display

by Eriord (ao3)

Bruce would never show his irritation by doing anything as juvenile as a fidget, but being forced to visit  Roman Sionis’ penthouse and listen to yet another socialite complain about restaurants closing downtown or a petty thievery going viral online were driving him close.

There were a million more important things he wanted to be doing than attending a party. Petty crime on the streets, the dozen cases he was concurrently investigating, training sessions with an increasingly impatient Jason. Even doing paperwork for his company had more appeal.

And of course, foremost of all, searching for his ward, who hadn’t been seen since storming out of the Manor a month ago.

It had taken 4 days for the Titans to inform him that Dick never arrived back at the Tower, and by then, the trail had gone completely cold. It was like he had vanished off the highway between Gotham and New York.

It had taken weeks, but Bruce was now reasonably convinced that Dick was still in Gotham. Besides being the only city he was famous enough in to warrant this kind of kidnapping, 17 car parts had been traced back that could have been chopped from his antique Mustang. The kidnappers might have just sold the car in Gotham, but this entire operation was too clean; these people clearly knew what they were doing, and car disposal was too important to not have a system.

The only reason that Dick’s face wasn’t plastered across every news channel with a sizable reward was that Bruce had continued to receive postcards from him. It was clear that his captors had done all they could to mimic his voice, giving him a perfectly respectable excuse of needing time away. If Dick really had been the high society scion he pretended to be, the ruse might have even worked.

Instead, all it told him was that these people were professionals, and that for some reason, they didn’t want anyone to know what they had.

“Brucie!” Roman easily inserted himself into the conversation and steering Bruce away with a hand clapped on his shoulder. “Welcome to my humble home! Have I given you the tour yet?”

Bruce detested the man, but he could appreciate the effects of his particular brand of rudeness as he walked away from the socialite mid-word. Not that Roman was any better of a conversationalist, but Bruce had to keep up appearances if he didn’t want the kidnappers to do something drastic.

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Bruce said, taking a sip of the whiskey he’d replaced with tea a long time ago. It was horribly bitter to reach the right dark shade of brown, but better than Roman thinking he needed a new beverage.

“Please, you’re giving me a chance to show off!” Roman practically pushed him into the next room, where slightly quieter and more sophisticated party-attendees gathered around sculptures and paintings.

The room was overly stuffed, filled with pieces whose only unifying theme appeared to be expense. And yet, in a space featuring a massive Rodin and what looked like an unrecovered Rembrandt, every eye was being drawn to the piece at the far end of the room. Bathed in light and in a place of prominence on the back wall was a strange, life-sized sculpture of a very attractive pair of naked legs falling backwards into a square patch of black wall. The piece was all of the same black, shiny material, but it was clear the detail was incredible, every line of muscle and flex of skin captured in exquisite realism.

What made the sculpture truly bizarre, however, was that right in the center, right before the body disappeared into the wall, sat the figure’s cock, completely soft and sloping gently towards the ground, with a small, red tube poking out of the end, cinched closed with a valve.

“Would you like a better look?” Roman asked, leading the way forward. His party guests all stepped out of his way.

As they grew closer, Bruce realized with a start that this was no sculpture. It was a real pair of male legs, wrapped in skin tight latex, sticking out of the wall. The torso, lithe but muscular, moved slightly at the edge of the hole as it took shallow, but real breaths.

“Roman,” he began, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. Roman was facing him, watching his minute expressions with a gleeful smirk. “How did you…”

“Janus Cosmetics has been working for years on a more lifelike, wearable rubber,” Roman said, his voice demure with false modesty. “There are a multitude of uses for such a product, from helping people wear the skin they’ve always wanted, to imitating bullet wounds on actors in Hollywood. We’re launching the public product next July, but along the way, we discovered a very interesting compound.

At a certain temperature, this stuff will begin to hold its shape, getting more and more solid the lower the temperature it's exposed to. And it doesn’t need to be kept at that temperature either. It’ll stay solid and only soften again when heat at a particular degree is applied.” He ran a hand up the living sculpture’s slender thigh. Despite the position, arched on pointed toes, the figure didn’t sway at all.

“Go on, give it a try,” Roman said grandly. Bruce hesitated for a moment, then raised a hand to run it down the boy’s shin.

It really was incredible. The layer was so thin, Bruce felt like he was holding flesh and bone against his palm. And yet, the leg would not change positions, no matter how much weight he pressed against it.

“It is truly quite remarkable,” he said, his mind racing at all of the different applications this kind of material would have for crime-fighting. Something that would completely immobilize his foes…

He ran his eyes over the figure again, his eyes flickering to the red tube. Roman noticed his distraction.

“Ah, you noticed my little party trick,” said Roman, running a finger down the figure's plump balls, shown in as vivid detail as the rest of the figure. “My little invention is so thin, so durable, that we are able to put it inside anything. And without the heat, it will continue to stretch and bend. It’ll even fill up like a balloon.”

“You mean you…” Bruce trailed off, not even knowing what to ask. “You pushed a catheter into this man inside the latex?”

Roman smiled, looking pleased.

“Very good, Brucie,” he said. “But not just a catheter. It’s no fun if it doesn’t work, right?”

Roman snapped his fingers, and a waiter appeared out of nowhere to place a drink into his hand. He threw the champaign inside over his shoulder, uncaring as it landed on a man and a woman studying a Goya, and placed the flute under the tube coming out of the flaccid penis. Releasing the valve, a thin stream of clear liquid poured into the glass.

“It took some testing,” Roman said with a smile, drinking the liquid down and pouring another glass, “but it turned out to be extraordinarily easy. I just needed to wrap him up in rubber, and fed the catheter in as normal. Once it was in, a funnel and some gravity was all I needed to pour two liters of vodka into the bladder, turning my artwork into a functional decanter.”

He snapped his fingers again, and another glass was handed to him. He poured two fingers of vodka, and handed it to Bruce.

"Don't worry, there's absolutely no contact between the liquid and the body itself," Roman explained, clearly noting Bruce hesitation. "And the rubber itself is sterile and washed out daily."

There was no way to say no. Bruce drank down the vodka. It was expensively smooth, and slightly warmer than room temperature. He was surprised to feel the rush of heat all the way down in his groin, thinking about how the liquid would have been kept warm inside a completely immobile body.

“How’d you find a model willing to do this?” Bruce asked, astounded in spite of himself.

Roman laughed.

“Oh please, Brucie, there are people who enjoy all kinds of things. This young man’s name is Anthony, and he didn’t even blink at the idea of this party. We met at a social gathering for fellow, how’d you say, enthusiasts, and believe it or not, this is far from the most extreme thing he’s ever done.”

Roman lifted his cellphone, and showed a photo of a smiling young man, perhaps in his late 20s or early 30s, bound in incredibly strict bondage and hanging from the ceiling of a warehouse.

Bruce studied the photo for a long moment.

“How long are you going to have him up there?” he asked. “I’d love to arrange something like this for myself.”

Roman shook his head. “I've contracted him to do 6 hours, though if he doesn’t tap out, I’ll probably pay the overtime to leave him like that until the party’s over. But Andy has signed an exclusivity contract with me, so I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere to find a model.”

Bruce opened his mouth to argue, but then Alfred’s voice sounded in his inner ear.

“Sir, we just received another postcard. If you’re able to return to the Cave, Master Jason and I have already begun examining it.”

Dick.

“Well,” Bruce said, turning immediately to his host with a wide grin. “You let me know if you ever get tired of this guy. Or if he’s got any friends in the business. You’ve certainly given me lots to think about!”

“I’ll be sure to let him know,” Roman grinned, his smile sharp and haughty, like that question was funnier than it should be. It probably amused him to have something he thought Brucie Wayne wanted.

As Bruce made his excuses and headed for the door, he cast a last look at the body stuck in Roman’s wall. He made a mental note to come back as soon as he could.

Dick came first, but there was something off here. Whoever it was in Roman’s penthouse, it was not the same man in the photo Roman had shown. The proportions were off. But if something bad was happening here, hopefully they could hold on for a day or two.

____________

Roman sat back in his chair, enjoying a cigar and the wet mouth around his cock. 

Installing the Wayne boy in the wall between his living room and office had been a stroke of genius; it hadn’t been hard to rearrange the furniture so his desk was right over the boy’s arching chest, and his mouth was at the perfect level for fucking.

He’d hardened the latex covering the boy’s back and head, holding him tight in a bridge pose, but he’d left most of his stomach and face soft, partly so the boy's chest could still expand, and partly because he enjoyed pinching at his nipples, which had grown large and sensitive from constant abuse.

A hard ring of rubber kept the boy’s mouth wide, leaving his throat open for fucking. The thin layer inside the ring, the rubber pulled over his mouth, stretched to accommodate anything Roman wanted to stick inside, from his dick to his cum to random objects he needed a shelf for.

Once, he’d come inside and let the boy hold it there for hours, the latex not retracting until it was warmed to the exact right temperature.

The only holes in the material were at the boy’s nose, where a tube ran down each nostril; one, to his stomach, where Roman would pump a thin gruel once a day, and another to feed him oxygen and keep him awake.

Roman rocked his hips deeper, pushing the rubber into the boy’s throat. Even though he didn’t need his full throat to breathe right now, the action still caused his body to panic.

“I saw your daddy today,” Roman said, expelling a stream of smoke into the air. “Wayne, I mean, not the dead one. He came to one of my parties today.”

It was hard to tell what his art piece was thinking through the rubber, and usually Roman didn’t care anyway, but this had clearly caught the boy’s attention.

“He didn’t seem too cut up about your disappearance. In fact, he was one of the ones who drank from your cock today.” He reached under the desk and patted the distended stomach arching up from where the body disappeared into the wall. The soft latex let the boy’s flinch come through clearly.  

“No, I think it’s good you found your way to me,” said Roman, settling back and blowing out a long stream of smoke. “I’ll keep you nice and pretty, my favorite art piece in this whole gallery. You’ll eat your gruel and hold my cum, and I’ll even let you piss yourself every other day. And you’ll get to spend all of your time thinking about how to be the best living statue you can be. Soon, all those pesky little thoughts about your old life, and your daddy, and that new kid he plucked off the streets to fill your bed, will disappear forever.”

Roman stroked a hand down the boy’s face, enjoying the trembling beneath his fingers, and wondered idly when Bruce would get tired of his second brat. It would be fun to have a matched set.