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Oswald has really outdone himself this time.
Oh, yes, giving such valuable goods away for free is a nonsensical decision on the surface, but Oswald has long surpassed the beginner level in business. A private auction would have raked in the profits, but also required him to pay for security, hosting, manage the event—and surely draw a great deal of ire from those who lost out.
The little bat children have plenty of enemies after all.
No, no, placing them out for free was the better choice. The Penguin's esteem will only rise, no spurned foes will be knocking down his door, and he barely had to do anything.
The nonstop attention on the once so troublesome boys is like free all-day security. Everyone present is more determined to keep them from escaping than any security force he could hire. Plus, the publicity has given all his other business ventures a notable boost.
Best of all, it seems the ruffians of Gotham all combined have managed something no rogue alone has achieved, something Oswald doubted was even possible: They may have actually broken the bats.
And all the while, the Penguin gets to sit in his roost and bask in it, without dirtying his hands.
The intersection has been blocked to traffic, but certainly not from onlookers. Where once the four boys were uniformly chained up, they've been pulled down and repositioned to each purveyor's convenience. Best of all, each giant screen around the square blazes with the lurid images below, lest anyone miss out on a good view—the perfect topper to the former heroes' shame.
The snide Robin, now revealed as Damian Wayne, has been forced into a stillness like living furniture, while his brothers are endlessly moved beyond. Punishment, perhaps, for his earlier behavior.
Blood still paints down his chin, souvenir from the man stupid enough to risk removing his gag and replacing it with a cock. No one else has been so bold once they saw the result.
Another perk of placing them out for free—Oswald has no need to reimburse the man.
Instead, Wayne the Younger has been fitted out with all things impersonal. His hands remained chained tight behind his back, and he's the only one with his ankle still cuffed too. Cloth is tied around his eyes, blindfolding him. Another strip wraps around his mouth, lips stretched over the crumpled briefs someone had shoved inside. A third makes a makeshift collar around his neck.
Vines poking up from beneath the street hold him in position, shoulders down but face tipped up for all to see, bare ass forced to the highest point. Not Ivy's usual style, Oswald thought, but she must have a grudge, even if she hasn't made a personal appearance.
That ass holds the pinnacle of Gotham's newest and greatest human sculpture. The head of a bottle of champagne has been forced inside—and old vintage, expensive, far more than the brat deserves. Oswald would know, having sold it to the eager patrons himself.
The earlier chant of, “Chug! Chug! Chug!” as it poured into his ass had been droll, but amusing.
The ruffians surrounding, men and women, have now made a game of spanking the cheeks on either side, seeing who can hit hardest without jostling the bottle out of the improvised strap holding it in place. It should be quite a delight when it finally falls.
A few feet away sits Red Robin, now known to all as Timothy Drake—not that he's remotely aware of where he is anymore. Fucked mindless, it seems. The little pink pussy beneath Red Robin's uniform had been quite a surprise, but one that's paying heavy dividends.
The video of him stuffed and fucked in three holes had drawn quite the reaction from the crowd. Oswald will have to remember to sell that clip to Drake's surely numerous out-of-town enemies.
Cocks, hands, and plenty of inanimate objects have been shoved inside all of the boy's holes, but especially that pussy. No one has managed a fist yet, but he can't imagine it will be a struggle after this.
Killer Croc, thank god, is in one of his calmer moods, perfectly happy to abide by the no-killing, no-maiming rule. Still as territorial as ever, though. Anyone who gets to close to his prize is snapped at, thought he's had the boy on that mammoth he calls a cock for—hours, it must be by now.
A perfect cockwarmer.
The fight has left Drake, dangling pliable as Croc lifts his little body over his lap to fuck him again and again. Little, at least, in comparison to the enormous beast holding him. The smallest of his brothers, now that Robin has grown into himself. It's ironically fitting that he should take the largest cock.
Croc lifts him up again, revealing half his scaly length. Must be the width of a soda can, completely splitting open Drake's poor, abused pussy. Surely no less impressive in length.
His stomach is actually swollen with the amount of come Croc and so many others have shot into him. Oswald imagines eventually it will run out of room entirely, forced all the way up through his body, into his throat, making him choke and splutter on it. They'd watch it leak out his slack lips, alongside the drool and tears.
Instead, they watch it leak out his other lips, tiny rivulets breaking out where they can with the incredible stretch.
Croc increases the pace, tugging Drake up and down on his lap until he's nearly a blur. Oswald wonders if the golf ball from earlier is still inside his ass, forcing him open in two holes even if Waylon refuses to share. He hopes so.
With a roar audible from every corner of the block, Croc's hips stutter in jerky thrusts, stuffing more of his seemingly endless come inside. He shoves the limp body forward, following him in for yet another round.
Beyond the mismatched pair is the former Red Hood. Jason Todd, unmasked and undead, and all the more valuable for it. No one looking at him now would imagine the power he once held in Gotham's drug trade.
Black Mask's men had hungrily swarmed in once their boss was done with him. Many of them have left evidence of their presence in and over the man. Red and white both dribble off him, shallow cuts littering his back after a whipping by his own grapple cord. Not deep enough to do any real harm—Oswald was quite clear on that restriction—but enough to sting and pull with every movement.
Unlike his brothers, Hood still has the ring gag he was originally fitted with. There's just enough of a dangerous spark left in his eyes to make it a necessary precaution.
The men are making good use of it now. The two who still have yet to get their fill spitroast Hood between them, fucking in relentlessly and without coordination. He keeps choking on the cock in front, jerking away from the one behind, bound hands twitching against his back.
The man behind moves his hands up from Hood's hips to his waist, thumbs pressing over the cuts. Hood yells out hoarsely, and the man in front throws his head back in pleasure, fucking once, twice more down his throat. Hood splutters as he pulls out, choking and coughing up come. With nothing left to hold his head up, his cheek hits the rough ground below.
Oswald can't hear the satisfied man's words as he turns to the surrounding crowd, but he can tell it's a call to the next taker, even as his partner keeps ramming that ass.
As the trade-over gets sorted out, Oswald turns his attention to the last of his wares, the oldest.
Nightwing, Richard Grayson, has drawn the most takers of all. Of course, with far longer than his brothers in the mask to infuriate Gotham's underworld, it only makes sense.
Harvey's firm orders to his lackeys to only come over one side of the man made a pretty pattern, but it's long since been eclipsed. Come splatters every piece of him: his hands, his thighs, his jaw, his arms and legs, up his back and down his stomach, over his clenched eyelids like the mask he was so fond of.
Some of it is his own. Perhaps the lascivious rumors are true, because Grayson has gotten off under his own assault.
Most of the tears on his face came from that, and the whoops and applause it inspired.
Video sales. Oswald really must make a note.
He doesn't recognize the group mobbing Grayson now—if they even are a group, and not merely a band of strangers brought together by mutual interest in defiling a vigilante. Some two-bit thugs, common criminals, unimportant henchman. Maybe they're not part of Gotham's underworld at all, but vagabonds, or even perfectly ordinary citizens pulled in by the display.
Whoever they are, the nobodies make up for their lack of reputation with delightful ideas. Grayson has been put on his back, a man each holding his legs flat against his shoulders. One of Nightwing's own escrima sticks fucks into him, those weapons that have given so many of them so much trouble.
Oswald knows from experience the sticks are thick and inflexible, fitted with a bumpy grip at the base and a nasty electric shock at the tip.
They must be a nightmare to take up the ass.
The group has opted to press this one in tip first. It's not a surprise, but still a joy when they find the switch to activate it. Grayson's mouth opens in a silent scream, body trembling. The screens show a perfect view, as some of the come on his face slides down to drip between his lips.
Such a nice change from twelve hours ago, when he was leading escape attempts and trying to negotiate for his brothers.
The escrima stick presses in until Grayson stops spasming, then gets roughly yanked out. He seems barely conscious as the nobodies tug him up. The man holding the stick slides his cock in easily. Another presses up behind his lolling body, trying to position in as well. The crowd stirs up with encouraging hollers.
Across the square, the champagne bottle falls and shatters, and half a dozen ruffians descend on Wayne like hyenas. Croc finally pulls away from Drake, leaving his cunt positively gushing come onto the pavement. Two new men have taken their place in front of Hood, tugging his hair back and forth to take turns with his mouth. The nobodies finally manage to stuff two cocks inside Grayson's sloppy hole, throwing up their arms in celebration and drawing a cheer from the crowd.
Quite an eventful first day.
Hardly everyone in town with a vendetta, though. Oswald wonders if Nygma will turn up, and for who. He can't wait to see how Hush might torment the boys with their dead father's face. To find out if Bane can beat Croc in size. What horror Crane might unleash. The Joker, certainly, must be planning something in his conspicuous absence...
Ah, well. He has plenty of time to find out what indignities will be visited on Gotham's new favorite sluts—until, of course, he gets a better offer.