1. Gone Batty

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FOR A LIMITED TIME ONLY!

Thanks for visiting our web page! Light Hog presents the annual Garb Crate, specially tailored clothing sets for the discerning nerd and, in this edition, lover of all things Batty! We have a sweet collection this year, with customized outfits for both him and her, young and old, small or large -- this ranges from full-fledged Batman suits and Robin tights to isolated capes and cowls to frilly under-clothing, lingerie, and even speedos for your caper escapades in bed and beyond. And, of course, as per tradition, each premium article we sell/give away will have the signature of one of your favorite creators scrawled lovingly onto its fabric. Sign up now for your chance to win or be one of the first to grab a code through these cooperating payment platforms...

STATUS: OUT OF STOCK (Thanks for participating! For those who missed it, we're afraid to say this Bat signal might have gone right over your head, but don't fret; we'll be back next year with some Star Wars merch we're sure will leave you ****-jumping in ecstasy! For shipping concerns or comments, please contact us at the number below.)

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George woke in a flutter. As he flipped over his blanket, he swung his legs over the mattress and checked the time.

"Crap," he murmured. "Crap."

He stood up, and looked down at his boxers with dismay.

Leftover jizz stains spotted the middle of his dirtied pair. Like most nights, he spent the last one jacking off to the ring of girls surrounding his social periphery, and the subsequent fantasies that, of course, had no chance of coming true, but came in loads after. In more ways than one.

It was a regular routine at this point. If he wasn't looking at porn, he was masturbating to cognitive illustrations at least once a day.

Night. Whatever.

Regardless.

"I should go clean up." With one final mumble, he slipped out of his clothes and into the tub, tossing his boxers into the hamper, which stood by the door he had left open by a crack or two.

However, were he to actually have looked where he was throwing, he might have donned a grimace as it shot an inch past, arching over the container of laundry and landing with an airy swoosh onto the carpeted hall outside.

Instead he stared at his mirror, massaging his eyes with his brow as a finger flicked through his shaggy bangs.

15 minutes later, George bounded down to the kitchen, the aroma of eggs and ham peppering the air.

"Thanks, Mom." He sat down and clutched a fork. Mrs. Bradbury smiled over her shoulder, hair flipping over her bright face.

"No problem, honey." She turned back to the sink, frowning to herself. Without looking up from the running water pooling over the dishes, she added, "You woke up late today."

Footsteps pattered from the floor above as George scraped a cheek. "Uh..."

"Were you up playing those games again?" The resignation through her voice was palpable. Familiar. George tensed in his chair, swallowing an eggy fluff.

"No, it wasn't that!" Before he could make his case, she brought down the gavel.

"George," spoken over the clinker of silverware, "you know you got to cut down on your time with those--those children's distractions if you want to improve your grades! And for god's sake, your health. I don't need to tell you how pale you're looking these days just sitting in front of a screen and pretending to shoot people for no apparent reason. They're no good, dear, physically and mentally, and I don't know how you find it 'fun' watching people die from the end of a barrel over and over, or whatever ridiculous make-believe fantasy land you do it in." Her dishwashing was ratcheted up, causing her hefty chest to move in eye-pleasing rhythms through her bulging top. "And your social life! When was the last time you talked to Dave? Or Ricky? You spend so much of your time holed up in that room of yours, and when you do go out you're so clammed up and aloof that you end up --"

Mrs. Bradbury stopped like a plugged up pipe. Swiveling her head over her shoulder at George, who sat in his chair with his eyes cast down on his plate, she gave into a sigh.

"It's just..." The scrubbing continued in gentle strokes. "I worry about you, honey. I don't want you to end up like one of those creeps or serial killers running around out there, and I'll always love you, but..." Scrub-scrub. "I hope for a normal life for you too."

The son just quietly nodded. She wasn't entirely wrong. He felt she still misunderstood what kind of relationship he had with his hobbies -- he hadn't actually touched a first-person shooter in weeks. But his social life suffering because of it was one of his biggest regrets over the years, and it's only gotten worse. That 'unspoken-of' incident during freshman year made no mystery of that; it probably haunted his parents' dreams for months.

George picked at his food.

He wanted to do something about it, he did. In fact, he always 'wanted' -- never 'did'. Probably the issue.

But ironically, it felt worse to be accused of something that he wasn't in fact doing, at least not this time. In the end, though, it was probably for the better. What actually happened was his waking up early and feeling that ever primal urge well up within him as images of fresh female accouterments sidled into his mind. Sabina's jeans-clad ass. Alice's friend, Heather and her yummy legs. A few internet personalities he watched and their conservatively adorned chests. The next thing he knew, his hand just slid down underneath his pants and...

"Don't apologize, Mom, look what he friken left outside his room!"

George and his mom turned to see Alice dressed up in a knee-length skirt with a buttoned-up blouse and rolled up sleeves tucked into it at the foot of the stairs. In her hand was a pair of boxers. George's stomach dropped.

"His 'private-time' boxers was just laying there outside his door!" She threw said garments down like it was American football.

George's face would've signaled a choir of screamers if such a choir existed. "How'd you get that?"

"I picked it up, what do you think? It was just lying there in the middle of the hallway!" Alice grimaced. "At first I thought it was a towel or something, then I touched it and noticed the... the... splotch." She shuddered. "I ran to the bathroom."

George chuckled nervously, and with a puffed cheek turned towards the counter, the apron-dressed, shapely woman standing there with folded arms looking as aggravated as a fasting bull. The wordless glare leaving her eyes probably produced an exergonic reaction.

So unfortunately for Mr. Bradbury junior, the rest of breakfast was an awkward haze. George was once again tersely chastised and was tasked with cleaning duties and chores for the remainder of the month. Between cautionary fingers, he returned his boxers back to his hamper, where they belonged, making sure they went straight in and nowhere else.

Alice wasn't sugarcoated over either, however. Their mom asked her where she'd been the night before since she was apparently out late doing whatever teen girls did while he had been in fantasy-lulled sleep. She insisted that they were just getting drinks at the cafe with the girls, and she and George began pulling out.

"Next time," his sister dryly advised as they fitted their shoes at the door, "how about you try sleeping without jerking yourself to sleep, huh, George? It's not hard to do." She swirled a finger through a loop. "It's the normal thing to do."

He was about to reply when George suddenly found his eye dropping to the space up her skirt, and gulped, admiring the shadows that danced across her firm legs and over her inner thighs as she sat down to squeeze her feet into her sneakers. To think that they were siblings, just 1 school-year apart nevertheless, was almost unfathomable; probably moreso to Alice, who often voiced her wishes of a manageable, reasonable, actually self-sustaining brother to any entity that heard her whenever she thought he could not, apparently.

Oh well. The truth is, they were just very differently wired and sometimes there was nothing that...

That...

Wait, George's eyes narrowed as he spotted a flash of yellow, and something more familiar. It was her panties, and the sight was more than mildly arousing.

But that wasn't all.

Is that... the limited edition Golden Age Batman and Robin panties they were selling a while back? Nerd-mode kicked in, brow scrunching. Panties, that is, that were part of the clothing and underwear set Light Hog were giving away to lucky first-comers? The same items from the same annual merch events I got all my collector's item wardrobe from? Alice let down her leg, sending them out of view, and stood to her feet. She opened the door and waved bye to Mom. As she did so, breaking out of his laughable mental conceits, George rose to his own.

Yeah right... need to keep my head in check, he internally muttered, following her out to the bus outside, or I really will go crazy.

They climbed into the bus, George watching her precariously, then shaking his head as he slid into a corner seat and pulled out a handheld gaming device while she greeted local bad boy Harrison Bentley.

Griffith High School was nothing special, but it was at least better than Thatcher High past the bridge. Its sports teams were a big draw; their girls' volleyball and soccer teams were regular state championship finalists and their mens' baseball and football teams were no slouches either.

Last year, one of their star batters even landed a spot on the White Sox. His parents invited his baseball coach to the celebration party and posted all the pictures online. Project X could've shed a tear.

He wasn't the only one though. The other sports groups were well-acquainted, and in solidarity were allowed into star rookie's mansion of a crib -- and suffice it to say, mister rookie was pretty loaded. Everyone had come back to school the next week waxing stories like they were on the back of a gorilla.

Even his sister, Alice. Considering she was in the soccer team, it was no surprise how snuggly she got with a somewhat-close-but-more-like-non-existent-connection-to-a-potentially-one-hit-wonder baseball player from her school now hitting it professionally. In her head she was probably thinking of how, 10 years from now, she could point to the television and say she played beer pong with him. How they'd all 'ooh' and 'ahh', ask her for deets, or secret sex gossip.

George sighed. What am I saying, he mused. If I was into baseball or any of that I'd be the exact same way.

The high schooler slumped into his sparsely populated first period class. One of the TAs was wiping the board with an eraser. He looked around. Nothing but empty desks. It wasn't that early, but it was still before school had officially begun so anyone but teacher's pets, newcomers, or teachers themselves huddling behind their desks this prematurely was probably a variable. George, of course, was one of those variables, being the loner that he ws.

"George, good morning!"

The voice sounded through the door just as he set his backpack on his desk. Mr. Browning entered the class, folders in hand. George awkwardly nodded, saying good morning back, and sat down, staring out the window. There was not much else to talk about, and frankly George always had a hard time formulating topics, even with someone as charismatic and friendly as Mr. Browning. What his math lessons lacked in shrewdness, it made for in bombast; he even had a banner espousing just that on the wall.

Yes, he was that kind of teacher.

"Morning, Mary!"

"Morning, Mr. Browning."

"Did you catch the game last night?"

"Oh, yeah," Mary set the eraser down. George's eyes wandered to her, her back turned to the still bare class, and gravitated down to her ass. She had curves that filled out in all the right places, and maintained a very sleek feminine figure that was robustly hugged by her choice of apparel. Her shoulders were broad and her skin smooth, and she was smart to boot; George didn't know much else about her besides the fact that she helped Mr. Browning with miscellaneous tasks, like grading, paperwork, logistics. And that she had a bod he wanted to squeeze, with **** prejudice. "Leonards barely made it down the field in time for that last inning."

"It was insane, right?"

Mary and Mr. Browning chatted until the bell rang, which ushered in the bustle of students. George slunk into his chair. He hoped to remain as invisible to the naked eye as possible for the day; he already had enough public disgrace for one week. These days he didn't have the will for more.

And to his approval, it went smoothly. His attention span was still average, his work still partially complete, but he managed to stay awake this time, and no loud ribbing or paper planes jabbing his temple flew his way.

2nd period Chemistry and 3rd period Economics, however, took some effort not to rub off in. The hot girls sharing them with him, like Mikaela Ancel, Francis Peltzer, Emily Arpin, Brooke Hughes, made it nearly unbearable.

But he kept to himself, avoiding any incidents.

None of that, anymore, no sirree. That wasn't him anymore.

So when 4th period, World History, arrived, George felt a creeping trepidation.

The class he'd slept in. Whose amusement he'd been on the receiving end of just the day before. Whose events eventually put him through half an hour of lonesome detention later that afternoon.

George opted for encouragement. Once lunch came, he'd be able to slip into the library and plunge back into his sci-fi dungeon crawler. Or maybe check out some cartoon episodes. The day was turning out decently. What did he have to worry about?

Yeah, he thought, washing away his anxiety. I'm good. Nothing to sweat over. Just don't do anything to get myself in the public eye and it'll be fine. Just fine.

He nodded, neglecting to notice where he was going as he stepped through the door.

"Oh!"

Slamming through his thoughts was the stirring smell of a woman, and along with it, her very real, tactile body. George was rubbing his butt when he realized who he had just ran into and gasped.

"M-Mrs. Lopez," he blubbered out to the voluptuous woman, moving to lend her a hand. "I-I'm sorry!"

"Goodness' sake, George," she sat up, looking at the remorseful student with a brief shake of the head as she turned her attention to the scattering papers on the floor. She pulled her legs up to a crouching position. One by one, she plucked them and slid them back against her arm. While he watched, she gave him a stringent look. "You need to pay more attention to where you're going."

"Yes, Mrs. Lopez," he stuttered. He was about to say 'I'm sorry' when another sight caught his eye, and he felt a strange sense of familiarity.

Those...those leggings! George blinked, but sure enough, they were still there.

In her position, her skirt was hiked up to mid-thigh, revealing the top of her leggings, the hem lined in jagged shapes with tacky Batman faces sewed outside of it. It was practically Halloween attire, not ordinary school dress code material. Not to mention on a woman like her.

And, he'd be gladly corrected if he was wrong, but he could've sworn he saw those on the very same Light Hog deal he thought his sister's panties were taken from earlier that day.

"George?"

"Yes!" He shot up, eyes darting from side to side. "Er, I'll be going now!" Clearing his throat, he proceeded to hurry into class, not even bothering to look at Mrs. Lopez eye to eye.

When he squeezed past the hobble of backpacks and idling students, he took his seat and entered a thoughtful dialogue. As far as he knew, his sister had as much interest in comic books as he did in White Sox, which was quantifiably minuscule. And if hers was minuscule, Mrs. Lopez's was microscopic!

George looked at the class around him, then back out the window.

What was up with that?

He barely noticed the bell ring, signaling class to begin, as the final stream of students piled in, including Sabina Mures, her delicate black hair pulled into an elegant bun with a side fringe or two decorating its contour. The class ace and natural test-work genius chatted amicably with her friends for a while, sliding in to her seat with her tight jeans-covered bottoms. Then suddenly, in an organic flitting of her eyelids, she lazily hunched over her desk, yawned, and placed her head in her arms, a snore departing from her nostrils.