He had all sorts of ways of getting there but until Harley came along none of them could be considered conventional.
He knew it was written in his file somewhere, in someone's scribbled or typed notes: subject does not demonstrate normal adult male libido. Subject appears largely disinterested in sex.
Sex. What was sex, anyway? A sort of ridiculous grunting and thrusting about. Fluid loss. Weakness. A cheap and easy way to reach a particular sensation.
It was not the only way.
Disinterested in sex he might be, but in pleasure he was always keen. He lived for pleasure, in fact, hungered and thirsted for it with every fibre of his being. Every thing he did was designed around gratifying himself, reaching satiation. He saw no reason to deny it. It was the only thing that made sense of life, after all, so he pursued it with all fervour.
He got drunk on bliss and he was a connoisseur; he knew a thousand and one ecstasies that were equal, or greater, to the one found at the climax of sex, so why bother over much with sex itself?
But then Harley came along.
Harley understood him better than anyone else, which was a problem in itself. But where all the world was a wondrous play land of delirious experiences for him, all of Harley's pleasure culminated in him.
She knew how to have fun of course, better than most. But she could not get there from watching a series of bombs go off in rehabilitation clinics all over town. No, that just got her in the mood. And the mood always led to him.
He tried, of course, to get her there, to the point where she realised that touching and pawing and swapping fluids was not the be-all, end-all. But the trouble was she didn't know desire outside of him and so couldn't imagine ecstasy beyond him either. She had to have him.
So it became a game. He didn't know if she knew they were playing it, but that didn't matter. He did.
Not too often, not too much. Best not to spoil her or make her feel over-confident. But just enough. Just enough to keep her passive, keep her in control, keep her hungry and yearning for him so that every night she'd hope. And when he gave it he made it good. He made it blow her mind. He made it unlike anything she'd ever known before. Sex was all about fluid loss so he made sure of it. Sweat and spit, tears and blood and everything else. Sex was about intensity so he took care of that, too. He bit her lips til she bled, yanked back hard on her hair, pounded until she cried and came despite herself.
And the memories would linger for weeks after, along with the bruises. And she could touch the bruises and call to mind the moment again, almost as though she were in the midst of it.
He started taking an interest in that.
He was it, after all, which was as it should be and he couldn't help but preen beneath her adoration. How far would she go to have him?
As it turned out, as far as he could take her.
Depravity and humiliation made her sob and that got him there and she saw it and soon enough depravity and humiliation got her there as well. It was delicious and it got him even further. She squirmed at his requests, blinked up at him with a wobbling lip: "Will it make ya happy, Puddin'?"
"More than anything." he'd whisper back and she'd do it. Whatever it was he asked.
And when he hissed: "Oh Harley Baby, you've made Daddy so happy."
She'd moan and twitch and he'd slide a hand over her and feel her orgasm pulse.
But what else? He got swept away in experimentation, in the endless pursuit of possibility.
Asphyxiation, smothering, the butt of a gun against her head or between her legs. The possibility of death. Of watching her struggle, flail frantically for a few moments before relinquishing, giving over to him, accepting her fate, and oh, how bright his pleasure flared then. Promising death if she came then doing what ever sly little trick would make her come quicker. Sometimes the danger was enough.
Sometimes he'd not been doing much more than simply screw her and he'd watch her face, working with fevered bliss, delirious and dazed as he took this simple pleasure from her. Then he'd lean down towards her, so that his breath would beat her cheek and whisper:
"I love you, Harley."
That would be it. Her hips would thrust up, the scream would tear from her throat and he'd feel her contract around him hard and rapid. He'd marvel at it.
Pain, too, and that was perhaps most delightful of all because when she first appeared in his life she did not like pain. She did not like pain for a long time, in fact. But if it had been months since the last time he touched her then a blow to the face or to the stomach was no longer just what it was.
It was attention.
It was acknowledgement.
And gradually, over time, he watched how her body transformed pain to pleasure. It still made her cry. Still made her scream. Still made her curl up in a shivering ball. But she welcomed it, and treasured it.
Then one day he caught her, curled up by his feet, running her fingertips lightly along the leather of his shoe, with that look on her face. He'd been intrigued and watched silently, not letting on that he was no longer paying attention to his half-scribbled scheme. She'd bent her head, breathed in - what, the leather, the wool of his sock, or his flesh itself? Maybe it was all of them. But she breathed in and a little whimper escaped her lips and her tongue had darted out and licked them. She kept on stroking his shoe, so softly he couldn't feel it but she clearly could and when finally she bit down hard on her lip and screwed her eyes shut, and her body convulsed for a few luscious moments, he knew finally, at long last, he'd got her there. Really there.
So why couldn't he stop playing the game?
He knew that he should. There was no need now. All she needed was a shirt of his, or a sock, or just to sit nearby and watch him and she could get her satisfaction. Even just playing her part in one of his schemes, in which she took such particular and sordid delight. He'd done it. He'd succeeded. Bravo to him. He was brilliant and here was yet more proof, like the world needed anymore.
But still he kept on playing.
Cornering her if she'd been hanging out with that miserable plant wretch and making her quail with fear, making her throat ache, making her lick it off her own face and watching as she sighed and shut her eyes in complaisant bliss. Using her body like a masturbation toy, merciless and relentless until she jerked like a doll and her eyes glassed over with surrender.
Hours spent doing nothing more than kissing her, her body flush against his, his hand cupping her head and his mouth working her by turns rough and invasive, gentle and tender. Nibbling and sucking, licking and biting. Even in so small an act he could control her utterly, forcing her to be still and take his tongue, ravaging and hungry, or coaxing and accommodating, urging her to probe his own mouth. Her lips would often be swollen and red, reminding him of what she kept between her legs.
He'd work them too, with his mouth and his hands and his cock. With his gun, or cane, a whoopee cushion or even a rubber chicken, whatever came to hand. She would get dripping wet with arousal, and swollen from assault, sometimes she would bleed a little, but she always came and came hard. He licked her tenderly and bit her when she least expected it, kissed her better and over time, worked his whole fist in there. He'd revel in the explosive power of it and she would swoon at the invasion, but when she came like that it was as though his arm was trapped in a vice and she could choose to let him go - or not.
She was his baby, after all that, and she was frequently bad and her bottom was round and vibrated when he spanked it and although that itself wasn't so interesting, the way she reacted was. How she begged him to punish her, then cried when he did, the insecurity and clinging need afterwards and well, she was his baby and she was often good too. So he held her close and rocked her on his lap and stroked her hair and her face would glaze over with sheer subservience and she rarely looked so pretty.
So down on her back and he would nuzzle her tummy, blow raspberries, gently tickle and before long she would be laughing again, that musical sound and he would join in. He would stroke her gently and she would wiggle and sigh and he'd nibble on all her toes.
After all, his life was about fun and he often felt merely playful and as it turns out Harley was usually the best option for such frivolity. She understood and she delighted with him and together they splashed in bubble baths, had food fights and tickled each other until the walls shook with their joy. Oh, he loved the sound of her sobs but he loved the sound of her laughter too, and he preferred it when he was the reason for both. He'd tease her, torment her until she was shivering and begging for release, then stop and tickle her some more, tossing her between childish pleasure and sensual bliss so that neither of them could keep up with which was which.
He let himself be massaged and stroked and adored, let her work her mouth over him from head to toe and back again while he lay there with his eyes shut, visions of sugar plums and bat heads dancing about in his head, her warm little lips and tongue licking and kissing and making him shiver.
It was never the same so it never grew dull. It was different for his every mood, vicious and cruel or indulgent and delighting, childish and playful or sensual and intense.
But it was all the same to Harley. It came from him, so it was bliss. And together they found euphoria.
It wasn't that he couldn't stop playing, of course. He just didn't want to. It was as simple as that. The game was fun, that was all. And what was his life about, if not self-gratification and the pursuit of pleasure?
It was all about getting there and in the end, as it turns out, sex was another way.
It was not the only way.
But with Harley, at least, it was never conventional.
No, he didn't demonstrate a normal adult male libido. But he damn sure liked what he had.