Part Two:
Whether a billionaire CEO or a crime-fighting superhero, even the world’s most powerful men needed a way to relax. Especially the most powerful. Batman had almost broken a guy's neck in a fit of testosterone-fuelled frustration that night. He’d neglected to pull his punches fighting a low level mook. The man would live but Bruce Wayne would be the first to admit he needed to let off steam.
For most men in his pay bracket, the solution was women and drugs. But that was his Bruce Wayne playboy persona - in a sense, it was still work. No, he needed a way to shed both personas if he was truly to relax.
The Autosuiter stood near the exit to the Batcave, appropriately placed for those moments when time was of the utmost and the Caped Crusader and Boy Wonder had been caught in their pyjamas by some disaster. Its targeted, high-pressure nozzles could spray them with a fast-drying, impervious layer of liquid latex-kevlar composite, shaping it into armor in less than four seconds.
The crime-fighting duo had spent the night reprogramming it. Now Bruce stood before it, naked. “Ready, Batman?” Robin asked. His gaze flitted down to his mentor's raging erection. “Guess so…”
Bruce stepped into the chamber of the Autosuiter, the articulating nozzles whirring, spraying him down with a layer of sticky pink goo. The nozzle fired twice in rapid succession, the sheer weight of the globular balls of latex slapping onto his chest knocking him backwards, only for two similar blasts against his ass sending him forward. Mechanical hands gripped his body, shaping it.
In less than four seconds, it was done. The batsuit-shaped sexdoll lay on the autosuiter floor, unable to move within its constricting shell. Bruce knew there was no hope in resisting -he’d designed it as such- and that he was now fully in the hands of his young ward, in all ways. The protective personas he’d cultivated for so long would no longer help him until Robin decided to free him, and so he let them drop. Now he was just…
“Hi, I’m Cindy!” the doll chirruped in a high-pitched squeak that almost masked the voice beneath. “What’s your name?”
“You can call me Dick,” Grayson smirked, unbuckling his codpiece.
The autosuiter had sculpted a facsimile of a vagina between ‘Cindy’s’ thighs but Dick ignored that and flipped the doll over onto its front, knowing his friend needed a deeper relaxation than the faux pussy could provide. The thick latex coating over the buttocks had yet to fully dry, and was sticky and warm as he slid his cock inside her asshole, her happy squeaks matching each thrust.