And then he masturbated.

Tuning his pitch fork to a delightful A minor Batman reached into his nut sack and withdrew an acorn. Speaking hurriedly to his pet dog Narwall he plainly spoke: “You are a finicky cat.”

“Don’t mind if I do…” murmured Robin.

Batman’s pants floated down to his knees, though Robin would describe it later on as a thorough yanking. In full birthday regalia Batman erected a long cylindrical sphere of man-muster.

“These are your nuts, sir.” A ginger silky smooth whisper emanated throughout our sex-quarters. “It was the author of The Ring of Fire, he had moved into a trailer nearby and had a overwhelming delight for the occasional anal excursion.”