Warning for just a smattering of non-con towards the end.



Harley Quinn had had Enough. More than Enough. She'd had a double-serving plus dessert and a side order of Enough.

This was ridiculous. She was a human being. She had needs.

She drew in a deep breath and let out the heaviest, loudest sigh she could produce from where she sat cross-legged on the scratched fibreglass back of a horse on a dilapidated merry-go-round.

Joker did not look up from his work.

He was busy tinkering with robotics, creating an army of kewpie dolls for a purpose he had not yet seen fit to inform her of. She'd been terribly impressed at first, of course, watching her man cleverly attach fuses and connect wiring with an artist's precision. But she hadn't quite counted on the scope of this army.

Harley was a girl whose passions ran high. It was just the way she was born. Her engine needed frequent servicing and though she'd found that quantity had reigned supreme over quality in days gone by, the bliss she found with her Puddin' more than made up for it.

Only thing was, her Puddin' was overmuch dedicated to quality as opposed to quantity, seeming to think that the sheer virtuosity of his performances was enough to see her through the long periods of in between, idling as it were, in first.

If he only knew how it revved her up even more.

Harley was a dedicated girlfriend. She was understanding, compassionate, affectionate and patient. She knew her Puddin' was a fella of great genius with many important burdens weighing heavily upon his (handsome) brow. Normally she was more than happy (okay, somewhat okay) to wait for him.

But a gal could only take so much. And right then, Harley had taken just about as much as she could.

It was probably the weather. The spring always fired up her need for hanky panky. No such luck setting her man's seasons. They were as changeable as his moods, and they changed more than the weather. And he hadn't had a mood complementary to her cravings for too darn long.

She felt like she was gonna burst.

It didn't help that Mistah J was sitting there - looking so sexy and desirable - in his shirt sleeves, rolled up to the elbows, a lock of green hair tumbling over his forehead, long legs spread wide and bare feet tapping frantically on the floor panels. Tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration - oooooh, that tongue. Harley squirmed in her seat, her frustration steadily rising. That tongue and all its magical, wonderful little tricks. She couldn't take this any longer. He wasn't even looking at her. He probably didn't even know she was there.

She'd tried. God only knows how she'd tried, that past week, to have him see things her way. The outfits she'd flounced around in, the toys she'd suggestively fondled, the blatant whisperings in his ears, followed by a playful nip and a lick. He'd shoved her away but had otherwise responded to her predicament with nothing more than amusement. It was maddening.

One more go.

She stretched out backwards on the horse's back so that her head dangled over its rear, lifting both legs to rest on the horse's head, grasping hold of the pole that impaled the beast through the back and grinding her crotch against it.

"Watching you work really makes me feel naughty, Mistah J," she cooed playfully, lifting her free hand to fondle one breast. "I'd love to hear all about what you've got planned. Won'tcha come over here and tell me?"

Without looking up, Joker grinned wider then turned a final screw on the kewpie he was holding, flicking a switch on its back and tossing it in Harley's direction.

"Here, Pooh, I whipped this one up for you."

Harley pushed herself upright and caught the kewpie, which was making an obscenely loud buzzing noise. As she grasped it, she realised it was furiously vibrating.

"Oh, you creep!" She shrieked as Joker's laughter rang through the park. She threw the kewpie away from her before sliding off the horse's back and storming away to the funhouse where their living quarters were.

Moments later she was back, a hastily filled duffel bag hoisted over one shoulder. Damn him, that's all she could stand and she couldn't stand no more! She was going to go over to Red's, and Mistah J could think what he liked about that, oh yeah, he could let his imagination just go wild, and maybe she just would get laid and Mistah J could just stick it up his tuckus!

"I'm going to Ivy's! She'll wanna pay attention to me!" She announced furiously to her maniacal beau. "I'll be back - when I feel like it!"

"Well, I'm sure Pammy will keep you entertained," Joker leered, finally glancing up from his work to fix mocking eyes on her. "Have fun scrubbing through her bush. Or will it be wood this time? I know she's got both."

Not the reaction she'd been looking for. She glared in impotent rage at her snickering lover for a few unspeakable moments before administering a last kick to the still vibrating kewpie which idled near the exit, then stormed out of the park.


She couldn't very well go to Ivy's now. The whole reason she'd decided to was to make Mistah J jealous and if he wasn't jealous then what was the point? Besides, he seemed to just think it was funny. And she didn't like the thought of him laughing at her and Red while they - gardened.

But no way was she going back yet, either. She was too damned mad at him. No, he had to learn his lesson first, before she'd even consider going back. Let's see how well he coped without her for a few days.

So instead she holed herself up in a rattrap motel room for the next day, watching reruns and slipping her hands over and over beneath the waistband of her shorts, only to pull them out again seconds later with a frustrated whine. Thing was, every time she went to service herself the only thing that got her even a little buzzing was Mistah J. And she was not going to give him that triumph either, no siree.

By late afternoon she was ready to tear the motel apart and had even stormed over to the battered old writing desk to start by flinging it across the room when a card sticking partway out of its drawer caught her eye.

The Iceberg Lounge, it read, in embossed blue foil script.

Suddenly, Harley hit upon an idea that would solve her issues and get a little payback on Mistah J at the same time.

"Hi Oswald!" She sang to the Penguin's greeting. "Hows tricks? That's great!" She continued without waiting for an answer. "Say, do ya think you could do me a little favour?" She abruptly changed her tone of voice to flirtatious, curling the phone cord around one finger in an unconscious mirroring of her demeanour.

"Dear lady, that would naturally depend entirely upon what type of favour you wished to solicit from me." Penguin's cultured tones were slightly underscored by the tinny connection.

Harley giggled. "Gee, you sure know how to make a gal feel like a lady, Ozzie, talking all fancy like that."

Penguin harrumphed a little and Harley grinned to herself. The Bird had long ago dried behind the ears, yet he could rarely resist a little well-placed compliment relating to his breeding when given by a pretty girl. She could sense him softening as he continued: "Well, thank you my dear. Now, about this fa - "

"Say, since we're talkin' about tricks and solicitin' anyway, let me tell you my idea!" Harley broke in. "I guess you noticed me and Mistah J been lying kinda low, huh?"

"I had remarked about the comparative peace of the city at the present time, yes. My crystal wear is certainly grateful." His tones were snobbish, but Harley was not put out. That was just Ozzie's way.

"Well, thing is Oswald, I'm beginning to get a little bit antsy, know what I mean? A gal can't get by on sunshine and smiles alone. I'm feeling the urge to get into a bit of mischief, pull a little caper of my own."

"I'm curious to know precisely how you think I might be of assistance to you in this arena Miss Quinn." Penguin's voice was dry and Harley had to stifle a giggle. Hoity toity old squawker!

"Weeellll, I sort of had in mind that I could come in and work the floor for ya tonight. You know. Be one of your floor girls." The emphasis ensured there could be no misunderstanding as to what she meant. Everyone in town knew Penguin employed a few working girls to mingle on the floors and entice customers upstairs.

For a long moment there was silence on the other end.

"Yoo hoo, Ozzie, ya still there?" Harley called out after ten full seconds.

"Er, yes - yes, are you - I mean, did you just - that is, what did you just suggest to me?"

"I wanna be one of your girls for the night!"

Penguin was silent for another brief moment. Then, "has Joker put you up to this for some godforsaken reason?"

"What? No!" She cried, exasperated. "I'm serious, Oswald. I'm bored. I wanna do something naughty. And tonight I wanna do this. Ooooh, how about this! I want you to get me someone tall, cute and rich. I don't care who. Just someone big and dumb who'll keep his mouth shut and let me ride him like a dime store pony. I'll even split ya fifty-fifty. I know you usually only get twenty-five. C'mon, how can ya say no, Ozzers?"

Penguin had listened in shocked silence and hesitated a moment longer as she finished enthusing on her request before finally sputtering: "Does Joker know about this?"

"Mistah J?" Harley replied innocently. "Oh, Mistah J has other things to think about. Tell ya what, it can be our little secret, kay?"


"Midori! No, uh - Tia! Ugh, no. Hmm. Candy seems a bit predictable. Oh my gosh! Of course! Bubbles! Perfect!"

Penguin had just asked her what she wanted her name for the evening to be. He raised one sharp eyebrow in silent disbelief at her selection before hemming gently.

"The, uh, ladies here generally choose a somewhat more - refined - moniker, Miss Quinn. Bubbles seems a trifle conspicuous, if you don't mind me saying."

"I don't mind you saying." Harley replied chirpily, adding another layer of lipstick onto her already highly laquered pout. She and Penguin were in his private suite at the rear of the club, where he was briefing her on the procedure. He sat behind his desk, staring at her in mute disbelief while she primped and preened in front of the wall length mirror running one side of the room.

"My ladies also generally adorn themselves somewhat more discreetly," He said pointedly, incredulously eyeing Harley's chosen raiment for the evening.

She'd selected a short, skin-tight red PVC mini-dress that laced all the way down the back - and the front - and looked like it had stepped straight from the pages of Streetwalker Chic. The lacing on the front came down to her navel, pushed her breasts together and ensured a shelf of cleavage protruded above its neckline. The hem was high enough to betray the slightest hint of her crotch, just barely covering her rear. On her feet were six-inch tall, bright red platform stilettos, and she'd teased her bottle-blonde hair into an enormous bouffant that framed her face. The lipstick on her lips was the colour of a fire engine and her eyes were heavily outlined in black. She'd darkened her eyebrows as well and applied a little light rouge to her cheeks. All in all, she looked like a hooker straight out of a Hollywood film - which was precisely the image she was going for.

Harley jammed the lid back on her lipstick and whirled away from the mirror. "Can it, Ozzie, this is my fantasy, remember?" She abruptly stumbled over her heels and flailed her arms about in the air for a moment before regaining her balance. "Phew!"

Penguin struggled to conceal his appalled incredulity. "I suppose it's all as well," he huffed, "because you've already been booked for the evening anyway."

Harley's eyes lit up and she squealed, hopping with a thud to sit on the desk and grasp Penguin by his lapels.

"Really? Are ya kiddin'? How? When?"

Penguin coughed and straightened his bow-tie, deliberately not looking to where the hem of Harley's mini rode her thighs.

"I simply put the word out amongst my regular clientele that I had a beautiful new blonde on this evening. One who was - fresh to the game, so to speak. At least, that's what I assumed - ?" At this Penguin turned a curious look on Harley, one eyebrow cocked inquiringly.

Harley grinned and shoved her lipstick back into her small sequinned purse, winking at the crook. "That would be telling. So who is the lucky guy?"

Penguin hemmed delicately and scratched his nose with one finger. "He requests his identity remain anonymous. He is of a rather high stature, you see."

"He's a celebrity?" Harley squealed, drumming her heels against the desk to Penguin's dismay. "Gee whiz! This is just like the movies! Thank you so much, Ozzie!" And she sprung off the desk to wrap her arms tightly around the Penguin, smooshing his head into her exaggerated cleavage.

"Glad to be of service, my dear." Penguin managed, his voice muffed by flesh and PVC.


All things considered, Harley was a confident young woman, especially when it came to her appeal in ways of the flesh. Manipulation and coercion through her considerable charms were skills she'd learned early on and they hadn't failed her yet. (Unless you counted Mistah J, and she didn't because what they had was love and he didn't exist on the same earthly realm as other men)

Yet as she reached the floor her client's suite was located on, she found her stomach a churning pit of bickering butterflies. She didn't really have any issues with what she was about to do. She'd just never done it this way before. She'd briefly considered it, in university, as a way of paying her mounting tuition bills, but had chickened out at the last minute. And now it had been years since she'd been with anyone - or wanted to be with anyone - other than Mistah J (unless you counted Red, but that wasn't really the same). And everything had changed after Mistah J. Everything.

Plus she had tripped in those shoes three times already.

She put a hand up on the wall to support herself as she minced down the hallway uncertainly. Yeesh, how did anyone wear these suckers for longer than five minutes? She supposed ladies of the evening didn't spend a whole lot of time on their feet, after all. The pile carpeting sure wasn't helping any. Finally she reached number five, and rapped brightly on the door before twisting the handle and entering.

"Knock-knock, Mr. E, your hostess to heaven has arrived!" It wasn't any different to enticing Professor Graham to change her grades. Same thing. Plus, she looked totally hot. This would be cake.

The room was nearly dark, only one low lamp lit on the drinks cabinet against the far wall. She hesitated in the door way, trying to get her bearings, before uncertainly moving further into the room.

She had to hand it to Pengy - he sure knew how to deck a joint out. Everything was cream and white and ice-blue, the huge canopied bed piled high with pillows, the carpet soft as butter underfoot and the rest of the furniture - glass coffee table, leather couch, drinks cabinet and entertainment unit - gleaming dully in the dim light.

"Please, come in." The voice was low and soft and she whirled in its direction. An armchair was set in the darkest corner of the room, close by the bed. She could just make out the shape of a man sitting in it, and squinting, she took a step closer.

"Please," the voice hastened to say. "No closer. I can't risk being recognised. You understand." A deep voice. A nice voice. Sounded like he might be a singer or an actor or something. Harley stared towards him a moment longer before shrugging. Whatever. She was probably more famous than he was anyway. And he didn't even know it! The thought tickled her.

"Why don't you have a drink," the voice suggested. "I've had something brought up for you. Over there, on the drinks cabinet."

She picked her way carefully over the plush carpet, uncomfortably aware of how unnatural her gait was in these shoes. Not like in her nice little slippers that let her move so free and easy. She hoped she didn't look too ridiculous.

As she approached the teak and glass cabinet, a delighted smile lit up her features. A bottle of Perrier Jouët Belle Epoque Cuvée stood chilling in a silver ice bucket.

"Hey, this is my favourite plonk!" She cried, grasping the bottle by the neck and lifting it out of the bucket. Ice-cold water streamed off the enamelled roses decorating the bottle and she tore at the foil excitedly. Mistah J preferred Louis Roederer Cristal, so that's what they usually had.

"Is it?" The voice remarked mildly. "How fortunate."

"No kiddin'," she chirped as she popped the cork. "Ya want one?"

"Thank you."

She knew she was nervous. She knew from the way she looked fixedly down at the counter of the cabinet instead of over to her client. Knew by the way she was so very chirpy, how high her voice pitched and how bright it sounded. But he surely didn't know that. A little liquid courage would put fire in her belly. She filled her glass hastily to the brim and took a big sip as she filled his. Then she topped hers up.

And this would learn Mistah J. She was only doing what she'd been driven to do, by his neglect. He'd basically left her with no choice. All she wanted was a screw, and that's what she would get.

"Your - tribute is in the envelope there." His voice startled her and she choked a little on her champagne before throwing him a weak half-smile and locating the envelope, placed neatly next to the ice bucket with a piece of pale pink satin. "Count it - Cobblepot would want you to."

A thrill stole through her as she fingered her way through the thick stack of bills in the envelope. Nothing like the sort of hauls she and Mistah J pulled in, of course, but even at a fifty-fifty split it was more than most lemmings' weekly wages. Oh yeah. She could get into this. She could totally get into this.

"You're very pretty," the voice continued as she stuffed the envelope into her purse and looked about the room for somewhere to hang it. She caught sight of a hook on the back of the bathroom door and begin to teeter towards it, sticking her chest out in the hopes he'd focus on that and not her awkward stumbling. "Not very much like the ladies Cobblepot usually gets though. What was your name, sweetheart?"

She reached the door without incident and hooked her purse up before flashing a beaming smile towards the dark corner her client hid in.

"Bubbles!" She announced and gave him a little wink and a hip bump before taking a big step forward - and loosing her footing.

"Eek!" She shrieked as she went down, falling flat on her face on the rug. Great, just great. She expected him to start laughing, but there was only silence.

"Oh dear, poor Bubbles," the deep voice spoke up. "Have you hurt yourself?"

"No," she muttered irritably, struggling to get to her feet. Her heels wobbled as she propped herself up on her hands and tried to push herself up. "I'm fine." Trouble was, with an additional six inches added to her height, she couldn't straighten up properly without taking her hands from the floor, and if she did that, she'd lose her balance. She fumed, her hairsprayed hair falling in stiff strands across her eyes.

"Perhaps you should take those shoes off, Bubbles." The voice suggested kindly. "They don't look very comfortable."

She let herself twist over, fall back onto her haunches, puffing out in relief as she kicked them off. "Who wears those suckers anyway?" She grumbled. "A gal could break her neck."

Now she bounced easily to her feet and bounded back to the drinks cabinet. "So, you got a name you want me to call you?" She enquired of her client, topping her glass up again and taking another big swig. The champagne was like bubbly gold in her mouth and she swirled it about pleasurably before swallowing.

"What was it you called me as you entered?" From this spot, one of the bedposts rose between her and that dark corner, seeming to further disembody his voice. She shrugged and took another sip.

"Mistah E? Is that what you fancy? Well, whatever you say Mistah E, it's your dime."

That got a chuckle out of him. "Indeed it is, Bubbles. I must say, you seem as bubbly as your appellation. Apt, indeed."

She rolled her eyes as she drained her glass. Did he think he was being funny or something? If he only knew - she spent most of her time with the funniest guy on the planet!

"You want your champers?" She held his glass up to him and waggled it a little, refilling her own at the same time.

"You have it."

"Yeah, I guess I can't bring it over to ya." She drained the glass. "Just how do you plan on us gettin' anything done with you lurking over there in the dark and me all the way over here?" Truth to tell, Harley was beginning to feel a little impatient. At the end of the day, she was still a lunatic who'd already had too much champagne, and the buzz in her head was beginning to unscrew her hinges.

"See the blindfold there on the cabinet?"

She blinked dazedly at the scrap of pink satin lying next to the ice-bucket, then picked it up and peered at it. It was, indeed, a blindfold, lined in black lambswool with a secure, thick elastic band.

"Put it on."

The timbre in his voice made her shiver, just a little.

Then she considered. Whoever this mook was, she could take him, of that she was pretty sure. And Pengers wouldn't have sent her in with anyone dangerous, anyway. He'd said this geek was a regular.

And - it would make the whole thing a lot easier.

After all, with a blindfold on she could forget it wasn't Mistah J in the room with her.

"Whatever you say, Mistah E." She shrugged and slipped the blindfold over her head, settling the soft lambswool over her eyes. The absolute pitch-blackness was at first somewhat claustrophobic, but the material caressed her gently. "Ha. That feels kinda nice."

Her mystery client did not respond. Harley squirmed where she stood for a moment and wondered what Mistah J was doing right then. Should she tell him about this later? Would he care? Or would he just laugh?

"So," she said in a suddenly anxious voice, "what did you wanna do, anyway?" She was starting to have second thoughts. Sure, she wanted a screw but maybe this wasn't the best way to go about it. Maybe she should've just used that kewpie doll. He had made it for her after all. It was just - she just wanted flesh. Touch. Someone doing things to her.

Mistah J doing things to her.

When his voice came next, it was right behind her and she jumped and shrieked a little.

"Bubbles, I'd like you to tell me why you're here."

"Holy cow, you scared me," she gasped, lifting a hand up to her chest, feeling her heart rate double beneath her bosom.

"I'm sorry." He didn't sound particularly sorry. Then his hand was on her shoulder and she shuddered. It was cold. "I'm going to walk you over to the bed. And I want you to tell me why you're here."

He gave her a little push with the palm of his hand and she stepped forward uncertainly, arms outstretched in front of her, feeling blindly.

"It's all right, Bubbles, I'm guiding you." His low voice was warm and she half-tittered before her knees suddenly struck something and she fell forward, unexpectedly making impact far sooner then she expected, with something that yielded beneath her weight.

The bed, she realised. Funny how, with the blindfold on, she'd so rapidly lost all concept of space and distance. She'd thought it was further away.

"You're a real kidder, ya know that?" She grumbled, pushing herself up with her hands, rolling onto her side to turn her head in the direction she thought he was in.

There was the clink of glass and ice cubes from the other way and she turned her head again, completely disoriented.

"So I'm told," the sombre voice came again and then there was pressure on the mattress beside her as he lowered his weight down. Something hard pressed against her lips and she realised it was her champagne glass. She obediently opened her mouth and he poured a little in. "Now, answer my question, Bubbles." He took the glass away and the mattress shifted again. He had stood. Darn it all, she'd been trying to get a sense of him - his height, his size, what he smelled like. She'd caught just a whiff of a generic shampoo - probably from the bathroom here.

She drew in a breath, sighed. "I'm here because I'm bored. I'm here because I had an itch I gotta scratch and no one else wanted the job."

"I find that very hard to believe."

Harley sighed and rolled onto her back, stretching out on the mattress. The only thing in front of her eyes was a muted red-black. Somehow, it felt freeing. "Believe it, baby. And it's not like I didn't offer it to the most qualified."

Harley's years as a coquette had taught her men liked flattery and flattery involved untruths, and that would be especially true of the situation she was in right then. Probably she should be cooing about how she just loved sex and loved men and wanted him so badly and couldn't he please come and make her happy, but she really couldn't be bothered. It wasn't like this was her living, after all. And it sure wasn't like she needed to flatter anyone to get by. She was Harley Quinn, for criminey's sake. If Mr. E didn't like what she had to say, he could stick it in his ear. Or maybe she would. Yeah. That'd learn this bozo, all hung up on his secret identity, messing with her head like this. She could get what she wanted out of him, then off him. Red would be proud. Penguin would probably be cross. Mistah J might laugh...

"Bickering with the boyfriend?" The voice came from somewhere behind her and she turned her head upwards on the mattress.

"He's not my boyfriend." She said without thinking. The blindfold was having a strange effect on her.

"Oh?" The voice was curious. "What is he, then?"

"He's my - " she paused as she realised what word sprung to her lips. "My Everything." She finished quietly.

"No one else can compare?"


"Should I be offended?" The deep voice was maybe a little playful, but it still irritated Harley who rolled over onto her stomach, propping herself up on her forearms, staring blindly ahead at nothing.

"I don't see why. We ain't got no ties. This is just a one-off thing, ya know. Maybe I should play the game a bit more, but it wouldn't change anything. Do you really care?"

"No." The voice was slightly amused then. "Actually, I find your candour refreshing."

Harley pouted, tried to open her eyes against the lambswool, but found the blindfold clung too snugly to her face. "Look, buster. I just wanna get off. You gonna help me?"

There was a pause and then the voice came from behind her, prompting her to roll hastily onto her back, facing its direction. "I think I can manage that."

The mattress creaked, she felt it sink close by one side, and then the other. He'd straddled her, she realised and she wrestled with uncertainty. She was only getting off. It didn't mean anything.

His ice-cold hands begin to tug at the laces on the front of her dress and she shivered, feeling her nipples peak beneath the PVC - but not from arousal. Mistah J's hands were always so hot, feverish almost. What would Mistah J do if he walked in on this scene?

"While I undress you," the disembodied voice said, "I want you to tell me all about this man of yours. Why he's your, as you put it, Everything."

He began to pull the laces undone and after a moment's hesitation, Harley began to speak:

"He - he's, uh - he's the smartest guy I've ever known. I mean, really crazy smart. Smart like most people can't even imagine, ya know? He's good at so many things. Chemistry and electronics and maths and biology and heaps of other stuff. He speaks all these languages and he's read all these books and it's like he just remembers everything he ever sees or hears or learns and it's all up in his beautiful big noggin, just waitin' until he needs it." Mr. E's cold hands were now running beneath the straps of her dress, edging it off her shoulders and unconsciously she lifted her arms a little to cover her breasts, though they were not yet bared. "So he's brilliant. And he creates all this stuff, like stuff you wouldn't even believe, these amazing creations that just blow your mind, ya know?" She couldn't help the little smile that flitted across her face then, at the thought of her Puddin' in the throes of his genius. "He's an artist," she said happily. "And boy, does he have a great sense of humour. You never met such a funny guy in all your life, I swear on Chaplin's ghost."

Her Mr. E man had pulled the dress down to where her arms crossed lightly over her chest, and ran his fingertips over the swell of her breasts. "How would he do this?"

She frowned in thought. "Rougher. No. Uh - it would depend on his mood. He has lots of moods. They're always changing."

"Does that upset you?"

"No. Well. It confuses me sometimes. But I wouldn't want him any other way." She ruminated on the words and inwardly sighed over them. It was the truth. She adored her Puddin' exactly the way he was, moods and all. If anything, those moods just made him more himself. She could recall times he'd tenderly, gently, slowly, undressed her, his glittering purple eyes wickedly confident on her own enthralled ones. Such thoughts prompted her to shift her arms, and Mr. E took the hint, sliding her dress down over her breasts, baring them to him.

"What a lovely thing you are," he said, and Harley smiled, hearing her Puddin's voice laid over the deep baritone of this stranger.

"Yeah, my man is a real funny guy," she whispered as the tight, ridiculous dress continued to be drawn off her body, down over her stomach and hips. A certain wantonness was filling her as she imagined Mistah J's eyes on her body. His body. "He just loves making people laugh. But he's unique, ya know? Has a real unique vision. He's a bit misunderstood. But I understand him. Boy, you should see his smile. You never saw something so handsome in all your life." Inwardly, she was drifting off, lovingly exploring her Puddin' with her minds eye, having committed every detail to memory. Every strand of hair, every laugh line, every vein in his eyes, all of them unfolded behind her eyelids for her to delight in.

She lifted her hips and Mr. E slid the dress all the way down over her legs to her ankles, leaving her in nothing but a miniscule g-string. She pressed her palms against the mattress and drew her knees up protectively, feeling less exposed like that.

"An impressive resume, to be sure," Mr. E's voice was soft. "But is that really why he's 'everything' to you?"

She lay still and silent for a moment, then made a little noise when his icy palm laid flat against her stomach, slid upwards between her breasts, fanning out to stroke over one. Another man - touching her. Intimately, like this. It had been a long time. And she knew her body was no longer hers. No way. It was His. In a way, she was misusing his property. She began to feel vaguely nauseous as Mr. E's hand continued to caress her breast, drawing the nipple up between finger and thumb before releasing it and stroking her again.

"Oh, what's this?" Mr. E asked curiously, running a finger down the scar between her breasts – the cutting of the letter 'J'. She promptly lashed out, slapping his hand away.

"Don't touch that!" Her voice was tinged with hysteria.

"I do apologise, Bubbles. Won't you answer my question?" His cold fingertips were drawing lazy circles around one nipple and she had to swallow against the revulsion that welled in her.

"You're not doing it right," she sputtered. "He wouldn't do it like that. You're too - too - it's just not right."

She couldn't define exactly what it was about his touch that made it feel so wrong. Mistah J had touched her in a multitude of ways a multitude of times. Consistent was not a term she would use to describe his manner, but what was consistent was that, no matter how he did it, it was always right.

"Answer my question, Bubbles."

She wanted to sock this bozo one across the jaw. Who did he think he was, giving orders to her like that? Didn't he understand there was only one person she took orders from and that was the person she belonged to?

Had he even noticed she was still gone?

She choked when something cold and wet covered her nipple, realised a second later it was his mouth.

"No," she whimpered. "It's more than that. He - he gives me purpose. He gives me a place. He creates the world for me. All built up around me and he does it all." She wasn't sure if she was making sense, but she kept on going. "You know, how most people have no sense of meaning, sort of all these different things have different meanings and no one is ever really satisfied. Well, because I'm his, and it's his world, it's all right and so everything is about him. Everything."

Mr. E had kissed his way down her stomach. He didn't slobber and his mouth was soft but firm, but still it felt wrong. Still it made her skin crawl.

"Even this?" His breath was finally hot against her hipbone. She sniffled.


"What would you do for him?"

His breath tickled her inner thigh and she wanted to shut her legs on his head. Why didn't she stop him?

"Anything." If he only knew how much she'd done for Mistah J already. She'd given up a whole other life to become part of his world.

"You're not enjoying this."

She squirmed, felt her mouth twist in revulsion. "You're not him," was the only explanation she could give.

"I thought you just wanted to get off." There was something a little cruel in that deep voice now and she shuddered and felt her eyes grow wet beneath the blindfold, felt the sting as mascara ran straight between her eyelids.

"I thought it would be that simple."

Suddenly, his hand was in her hair, smoothing back the product-stiffened waves. His other traced a gentle path over her ribcage and across her hip. How could his hands still be so cold? He was lying next to her, she realised.

"Can you see his face?"

She nodded without pause. Of course she could. More than anything else, it remained clear.

"Hold it there. Hold onto it hard and tight." Jeepers, who was this freak anyway? Maybe that Bruce Wayne character, she'd heard he was a bit eccentric. "Hold onto it and keep it there. Say his name. Draw up every memory you have of his touch. Force it over mine."

She ground her teeth together and held the sight of her Puddin' at the forefront of her mind as Mr. E began to stroke and caress her, his hands now dipping between her thighs to stroke against her. She was dry and unaroused. His touch was a little firmer, his fingers a little crueller as they pulled and as she fixed hard on the Joker's face, his lanky body and green hair, the way he smiled as he hurt her or fucked her, or both, she began to respond.

"Mistah J..." she moaned, as Mr. E nipped at one breast and roughly pushed a finger inside of her, another one tickling softly at her back entrance. She could feel Mr. E's hardness brushing against her thigh now and she imagined her Puddin's, hard and long and thick, probing her lips open, sliding in to hit the back of her throat and she bucked up against Mr. E's hand. "Just go a bit harder, he wouldn't do it like that right then, he'd go harder - " Mr. E obliged and she felt her juices begin to flow. She was starting to feel a little like her own assured self again. "That's better. Not as good as the way he does it, but better." Never mind the way he did it was never the same. It could never be as good as the way Joker did it, because it wasn't him doing it right then.

No, no, she inwardly scolded herself. It's him. It's Puddin'. Mistah J. Touching me. Can't get enough of me. Wants me to come around him. I will, I can feel it. God, I need this. I need it bad.

"Oh, Puddin'" she moaned out loud and Mr. E spoke:

"Is that what you call him?"

"Yeah," she murmured, irritated he was ruining the illusion.

"What does he call you?"

Lots of things, but mostly - "Pooh," she replied.

"Oh, Pooh," Mr. E breathed deeply and Harley felt her face contort in frustration.

"No, that's not how he says it. He wouldn't say it that way," she cried.

"How would he say it?" Mr. E enquired and she heard herself groan.

"His way. The right way. Oh, go away!"

"But I've bought you."

She shrieked in fury, hit out to where she thought his head was, her palm glancing off bone. "You bought nothing, creep! You can't buy what's already owned." In her anger she had not noticed the malicious amusement in Mr. E's voice.

"Let me get you off, Bubbles."

He was between her thighs then. His hips were slim, like Mistah J's. She could almost pretend. Almost. She could almost make it work.

Then Mr. E's weight was on her and she pushed up against him. It was all wrong. She didn't want this.

"No," she said. "Stop."

He didn't.

"No," she said again, the flats of her palms pushing up against his shoulders. She should kick him off. She could do it. Kick him off and break his neck.

Then he'd pushed inside her, grasping her wrists and pinning them to the bed and she felt bile rise in her throat. Someone else defiling his property, enjoying her body, it was wrong, what the hell had she been thinking, she was going to kill this fish-handed freak and then she -

A hand suddenly wrenched the blindfold off her eyes and she blinked at the sudden illumination, even the dim bulb of the room's one switched-on light seeming overbright to her newly sensitive eyes. Spots danced before her gaze, then cleared and she swallowed hard and sobbed. Her mind was playing tricks on her, cruel tricks, because what she saw couldn't be real.

It was Mistah J above her, her own beloved Joker, grinning evilly down into her face, all of him perfectly there and absolutely wonderful, every strand of hair, every eyelash, every laugh line large as life and twice as natural. There was sinister mischief in his eyes and she basked in it as full realisation flooded her.

"Oh Puddin'!" she cried joyously and flung her arms around him as he thrust hard into her. Her hips lifted to meet his thrusts and she pulled him down hard against her body, happy, mascara-stained tears rolling down her cheeks.

He growled viciously into her ear the way he did when he was too excited to speak and she felt a delirious shudder wiggle through her body at the sound.

"Oh, Puddin'!" she said again and buried her face in his neck as all the events of the evening flooded back through her mind, and she realised it had been him all along, the whole way through, that every touch and word had come from him and it had only been his hands on her, all along.

"Oh, Puddin'!" she managed one more time before he kissed her, unmistakable ownership in the way his mouth claimed hers, and she yielded to the kiss as he sped up, her now fully receptive body receiving the force of his thrusts gladly and her mind blissfully ruminating on the fact that it'd been him, him, all along. Watching her and teasing her and touching her and, once again, making her aware of the simplest truths. He was everything and all she needed.

On that thought Harley finally got her wish as a thundering orgasm swept through her body, and she wrapped her legs tight around her man's waist and clung hard to his shoulders, moaning deliriously into his mouth.


"How did ya keep your hands so cold?" She asked him later. They were tangled up in the sheets of the bed, another bottle of champagne - Cristal, this time - having just been opened. Harley lay contentedly against the Joker, nestled beneath one lazy arm, adoringly watching as her man smoked one of the Penguin's Cubans.

He rolled his eyes and blew out a puff of smoke. "I kept rubbing them on the ice bucket, ning nong."

She poked his side, pouting a little. "Don't be mean."

He snorted and ashed on her head, snickering as she batted it away. "After the indulgence I've shown you this evening, you're quibbling over a little name-calling?"

"Indulgence? That was a dirty trick and you know it." Harley's voice was playful, her happiness too great to make it anything other than mock-scolding.

Joker grinned, satisfaction gleaming in his eye. "It was fun. And you were perfect!" He chuckled, placing the cigar between his teeth and twisting a little to look down at her, one large thumb rubbing off a trail of mascara from her cheek. "You couldn't have looked more the part had I dressed you myself. That dress was deliciously tacky. And the name! Bubbles! Heh heh heh!"

"I thought it was a nice name! And a nice dress!" She protested with a little pout, folding her arms across her chest.

Joker tsked. "Of course you did. It wouldn't have been half as funny if you weren't sincere. "

She poked her tongue out at him and he made a playful grab for it. "Anyway, I was just playing along - it was your game, "Bubbles"." He placed a mocking emphasis on the name, and waved the cigar about.

"Yeah and how exactly did you know about it?" She demanded, sitting up a little.

Joker turned his head to regard her with disbelieving exasperation.

"You don't actually think the Bird would dare risk offending me by assisting you in your little ploy do you, twit? He rang me the instant you got off the line. Actually, after I told him to book you for me, he thought it was some asinine sex game we were playing. How boring! I had best disavow him of that notion altogether - and ensure he doesn't spread it around anywhere."

Then I wonder why you showed up with a blindfold, smarty-pants, Harley thought to herself, but knew better than to say anything. The fact he had was enough for her. And she'd gotten laid. By the only man up to the job.

Sighing contentedly, she snuggled back against her Puddin', resting her cheek happily against his bare chest and shutting her black-ringed eyes.

Yes. All in all, everything had worked out to suit her quite nicely indeed.