I wrote this seven years ago, my first attempt at comedy. Once was enough.
This series was a favorite of Marge Chester, a friend and family member through marriage for
twenty-four years. Marge died November, 2011. I miss you, Margie.
She stood at the window, lost in thought. The crispness of autumn
purified the air at dusk. The moon had just risen, the sky still
light, that peculiar time of evening when both sun and moon balanced
opposite each other. Watching the swifts and swallows flit over chimneys and
rooftops, wheeling like tiny black crescents in the sky, she wondered
about her unrest, her slight illnesses. As the moon rose, the swifts
were replaced with bats speeding like rockets back and forth in front
of the window. She could hear the sound of their twittering as they
flew by, sharing the day’s gossip.
“Laura!” Her husband’s voice near. “I’m coming” she called back.
Peering out the window her pupils opened wider. She saw strange
things. The veins in the leaves, the mounds of disturbed soil from
moles far below. The moon so close! The night beckoned to her, she
felt like flying out there.
Under her gown she felt thin membranes grow under her arms. The
tissue, transparent, joined with two hooks on her elbows. Her breasts
shrunk to nothing, only large nipples remaining. Her sex seemed to
shift backwards, her vulva misplaced.
“I’m coming along nicely,” she whispered.
“Laura, come to bed! What are you doing out there?”
Laura was doing nothing. Just drinking tea and looking out the
window, humming to herself.
She had lost weight, grown taciturn, seemed sexless. Harold,
confused, was getting on her last nerve.
She entered the bedroom. Harold, bald and boring, glared at her.
“What is wrong with you? Didn’t you hear me?”
Oh yes, thought Laura. Thirty years of marriage doesn’t stop up your
ears, just your mouth. And your heart.
Laura opened the closet to hang up her robe. Inside, on a hanger, was
a giant bat, its dull black wings wrapped around itself, hanging
upside down. Laura shoved it aside, looking for a hanger for her
robe. She got into bed and turned off the light.
The police looked at the carnage on the bed. Blood everywhere, a real
massacre. Something was wrong, damned if they could figure it out.
The wife, mute, had to be in shock. Weird batty woman.
Laura, her gown bloody, drinking tea, looked out the window. Under
the tree was a big dark man, standing with his arms wrapped around his
chest. He looked up and nodded.
Laura smiled back and winked.
Becoming a widow, Laura’s life took on different dimensions. The
house now on the market, she decided to travel. She thought of
spelunking, exploring caves, climbing mountains.
Pouring over brochures, she heard a scratching sound. Unlatching the
second story window, in fluttered Bart Batkowski..
“I wish you would use the door like a normal person. You will draw
attention this way.”
“Laura, do you forget what I am? Besides a co-conspirator in murder?”
Laura signed. Harold was dead, gone, Bart now sharing her bed. But it
wasn’t the bed where the action happened. It was the damn closet and
sex was gymnastic at best. Though Laura had known a transformation,
it wasn’t complete. The angle of penetration was off. Bart would
insist on hanging from his heels, and all attempts at necking gave
Laura a stiff one; neck, that is.
Since Bart said his DNA required the closet hang, they compromised
with a vertical 69 position. Bart would embrace her with his wings
wrapped tightly around them, and Laura would get comfortable with her
pubis level at Bart’s nose.
It was a strange mating, but when Bart snored it sent Laura to heaven.
Laura twisted in the wind. Well, rotated in the air conditioning.
Bart had a new kick, called `Shibari’. An ancient Japanese practice
of wrapping things. Precisely. With hidden knots. She should have
thought twice when he insisted she strip.
Arms wrapped behind her back, more cloth holding her legs together,
she sighed. She didn’t mind hanging upside down, was even getting
used to the headaches.
Bart, however, was having a bit of his own transformation, and Laura
didn’t know if she liked this one bit. He was becoming `weirder’,
taking up hobbies. Piercing was one, this shibari another. Laura was
seeing Bart in a different light, helped along with her new, nighttime
Goddamn Japanese! Why can’t they stick to wrapping small packages?
Bart told her `shibari’ was the ancient art of “wrapping the heart.”
She bought it, didn’t even mind the bananas, mangos and kiwi he stuck
between the bindings. He was, after all, a common fruit bat.
Up on the roof, Bart had other plans. From under his wings, he drew
out a new black, leather riding crop. He slapped it on his palm,
laughing with glee.
Laura was about to obey.
(For those who have not read Metamorphosis I-IV, Bart and Laura are
bats. Well, Bart is a large common fruit bat with interests in Shibari
and BDSM, and Laura is a middle- aged woman who finds she is
transforming into a bat.)
“Come on, Laura, pick it up! I can’t stay up here all day. It’s
Bart was suspended in mid air, about ten feet from the roof apex,
twenty feet off the ground.
“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t I can’t. What if they don’t work?”
Laura, mesmerized by the languid flap of Bart’s massive wings, stood
on the top of the roof. She remembered the times he trapped her
small, delicate wings within his and felt the power of his dominance.
Bart had many faults, and a sadistic nature, but his sexual allure
could not be denied. Laura was blossoming like a rose, with little
Japanese beetles buried deep within her petals. She felt Shibari was
helping them bond, though Bart left her too long in the bindings.
Parts of her had turned temporarily blue. She was finding this
`freedom of the ropes’ one knot at a time.
“Come on, Laura, I’ll catch you. Trust me. Now, run fast and leap.
Your wings should work fine.”
Laura did as she was told and hit the air running. She dropped like a
“Bart! You Fuckerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”
“Hey, Laura! Next time flap your wings, not your gums.”
When Laura fell of the roof she smashed her ankle. It took all of
Bart’s Shibari bindings to stabilize her limb and now Laura was making
Bart wait on her, wing and foot. He wasn’t too happy with the `fetch’
thing but was puzzled why Laura’s wings hadn’t worked.
“Bart,” Laura whined, “The ice melted in my drink. Make me a fresh
Bart came from the kitchen, an apron tied around his middle. He was
pissed being a house-bat but what could he do? A dominant fruit bat,
this apron went against his nature. But the dishes had to be done,
Inactivity made Laura horny. She spread her legs, flapped her pinkish
wings alluringly. Bart’s eyes gleamed as he climbed between them. He
began to lap at her, but lost his head. Laura was using a new
perfume, “Peaches and Cream”.
“Bart! I’m not a cantaloupe. Your teeth are sharp!”
“Sorry, Laura. I’m just following my nature.”
All kinds of bats in the world, and I get a fruit bat, thought Laura.
Life is unfair.
But he did look cute in a frilled apron. That big bow on his butt
Nature be damned.
“Bart? Whatchadoin’?” Laura yawned, just waking up.
“I’m working on a pathology.” His `go away answer’. Back hunched over
the keyboard, typing fast.
“Which one?” Laura blinked, trying to see what Bart was writing.
“Funny. I’m looking at this Gorean website.”
“Ah geez, Bart! It’s a comic book.” Laura’s eyes widened at the
picture of a woman on her knees, lips parted seductively, naked, legs
open. She thought of her own knees and knew she could never hold that
position. Plus, she didn’t look `cute’ naked. Not before, and not
now with these pinkish wings attached to her elbows.
“Hey Bart? Are you serious? How am I to hold that position serving
you on my knees?”
“You could levitate a bit with your wings, take pressure off your
knees. You could use your imagination if you wanted to please me.”
“Please him.” There it was. Always please the Dom. What did she get
out of it? Seemed like life with her dead husband, Howard, except
“Bart? I don’t think Gorean Doms wear aprons.”
Bart looked down. He forgot to remove it after the dishes. Maybe he
really was a Gorean submissive? Not a good thought.
Tags: "Metamorphisis", a feminist point of view...., comedy, common fruit bats, Gorean warped brains, Independence Day., Jane Kohut-Bartels, July 4th, Lady Nyo, Our defeat of British rule in our country, series, slightly racy episodes...