New Kink?

Okay, here is a kink I have never heard of, but I suspect someone out there has it: a heterosexual who picks up gay partners in order to make out in a public place and feel terribly embarrassed. May have started out with hetero outmaking, but is no longer embarrassed about that. Anybody ever heard of that?

Earth-349: The Atom

by Anton Psychopoulos, Ph.D. Disclaimer #1: This story is set on a hypothetical parallel world within the pre-Crisis DC Universe, based on a story in Superman #349, but is 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. The last time Martha Palmer had awakened naked, on a cold floor, with no idea where she was or how she'd gotten there, had been several years earlier, well before she had become the Atom. The experience had not improved with age. Resisting the urge to stretch her stiff and aching limbs, Martha opened her eyes to cautious slits, blinking repeatedly to make them focus, trying not to give away to any watcher that she was conscious. A sudden draft, tickling between her legs, confirmed Martha's suspicion that she had already given away plenty to any watcher. Her eyes focussed reluctantly on some pattern of vertical lines. Wallpaper? Fence pickets? Oh, God, jail bars? No. These bars were metal, but gold-colored. And the floor under her wasn't concrete, but more metal. Martha rolled her eyes slowly upward, trying to get a glimpse of the ceiling. There didn't seem to be any. The bars just continued up and up, curving overhead to form a rounded framework from which hung . . . A swing. "Son of a bitch!" She sat up suddenly. In spite of her shock and outrage, her mind noted the way her body moved, the floating, "weightless" feeling of being reduced to a size where inertia doesn't work quite the way it does on the human scale. Her scream brought an enormous shape moving towards the cage from the misty distance. "How nice. my little birdie is awake," thundered the immense black and yellow mass. It leaned closer, and Martha made out an immense masked face. "Welcome to your new home, little birdie. You are now the property of . . . Yellowjacket." Martha looked up at the black cowl, brow furrowed, head cocked. "Henry?" Yellowjacket recoiled from the cage, hands to his cowl as though checking that it was in place. The Atom jumped to her feet, shaking her sliver-sized index finger at the immense figure. Yes, she was about six inches tall, a common size for the Atom to assume. At ant size, she'd have had difficulty in standing on two feet. "Henry Pym, you son of a bitch! Stealing my research wasn't enough, you had to kidnap me and steal my costume?" Pym cringed behind his mask, actually seeming to grow smaller. A little. "That's not fair, Martha. We were both building on Dane's research --" "You didn't even know what a micropion was until I pointed them out on Darrell's CERN printouts! If it weren't for me, you'd still be fiddling around with hallucinogenic gases." Henry's hand lashed out, flashing past the cage like an express train. Knives lanced through the Atom's feet. She fell to the floor, and the electric current stabbed at every place her flesh touched metal. Fighting panic, Martha got to her feet, dancing in agony, and lunged for the wood-and-plastic swing. Seated precariously on the swing, the Atom caught her breath, forcing herself to become calm. She saw Henry's black-gloved finger pressing a button on a golden column she guessed was the cage's stand. He grinned at her, releasing the button. "That was your first lesson, little birdie. Yellowjacket did not go to the trouble of catching his little pet in order to hear her screech at him like a crow. Your function in this house is to sit on your little perch and sing sweetly." Martha started to get down from the swing, but Henry's finger flicked towards the button. "Stay on your perch, birdie. I like seeing you there. "Swing, birdie." Like a child at a playground, the Atom began pumping her bare legs back and forth, driving the swing into a small oscillation. "Faster, birdie." Higher and higher went the swing, until Martha saw the floor and the cage roof on each pass, her brown hair flying into her face, her breasts slapping against her chest. "Sing for me, birdie." "Henry," Martha gasped, breathless, the swing slowing, "Henry, that's enough. You've got to stop now." She saw the black glove coming but could do nothing to brace for the impact. The metal cage screamed as the Atom was flung against its walls, crashing back and forth as the world lurched around her. "Stop calling me that!" Yellowjacket screamed, shaking the cage in both hands so Martha rattled inside it. "Henry Pym is dead! I fed him to a spider! Ant Man is dead, too! I squashed him under my shiny new black PVC boot! Giant Man is dead! I, uh, I shot him!" The Atom had just enough presence of mind left not to say You left out Goliath, schizo boy. "Now, who am I?" "Yellowjacket. You're Yellowjacket." "Good. And what are you?" "I'm your little birdie." "You are learning fast. Not bad for a little bird-brain." He dropped the cage, letting it swing freely. "Back on your perch, birdie." Favoring her bruised left leg and her aching right wrist, Martha climbed back onto the swing. "Sing for me, birdie." Trembling with fear and humiliation, Martha was unable to think of any song but "Workin' on the Railroad", but that seemed to please Henry just fine. When she was done, she continued with "Barbara Allen" and was halfway through "Lord Randall" when Henry suddenly interrupted. "Would you like some clothes to wear, birdie?" Martha was surprised by his sudden question and his softened tone of voice, but quickly chirped "Oh, yes, please, Yellowjacket, sir!" Taking the Atom's servile twittering at face value, Henry opened the cage (nearly knocking Martha from her perch as he fumbled with the latch). He'd spent enough time interacting with relatively gigantic people that he knew better than to reach into the cage and try to grab her; he held out his hand, palm up. slightly cupped, and allowed her to climb onto his fingers. Holding her near his body, he carried her to a department-store sized desk and set her down on its worktop. He flicked on a reading lamp and seated himself, smiling down at her. On the desktop, Martha could now see the wall of Henry's study. Numerous degrees and awards hung in neat uniform frames. Uniform frames indeed: pride of place went to the red and blue outfit of the Atom, pinned to a sheet of white cardboard like a butterfly. Martha winced; that was no way to treat a suit woven from irreplacable fibers of spatially distorted dwarf star matter. She wondered if the pins had damaged the wafer-thin control circuits in her gloves. Henry pulled open a drawer in the desk. It made the desktop under Martha's feet shake as though a subway train were pulling in. He laid a shoebox on the green paper blotter and lifted from it a poisonous-green nightgown. Martha saw at once that it was a piece of doll clothing, made from some light, thin fabric, but to Martha, at doll size, it was as coarse and stiff as burlap. Gritting her teeth, Martha pulled it on, trying to ignore the scraping of the cheap petroleum-based fibers, cooing as she smoothed it over her limbs. The Atom turned for her captor, trying not to stumble over the too-long hem (it was a very short nightgown, but made for a doll nearly twice Martha's size). "Oh, Yellowjacket, it's lovely!" "Heh. And you look lovely in it." Henry shifted in his chair, recrossing his legs. The Atom hoped he wouldn't be able to see her tiny smirk. Henry pulled a tiny plastic envelope from the box, opened it and shook out the contents onto the desktop. Martha untangled them and found a black garter belt and a pair of stockings. "These aren't doll stuff, they're reduced." "Something that dumb bitch Janet left behind." Martha looked up warily as she pulled on the stockings. "You aren't, uh, seeing Jan anymore?" "No. Stupid cunt. I gave her everything. I gave her shrinking powers. I gave her a costume. I was going to give her wings. Even I didn't have wings." "Er, really?" The stockings were laddered, but they probably looked all right from Henry's perspective. Martha stretched a leg out experimentally, lifting the stiff curtain of the nightgown to show off her minute thigh. "Lovely transparent wasp's wings that would sprout from her back whenever she shrank down. She would have loved them if she'd tried them. Dumb bitch said I was crazy." Gee, the Atom thought, he wanted to make her into some kind of half-animal freak, he makes me into a caged pet, who would think a guy like that was crazy? Henry stroked Martha's extended leg with the tip of his index finger. "How about you, my little pet? Would you like some pretty wings, birdie? Some nice birdie wings with yellow feathers?" Martha reached back between her shoulder blades as though she were imagining wings growing there. "Oh, Yellowjacket . . . my goodness!" Henry squirmed in his seat. "Dance for me, birdie," he suddenly demanded. Martha began swaying from side to side, then peeled slowly out of the nightgown. Pressing its rough fabric against the front of her body, she teased him with it through a few steps, then tossed it aside and began stroking her body as she skipped and pirouetted across the blotter. The Atom stopped, facing her captor, and began squeezing and pulling at her breasts. "Yellowjacket," she rasped, "won't you let me . . . touch you?" Henry swallowed hard. "I won't shrink down," he warned her. "Oh, no, I like you all . . . big," she cooed. Casting aside caution, Henry Pym unbuckled his tights and pulled them down, then reached out a hand to convey Martha to his crotch. The heat and the heavy smell made Martha want to make a very unromantic face, but she leaned against Henry's penis as though it were a column in a Greek temple, tracing over a vein with her fingertips. "You're so big," she stage-whispered, hoping she wasn't laying it on too thick. She glanced up, and saw that Henry was mesmerized by her performance. Martha leaned forward and licked at the irregular, salty surface. She looked up at Henry pleadingly. "If you'd just come down a little, so I could get this lovely monster into my mouth . . . ." She whined the word "mouth" as though she were a child begging for a taste of a favorite treat. Henry glared down at her suspiciously, but Martha threw her arms around his cock and hugged it, rubbing her tiny mound against the shaft in one of the strangest dry-humps in history. He shuddered and plucked her from his lap, no longer taking care not to hurt her, and twisted a knob at his belt. He climbed onto the desk as he shrank, stopping while he was still well over a foot tall. "You won't try anything," he insisted, "not when I'm still twice your size and eight times your weight." Martha stepped cautiously forward, her eyes exactly at his crotch level, and nuzzled his member cautiously. "I don't want to try anything, sir," she insisted in a good-little-girl voice, "except that wonderful cock." She fitted the act to the deed and her lips to his glans. It wasn't all that good a fit, since relative to her his penis was a foot long and as big around as a soda can. She was barely able to get the monster's head in her mouth, and while Henry enjoyed the sight of her struggling with his penis, he knew he needed to be smaller to enjoy her fully. Stepping back, he twisted the same control knob and reduced himself to nine inches. He still towered over Martha, but now she could fit his penis into her mouth, and did. It was still the biggest penis she'd ever had in her mouth, and in spite of herself the Atom had to admit she was enjoying it. If only Henry weren't such a screwed-up creep, they could have had a very good relationship as superheroic colleagues. But then, they could have had that as graduate students, too, but Henry had been messed up even then. She pushed up his yellow shirt, stroking his chest with her tiny hands, trying to give him pleasure with the touch o fher skin against his. He took the hint and pulled the shirt off over his head. The black cowl came with it. Martha tugged Henry's pants down to his knees. He didn't object. She pulled at his boot top, and he lifted his foot to help her undress him. When Henry was naked, his costume piled on the desktop, Martha cupped her hand by her mouth, as though to whisper something to him. He bent down from his nine inches of height to her six, until his ear was level with her mouth. He didn't expect her to be able to lift her foot that high, or for it to connect with his chin with so much power. "Eight years of ballet," Martha snarled as she lunged for his Yellowjacket costume. Henry staggered towards the Atom, trying to get the belt away from her before she could enlarge herself. He wasn't expecting her to suddenly wrap it around his neck and twist the shrinking knob. Between the blow to the jaw and the shock of involuntary reduction, Henry barely perceived Martha tying his hands with his own tights, then climbing the wall to knock down the frame holding her costume. The next thing he perceived clearly was Martha, in the red and blue of the Atom, knocking his desk telephone off the hook and painfully dialling a long series of digits with a pencil held in her arms. And then she grabbed him and things were very confusing again. Henry had a concussion, that had to be it. Otherwise, why would he still have the feeling that he was at reduced size when all the people around him were normal sized, or only a little above average? He shook his head, trying to make sense out of the babel of voices around him. They were speaking some soft, fluid language he didn't recognize, though it sounded vaguely Asian. Their clothes were strange, too, sort-of Asian, sort-of European 18th Century, but really like nothing he'd ever seen before. The occasional American T-shirt or baseball cap only heightened the oddness of the rest of their dress. Martha was there, too, but her clothing was too weird to credit: she seemed to be wearing her Atom costume, but it always vanished when she was at full size. And she seemed to be taller than he was, which wasn't right. Thinking of clothing made him notice that he was still naked himself. Somebody handed him what he thought was a towel, and when he just stared at it, somebody else took it and wrapped it around his waist, tying it into a loincloth. They were in a huge chamber like an airplane hangar, near a large object that might have been a shed erected within the huge room. Henry stared at it for nearly a minute before identifying it as a speaker phone, as seen from a very small size. She'd reduced the two of them to electron size and carried him along a telephone connection. Darrell had theorized such a thing, but Henry'd had no idea the Atom could actually do it. So apparently he really was small, less than six inches in height. But then these people . . . ? He could make out occasional loanwords in their speech: "telephona", "criminalu". And they seemed to be calling Martha "Nardac Martaa" and "Quinbuta Flestrin", but the rest of their speech was just so much jabber to him. But they seemed to be taking him into custody, respectfully listening to Martha, who was speaking to them in their language. Finally, Martha turned to Henry and spoke to him in English. "As a Nardac, I'm entitled to give two people per year a summary sentence of up to thirteen moons. I'm only sentencing you to six, and I think you'll find it rewarding work, if not exactly cutting edge." She gestured at the people around them. "They want you for their rural electrification program; they don't have nearly enough qualified engineers. "Personally, I envy you. This is a beautiful country and the people make good neighbors. My duties as Martha Palmer and as the Atom prevent me from spending as much time here as I'd like. "I'll be back in a couple of moons to check on you. You should be settled in by then, probably fluent in the language. In the meantime, co-operate with the Lawfuls and try to enjoy your stay in Lilliput."

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 http://groups.yahoo.com/group/earth- 349 Contact the author at dr_psycho1960@hotmail.com

Another New Job

Half a day, five days a week (on a different day from that other job). Although it's a job which is proverbially a bad one, the worst part of it so far is actually that so often I drive in to work and only get to work a couple of hours before they throw me out on my ear and I have to drive home. Lots of gasoline burned for nothing. But hey. A little and a little and a little....

Now This is Ironic

My latest effort at making myself more functional and worthy of continued existence involves seeing a hypnotist. Yes, really. And golly gee, what a surprise, real hypnosis is nothing at all like what it is in fetish porn stories.

New Job

Half a day once a week is better than nothing. By just a teensy bit.

Oh Yeah, About That Job....

Got fired.