The Kittens

The Villainess Monologues:

The Kittens

Good morning Batman. You’re wondering where you are. Last thing you remember, you were screwing Catwoman. You felt her lithe arms and legs wrapped around your body, her tongue licking your face, her honeyed pussy receiving your desperate cock, her claws scratching your back, drawing blood. And then you blacked out. Now you’re hanging by your chained wrists from a ceiling hook like a piece of meat, your ankles chained to the floor, screaming for mercy as the seven of us take turns searing your pale flesh with our whips. You’re naked except for your precious cowel. Oh, and that collar on your neck, and that metallized rubber ring at the base of your dick, which you’ll hear more about in a moment. Your cowel doesn’t matter anyway – we know who you are, Bruce, but we’re keeping it on you just for laughs, and to remind you of what you used to be. You can forget that crimefighting bullshit. You belong to us now, and your every waking moment will be devoted to serving us.

Who are we? Call us the Kittens. We used to be Catwoman’s best girls. We were abducted in our early teens and trained as high-class whores. We learned quickly and performed our jobs well. Soon enough, noticing our intelligence, erotic skills, and capacity for cruelty, Catwoman started using us for other, more … delicate tasks. We helped her create one of the most powerful criminal enterprises the world has known. Then, six months ago, we enslaved Catwoman and took control of her organization.

Catwoman was a brilliant criminal mastermind, but she had one fatal flaw: she was addicted to pleasure. She liked to relax in the evenings, having her various orifices serviced by her slaves, or her Toms, or us. She said she got her best ideas while fucking. But all that fucking left her vulnerable to those, like us, who get pleasure purely from power, and who view power primarily as a vehicle for amassing more power. We started laying plans for our takeover almost a year ago. We familiarized ourselves with every aspect of Catwoman’s operations. We approached the Toms and the techies and offered them three times what Catwoman was paying them. Then we struck. Monique, the blonde who just applied an electric cattle-prod to your balls, used her expert tongue to give Catwoman a mindblowing orgasm. As Catwoman lay wild-eyed and purring, waves of joy still coursing through her sweat-soaked body, Monique snapped a collar on her. Four Toms walked in and pointed their guns at her, warning her that they now answered to us. The seven of us then reprogrammed our collars, ending our slavery and making Catwoman our slave.

Ah yes, the collars. Catwoman invented them. Each collar tracks the wearer’s position, records holographic images of the wearer’s surroundings, taps wireless and fixed-line electronic signals, reads storage media and computer memory, and transmits these data from anywhere on the globe to the supercomputers in the Catlair for storage and analysis. The collars also receive satellite signals, thereby enabling controllers in the Catlair to communicate with the girls through concealed wireless earphones. A bracelet unit allows the girls to photograph or scan specific objects. So, as Catwoman’s whores did their nightly work in hotel suites, mansions, luxury apartments and private jets around the world, she could track the encounters in real time and learn whatever there was to know about her clients. Soon she was earning vastly greater revenues from extortion and blackmail than from simple prostitution. A client might pay $10,000 for one night’s fuck, then pay Catwoman $100,000 a month not to raid his bank account, not to tell his rivals about the business plans she’d found on his laptop, not to transmit a 3-D holographic replay of his night screwing a high-class prostitute to his wife and children. As Catwoman’s successors, we now have all of that information at our disposal. We have thousands of powerful men – CEOs and generals, presidents and kings, princes and prime ministers – in our thrall.

The collars also solve a big problem in this business – personnel management. You have to make sure the staff do their jobs correctly, and that they don’t leave the organization while they still have income-generating potential. So the collars have a little incentive-aligment feature that we’ve found to be very effective. Fatima, would you go to the control panel and show Batman what we mean? A one-inch tightening at the neck should make it clear. Now tighten it some more, until Batman can no longer make that delightful gagging sound. OK, Fatima, dial it back to neutral. Now, just to show we mean business, why don’t you show him how the cock-ring works? It’s made of a flexible material that can expand and contract as well as conduct electricity. We can adjust both the diameter and the electric charge by remote wireless. Like that. I think he understands now.

The cock-rings were Fatima’s idea. Just to give us that extra element of control. From now on even the beginnings of an erection that does not have our approval will be extremely painful to you. And we can keep you erect as long as is needed to satisfy our customers. All of our fuckboys have them. And each of our slavegirls has a small ring made of the same material in her clitoris. If she gets wet or her clit gets swollen without our permission, her punishment will be swift and painful. You see, when you work for us, you lose the right to control your body. Your body is ours, to be exploited for our purposes and according to our will.

Thanks to the collars, we’ve known your secret identity for almost a year now. Do you remember Rome, Bruce? The meetings for your business deal ran late. You were disappointed, because you’d been looking forward to picking up a supermodel or ambassador’s wife at the Prime Minister’s reception. You had to get a whore instead. So, sitting at the negotiating table, you text-messaged what you thought was the local branch of a global escort service. In fact it was one of Catwoman’s operations. We’d been supplying you for years, and had your requirements on file. When you returned to the hotel that night, you found me waiting for you on the floor of your suite in a red corset, leather boots and handcuffs. While you were pounding me, back at the Catlair one of the other Kittens reviewed the scanning data from my collar, and discovered an encrypted satellite link with Commissioner Gordon’s office. Scanning your body with my bracelet, I traced the signals to a transponder chip embedded beneath the skin in your lower back, the one you had implanted as a fail-safe in case you were captured. A simple comparison of Batman’s and Bruce Wayne’s voiceprints confirmed our suspicions. But instead of passing on these findings to Catwoman, we kept the information among the seven of us. Discovering your identity was the final piece in the puzzle. We knew that, with your billions, we would have all the financing we needed to meet the expenses of our little takeover. From then on your fate was sealed. And all because Bruce Wayne needed his goodnight fuck. Life is full of little ironies.

Once we had collared Catwoman, and put the control-ring through her clit, we set about implementing our plan for your destruction. Our first step was to have her call you in tears, saying she was ready to give up her life of crime and wanted to negotiate a surrender to the authorities. We knew you’d swallow the bait, Batman, after all those years of taunting by this beautiful, merciless woman who so perfectly mirrored your ruthless determination and dark genius. As proof that she was serious, she gave you information about three operations, which you and the police promptly shut down. This was a big help to us – two of those operations were competitors of ours, and the third was a minor affiliate that we were planning to liquidate anyway.

And we knew that when she called you last night, demanding to see you urgently and giving you the address of an out-of-town motel, you would ignore all of your usual precautions and rush straight to her without arranging surveillance or backup. We knew that, when she answered the door wearing only her cat ears, collar, long leather gloves, and thigh-high stiletto-heeled leather boots, all those years of frustrated desire would overwhelm you. Through Catwoman’s collar we watched her kiss your starved lips, undo your utility belt and scratch off your costume. We watched you throw her fragrant body on the bed and plunge your aching dick deep inside her, and we watched her claw your back and inject your spinal cord with knock-out drops. We watched you shoot your load into her with a triumphant moan just moments before you lost consciousness.

Once we captured you, Catwoman was no longer of use to us. Right now she’s in a packing crate in a plane headed to the Middle East, where she will become the property of one of our long-time customers. This customer had had some disputes with us over financial matters, but he agreed to settle these differences in our favor in exchange for having Catwoman in his harem.

Now let’s get down to business Batman. We’re going to use you to service a small but important part of our client base: powerful, wealthy women who demand the same submission from their sex partners that they receive from everyone else in their business and personal lives. Right now there is an aggressive bidding war underway for you between an investment banker, a fashion magazine editor and a senator. Each wants to be the first to fuck the famous Batman. And after them we have a long waiting list of interested ladies.

We think you’ll make a very good fuckboy. As I learned that night in Rome, you have tremendous stamina. Your dick is only ten inches long - not as impressive as some of the others in our stable, but large enough to meet the requirements of our clientele. Of course, as with all men it will take months of rigorous training before you learn how to use your equipment to actually please women.

We made certain to remove and destroy the transponder chip in your lower back before bringing you here, but not before using it to track down your friends. Right now Robin is getting the same treatment as you in another of our locations. We’re going to market him to teenage girls with too much money for their own good – tennis players, Hollywood starlets, heiresses, popstars. Those girls are always such faithful customers, and when their money runs out, they’ll have no choice but to work for us.

The biggest prize of course was the lovely Miss Gordon. We took her from her bed at 4 am this morning, and will start interrogating her once she wakes up from our drugs. We’ve discovered that Batgirl’s a virgin – imagine that! So we’ve put her cherry out to bid among Gotham City’s crime lords. The auction price is already well into nine figures. Once that’s taken care of, we’re sure she will be one of our top earners as a hired pussy for crime bosses and corporate chieftains worldwide. Holding her will also help to smooth our relations with the Gotham Police. If they ever give us any trouble, we can beam a holographic tape of the Joker screwing Commissioner Gordon’s daughter into the lobby of police headquarters. If that doesn’t work, we’ll send the Commissioner one of her fingers.

Enough chit-chat. It’s time for you to deliver, Bruce. You’re an intelligent man, so I think you understand what’s expected of you. Monique has increased the setting on her cattle prod from half to full strength. Fatima is at the controls of your collar and cock-ring. I’m sure you realize the consequences for you and your precious cock if, when Lily unchains your right hand and gives you a pen, you don’t sign the document on her clipboard. It is a power of attorney giving us full access to all of your personal assets, including Wayne Manor, the Batcave, and your controlling stake in Wayne Enterprises.

Goooood. Very smart, Bruce. Your days as a lone knight defending society from evil are over. Your nights as a full-time fuckslave for the Kittens have begun.

Comments welcome: bhc917 (at) hotmail (dot) com.

Credits: Photos of Jan Anderson from Strange Cosmos and Sicknote.org.uk