead.”

“I don’t know nothin’! And even if I did, I wouldn’t say it to the Dork Knight and her squire. So nyeh!” She stuck out her tongue, and a moment later her mouth hung open and her eyes rolled back, completing the look.

“Cum…c-cum!—come on, Quinzel,” gasped the barely-legal sidekick. “Give us a name, anything.”

Harley opened her mouth to retort, but something got in her way. Specifically, Brandon sat on the table in front of her and jammed his dick into her mouth, cutting off her smart-aleck retort and giving him a few blessed moments without her voice. He knew it wasn’t part of Luthor’s orders—Harley was the opposite of a superhero, and nobody ever got pregnant via their mouth—but he felt like a little warmup before he got to work. She tilted her head to look at Batgirl behind him, treating him no differently from a wall blocking her line of sight. As he grabbed her pigtails and **** her face up and down, she even closed her lips and moved her tongue, sucking him off like it was her intention. Occasionally she mumbled in response to one of Batgirl’s repeated questions, but for the most part she humped her chair and blew Brandon until her spit dripped down his cock and pooled on the table in front of her. Only after he’d come to the brink of orgasm did he let her go, and she gasped aloud and smiled at Batwoman. “Little girl’s not gettin’ it done, Bats. Sure you don’t want to take a crack at me? I promise I won’t bite. Hard.”

Batwoman didn’t move, except for the fingers sliding in and out of her spread pussy. Her gravely voice stayed level in spite of the red showing on the visible parts of her face. “Answer the questions.”

“Nevah! My lips are sealed!” Harley shook her head, totally ignorant of Brandon pulling her to her feet. She leaned over the table now, just like Batgirl, except her hands were chained far away from her hips. Brandon took it upon himself to help her, and he lined himself up behind her and aimed his cock at her lips. “Threaten me all you want, but I’ll never say a single woid. Oh my God, fuck, shit, yes!” She came like a rocket just from the first penetration, her greedy walls shuddering and milking him for everything he had. Her feet arched and her torso slumped, presenting her bare ass to him and bouncing like he had her on a rodeo bull. “Fuck me, baby, yes! And fuck you, Bats! You can call me in here every single night, and you’ll still nevah hear a single peep outta my FUCK! I’m gonna cum! Gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna cuuuuumm!” Her body shook from her tiptoes to her pigtails, a massive orgasm he heard as much as he saw and felt. After fooling around with Miss Graves and getting a **** blowjob from a handcuffed supervillain, Brandon couldn’t hold back any longer. He blew his first load not into any of the heroes he should have been targeting, but into Harley Quinn, possibly impregnating the girlfriend of the most dangerous man on earth.