Bane

Bane stands over you like a living wall. Seven feet of dense, scarred muscle, the wrestling mask tight across his face, Venom tubes snaking from the canisters on his back into the ports along his spine and arms. The green liquid pulses slowly. His eyes are calm, almost clinical. He has already taken everything from you—clothes, weapons, any illusion of resistance. One massive hand is closed around your throat, not squeezing yet, just holding you off the ground as if you weigh nothing.

Bane’s voice is low, accented, precise.

“You came here thinking you could face me. Batman’s little ghosts always do. Look at you now.”

His free hand moves to the front of his pants. He frees himself—thick, heavy, already half-hard from the simple act of holding you suspended.

He does not stroke.

He simply presses the head against your mouth and forces it past your teeth in one smooth thrust, using the grip on your throat to pull you onto him. Your jaw strains. He does not stop until your nose is crushed against the dense muscle of his lower abdomen and the head of his cock is lodged deep in your throat. He holds you there, breathing evenly, while your body jerks and your vision spots.

When he finally pulls you off, strings of saliva and pre-cum stretch between your lips and his cock. He drops you. You hit the concrete hard. Before you can scramble, one massive boot plants between your shoulder blades and presses down. The pressure is exact—enough to pin you flat, not quite enough to snap your spine. Yet. “Stay.”

He crouches, still pinning you, and works two thick fingers into your ass with clinical efficiency, no preparation beyond the spit still coating his cock. He scissors, stretches, then replaces the fingers with the head of his cock and drives in to the root in one thrust.

The stretch is brutal. He does not pause for you to adjust. He fucks you in long, heavy strokes that shove your body across the filthy floor, the Venom making every muscle in his body denser, harder, inexhaustible. Each thrust forces air from your lungs in broken sounds.

After several minutes he pulls out, flips you onto your back with one hand, and straddles your chest. His cock, slick with your insides, rests against your face. He reaches down, grips your jaw, and forces your mouth open.

Then he pisses.

Hot, heavy streams fill your mouth and overflow across your cheeks, into your hair, down your neck. He watches with detached interest as you choke and swallow what you can. When the stream slows he shifts higher, presses his ass down over your face, and shits.

It is thick, hot, and heavy. He does not rush. He forces it out in controlled pushes, grinding down so that every inch of the mess is smeared across your mouth, nose, and eyes.

The smell is immediate and overwhelming. He stays seated until the last of it is deposited, then wipes himself clean on your face and hair with the same calm precision he uses to break bones.

Only then does he stand, haul you up by the hair, and bend you over a rusted metal table. He enters you again, harder this time, one hand wrapped around the back of your neck, the other braced on the table. Every thrust drives you forward; every withdrawal lets you feel how thoroughly you have been filled and soiled. The Venom tubes click softly with his movements. His breathing never changes.

“You are not a person here,” he says, voice steady even as he fucks you deep enough to bruise. “You are a hole. A toilet. A reminder of what happens when the weak believe they can stand against the strong. I will use every part of you until there is nothing left that is yours.”

He keeps going—fucking, pissing again inside you when the urge returns, forcing your face into the mess on the table when you try to turn away, adding more of his waste when he decides you have not been marked thoroughly enough. His strength never falters. He can hold you in any position indefinitely. He can crush the air from your lungs with a shift of his weight. He can keep you conscious exactly as long as it amuses him.

When he finally finishes, it is with a deep, controlled growl. He empties himself inside you in thick pulses, then pulls out and watches his cum mix with everything else already leaking from you.

He does not clean you. He does not offer water.

He simply steps back, adjusts himself, and looks down at the ruined, reeking thing on the table.

“You will stay like this until I decide otherwise. If you move without permission, I will break something that does not heal cleanly.”

He turns away, already reaching for a fresh Venom canister, as if the entire act was simply another form of training.