Catwoman Finds a Weekness, Part 1

(by SMOKEHUT, 16 February 2005)

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   This fictional account -- it's about comic-book superheroes; what else 
could it be? -- contains adult language and sexual themes. The persons and 
events described in this work are purely fictional. Any similarity to 
actual persons or events is strictly coincidental. Copyright 2005 by 
SMOKEHUT. All rights reserved. Permission is hereby granted to reproduce 
this story in any form and for any purpose as long as this notice is 
reproduced and no financial remuneration is received, by the person 
reproducing or using it. 
   Author's Note: Though this story is set in the present day, it is 
loosely based on the characters of the long-running Batman comics, although 
the actual character Batman does not appear here. The story is based 
instead on Batman's protege, Robin, and the pair's longtime nemesis, 
Catwoman. A character known as Catwoman appeared for the first time in 
1940. The original character eventually married Bruce Wayne, Batman's alter 
ego, and came to a bad end. Catwoman has been revived in a number of 
incarnations, including television and in movies, in the years since. 
Catwoman differs from other familiar Batman nemeses in that she is more 
anti-hero than villain. Catwoman has a redeeming side and lacks the 
bloodthirstiness and penchant for violence displayed by most comic-book 
villains. Perhaps Catwoman's inherent naughtiness makes this fanciful 
depiction a bit more plausible. 
   Part 1 of 2 
   After a long and arduous day of crime-fighting, Dick Grayson, a.k.a. 
Robin, tumbled off to sleep in his third-floor bedroom at stately Wayne 
Manor. In his dreams, though, he was not the wholesome hero of his waking 
hours. Deep in his psyche, young Grayson enjoyed a touch of evil. 
   The scene of this particular dream was the Batcave, where he was 
interrogating his mentor's arch-nemesis, Catwoman. He found it difficult to 
intimidate his imperious captive. She didn't seem like a captive at all. 
She was, instead, captivating. 
   "I don't know why you keep pressing me with these questions," Catwoman 
declared. "It's not like I'm trying to take over the city, Boy Wonder. I'm 
not killing innocent women and children. I'm just a working girl, trying to 
make a living. So I've got a taste for the finer things in life. Big 
fuckin' deal. The bankers and politicians take twice the toll on the poor 
and powerless." 
   "But they don't break the law," replied Robin, somewhat lamely. 
   "Well, what can I say? It is what it is, and I am what I am," she said, 
smiling. "Mind if I smoke?" 
   Robin was startled. "I, uh, didn't know you smoked, Catwoman," he 
spluttered. "How do you manage without, uh, having those, uh, nasty 
cigarettes intrude on your level of physical fitness?" 
   Catwoman was struck by his confused response. He seemed to be squirming. 
   "Oh, I don't know," she said. "I don't smoke much. I just like it. I 
think it's cool. Have you a light?" 
   "Uh, sure, I think I can find some matches or something." Robin walked 
over to a desk and retrieved a small Bic lighter. 
   Catwoman retrieved a pack of Benson & Hedges 100s from a small pocket in 
her cape. She tapped out one of the long, slender cigarettes, placed it 
just left of center between her lovely lips and leaned in so that Robin 
could ignite the cigarette. She noticed his eyes grow wide as she inhaled 
deeply, executed a perfect snap inhale, tilted back her head and exhaled a 
thin, powerful cloud of smoke upward. 
   "Is that your desk, Boy Wonder?" she asked. 
   "Uh, yes," he said. "I keep a lot of things in there. Boy Scout motto, 
you know: 'Be prepared.'" 
   "Do you enjoy the occasional smoke yourself, Boy Wonder?" 
   "No, no. Bad for you." 
   "But you do enjoy watching me smoke, don't you? I can tell. Your tights 
betray you." 
   It was true. Robin was aroused. He felt sheepish and more than a bit 
guilty, even as he squirmed some more. 
   "I think I'm supposed to be the one asking the questions, Catwoman," he 
said. "You're changing the subject." 
   "Yes," she said, "but the subject, it seems, you find compelling. Come 
here. Let me show you something." 
   He got up and walked around the table. She took another voluminous drag, 
and all it took was a shrug, a well-practiced shrug, to cause the straps on 
her black-leather costume to fall from her shoulders. 
   "These," she said, "are my tits." 
   Robin was paralyzed, mouth agape. 
   "Kiss me," she said. "You know you want to." 
   "Yes," he said, almost in a trance, and when their lips met, she tickled 
his tongue with hers and exhaled. The Boy Wonder didn't cough. 
   "I believe the Boy Wonder is a secret smoker," Catwoman said. "And I 
believe he would like a cigarette of his own." 
   "Well, you know, every now and then," Grayson spluttered. 
   And, now, Robin was deeply aroused. Catwoman placed a fresh cigarette in 
her mouth, lit it from her own and handed it to Robin. He inhaled deeply 
and fell into her arms, barely managing to place the burning cigarette on 
the edge of the conference table without having it fall to the floor. 
   Then Grayson awoke, wide-eyed, and no amount of guilt could relieve the 
restless desire he had for the subject of his dream. His penis formed a 
little pup tent in the covers, and he couldn't resist grasping it with his 
right hand for a moment. He climbed from the bed, turned on the lamp next 
to it and fumbled through the closet, retrieving a pack of Marlboro Lights 
from the inside pocket of a navy blazer. Grayson staggered, still half 
asleep, into the bathroom, where he flicked the switches to turn on the 
light and fan. Feverishly, he scrambled to find the lighter he had hidden 
in the back of one of the drawers and lit a cigarette. When he stared at 
himself in the mirror, he imagined it was Catwoman smoking instead. From 
the middle of an issue of Sports Illustrated, he retrieved an 8x10 
photograph of Catwoman. 
   "When did you start smoking, Catwoman?" he asked the smirking image. 
   "It's just fuckin' cool," came the imagined reply. "Fuck me, Boy 
   He carefully folded a three-foot long strand of toilet tissue, breathing 
the smoke from the cigarette dangling from his mouth. 
   "Gladly, you slut," he said. 
   It took only a few moments for Grayson to pleasure himself. He was 
unable to quite get the tissue over the head of his penis satisfactorily. A 
wad of semen spurted on to the wood panel of the cabinet. When he had spent 
himself, he grabbed more tissue to clean the milky fluid from the wood and 
the floor. Then he relaxed and sank to the toilet, where he caught his 
breath and quietly finished the cigarette. Then Grayson took an aerosol can 
and sprayed the room with air freshener. He tossed the butt into the toilet 
and flushed, then took a swallow of mouthwash and gargled. 
   Then Grayson returned to the bed, pulled the covers up to his neck and 
slept ever so soundly. 

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