anthro bat begins at 3:17 a.m. in a hotel suite. City glow through half-open blinds stripes her restless body. She can’t sleep, so anthro bat becomes her lullaby. Slow, almost lazy circles over silk panties gradually soak the fabric dark. In anthro bat, she pushes them aside instead of removing them—impatient, perfect. Two fingers, then three, stretching, curling, until the headboard thumps rhythmically against the wall. When she finally comes in anthro bat, it’s with a muffled scream into the pillow, whole body shaking so hard the mattress springs sing. Dawn finds her asleep in tangled sheets, panties still twisted to the side—proof that anthro bat worked better than any sleeping pill.