Friday, September 28, 2012

Earth-349: Batgirl by Anton Psychopoulos, Ph.D. Disclaimer #1 This story is set in a hypothetical parallel world within the pre-Crisis DC Universe, based on a story in Superman #349, but not limited by that story or any other. Disclaimer #2 Some characters appearing in this story are based on copyrighted characters owned by DC Comics, Inc., Marvel Comics and others. Their use here is not intended to infringe or disparage those copyrights. Disclaimer #3 This story is not recommended for persons under 18 or the easily offended, especially those who are uncomfortable with themes such as transgender, transformation, she-males, blackmail, rough sex, dominance/submission, non-conventional pregnancy and sex acts which, though perhaps not technically illegal, raise difficult issues of family relationships. Disclaimer #4 SERIOUS WARNING: This is a much kinkier story than previous Earth-349 stories. I’m not kidding about persons under 18 and the easily offended maybe wanting to skip this one. The island of Potomac had been a council site for tribes living along the Verazzano Sea long before the first whites appeared there. That history, along with the opportunity to settle a territorial dispute between Gloriana and Marysland, had made it a reasonable site for the capital city of the new-formed United States. As large as the Federal government had grown in recent years, Washington was still an island town that a person could bicycle across in an hour, a place where you could pretty much count on meeting someone you knew on every trip to the grocery store. Even so, it had been a couple of weeks since Barbara Gordon had seen her brother, and she was looking forward to it. A first-term Member of Congress just didn’t move in the same circles as a college student, and Batgirl’s sporadic vigilante assaults against street crime and racketeering seldom overlapped with Captain America’s semi-official missions for the FBI and the military. Dick had enrolled at Naomi Franklin University in order to be closer to Barbara, but they had soon learned that if they wanted to spend time together, they needed to schedule dates and make an effort to keep them. So it was that after a long day of meetings and briefings, with plenty of reading of white papers and teletype printouts in between, Barbara found herself gingerly removing a pan from the oven, trying not to let her pristine white sweater come in contact with the tomato sauce and meat juices that nearly overflowed the pan. She had just laid it across a pair of potholders when the bell rang. A quick check at the peephole in the door and the hidden peephole at knee level, and she admitted her brother. She noted with approval that he had dressed well for the occasion, too. “Does this mean you’re finally giving up those cowboy shirts you brought back from Earth-348?” “Funny you should mention that, because actually this jacket is from there, too. The Allied commander decided to design his own uniform, and it caught on in a big way.” “A really sharp jacket. Hard to picture it as part of a military uniform, though.” “It looks more martial in green wool than in red velour. So, what did you make? Smells like something Italian – manicotti?” “Forget that, Mister Boy Detective. It’s stuff, of course.” Dick’s smile did Barbara a world of good. “Stuff! Neat-o!” They went immediately into the kitchen-dining room and began dishing up bubbling-hot “stuff”. Good old stuff: elbow macaroni, crumbled ground beef, tomato sauce and shredded cheese, all stirred together and topped with more cheese. Sarah Gordon’s second-best dish, after her clam chowder. Almost no work, and as good as lasagne. Better, maybe, since there were no hard crisped noodles in the top layer. Stuff, a salad with a lemon-based dressing and cold club soda was just what a couple of homesick Gordons needed on that Thursday night. “So Babs, you said on the phone that you thought you were wasting a lot of energy today,” Dick said between forkfuls. “’Fraid so. It’s the EEC. Nobody knows what’s going to come out of it, but supposedly the Foreign Affairs Committee has to have a position on it anyway. Bricks without straw, I’m telling you.” The Entente Extraordinaire et Conditionale had convened a month before in Berlin. Depending on whom you asked, it was anything from just another international talkfest to a constitutional convention for the United States of Europe. With U.S. and Soviet forces removed from the Continent, nobody knew what political or economic shakeups might be in store, from Ireland to Crimea. “Yeah, they’re going nuts over it at the Triskelion.” The War Department was in the process of moving into an immense three-sided building. For the first time, all the armed services, and the newly centralized intelligence agency SHIELD, would be headquartered in one place, already known by such nicknames as George’s Hat and Target One. Captain America, though officially unofficial, was a frequent visitor. “And that’s enough Washington talk. How’s school?” “No, let’s talk about Batwoman!” A new voice, high-pitched and nasal, had intruded. Both Gordons turned to see a big-headed, potbellied creature floating cross-legged in the air. It wore a long-eared, long-slippered parody of Batwoman’s costume, with a luminous zigzag on its narrow chest in place of a bat. “Hello, Bat-Mite,” Barbara said evenly. “What can we do for you?” “You can go and have an adventure, of course! Gee whiz, Batgirl and Robin together again, and all you guys wanna do is have dinner?” The imp waved a pudgy hand and they were dressed as Robin and Batgirl. They objected loudly, especially when Barbara noticed that her yellow chest emblem had been replaced by a bat-shaped peekaboo cutout that showed a good deal more cleavage than she would have displayed voluntarily. Brother and sister looked at one another, exchanging grim nods. As absurd as the little imp was, he was potentially very dangerous, and had to be handled carefully. Bat-Mite had appeared one day in Gotham, insisting cheerily that he was Batwoman’s biggest fan in a dozen dimensions. He was smiling and enthusiastic, eager to help out in Batwoman’s crusade against crime. Unfortunately, his “help” tended to consist of useless suggestions, annoying kibitzing, or extravagant applications of his seemingly magical powers in very inappropriate ways. At various times, he had given Batwoman superhuman powers that interfered with her usual methods of doing things, or loaded her utility belt with improbable devices without bothering to explain how they worked. Lately, though, he had begun to seem more like a malicious practical joker, pulling stunts like turning Batwoman into a girl and her young partner Huntress into an adult. He’d even helped criminals escape, so that Batwoman would have “an opportunity to display her brilliance” by catching them again. It seemed as though he were getting bored with Batwoman, and was playing roughly with her the way some children did with toys they have outgrown. Dick tugged at the collar of Robin’s cape, trying to loosen it, but it seemed to be made in one piece, of something that wasn’t cloth. Barbara stepped close to the hovering creature, speaking in her most saccharine tones. “Look, Bat-Mite, Dick – Robin -- and I are tired, we’ve been really busy lately. We need to rest up for our next adventure, and –“ “You wouldn’t be so tired if you weren’t wasting time on all this Washington stuff,” the Mite said petulantly. “You should be back in Gotham, helping Batwoman.” He turned suddenly on Dick. “And quit trying to take your cape off! Robin is who you should be, not that dumb old Captain America!” Dick glared at the little imp. “Captain America is the name I use these days. I doubt if I’ll ever be called Robin again.” Broad chubby cheeks turned pink with indignation. “Whether you’re Captain America or Robin, you’re still just a...dick!” The imp gestured vehemently, and Dick vanished. No, not quite vanished. Barbara felt a strange uncomfortable sensation between her legs, looked down, and saw at once what the creature had done with her brother. “No. No, don’t do this.” She raised her hands to Bat-Mite pleadingly. “Please...put him back.” The creature chuckled. “You want him put back, you can put him back yourself.” * * * * * It had been a trying week for Batwoman. Still recovering from a small flesh wound in her left shoulder, she’d found even routine crime-foiling a challenge. Otherwise, Barbara would not have found Roberta Wayne at home as early as midnight. It had been a difficult drive, all the way from Washington: the ferry ride, the toll booths, the service stations. Barbara had not tried to change out of Bat-Mite’s costume, merely peeled back the cowl and thrown on an overcoat. The costume was surprisingly comfortable, but the crotch didn’t seem to have enough room for her new package, especially when it became erect. It seemed to do that at the oddest times, she noticed, and wondered if having a penis was always like that. If Roberta was surprised by a midnight visit to Wayne Manor by an unmasked Batgirl flashing a rounded pink bat-emblem, she didn’t betray it, merely hustled her inside. Barbara shrugged out of the coat and simply stood, feet wide apart, and let Roberta see for herself. “Bat-Mite did this?” “Yes. This is Dick, transformed. He said I could put him back myself.” Roberta nodded curtly. “Yes, put him back. Where he came from. All right then.” Roberta turned for the stairs. Barbara hurried after. “What do you have in mind?” “One of the guest rooms.” “But – should we just go through with it, just like that?” “I don’t think we have much choice at this point, but to play the game by Bat-Mite’s rules.” Swallowing hard, Barbara followed. She’d really been hoping that Roberta would come up with some other solution, but if Batwoman said there was no alternative, there probably wasn’t. She was terrified of the prospect, and she cringed in shame by how her transformed brother swelled and throbbed between her legs as she thought of what lay ahead. The room Roberta chose had been her mother’s bedroom, and still had the flounced and ruffled white decor that Martha Wayne had chosen. As Roberta efficiently cut her out of Bat-Mite’s costume with a utility knife, Barbara looked around the room. It was a good choice, in the opposite wing from Roberta’s two young children (and their butler). But Barbara was acutely aware of the likelihood that Roberta herself had been conceived in that same room. “Listen, we don’t want to give Bat-Mite any excuses for giving us the runaround. We probably shouldn’t use a condom or other barrier.” “It’s all right. I had a tubal ligation years ago. And I know you and Dick are both disease-free.” Finally naked, feeling extremely self-conscious, Barbara climbed onto the bed and lay there stiffly beside the older woman. Naturally, Barbara’s erection chose that moment to wilt. It showed no sign of returning while she clumsily manipulated herself. It felt very strange to lie there next to that body, so familiar, yet which she’d never seen completely naked before. Roberta Wayne was not quite forty, her body a study in hard ropy muscle and scar tissue. It was not a conventionally attractive body, but Barbara saw the beauty of passion and obsession in it, the beauty of a bodybuilder or a tattoo fetishist. Barbara turned these thoughts over in her mind, trying to find a way around two painful truths: 1) she was not attracted to women and 2) she loved and was intimidated by Roberta Wayne, and dreaded to subject her to an unwelcome intimacy. Roberta took the organ in her hand, stroking it gently at first, then more forcefully, then lowered her head between Barbara’s legs. Barbara closed her eyes, bit her lip, tried to relax enough to let Roberta’s clever tongue do its work. Suddenly, both of Barbara’s hands were on Roberta’s head, forcing it roughly up and down. When Barbara shoved Roberta’s head away, the penis was purple and throbbing, veins standing out on its sides. Barbara muscled her mentor into position on all fours and entered her at once, with no pretense of foreplay. It was a brutal coupling of hard thrusts, loud wet slapping noises, savage grunts and hair-pulling. At the end, Barbara threw back her head and roared out in triumph as she felt the ejaculatory pump firing for the first and only time in her life. As soon as her orgasm subsided, Barbara withdrew, trembling with fear and shame. She crouched at the edge of the bed, staring anxiously at Roberta. “Please...I’m so sorry. I don’t...I don’t know what came over me.” “It’s all right. I expected it. When I took that psychological profile of you a couple of years ago, I noticed that you had a strong need for a dominant/submissive aspect to sex.” “Yes, but...I’ve had two lovers, and with them I, er...” “You were extremely submissive, yes. You have a deep-seated feeling that comes out during sex, that the female must submit to the male. Only this time, you were the male, and I was the female. So, you had to dominate me.” Roberta moved toward the cringing younger woman. She reached out and tried to lay a hand on Barbara’s cheek, but she flinched away. “It’s all right. You did just fine.” Roberta looked up at the empty air above the bed. “She did, didn’t she? She did what you wanted. Happy now?” Bat-Mite materialized just under the canopy. “You bet, Batwoman. Boy, that was great, seeing you use your brilliant detective skills to figure out what you had to do, and your athletic prowess to –“ “Enough. Just restore Dick to normal.” “Okey-dokey. And while I’m at it, Batwoman, you deserve a reward for being such a good sport.” Roberta started to object, but too late. With a flash and sparkles, suddenly there were three bodies in the bed. Finding himself naked between the naked bodies of his sister and birth-mother, Dick was understandably surprised, but he managed to remain silent. He watched and listened, running his tongue over his teeth as though there were an odd taste in his mouth. Roberta looked down at her body, her face expressionless. “Clever. He removed my scars. That would include undoing my tubal ligation, no doubt.” The imp giggled. “You guessed it! Congratulations, Babs, you’re going to be a father! Oh, and Batwoman, don’t worry about inbreeding. Dick was the frank, but the beans were Barbara’s. She really is the father.” Roberta nodded. “Fine, then. We’ve played your game to the end. Now get out.” Roberta stood up in bed, coming nose to nose with the creature, speaking in a colder voice than either of her former students had ever heard. “Leave Earth, and don’t come back. If you ever bother anyone in this dimension, or cause someone else to come here and cause trouble, I will kill you.” Bat-Mite looked at Batwoman for a long moment. He didn’t look angry, or frightened, but he did look as though he might be about to cry. Then he straightened up and sighed. “You’re no fun anymore,” he said, and vanished. Dick slithered out of bed, trying not to look at Roberta or Barbara. He shuffled for the door, muttering, “Guess I’ll have a shower.” Roberta looked at Barbara. Neither made an effort to cover herself. “Roberta, I was the one who said –“ “Only because you spoke up first. And you were right. You aren’t to blame for this, that little monster is.” Roberta reached out, and this time Barbara allowed Roberta to touch her. "It'll be all right. If I'd been asked, I'd have been proud to choose you for a father. You have good genes. Jim Gordon's genes." Barbara forced a smile. "This isn't quite how I'd imagined giving Dad his first grandchild." Roberta pulled dressing gowns from the closet for them. Barbara went to stand outside the bathroom door, waiting for her turn in the shower. More Earth-349 stories can be found at 349 Contact the author at

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