Soon, they were all over him. His perfume inflamed their desires to a fever pitch, and after a little slow, confused groping, they were soon doing what they (and he) wanted with him. Moe, Larry and Curly. Three dismissible thugs with rap sheets as long as their arms. Bruce Wayne knew them by heart. He'd busted them several times in the past, and knew they were just three scumbags.
Just the kind of me he liked.
One fucked his giant ass, enjoying the tightness and the recoiling 'bump' of bouncing off the scrumptious dubble-bubble of buttocks. Another was moaning and panting as the former Dark Knight sucked him off. The third had embraced his growing curiosity and allowed Bruce to plant his huge cock in the mans ass, while reaching around and jerking him off. It took a lot skill to keep them all happy, engaged and out of each others way. But...Bruce had those skills.
Though the three crooks were starting to embrace this absurd man-whore as the perfect simple, stupid fuck, an observer outside the range of the perfume would have seen a tall, powerfully muscled blond she-male with (what they would assume to be) surgery sculpted ass, breasts and lips. It wouldn't have mattered to Bruce, though. Bruce Wayne - riding his transformation with both hands - was lost in his own actions a choices. Wave after wave of passion, pleasure and satisfaction took hold of him, he sprinkled a pump of cocaine onto the tip of one of their dicks and snorted it...before gobbling it and sucking it of.
Pleasure. Indulgence. Surrender. They were all he wanted. Alfred hadn't stollen his life. Alfred had freed him from all that 'law & order' nonsense, and shown him a world where he'd never again be without pleasure. Sadness? Sorrow? Regret? Those were Batman's hangups. Bruce lived for one thing and one thing only - getting his 'freak' on.
Nobody understood him. Nobody understood his pain. His regret. His all consuming obsession. Alfred (beautiful Alfred) stripped him of his pain, smothered his regrets and turned his obsession into an engine of selfish, spoiled needs. Fuck and Party. Drink and Smoke. Live only for the now and never even worry about tomorrow. Bruce Wayne LOVED his new life, and had no desires to EVER step out of the gutter again. After all...being a bottom feeder was so much fun.
Nightwing was losing the thread of his narrative. He'd started following Bruce for...what reason exactly? Certainly not to get Batman back, goodness no. Batman was a bummer, but this version of Bruce Wayne was so obviously an improvement. As he watched, he began to...lose other things. Now when he thought of Bruce Wayne he thought immediately of the big-dicked, fat-assed, big-titted Boi-Whore he saw now. A detective? Fighter? Hero? Nightwing may have been all of those, but obviously not Bruce. Never Bruce. Bruce Wayne was a booze and coke addled gutterslut.
Yes. That was the truth. The only truth. He'd just decided to check up on the stupid, fun-loving slur who'd raised him. Just checking to make sure he was...was...
Nightwing looked down. Perched on the crumbling wall of an old building, Nightwing was crouched and masterbating like a monkey. He almost felt ashamed, but...Bruce Wayne had shown him that instantly satisfying his desires was a good thing. "Trus' meh, Dickie...if' yah tug one out wheneva' you feel th' need, you'll neveh regret it."
Those were words to live by, in his book. Nightwing knew he was a serial masterbater and total creep, but...he embraced it. It felt right. He smiled and spat in his palm before continuing to beat off, not caring who saw...
"Hey, Dickie! Is dat you? Ah, man...I waz jus' thinkin' bout whata hot, little stud you waz."
Dick Greyson looked up and noticed that Bruce Wayne was right in front of him. Bruce looked down and licked his lips. He reached out, and Dick saw Bruces strong, masculine hands sported a dozen cheap rings and two-inch talons of blood red.