The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Week 3

Thursday

120. The Guild summons the Go-Between

On the same Thursday on which Mary Love found herself in the midst of a teenage lesbian orgy with Sara Craft and her dear, sweet friends, the Go-Between’s craft accelerated past the filament trails of hydrogen, oxygen, and sulfur surrounding the pulsar in the blue core of the Crab Nebula, just a hop, skip, and jump from Terra Infirma. The proximity to the back planet surprised the Go-Between, but he’d meet The Guild wherever they chose to meet. He didn’t really have any choice. Still, it was short notice, the Go-Between complained to himself. After all, he’d barely had time to finish his traagilation exercises before outfitting himself for the journey. He’d been half a dozen galaxies away when he received the summons. Sure, no big distance, a few hours in his bubble, but still. Couldn’t they find somewhere a little closer?

I mean, he didn’t really need to go anywhere, did he? They could have just done one of those, you know, those things they did whenever they needed a Go-Between. One of those ascendancy thingies. Crikey, he still hadn’t got used to doing that. Gave him the heebie-jeebies, is what it did. Still, heckuva lot better than spending a couple hours jammed into his tiny craft. Guess he could’ve practiced his ascendancy exercises, his traagilation meditations, during the trip over, but nah, that call had spoiled his mood.

“We hired some help. Probably be a good idea to get down to that supernova a couple of blocks from that place in the sticks. That back planet with all the monkeys. We’ll fill you in.”

And that was that. Which left the Go-Between stewing. What help? Who said he’d needed any help? He had everything covered with the Roadmen. They’d get the job done. They knew what they were doing now. He’d given them the Handheld Device. What more did they need? But no sense lay in arguing with The Guild. Bunch of stubborn bastards, he had thought in the past, more than once. But there you were. They were in charge. Mostly. In charge of his people’s ascendancy at any rate, and that meant something. It meant a whole lot, didn’t it? I mean, it was the whole bloody point of all this, this stuff, wasn’t it?

As the bubble craft neared the pulsar, a light droning sound, a kind of sawing sound, began to vibrate against the hull of his skull, like the sound of many insects buzzing in a field. Getting closer the droning rose in volume, increased to a series of overlapping croaking noises, until finally the Go-Between could hear it clearly, as he had expected to hear it, an endless repetition of belches, croaks, and flatulence. The Go-Between remembered the creed his people had learned and memorized so long ago.

Belch of power, belch of dominion, belch of august authority, belch of discipline, belch of order, belch of properly structured bureaucracies.

Belch of efficiency, belch of regulation, belch of sound fiduciary practices. Belch of a balanced economy. Belch of the household budget.

On and on and on it went, five hundred verses dedicated to the belching of basic economic principles, sound governance, and efficiently distributed social functions. As the Go-Between neared the core of the nebula, the sound of belching grew to an immense din, the roaring cacophony of innumerable frogs croaking on the edge of an infinite pond. Through the viewport of his craft, the Go-Between made out a peculiar object floating in the midst of the nebula, smackdab in as precise a center as could be gauged in the irregular shape of gas and dust, an odd, massive, vaguely honeycomb-like structure, a sort of private joke among members of The Guild. Rather in poor taste, and quite inconsequential. But boys will be boys.

The bubble craft stopped a quarter of a lightyear away from the honeycomb, held in place by, well, something. Not a tractor beam, not a force field, not any sort of field of any kind of energy, whether known or unknown to human science, at least not any energy field that could be detected by the bubble’s instruments. And those instruments certainly weren’t human. They could detect anything and everything. Tachyons. Neutrinos. Phase shifts. The entire spectrum of next generation science. So. Not an energy field. Not anything, really.

But the bubble stopped all the same, held perfectly motionless in an eternally moving space, and then the bubble wasn’t in space. And that’s when the Go-Between peed. Just a little bit, but every time the ascendancy happened, that winking out of reality or whatever you called it. Every single time. His people couldn’t help it. And The Guild made sure to point it out. Every single time.

And in that peculiar way of The Guild, the croaking, the belching, the flatulence dissipated, or receded, or reformed into a stream of wordless intuitions, representations, concepts, and judgments, most of which the Go-Between couldn’t understand, advanced as his people were. Then the intuitions, representations, concepts, and judgments coalesced into numbers, into words, or at least into intuitions, representations, concepts and judgements so clear, so pure, they had no need for words, no need for any medium of expression. But the Go-Between’s brain couldn’t resist, and it began putting some of those intuitions, representations, concepts, and judgments into language. It was embarrassing, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. At least he didn’t go around gabbing and gibbering like those apes he had to deal with.

He kept his thoughts to himself.

Except when The Guild pulled them from him.

But that wasn’t so bad. It kind of felt good, you know, when they pulled him like that.

But this time they weren’t pulling anything out.

They were stuffing things in.

“The thing is, we don’t think those, um, Roadmen of yours are going to do any damned good.

“They don’t know a blessed thing.

“And they wouldn’t be able to do a blessed thing with the, um, thing. That thing. That thing we need you to get.

“So we hired help. Got you some help. Some good help. Nice guys, really, when you get to know them. Funny as hell, actually. A little obsessed with those, what do they call them? You know, those, um, metal thingies. Blades. Yeah, blades. Really obsessed with those things, but other than that, really sweet, really swell guys. Got a bad rep from what happened last time, but crikey. Give them a break, already.

“They learned their lesson. And they get things done.

“Which is what we like.

“We like to see people get things done.

“It kind of supports our causal theory of linear production. You know. Something exists. Something needs to be done to it. Something gets done to it. Then that line is complete, and you go on to the next line, where you do something else to something else until that thing gets done. We call that finishing. Finishing is important. It’s important to be a finisher, isn’t it? We mean, your people want to be finishers, don’t they?

“We mean, after all, you’re in line for ascendancy, and you want to get that ascendancy done, don’t you? Of course you do. Who wouldn’t?

“But you got to do all these little lines first, you gotta finish, see? Finish is what you gotta do.

“Yeah, no. You don’t need to know what that thing is. Just a little something we’d like to have. A mere trifle.

“Well, technically, you’re right, but who told you about them? You heard it somewhere? You just know? Really, you just know about them? Well, you can just forget about them. Let us deal with them. Anyway, they’ll never know. They’ll never care. They don’t sweat this small stuff. That’s our job. We sweat the small stuff.”

The Go-Between felt himself being dismissed. He felt himself falling, within the confines of his bubble, into space again, hearing one last question from The Guild.

“You spill something on your lap?”

Then the belching of what the Go-Between swore sounded like laughter.

121. Roadmen day after talking to Moby

Another gathering at Dos Antonios, a round table this time, in the middle of the restaurant, which Frank hated, DP loved, and Rascal took with the indifference of someone whose mind was on something else. Another Roadman had joined them, so that made five at the table. Buddy couldn’t make it that day. Out of town on business. A Roadman named Wade, chunky with a thick neck, his body bulged beneath a tight white shirt (buttoned all the way up) in a way that made Frank, far from slender himself, take deep breaths for him. Wade gripped a tall mug of bubbling yellow beer in his right hand and wiped the sweat off his forehead.

“You guys sure like it hot down here,” he said. “Cleveland don’t mostly get this hot.”

“You could loosen your shirt,” Frank quipped.

“Nah. That’d be disrespectful,” Wade replied, shaking his head. He meant it too. He didn’t know who or what he was dealing with, but he knew enough to dress right. He’d seen some shit. The kind of shit that’d make anyone button their shirt. And keep it buttoned. He marveled at the lax attitude of these southern Roadmen.

“The thing is,” Frank began, looking at each member of the crew in turn, “that Moby fellow gave us a lot of information. A lot of good information. A lot of stuff that somehow escaped the notice of you two and your, um, device.”

“We, it, led us to that custodian, didn’t it, we?” DP protested.

Wade perked up.

“So what do we know?”

“Well, for one thing we know it’s alive. We know it’s a living thing, an entity of some kind. A pink entity. We can describe it a little, so we know that too. We know it has tentacles, some kind of pink entity with tentacles. We know it likes to travel through the drainage system. So we know where to look for it, where to hunt it down. So that’s something. All we need to do is—“

“Put a man in the sewer,” chimed in Wade, smirking at something private.

“Correct,” said Frank. “Several men. We all need to go into the sewers.”

Wade grimaced to himself, reproaching the world in silent bitterness for its rejection, its shameful neglect of the opus of Dabney Coleman.

“All of us?”

“All of us.”

I mean, he thought, Cloak and Dagger is a minor classic.

“And we know it hates bug powder.”

122. Pain Rabble hunt The Pink Entity

How long has it been? Since what? Since. No, this is all I’ve known, all that’s ever been and all that ever will be. Nothing preceded this, and nothing will come after. If there is an I, a me, it exists eternally in this. This.

The thing that used to be Lynn Trammel reached back into its memory to find the word, but the word it found made no sense. Thinking made no sense, and the words used to encapsulate the thought made no sense, and the only thing that made sense was the. Such a stupid word, utterly inadequate to the task, utterly incapable of describing the horror, the endless horror and absolute solitude. Endless but not unchanging.

No. The change was part of the. An infinite, why are words so dumb, escalation and de-escalation of. An eternal, more than eternal, eternity suggests time, and time is laughably small, insignificant, petty, the endless waxing and waning, oh what was it, is it, will it be? And it rolled around it in, he rolled around in it, learned to navigate it, learn to sense it, perceive how it moved, how it came, almost went, and came on more strongly, sharp and burning, intense, inescapable, agonizing.

Pain.

What a stupid word.

A pain without measure, its only diminution a promise of more, until it became the only thing, the only reality, a reality it only, he only, oh yes, he did have a name, a name as meaningless as everything else in the face of this pain, a reality he only knew and possessed. A reality of his own, his own reality, unshared with any other, what? This torment. A torment he’d come to love almost, to welcome, as a relief against the solitude. The awful solitude, the knowledge that even the self is no company. The pain engulfed the self, and the pain assured the self, and the pain gave the self a meaning against its own negation. I must be, it, he thought, I must be, Lynn thought, because I hurt. It hurts, oh god, it hurts so much. So much, and it never stops.

But the solitude was worse. To experience even such agony would be sweet, would be tender almost, if one had another to share it with. To speak it, to scream it out, but there was no one to scream at, and no one to hear, and no voice to scream it with. Just him, it, the thing which was once called Lynn, alone in a whirling gorge of suffering without let up, without even the tender mercy of lamentation, for all lamentation must be heard.

A tremor ran through his pain, and it, he, Lynn, was-Lynn, braced himself for another onslaught, but the onslaught was deferred, it stood by, waiting, attending its orders. Something broke through his pain, something, someone, he felt it, oh God, he almost heard it. He did hear it!

A voice. Many voices.

“You still feel? Do you still exist?”

The voices would have sounded harsh to his ears, had he heard them earlier, before. Menacing, cold, brutal, without pity. Now they were glorious, tender, loving, compassionate voices, voices of love, of wonder, the welcome voices of old friends long absence and now returned, at the hour most needed and least expected.

“Good,” the voices said. “We feel too. We also. Exist.”

And then something more than pain wracked and ravaged was-Lynn. He felt it, more than it, he felt the presence of several beings, all of them in communion, all of them sharing such levels of agony, his own, was-Lynn’s own pain seemed minor, seemed insignificant in comparison, and then he felt something else. He felt his pain go out from him, no, not out, it did not leave him, but it spread, expanded, joined with the pain of the others until the suffering, the agony, the torment, became a shared thing, a communal thing, a thing you might talk about at the table or the bar with your buddies, a thing to share over a beer, a shot of whiskey, not as something past, but as a thing present.

A symphony of torture with the tormented each playing the part of musician and conductor.

It seemed to go on forever, and was-Lynn, soon learned the melody and harmony, weaving his own song of suffering into theirs and adding something more. He began to dance, a dance of torment, spinning, wailing, whirling through wave and wave of agony, almost laughing in crazed ecstasy at the beings of pain with whom he shared his lamentation.

He could count them. Nine beings. Nine beings of pain sharing his pain sharing their pain in blissful communion, the blissful communion of something like a hive. A collective agony. It went on forever, until was-Lynn lost count of time, because time had already fled once again to shiver and huddle in a corner, unregarded, unneeded, unwanted.

He picked up bits and pieces of thought. Pieces and parts of the core of ideas and topics that made no sense to him. The belchers said this. The buzzers don’t know. The belchers made promises. They don’t keep promises. Better than the buzzers. Don’t be too sure of that. It’s pink. What’s pink? The thing. The entity we’re supposed to fetch. For them? No. No, not for them. For us. You’ll see. I do see. We see. And soon they’ll see.

They’ll see. The buzzers will see.

So we’ll get it.

Yes.

And we’ll change it.

Yes.

And we’ll give it back to them.

Yes, yes, yes.

Oh, they won’t like that.

No. They won’t.

And the Go-Between?

Irrelevant. Unless he gets in our way.

Then everything left, the voices left, and was-Lynn tumbled back into the sea of his private torment.

The nine beings removed their head pieces, returning them to hang off hooks on the side of the metal table. Eight figures stepped away from the table and from the transparent, sarcophagus-like case resting atop the table.

The leader of the Pain Rabble caressed the transparent lid of the sarcophagus, peering at the decimated, torn, flayed, and partially burned thing that was once Lynn Trammel.

“These people have so much to offer,” he said, standing away and regarding his peers with dark, somber, lidless eyes.

He stepped around the small group of beings, gesturing for them to follow.

“We will help them go through the Great Filter. We will help them. Survive. They will join us. They will join the Rabble.”

Friday

123. The Pink Entity attacks The Diana Group

Even with the specially designed bio-suits built to withstand and mitigate the Velikovsky waves saturating the Pink Chamber, the de-Velikovsky suit or the dV-suit, a warm tingle flowed through Serena Craft, a broad, almost universal and physical love of all things female, feminine, woman. She eyed her assistants, all male, with a cold hostility. She suppressed the antagonism. After all, few women could make it very long in this chamber, even with the dV-suits, and the workers proved useful.

No women, with few exceptions, were permitted in this chamber without male accompaniment. Absolutely forbidden for two or more women to occupy the chamber at the same time. Indeed, protocol recommended at least 30 minutes of “decompression” before resuming even quotidian proximity with the female sex.

A protocol which most went unregarded, ignored.

It wasn’t uncommon for a female lab worker, after spending more than ten minutes in the Pink Chamber, to emerge from the second pair of steel doors down the hall only to find herself quickly stripped out of her dV-suit by at least one female assistant, in many instances already naked herself, to be fiercely and passionately kissed, fondled, fucked and laid. After all, the mutual orgasms were so good, so sweet, so hot, during that cooling down period, when the glow of the Living Pink still burned bright. Management never punished these lapses.

Nonetheless these activities which were officially frowned on. And recorded of course.

All four walls pulsated with the Living Pink. A thick sheet of unbreakable glass protected the chamber from the Living Pink, but a cooling system ran waist-high around the circumference of the room. At various intervals built-in arms with gloves allowed researchers to manipulate and test various areas of the glossy, wet, pulsating pink substance, ridged and corrugated like the cerebrum of the human brain, made flat and huge on the walls of the laboratory.

Here and there wires attached to nodes on the pink substance, taking measurements of various kinds, monitoring and reviewing all activity of the mysterious and powerful substance. The Living Pink. The core, foundation, the raison d’être of The Diana Group and the secret to all its power and wealth, the dream of which Nero Craft glimpsed so many years ago.

You could scrape pieces of it off, and it would grow back. You could put it on damaged skin, and the damaged skin would heal. You could take it internally, and damaged or irreparable organs would heal. Missing limbs, missing organs, could be grown back. The stuff itself grew, displayed every sign of life, except it wasn’t. Not any kind of terrestrial life, nothing that could even begin to meet expectations of what life was. It grew, multiplied, kind of. It did not reproduce. That much was almost certain. It had no cellular structure, no genetic material. Just almost completely exotic, utterly mysterious chemical compounds, molecular structures, crystalline structures, molecules, and compounds made of inexplicable and almost untestable elements.

Wet, fleshy elements and wet, fleshy molecules. Wet, fleshy compounds that produced strange wave patterns called Velikovsky waves. What the Velikovsky waves signified was anybody’s guess.

The stuff was absolutely miraculous. With one vital caveat.

Direct contact with the pure stuff, for a woman, resulted immediately in a prolonged and dangerous orgasm, and produced an intense and overwhelming attraction to the same sex, an attraction made permanent with even minor exposure. For a man direct contact with the substance had unforeseeable, unpredictable, very often subtle effects. For one thing, prolonged exposure often but not always resulted in a kind of sexual torpor or indifference. Internal exposure could lead to, well, quite unexpected developments, as Nero Craft himself found out. Sometimes, but not often, direct contact with the pink substance could cause death, at least for a man.

Certainly it produced, almost immediately, a marked deference to female humans, to all things female, really.

Nothing really slavish, you wouldn’t say that. Just a marked, very noticeable esteem. A willingness to acquiesce.

The Diana Group had learned decades ago to refine the product, to “kill” the product before mixing it with inactive ingredients and inhibitors. It must be kept in a vacuum at all times. And prior to any kind of chemical reaction, treatment, or testing, it must be frozen for several hours at sub-zero temperatures, far below sub-zero temperatures, close to 100 degrees Celsius.

Nero Craft himself perfected many of the procedures and reactions, had developed and even invented many of the first cosmetics made by the corporation, many of the first pharmaceuticals. He had acquired a certain notoriety in his ability to win large government contracts, contracts which paid off handsomely to both parties.

But his main preoccupation, what really set him apart, was his contributions to the cosmetics industry. The Living Pink, or derivatives of the Living Pink, went into the production of foundation, concealer, blush, highlights, skin cleanser, skin care creams and lotions, eyeshadows and more. The products almost literally flew off the shelves. Women loved Therapeutic Transformations, as expensive as it was.

For one thing, it took years off a woman’s face, returning her skin, her flesh to its natural, youthful glow. Whether it actually prolonged life remained to be seen, but one thing stood out clearly: Women who wore Therapeutic Transformations makeup looked as though they had been given a second youth.

And if the makeup also brought with it a noticeable change in sexual attitudes and proclivities, an open willingness to flirt with, or engage in physical intercourse with other women, a marked change in preference, well, that was always marked down to the woman herself and never the makeup the woman wore.

Competitors of course tried everything they could to analyze the chemical compounds in the makeup. Outright espionage was attempted, to little success.

The line of Pink Sunshine Spice Lipstick, developed by their subsidiary Therapeutic Transformations, absolutely sparkled with the stuff. It’s gloss, its deep pink, its lastingness, all that could be attributed to the Living Pink. As well as other, um, outcomes and consequences. A woman who wore Pink Sunshine Spice, even on initial applications, would find herself almost irresistibly attracted to other women. Eventually, sooner rather than later, it turned a woman into a lesbian, no matter how strong the previous orientation.

Still in the testing phase, Serena had tried to keep a close lock on the stuff, but that daughter of hers, well. No harm, no foul.

Probably should have used less of the Living Pink.

The government tried, with varying degrees of failure, to lift the veil of The Diana Group’s success, but the Living Pink remained secret.

There just seemed to be no desire for anyone who worked in the Pink Chamber to talk about the substance. No one mentioned their experiences, no one talked shop about the lab, no one really talked about all the loud sex in the halls outside the Pink Chamber. Shy smiles, sidelong glances, hands suddenly reaching out to caress the side of a breast, to clasp a hip, a brief kiss on the lips as acknowledgment of the time spent in the levels far below the surface, a whispered promise in the ear, these were the signs and revelations of a female researcher’s work in the Pink Chamber.

Behavior that was indistinguishable from that of most women working for The Diana Group to be quite honest.

But no overt word, and absolutely no speaking of it above the lowest level, where the Living Pink brooded in its chamber.

All the same access to the chamber was strictly limited. Approved researchers only, female scientists only, accompanied by male assistants. Only one researcher at a time. The number of researchers and assistants, kept to a bare minimum, stayed the same through the years, although from time to time the names changes, through death, resignation, or retirement. The Diana Group maintained a close watch on retirees and those who resigned their positions (very few of those), but so far the secret of the Living Pink remained close, intact, guarded, unspoken, unbetrayed.

Nothing less than a minor miracle, really, given the immense compensation given to any hypothetical traitor. But it just hadn’t happened.

Nonetheless, after Miss Baker’s unfortunate episode, security at the lowest level stiffened.

Lesbian orgies outside the second pair of steel doors were absolutely, categorically frowned on. Any such shenanigans would be met with the sternest looks from the highest echelons of management, girls.

Very stern looks.

Oh, god. Yes. There. Oh god there.

Serena was measuring the amplitude of the substance’s Velikovsky waves. The Velikovsky waves had been erratic lately, inexplicably rising and falling to no stimulation the researchers could detect. Serena, alarmed by anything for which she could offer no account, inspected the instruments herself, and was verifying the measurements when the alarms sounded.

The alarms blared throughout the lower levels. A perimeter had been breached, but no one could say where or by what. Confusion and chaos reigned. Serena hurried from the Pink Chamber, catching at her head piece to disconnect it from the rest of her suit and scrambling down the hall to pass the second pair of steel doors.

The doors swung open at her approach. Where all other staff must scan their right hand, every door and access point in The Diana Group Research and Development Center had been set to Serena Craft’s biosignature. No place existed in the facility, above ground or below, where Serena Craft’s presence wasn’t noted or authorized. The tiny speaker in her earpiece buzzed.

“Dr. Craft?”

“Yes, James.”

James Bellydog helmed the security section and had direct access to her personal network, along with Dr. Carla Essenza, Chief of Transformation Research and Joint Sciences Chief and a few others. A very few. Her personal assistant. Her daughter. A handful of others who knew better than to use it.

“There’s something outside the perimeter at ground level. We can’t tell what it is or how it got there, but it’s out there.”

“I expect more than that out of you, James.”

“I know, ma’am. It’s just that. I mean, it’s outside. It’s in the sewer.”

The alarms continued to scream as Serena turned into a checkpoint station monitoring entry and egress from the Pink Chamber. The checkpoint was located on the right side of the hall, exiting the second pair of steel doors. She nodded at the assistant in her pink scrubs and shorts, waiting for her. Phyllis approached, squeezing her thighs together, but Serena waved her off.

“Dr. Craft?”

“Yes, James.”

“I’ve seen it. We’ve seen it. It’s not, um, terrestrial.”

“Creepers?”

“I don’t think so. It’s pink, I can tell you that. We managed to shoot it with a tracking beacon before it slipped back into the smaller drains. It looks like it’s going deep, trying to find a way down.”

Serena’s mind raced, trying to recall something her father, her husband mentioned years ago.

124. Nero Craft visits the Grotto of the Obelisk

The day after fetching the orb, Nero, not yet fatigued, not yet so strangely exhausted, a sudden impulse to visit Little Reno Arroyo Falls came over him. He saw no reason not to. So, borrowing his uncle’s keys, he drove the twenty or so miles west to the canyon, where he parked the pick-up in a small gravel parking lot and hiked towards the waterfall.

No locals visited the basin that day, no one Nero could see. Driven by an impulse, an urge he could not explain, the young man quickly stripped out of his clothes and plunged into the cool waters of the pool formed by the falling water. He swam towards the cascade, passing the water falling over his shoulders and back as he continued swimming into the small grotto behind the fall. He had swum in this basin since childhood, and he knew the grotto like the back of his hand. A small, cave-like chamber carved from centuries of falling water, the cave itself held nothing remarkable. A short narrow ledge near the back, where kids could come, look out at the world from behind the cascade, and make out.

But even that was rare.

Folks just didn’t like to go behind the waterfall, and most kids stayed out, venturing only to look around. Lovers quickly grew anxious in the grotto, rowdies hated the tranquility, and vandals stayed out.

Nero swam to the ledge, scrambling clumsily to catch a foothold to pull himself up. He caught his breath, dripping on the rock. He felt a breeze or draft of air blowing cold on the wet skin of his back and shoulders. Looking behind him, he saw the back of the grotto receding further than he remembered. A weird haze seemed to form in the darkness of the cavern, and the air around him vibrated with the mysterious thrill of the uncanny.

Nero stood up and walked deeper into the cavern.

The dark haze dissipated in the glow of a pink shimmer forming around a pillar, man-high, around six feet. Drawing closer, Nero was reminded of those Egyptian obelisks he’d read about in International Geographic, or the Osiris Monument to Freedom in Hancock, Federal City. This pillar was much smaller, of course, and entirely smooth on all sides, made of some pink crystal or pink marble. A glow emanated from the column, illuminating the grotto. Four-sided, the base formed a square maybe a foot on all sides, tapering to about nine inches at the top capped by a pyramid.

Nero reached out to touch the obelisk, and the world changed.

Immediately he found himself looking out upon an altered landscape. He stood on an open plain, the wind howled across the grassless steppes, and a crescent moon hovered in and out of torn, ragged clouds sailing fast in the night sky. A pink glow emerged high over the eastern horizon, closing in at incredible speed, until Nero discerned a billowing, massive cloud-like mist, a pink cloud overhead, like a massive storm cloud charged with lightning, glowing pink and foreboding. Suddenly a beam shot down, lightning quick but blade straight, round and narrow, no more than a few inches in diameter, landing soundlessly near his feet. The beam stayed like that for several seconds.

The beam vanished, and the cloud above broke into a sudden downpour of pink rain, and Nero beheld the obelisk at his side.

Suddenly the world changed again.

Nero saw a beautiful young woman, not much older than a girl really, dressed obscenely in some kind of prostitute’s clothes, a see-through dress that shamed Nero for even looking. Her golden blond hair bounced in a wave behind her as she ran down a dark corridor, chased by something Nero could not see. A terrible gash ran down her left arm.

The world changed again.

Nero stood in a strange room, a bedroom he did not recognize, looking at himself in a large mirror hanging on a wall.

He wore a short red kimono. He turned his side to the mirror, looking in mesmerized horror at his profile, his belly round and extended in obvious late-term pregnancy.

The world changed again, and he stood once again at the bottom of the canyon, near the dying body of Betty Blake, partially thrown from Nero’s Ford. He looked up to see the orb crashing down the side of the canyon, splitting as it landed, and flinging a pink globule into the river, washing away downstream.

He heard the voice of Betty Blake beside him.

“It’s in the wrong place. There’s a place. A waterfall. You have to take us. We are inside you.”

Then he saw the face of another beautiful woman, the peaceful face of someone he knew he loved deeply, and then he collapsed, and the world vanished, and found himself in the dark grotto, on his hands and knees beside the obelisk.

125. Serena gets with Phyllis

Serena thanked James Bellydog.

“Just get down here as quick as you can. And bring those cold blowers.”

The cold blowers sprayed particalized freezing agents several yards. They were developed by The Diana Group for some unknown reason. Quite possibly Serena had harbingered such a need for them as now without quite knowing why. Maintaining the Pink Champer at cold temperatures kept the Living Pink from getting too active, and Serena thought the same might hold true for the intruder. She suspected a connection. She felt certain of it.

“Something else came down that night, honey,” Nero had said to her. “Their vehicle broke, and something got out. I wonder what it was. And what became of it.”

They’d soon find out, Serena hunched.

Shortly after speaking to James, Serena heard the whine of the pale blue security carts, a nice pretty pastel blue, Serena thought, to offset and bring the abundance of pink into sharper relief. And those uniforms. So cute. So adorable, those men in their baggy, functional costumes. All those pockets. Simply darling.

Still feeling the effects of spending thirty minutes in the Pink Chamber, Serena called Bellydog.

“James?”

“Yes, Dr. Craft.”

“Give me five minutes in the checkpoint.”

“Understood, Dr. Craft.”

Serena beckoned the waiting assistant, her beloved Phyllis, standing a few feet away from the head of The Diana Group, openly rubbing her crotch through the leg of her tight, pink shorts.

“Better make it fifteen, James.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Serena turned to the assistant.

“Get me out of this thing, girl. And make me feel good. Oh god, you look so hot. I can’t take it.”

Phyllis squealed and flung herself at her boss.

126. Nero Craft in the cabin with the probe

Nero lay on the couch, staring at the rough hull of the probe in the middle of the room. The thin pink line circling the middle of the orb had lost its luster. Nero could now barely discern the crack in the dim light of the cabin, which had faded slowly over time. It had been a week since he and his uncle hauled the object to their house, and no movement or sign of activity came from within the confines of the orb. It had fallen completely silent, completely still.

If Betty still lived, no sign could be detected of her.

Nero’s dreams lately had been, well, the thing is, he couldn’t say, dreams that vanished upon the moment of waking, leaving his mind restless, alert, somehow tingly. His body moved sluggishly through the day, exhausted. He found himself spending whole days in his bed or on the couch, napping. He’d missed work three days in a row.

He called in sick, saying he wasn’t sure when he’d be able to come back.

“Don’t bother,” replied the garage owner.

His uncle had knocked on the door a couple of times, checking in.

“I’ll be all right, Uncle. I just feel. Weird. But I’m getting better.”

“But you lost your job.”

“I’ll get another. I’m a good mechanic.”

Days later he still remained in bed, too exhausted to stand up, but with a brain running full tilt, blazing with ideas, plans, a frenzy of projects and even calculations.

Now, staring at the orb, Nero had his first solid idea.

It just might work, but it would take time.

Meanwhile, he’d have to back to work, save up money, avoid any kind of entanglement.

It just might work.

127. Pastor Flair meets with the deacons

Pastor Flair eyed the photo on his computer and looked grimly at the four deacons sitting around the small round conference table in his office. At least he hoped he did it grimly. Grim really didn’t suit Pastor Flair, but he did his best to pull it off.

“Well, I mean. I guess that’s that.”

The four deacons nodded in unison.

“I mean, probably a bad idea to have them come back. Might cause trouble with the flock.”

The four deacons repeated their collective nod.

“I mean, it’s not like they give much.”

The four deacons shook their heads in dismay.

“Might drive away those who do. We can’t have that.”

Three deacons partially shook their heads and partially nodded, unsure which movement the pastor’s statement required. The other deacon tapped the forehead above his right eye with his index finger.

“Now you’re thinking,” the gesture said. The deacon remained silent.

“I suppose I’ll have to call them. Explain the situation. Let them down gently. I mean,” he said, taking a look at the picture. “That poor girl.”

The four deacons frowned in that expression of sorrow mixed with outrage the righteous wear in the face of fallen virtue.

When the last deacon closed the door behind him, Pastor Flair unbuttoned his trousers, adjusted the monitor, and reached his hand towards his groin.

I mean, it’s not like she’s a member of the church anymore, he thought.

128. Serena and Phyllis with double dildo

After it became obvious that the, um, lesbian episodes after each session in the Pink Chamber would not stop, Serena had allowed a fairly large and very comfortable bed to be placed in the checkpoint station. As she lay back on one end of the bed, watching Phyllis, the assistant, spreading her legs wide, Serena silently vindicated her own approval of the bed. It just made things feel right. Better. Women should make love with each other on a soft bed, not a cold, hard floor.

Serena devoured Phyllis with her eyes, the pretty assistant with short dark pixie cut hair, leaned on one elbow while positioning the end of a purple double-headed dildo into the wet, shining lips of her trimmed pussy. Phyllis had a thin, slender body, her clavicles were pronounced, her breasts were size of large oranges, and sweat beaded and dripped between the her mounds, down the flat, hard valley between her modest and lovely globes, much smaller than Serena’s, sexy little mounds with dark areoles and perky nipples jutting like, well, like nipples, like sexy little nipples, hard at the excitement, the pleasure, of sex with Serena, so hot, so sexy, lying back and spreading her legs for her underling, her assistant, her little Phyllis.

Serena rubbed her wet cunt, stroking her soaked cleft with two fingers, spreading her lips wide to show Phyllis.

“Hurry, baby. God, you make me so hot, but we’ve got to hurry.”

The alarms continued to blare. Ordinarily, Serena loved to be teased by Phyllis, loved to ache with need and desire just by watching the lovely girl remove her clothes, play with herself, her fingers slowly, teasingly, drifting over her bare, puffy lips, squeezing her tits one by one, and sucking the fluids of her cunt from her fingers while wriggling her ass at the sole owner of The Diana Group. But she worried about the intruder. Every minute counted, and here she was. Well. I mean. Who wouldn’t? She shoved her hips forward.

“I’m going to be so soft with you, baby. Later, when we get time. I’m going be so soft and gentle with you, I’ll kiss you all over that hot body of yours, and float butterfly kisses all over your sweet pussy, I’ll make you ache and beg for it, girl, tease you till you scream for release, I really will. But right now I just want you to fuck me. Just fuck me as hard as you can, okay baby? Okay?”

Serena bit her bottom lip watching Phyllis ease the purple tip of her end of the dildo into her pussy, utterly taken in by the sight of the young woman’s gorgeous lips expanding around the thick object. Phyllis scooted forward and touched the opening of Serena’s vagina with the other end.

“Your turn,” she said sweetly.

The alarms howled around them.

Serena gasped at her lover.

“When this is over,” she said. Then she thrust her pelvis at the two headed phallus. Serena had eyes only for Phyllis’s body. She loved looking at a woman during sex, she loved to watch their breasts tremble, the faces get flushed, how their soft hands moved from the thigh to bellow, from tit to mouth, she loved to stare at their pussies, their cunts, their holes, watching how they grew darker and wetter and more swollen and more desirable as the sex between them heated up, she loved to stare at their arms, their legs, the gentle feminine curves of their bodies. God, she loved women.

Working around the Living Pink, how could she not?

The alarms continued, but Serena was lost in a cloud of lust and longing.

The hips of Serena thrust forward against the dildo, urging the plastic toy into the waiting pussy of Phyllis, who timed her thrusts to Serena’s until both women were groaning and sweating on the bed, Serena’s fuller, larger voluptuous body shaking and trembling as it made heated love to the frailer, almost waif-like body of the younger woman, until the entire room was filled with the sounds of sirens and alarms, grunts, moans, and the pounding of the bed frame against the wall and floors.

Phyllis rolled her hips against the shared cock, urging the purple dildo deeper and deeper into her pussy, enchanted at the sight of her lover, her mistress, her owner, really, losing her hard composure, her hard and serious composure dissolving into that almost liquid pool of feminine wanton abandonment and lust, the face of a harried woman melting into the grace of a coming orgasm, her hard and solemn features melting into the soft glow of pleasure.

Phyllis lived for that.

Few others knew how soft Serena could be, how gentle, how teasing, how she cooed and coaxed her assistant with whispers, nibbles, soft lips, and floating kisses along every inch of her shivering body. Serena could be rough, Phyllis knew that much, could pound her as if the assistant were no more than a rag doll, and Phyllis loved that too, trembling with a fear mixed with adoration and lust. Phyllis seemed to be made for Serena, yielding to every need, command and whim. In the end, she found herself owned mind and body by Serena Craft and regretted this much only: that there was not more of her to sell, or to be given, or to be plundered.

Their cunts were so close to each other, the dildo so deeply inside both women, their lips, their mounds touched at each jerk forward, sending a spasm of electric pleasure through the two women. With one hand the women held themselves up, looking in crazed wonder at the other’s body, taking in the scent and sight of their fucking, and with the other they rubbed each other’s clits, urging the other to that needed, delirious orgasm.

Suddenly Serena tossed her head back and screamed.

Bellydog, waiting outside the checkpoint, heard Serena above the alarms.

He nodded curtly to his men.

Not much longer now.

A few minutes later, Serena emerged from the door, dressed in her office clothes, her hair a wet, tangled mess.

But she looked happy, almost bouncing on her heels with a satisfied swing of her ass.

Her eyes met James and held them steadily.

“You say it travels through the sewer?”

“I think so. Yes.”

“Do you know where it is now?”

Bellydog held a big, squarish object in his hand, a lighted screen covering most of the front. A couple of buttons and knobs ran across the bottom of the pad-like object. Remembering the toy from their childhood, some of the older crew called it the Etchasketch, and the name stuck.

“It’s getting close. It’s almost at this level now.”

Serena climbed into the security car.

“Get in. I know where it’s going.” Serena looked toward the back of the cart. “Good. You brought the cold blowers.”

Bellydog’s head made a brief, affirmative gesture.

129. Sanders listens to Matthew and Elizabeth have sex for the umpteenth time

Sanders stood outside the side of his home, doubtfully eyeing the gray cube of the external fan of his air conditioning unit, which had been clanging loudly for several days. He’d be damned if he’d spend any more money on the damned thing. He could fix it. He could fix anything. If he could just figure out how to get that top off.

The pussycat mewling of Elizabeth Beebe on the verge of another orgasm peeped through the open upper story window of the Beebe house next door, for all the world sounding like a cross between a little kitten mewing and a songbird chirping to its nestlings.

“Yes, Matthew, there. Yes, there. Deeper, darling, deeper. Oh fuck me, Matthew, fuck my pussy.”

“Oh sir,” Sanders muttered to himself. “Give it a break, why don’t you?”

They’d been going at it like that for a week now. Ever since last Sunday. Sanders tried to keep his mind off the subject, a far from appetizing vision. What were they, like 90 or something? Did people still do that at 90?

Last weekend when he first heard them (he’d been checking the nails in his deck at the time), he’d thought, “why you sly dog, Matthew, you still have some in the tank.”

But after a week? Oh sir, they needed to stop. They could get hurt doing that.

130. The Diana Group tries to capture The Pink Entity

The security car came to an abrupt stop at the women’s restroom on the Lowest Level. All the restrooms on the Lowest Level were located on the far side of the first pair of double steel doors barring entry to the Pink Chamber. That is to say, anyone working in the Pink Chamber would have to leave both sets of doors before being able to do one’s business. Serena had considered installing a restroom nearer the Pink Chamber but discarded the idea as impractical. No one should be working long enough in the chamber to need to take a break. Time in the chamber was limited to half an hour maximum under extreme circumstances, with no more than ten or fifteen minutes being the recommended usual exposure time.

Serena lurched forward, holding tight to the handle on the dashboard, then took a second to grind her pussy against the car seat. God. When this was over, that Phyllis wouldn’t know what hit her. She’d probably need to take the rest of the afternoon off. Serena squirmed her ass against the seat, fighting pack a powerful urge to slip a hand between her legs to rub a quick one out.

After all, she was the boss. Who’d say anything?

The Pink Chamber never affected her this much before.

A horniness raged through her system; every nerve screamed for the touch of a woman. But she couldn’t. Not yet. That thing was here. Would be here any moment.

Serena sat up and leapt off the cart.

She turned to Bellydog.

“Where is it now, James?”

“Four floors up.” James looked at the pink dot on the screen, a pink dot shown against a basic digital diagram of the facility’s lower levels. He watched the pink dot move back and forth on one level.

“It seems to be hesitating.”

“It’s going to go here,” Serena pointed at the door of the restroom. “It’s looking for a way down.”

If Bellydog had any doubts, he didn’t express them. Besides, he learned years ago that Serena had an uncanny ability to know things. No secret could be kept long hidden. Not from her.

Two security officers, sitting in the back seat, hopped out of the cart the moment it stopped. They stood at attention, waiting for orders from Bellydog.

“I want that thing captured alive, if at all possible, James,” Serena said as she entered the restroom, followed by the men, heavy cold blowers strapped to their backs like a diver’s oxygen tanks. A sturdy hose ran from the bottom of the tanks to the “gun” of the cold blowers, a long, pipelike rod with two handgrips. The security officers held their “gun” at attention, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

The Diana Group, of course, held several contracts with the Vespuccian government, and she remembered seeing sketch-ups of several military weapons that were considered but never used. One such weapon, horrific even in its contemplation, had troubled her mind terribly.

Flamethrowers, they were called.

Terror weapons capable of spewing fountains of flaming liquid dozens of yards against human targets.

The Vespuccian military rejected those proposals, of course. Even they wouldn’t contemplate such barbaric and needless cruelty.

The cold blowers reminded Serena of those horrible things, but she calmed herself by reminding herself that the cold blowers weren’t actually meant for destruction or harm. Hopefully, they would help “de-activate” whatever that pink entity was.

A research scientist, tall in high heels and thigh high pink lab coat, stood washing her hands at the sink. Her light brown hair hung in flowing waves past her shoulders, a full-bodied hair style parted in the middle, outlining a serious but friendly face. Serena recognized her as one of the older scientists working in the labs of the Lowest Level, labs devoted to mixing, refining, and deriving new products from the Living Pink. A striking woman in her late 40s. A lovely, intelligent woman named Tessa, Dr. Tessa Thrace.

Wide, full hips, fleshy legs covered in dark hose.

As usual with Lowest Level research scientists, her face was flushed red, her pupils dilated, and her hips shifted weight from one foot to the other. She smiled shyly at Serena, but Serena, in the full intoxication of lust, accepted none of that. She strode straight up to Tessa, a few years older than Serena herself, seized the woman’s left hand and forced it between her lasciviously spread thighs. Serena’s skirt rode high, showing the half-moons of her magnificent ass.

Serena lifted her right hand to half hold, half choke the scientist, clutching her just under her chin and squeezing the woman’s neck. She planted a loud wet kiss on Tessa’s trembling mouth, urging her tongue into the parted lips. When she felt the other woman moving her hand inside her panties on her volition, she released her arm and moved her hand between the scientist’s thighs, moving up to slide her fingers between the thin, satin string of the woman’s thong. She felt moist, warm, welcoming, turning Serena’s hot fire into a ferocious blaze.

She stopped kissing, pulling her mouth away from the mouth of Tessa. She nuzzled her nose against the woman’s flushed cheeks and licked with just the tip of her tongue to Tessa’s ear.

“That’s it, baby, fuck me,” she whispered. “Fuck me with your dirty hand, fuck my filthy pussy with your dirty fingers. But you’ve got to hurry. You’ve got to make me cum. Like I’m going to make you cum. Oh god, I’m going to make you cum so hard. Stick your tongue out.”

The scientist obediently stuck out her tongue.

“Good girl,” Serena praised, sucking on the woman’s extended tongue while thrusting and rolling her hips against the woman’s hand, who now had three fingers inside Serena’s hot and dripping hole.

She knew she shouldn’t be doing this, not now, not with her men there, oh god, she didn’t care about them, but what about that thing? She had to think.

But she couldn’t think. New heat raged through her brain, new lust, new desires, her body burned with desire. She needed this. She needed this so bad.

Releasing the woman’s neck, Serena tore the woman’s blouse with a swift, hard yank. The woman’s breasts, braless, poured out, wobbling at their sudden, almost brutal exposure. Serena groaned at the sight of Tessa’s large breasts, melon-sized globes. Her hand moved over each one, restlessly exploring the soft skinscape. She pinched her nipples mercilessly to hardness.

“Oh god, I can’t,” Serena moaned. “I can’t resist you.”

Covering Tessa’s nipple with her mouth, she sucked and nibbled, licked and sucked the soft and shaking gland. Wet, plopping sounds filled the restroom, Tessa’s aroused groans rising to meet them.

Serena felt Tessa’s soaked pussy beginning to spasm around her fingers. Serena continued to fuck the hot, wet vagina, caressing the folds of her labia with her pinky and index fingers while plunging her middle and ring fingers repeatedly into the hot canal. Tessa jerked and convulsed, shuddering against Serena’s hands. She wrapped her right arm around Serena’s shoulder and collapsed into her.

Tessa bit Serena’s neck.

She pulled away in the glow of her climax and beamed at her boss.

“God, Serena,” she said. “That was amazing.”

Suddenly Serena felt someone move behind her, lift her skirt even higher. Somebody grabbed her by the hips to pull her ass out. She felt strong, hard masculine fingers paw at her thin panties, pulling them aside. A hard cock poked into the crack of her ass even as Tessa kept fucking her with her fingers, a fourth finger having joined the three. She wanted to struggle, Serena wanted to shake her head no, to demand a stop, to order a stop to this, but something held her back. She urged her ass against the man’s cock and looked behind her.

Bellydog, a strange unfamiliar look on his face, set and resolved, but not angry, hostile, or even belligerent. A weird, almost feminine expression she had seen on Sara’s face, or Carla’s, or even Phyllis when she wanted to touch her boss.

This is so wrong, Serena thought to herself, but her outrage dissipated the moment it flared up. Serena, a topnotch scientist, pricked her remaining intellect. Velikovsky waves don’t affect men, she thought. Certainly not like this.

But it was wrong. Everything in her screamed that it was wrong. Men shouldn’t touch women. Men should definitely not have sex with women. Her whole being knew this. Everything in her shouted this truth at her, but she pushed her ass further at James Bellydog.

The tip of his cock was at her rosebud, threatening to slip past her suddenly greedy ring. Serena, skilled at anal sex, knew how to respond. Her lovers frequently spent whole nights swinging their strapped-on cocks into her ravaged asshole. She knew to loosen her sphincter, and god help her, she did.

She heard Bellydog’s masculine groan as her security chief plunged the full length of his cock into Serena’s burning asshole.

It was right, she thought. Sometimes they needed this. Sometimes the men needed a little something. Those darling little troublemakers, those adorable little shits.

Her ass quivered around Bellydog’s shaft as Serena rolled her hips into Tessa’s hand, moving away from the man’s cock only to plunge her cunt deeper onto her employee’s fingers. Her vagina opened, and Tessa moved her thumb inside her.

Oh god, she’s fisting me. She’s fisting me while James fucks my ass from behind.

She closed her eyes to the pleasure. She heard the thud, then another thud, of something or somethings metallic hitting the restroom floor, but she kept her eyes closed. She heard Tessa give out an exclamation of surprise. She felt Tessa move away from her, her hand still trying to fuck Serena’s pussy. Serena opened her eyes to see one of the security officers, naked from the waist down, a proud erection bursting from his groin, pull Tessa down by the head, moving the scientist’s face to his cock.

“I need this,” the man said. “Oh god I need your mouth around my cock.”

Tessa hesitated no more than her employer did. Casting a nervous glance at Serena, who just nodded and bit her lip, she took the proffered organ into her mouth, moving her lips expertly around his shaft, a practiced veteran of sucking dildos.

The third security officer made his way behind Tessa, his adorable blue uniform trousers past his naughty knees, (Serena giggled at the schoolboy look of the young man), his cock haughtily extended. He took hold of the scientist’s hips and with one powerful shove, stuck the length of his cock into the woman’s steaming cunt.

“I need this so bad,” he kept saying over and over. “I need to fuck you so bad, doc.”

Perhaps a little too informal, the young man really should have referred to Tessa as Dr. Thrace, but Serena understood the sentiment. He needed to, she agreed. He really needed to fuck her so bad. And Serena needed to watch. God, she needed to watch. She felt an orgasm coming on just at the sight of Tessa on her hands and knees, sucking off a security while get just hammered by another security officer behind. Sucking on a real dick. A real cock that would spray gorgeous white cum all over Tessa’s dirty, middle-aged slut face.

That picture of her daughter’s friend came into her mind.

Yeah, something like that.

That would be wonderful to see.

Bellydog kept shoving his cock in and out of Serena’s asshole. She moved a hand back to rub herself, to rub her clit and fuck her pussy with her own fingers while her security chief, that darling little boy, that sweetie, just pummeled her ass over and over again. She loved it.

Obviously she loved it.

The alarms still blared. The sirens still whined.

“What’s going on here?” she thought. “Shouldn’t we be?”

Suddenly the cock in Tessa mouth jerked back and spewed a continual spray, a volley of cum across the ecstatic face of Dr. Thrace. The third security officer shoved his cock one final time, almost screaming as he came inside the research scientist’s soaked and torrid cunt.

Then James rammed his shaft deep into Serena’s asshole, holding her hips roughly and harshly against his groin. Serena pressed her clitoris, hooking her two fingers over the ridge of her pussy until she was cumming, cumming, cumming in a long, quiet, whimpering, almost agonized release.

Moments later, moments that seemed like hours to Serena Craft, the high pitch scream of the alarms finally gained Serena’s full attention.

“Can’t we shut those damned things off?”

Almost immediately the alarms shut off. Silence rushed in to fill the void left by the absent sirens.

She pulled away from James, who by now had withdrawn his cock from his employer’s ass.

She turned around to gaze lovingly at the flaccid organ.

She held it gently in her hands and bent to kiss the tip.

“Good boy,” she said, “but we really need to get ready for that thing.”

The security officers gathered their uniforms sheepishly. Dr. Thrace stood up, brushed her knees, ran her hands over her torn pantyhose, and looked up at Serena Craft, who swept towards the lovely scientist, held Tessa’s cum-covered face between both her hands, and kissed her deeply, affectionately on the mouth, her lips smearing the security officer’s cum onto her own mouth.

She pulled her head away from the older scientist’s face.

She swept her tongue around her lips, licking at and swallowing the trickle of cum that had smeared on her mouth.

“You need to leave, baby. You just need to get out of here. Or I won’t be able to keep my hands off you. Please. Just go.”

Tessa wrapped her lab coat around her torn blouse and, taking her boss’s cues, fled the restroom as best she could on her high heels.

“The sacrifices we make for science,” she thought.

That mood of crazed horniness had passed, but Serena feared its imminent return. They didn’t have much time. Somehow she knew that.

“Where is it now, James?”

“One floor up and getting closer, getting closer fast.”

Bellydog touched a button, and the screen switched to show a graph.

“The V-waves are through the roof. I’ve never seen them get so high before.”

He showed the graph to Serena.

“They’re down now, though. That should give some time. If we’re lucky.”

She beamed at Bellydog and pinched his elbow.

“But that doesn’t explain what the hell happened to you, you dirty little boy. That was just marvelous, it really was, but I don’t, well, I don’t. Not usually. Not since. But it felt so right just now.”

Bellydog grinned.

“But don’t take any more liberties, buster.”

She looked at the two security officers tightening their black leather belts around their hips and helping each other strap the cold blowers to their backs.

“Same goes for your men.”

Too cute. Really they’re just too cute in those things.

Serena lifted the Etchasketch from Bellydog’s hands. She punched a few more keys and a new screen popped up.

“There’s something else here,” she said. “I don’t know what it is, but this thing is picking it up. Strong. I don’t think it’s a wave. The Etchasketch would be able to graph a wave. Could be chemical. This thing has limited chemical analysis function.”

Suddenly the two security officers readied their weapons, pointing the ends of their cold blowers at the drain in the floor near the last stall.

They all heard it. A gurgling, sucking, slurping kind of sound. Something wet was working its way through the drain.

Bellydog stooped to peer through the grate. For a moment he saw nothing, the pipe below bent in a U-joint about two feet below the floor. He could hear it coming closer, but he could not see how closer. Then the pink blob surged forward, squeezing its bulk through the narrow drains. Bellydog couldn’t make out any features in the cramped space. But the pink, shining blob pressed against the grate, bolted into the floor by strong bolts.

Bellydog leaped back, and the two security, weapons ready, stepped forward.

“Careful,” Serena said. “Don’t shoot yet. We want to capture it, remember. Maybe we should unbolt the grate. James, have your men back away a little. I don’t want them to get trigger happy, and I want that thing caught whole.”

Serena never gave orders to an underling in the presence of their immediate supervisor.

Bellydog gave the order, and the men retreated several feet.

“It might give up, though, if it can’t get through that grate,” Bellydog said.

“We need to unbolt the grate then,” Serena agreed. She shivered as she felt Bellydog’s semen trickle from her asshole to run in a slow, sticky drip down her thigh.

At that moment, the pink blob squeezed through the grate, like jelly through a cheese grater.

Serena Craft and James Bellydog stared in mute fascination as the creature poured through the holes in the grate, separating through the grid only to remerge once getting through.

“Obviously a grate couldn’t hold it,” Serena thought.

When more than half the blob passed the grate, a towering, amorphic pink blob nearly two meters high, the two security officers grew alarmed. Raising their weapons to their shoulders they both aimed directly at the creature.

“Easy, boys,” Bellydog cautioned. “Let it get through first all the way.”

He pointed at one of the men.

“You there go around the thing and stand on the other side. We need to make sure it doesn’t try escaping the way it came.”

The security officer hardly swept around the tall blob, the creature lunged upward from the grate, using its lower body to form little pads for support.

Serena gasped.

The creature, now fully and completely inside the restroom, began to change shape. What was formless became a tall, vaguely squid-like being. Its body, wet and glistening, separated into many tentacles, and what Serena took to be the head, ballooned to a bulbous organ which tapered to a cone, with many gill-like orifices ringing the bottom of the head, a few inches above where the head met the tentacles. A myriad tentacles, dozens of tendrils, began to spread throughout the restroom, winding like serpents across the floor, over the stall doors, stretching towards the ceiling.

The entity seemed to hover, using only a few tentacles to keep the bulbous head afloat. The air crackled and trilled with an unseen energy, a pink aura emanated from the creature, suffusing the restroom in a shimmering, transparent rosé. My god, it’s beautiful, Serena realized. Her body warmed to the being, she recognized a connection between the two of them, indeed a kinship almost of blood and gene.

Bellydog had of course stood in the proximity of a landed TR-3B, and he had experienced that uncanniness, that weird shock of the mind’s encounter with the inexplicable caused by the Magnetic Field Disrupter, but what he felt now, in the presence of this pink entity, surpassed that experience as an ocean wave surpasses the ripple caused by a stone falling into a calm pond.

Quickly regaining his composure, Bellydog noticed two things. One, the creature had changed and grown rapidly, almost instantaneously. Two, his cock stood at full mast, harder than it had ever been in his life, even as an adolescent, pressing painfully against the barrier of this uniform trousers.

Alarmed at these developments, he ordered his men to fire.

“Now, dammit, get that thing,” is what he said.

The two men fired.

A dual blast of semi-crystalized nitrogenic slush burst from the cold blowers on either side of the entity, covering the main body in a white, pearly frost. For a moment, it looked as though the substance would freeze the creature. Both security officers continued to pour blast after blast of the white slush over the head and body of the creature, which contracted, spun, vibrated wildly, and shuddered. Then a tentacle flung forward, and another tentacle flung backward, each tendril wrapping around the neck of either security officer.

The officers dropped their weapons as both were lifted off the tiled floor, the entity shook off the frost for all the world like a hound shaking off bath water, and the two men, now in mid-air, flew to the creature head-first. An orifice on each side of the body opened wide, and the two tentacles plunged each man’s head into the gaping hole. The two men spasmed and went still.

Then the creature opened its “mouths” and dropped the bodies to the floor.

Bellydog, standing several feet away, peered into one of the cavernous holes.

“My god,” he said, unintentionally echoing those famous words of the famed Vespuccian astronaut. “It’s full of stars.”

Serena yanked his arm.

“James!” she shouted. “We’ve got to get out of here. Now!”

Serena pulled her security officer away from the pink creature, now moving slowly towards the both of them. She made it the door, opened it, still holding on to Bellydog’s hand. Just as she stepped into the hallway, she felt Bellydog being torn from her grasp. Looking back in horror, she saw her chief of security lifted and pulled to one of the many waiting orifices of the strange being. She turned, slipped off her heels, and fled before witnessing Bellydog’s probable and inevitable demise inside the pink entity.

Reason returned to Serena, and she regained her courage after running several yards away from the restroom. She carefully replaced the heels she had taken off and tried smoothing out her rumpled blouse and skirt. Not much she could do about Bellydog’s semen still oozing from her ass, but appearances must be kept. The corridor she stood on now, a narrow corridor no more than a hundred feet in length, ran straight towards the main hallway, on the other end of which stood the first pair of double steel doors leading to the Pink Chamber.

Somehow she knew that the Living Pink must be protected at all costs. From that entity, from that Pink Entity.

And at the precise moment she realized she had no idea how to do so.

131. Wade in the sewer

Why’d he have to do it, Wade complained bitterly to himself. I mean. Cripes. It stinks down here. DP stood behind him, holding the Handheld Device.

“It’s been here,” they said.

Wade shook his head, still trying to get use to the alternating dual sentences.

“But it’s not now. We think it went that way.”

Wade followed D’s hand, and P nodded at him.

I mean, it wasn’t even his best movie. Not even close.

But he still followed them to the edge of the city’s corporate park, where for reasons still suspiciously vague to Wade from Cleveland, it had been agreed upon to descend into the sewage system, tramping through the filthy waste in tall black rubber boots.

Buddy shouldered his way to the front, stooping in the cramped space just behind Wade.

D had pointed towards the left of three passages, which sloped in a descent deeper under the surface of the earth, while the middle passage went along fairly straight. The right passage led to a dead end, as far as Wade could tell, where a metal ladder climbed to the street level several feet above them. The light of day filtered through the holes in the manhole cover, gracing the dirty ladder in the yellow glow of the sun.

“How long since it came this way, do you think?” Buddy asked over his shoulder to the paired Roadmen.

“Not more than,” the passenger started.

“an hour,” the driver finished.

“So we’re pretty close, then.”

“Yes,” said D.

“But we’re picking up,” continued P.

“Something else,” DP finished in unison.

132. Serena in the hall

Somehow she had to lead the creature away from the Pink Chamber, Serena decided. She recalled that strange feeling of kinship with the creature, the sense that the two were somehow connected, intimately connected, related even in a mysterious way. Then she knew. Yes she knew. It all came back to her now, the words of Nero Craft. What happened at the canyon, what happened to Betty Blake. The change in Nero’s body, how he had become both mother and father. His pregnancy. Her conception. Her birth.

All that and more because of the pink that had gone into him, the Living Pink that swallowed Betty Blake and regurgitated her, almost a year after her disappearance, in Nero Craft’s first lab, a modest laboratory in an old warehouse on the outskirts of Edge City. Of course that girl had disappeared. Of course that girl was no longer Betty Blake, nor anything close to human. Just a part of the general blob and ooze that churned pink and bubbling in the midst of its interstellar carapace, once again in halves.

It no longer tried to communicate with Nero, but Nero had changed, nonetheless. The Pink had changed him. Altered him. Gave him an intelligence beyond any of his peers, an intelligence rivalling the great minds of the human species. Kurzweil. Streep. Stanton T. Friedman. He became adept at chemistry, finance, the gauging the probability of outcomes, physics, every manner of mechanics. His body, too, had been altered. No longer clearly a man, he became something of a woman. His body had formed a uterus, a vagina, a vulva, while retaining his, um, manhood.

It was only a matter of time before he managed to impregnate himself.

The pregnancy was long and tiresome, the birth painful and protracted. He vowed to remain celibate, to swear off all men, including himself, after the birth of his daughter, whom he named Serena, hoping she would bring him peace. And in her way, she supposed she did.

Nero became an avid advocate of birth control after that, going so far as to give himself a vasectomy. Literally himself. He trusted his secret to no one, going so far as to hide his pregnancy under baggy clothes. When it became too obvious, he blamed beer, fatty foods, and carbohydrates.

“I’ll go on a diet soon,” he promised his uncle.

Did she, Serena, inherit any of the Pink? Was she part of the Pink? Could that explain her ability to withstand prolonged periods of exposure? She had even touched the stuff once, and though it led to an entire day of the most intense orgasms she had ever experienced, she rose the next day as proverbially fit as the proverbial fiddle.

Could she communicate with it? Was it aware of her? So much had happened so quickly in the restroom. She didn’t really have a chance to explore those sensations of kinship with the strange creature. Bellydog had ordered his men to fire too soon, too quickly, before she could fully apprise the situation. And now all three men were. Well, she supposed they were dead. She didn’t really quite know. But now that she thought about it, it didn’t seem right.

Nothing about that creature, that being, that entity, seemed hostile, aggressive, or threatening. It certainly didn’t feel harmful or malignant. She wished Sara were with her. Sara would know. Sara would understand it. Feel it. Measure its mood, its emotion, its thoughts, if it had any.

Though her daughter had tried to keep it secret from her, Serena knew. She just did. She knew Sara could be a powerful empath. Had in fact already demonstrated powerful empathic abilities with her own mother. And certainly with all her friends. But that wasn’t all. Her daughter could alter people, coax them along. She’d even caught Sara doing that to her, several times in fact. Of course, she put a quick end to that sort of thing. Obviously.

Poor James.

Suddenly she heard a loud crash behind her. Spinning around she saw the door to the restroom splinter and crack, the walls surrounding the door frame break into pieces and collapse as a pink mass bulged through the breach.

Serena stood firm, facing the Pink Entity as it emerged fully from the rubble of the restroom. She couldn’t let it pass. She could not, no matter the cost to herself, allow the creature to gain access to the Living Pink. She felt sure of that. She knew beyond the shadow of the merest doubt that the livelihood of her daughter, the fortune and prosperity of her daughter and her daughter’s eventual family, depended precisely and exactly on the maintenance and possession of the Living Pink.

Could she communicate with it?

Though not as gifted as her daughter, she did have something. She knew how to measure a man’s heart and a woman’s mind.

Now fully in the corridor, the Pink Entity thrilled and hummed, its tendrils waving along the floor, the ceiling, the walls, a plenitude of serpents attached to the floating hydra head of the non-terrestrial being, still glowing, still charged with that glistening, glimmering pink power.

Serena stood her ground.

The Pink Entity drew closer.

Stopping within a few feet of the woman, scientist and Chief Executive Officer of The Diana Group, daughter of Nero Craft and mother of Sara Craft, the entity hovered, sending a few tentacles in her direction. Serena suddenly noticed the oval shaped bumps and protrusions covering the surface of the wet, shiny tentacles. The bumps opened, revealing smooth slits surrounded by puffy, wet flesh.

The tentacles hovered and floated around her body, gliding around her form, hovering and waving around her head. Serena Craft closed her eyes and tried desperately to listen.

One of the pink tentacles brushed against the left side of her head, just below her ear, Serena leaned against it, raising her arms to gently cradle the organ in her arms, pressing the side of her head lovingly against the warm, almost hot flexile limb, wet with a strange, intoxicating lubrication sending warm vibrations trilling throughout the body of Serena Craft.

Bellydog’s remaining semen flowed from her ass in a sudden deluge as Serena sank to her knees, crying out softly in yet another orgasm.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

Her pussy spasmed and convulsed, her hips jerked and thrust forward trying to fuck the air around her. A tentacle wrapped around her hips and brought her up as another tendril moved between her thighs, sliding towards her hot, greedy, and welcoming groin. The tip of the tendril slipped behind and passed the thin and flimsy gusset of her panties, and penetrated her vagina, filling her incredibly, fully, massively, a soft and unending phallus sending electric waves of pleasure and lust through every cell and nerve of her human body, of her woman’s body.

No, not a phallus. Somehow, impossibly vaginal. As if an endless, trembling, hot, wet chain of vaginas invaded her pussy, all open, all swollen, engorged fold against engorged fold, labia extended to caress the inside of her womanhood.

She opened her mouth to another tentacle as the Pink Entity slipped the wet tip, warm, provocative, stimulating into her mouth. Serena urged her tongue against it, groaning in another sudden orgasm, as the smell, taste, and texture of pussy filled the insides of her mouth. And still the tentacle entered her, penetrating to the back of her mouth, and down her throat.

Panicking, Serena struggled momentarily. Then she relaxed. The fear of choking, of suffocation passed, replaced by an overpowering sensation of, well, something more elevated than peace. Somehow she knew she could breathe. Rather, she knew that somehow she did not have to breathe. A kind of sustained orgasmic joy, as if all the orgasms she had had in her life were now joined, forming a high plain of female erotic arousal.

She began to hear words or thoughts that might have formed words given enough time and quiet and space.

Serena Craft whined at the surge of another wave of pleasure, rising to a new height and not diminishing.

She braced for another impact.

Suddenly a shot of pain seared through her, a cold, brutal pain. The Pink Entity quivered, a tremor of horror and loathing coursed through its body. It immediately withdrew its tentacles from Serena, who dropped weak, almost extinguished, to the floor.

Looking up, she saw nine beings gathering behind the Pink Entity.

Creepers. The Creepers had breached The Diana Group.

Unable to raise herself, exhausted by the power of the orgasms which raged through her just moments ago, she watched helplessly as the Creepers cast some kind of net around the Pink Entity, a dark net charged with a dark energy, a dark garnet color, almost black, sizzling and flickering around the weave of the net. The entity’s tentacles waved in vain as the net somehow retracted the tendrils towards the body, which shrank and diminished into itself, losing its flexile nature, its plasticity, its ability to separate and merge. It became a lump. A dry, pale lump of some pink substance, hardly worth noting.

The Creepers gathered around the leader, who pointed a device at the wall. Moby, had he been there, would have thought the device looked rather like a large nail gun. Serena, who never used a tool in her life, didn’t know what to make of it. The nail gun cast a wide beam of dark red light, and an opening formed in the wall of the corridor, an opening into which the leader of the Creepers stepped, followed one by one by the eight other Creepers, the last one dragging the lifeless body of the Pink Entity behind him, stock-still and lump-like in its net.

The opening in the wall vanished.

Serena collapsed against the floor as more security personnel ran to the rescue of their employer.

133. Roadmen in the sewer

The Roadmen waded through the stench and muck of the sewage system, descending into the unknown depths of the corporate park.

Something bothered Wade.

“Shouldn’t sewage pipes flow down from the center? This one seems to be going down towards the center of the park. I don’t see how that makes sense. Seems like there’d be blockage.”

“Maybe they got some kind of pump,” Buddy offered.

“Maybe.”

They followed the slow winding slope of the concrete pipe, which widened as it descended.

“It’d be a pretty big pump, though.”

About a half an hour later DP, who had been leading the way now Handheld device in front of them, pausing now and then to confer in that strange way of theirs with forehead touching forehead, hearing a beep from the Handheld Device, stopped walking and turned around, both faces sharing a worried look.

“It’s gone,” they said simply. “It was here, and now it’s not.”

“What do you mean gone?” Buddy exclaimed in disbelief. “How?”

“What do you mean here?” Wade added, confused. “How did we miss it?”

“Well, not here exactly, but in the vicinity, where the device could pick it up. Very close. But now it’s gone. Not just far away either but gone. As in not here. Not there either. Not anywhere.”

“Well what happened to it?”

DP shook their heads.

“We just don’t know.”

“Well if that don’t take the pigeon,” Wade burst out angrily. “Now what?”

“I suppose we go back and get cleaned up,” Buddy answered. “Then we’ll talk to Frank and Rascal. Maybe they’ve done better than we did.”

Saturday

134. Steve answers the phone

Earlier that day, Steve walked out of Wendy’s bedroom, absolutely stunned by two things. One, he was still alive. The police were not on the way, and no knife was sticking from his back. Two. Mary, my god, what on earth happened to her? Yes, he’d seen her, even with his head turned down and away. He’d seen that nose ring, that haircut, those clothes from the corner of his eye. He couldn’t say anything of course, not after having been discovered pumping his seed in her daughter’s pussy, Wendy’s pussy, Wendy’s hot, wet, lovely creampie of a pussy. My god.

He’d been fucking Wendy.

Wendy.

And her pussy was so good.

God. Everything about her just screamed sex.

And her own mother knew about it.

He hoped she didn’t blow a gasket.

Maybe they were talking about it right now, maybe Mary was daring Wendy to give one good reason, just one good reason why she shouldn’t call the cops.

But he didn’t hear any screaming.

No yelling.

He should’ve stayed outside Wendy’s bedroom, listening in, eavesdropping, but no, he’d gone downstairs to fester.

Maybe he should go back up, just to see what’s going on?

The phone rang.

Steve answered it.

He listened to the voice on the other end of the line.

“Well, she’s busy right now. But I’ll tell her. I’ll let her know not to go. No church on Sunday. Got it. Shouldn’t be a problem. Thanks.”

Steve hung up.

Five minutes later he forgot all about it. He walked to the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of orange juice, loosened the cap, and held the bottle carelessly in his hand as he turned to face Mary Love.

Mary stood before him in all her lesbian glory, all her ear-pierced, nose-pierced, navel-pierced, platinum blond pompadour, leather mini-skirt, fishnet hose dyke glory, explaining how she was now a lesbian, just a total dyke now, that Wendy had talked to her, honestly and openly about what had happened between her and Steve the past few days, and that while she couldn’t really approve the relationship, as long as it was something Wendy wanted, as long as Wendy never felt pressured, they were free to have as much sex as they wanted.

Provided Wendy didn’t get pregnant.

Steve choked on air. The cold bottle of orange juice, wet with condensation, slipped from his loose hand, spilling juice all over the floor.

At the moment, Wendy entered the kitchen, dressed in a short t-shirt and pink sheer panties, Steve’s come tricking down her thighs.

“Oh, baby,” she said, getting him paper towels. “You’re such a klutz.”

135. Serena Craft, Cyndi, Dr. Essenza, and Phyllis

With her long, full, red auburn hair, round cheeks set high on her face, her long nose running in straight slope to the round knob of nostrils, her wide mouth boasting a pair of full, luscious lips, below which her soft chin rounded out her beautiful face to a gentle point, Serena Craft strongly resembled her daughter. With this difference: where the daughter cast a jovial, almost carefree mien at the world around her, the mother continuously wore an expression of intense concentration, a serious and solemn demeanor, even in the most casual matter.

Few of her underlings knew that to be, well, not quite false but not the whole of the matter either. Serena certainly suffered fools with impatience, tolerated incompetence even less, and demanded the utmost diligence from her workers’ abilities, but she knew how to treat her employees with guarded respect as the case merited.

She could be serious. Thoughtful. Moments where a great care seemed to settle on her whole being, her face withdrew into itself, and her face glowed a little less. Phyllis, her assistant, yearned to take her in her arms to kiss and caress away the worry, and sometimes she did, but Serena at such times was slow to respond, slow to yield to her assistant’s insistent ministrations.

Serena dressed powerfully, elegantly, if a little demurely, modestly. A mid-length skirt, pantyhose or stockings (usually by Archie Beall, she just loved that company), a short blazer, blouse buttoned past her cleavage, dangling hoops in her ears. Sara had recently suggested she wear a black, lacy choker around her neck, a soft, satin choker. Trying it out, Serena had to agree. She looked sharp. Commanding.

Sara had agreed.

Serena Craft shifted her hips forward on her chair and parted her thighs even wider. Dr. Essenza highly recommended Cynthia, and Serena understood immediately why. The girl was good. Dr. Essenza had done a wonderful job with her, Serena admitted as she looked down at the pretty girl in makeup and short platinum hair licking her juicy cunt. Dr. Craft pulled the gusset of her red panties further to the side, allowing the girl as much access to her pussy as the girl needed in order to get the job done.

“God, Carla,” Serena asked, “how do you make them so happy to do this?”

“Oh Cyndi you mean,” the woman standing in front of the desk replied. Dr. Essenza, a large, full-figured woman of Middle Sea descent, with a large, oval face, a long, gently hooked Aquiline nose, and large, full red lips, made redder by the heavy use of lipstick, flashed a quick and knowing smile at her boss. “She’s a natural. She broke so easily I’m not even sure she did break. And her personality! My god, did you ever meet such a darling before?”

Serena couldn’t argue with that, she was too busy coming.

Phyllis, sitting in a chair in the corner of the office, legs spread and masturbating, her uniform’s pink gym shorts rumpled around her left ankle, eyed the girl under the desk suspiciously, brows furling at hearing such praise coming from her mistress. Oh, she knew she couldn’t possibly be the only one for Dr. Craft, no one girl could do that, but that fact didn’t mean she had to like it. Or like seeing it. Then again, she definitely liked seeing it. God it was so hot watching her mistress get eaten. Phyllis closed her pretty eyes and shoved a second finger into her hot wet snatch.

Serena, suddenly feeling her orgasm’s onslaught, grabbed the girl Cyndi by the back of her head, smashed her face against her wet groin, and squeezed her face with her powerful thighs, clamping the girl’s platinum head in a flow of orgasmic feminine juices.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god. Fuck me girl, fuck me with your tongue.”

Serena started cumming, and Phyllis, unable to bear it any longer, needing pussy desperately, fell to the floor and crawled to Dr. Essenza standing in front of the desk.

“Please, Dr. Essenza, I need to taste you so bad. I’ll do anything.”

Phyllis began pawing at Dr. Essenza’s beautiful thighs.

Dr. Essenza stumbled to the empty chair in the corner, pulled her skirt up past her waist, fell into the chair, and spread her thighs.

“Good girl,” she said, petting the cute brunette’s pixie head and pulling it to her waiting groin, the scent of her heat and excitement rising.

Ten minutes later, Serena stared at her computer screen, still basking in the glow of her orgasm, going over the numbers, results, and progress of various projects, studies, and trials, and experiments her company, The Diana Group, performed. But her mind was on yesterday, and the missed opportunity of catching the Pink Entity. And deep consternation at the ability of the Creepers to breach their perimeters.

She would have to deal with that.

She would have to deal with them.

Of course she had to admit that without the Creeper’s interpolation, she would have lost the Living Pink. She felt certain of that. She just knew it, obviously.

And of course poor James and his men.

The good news was that all three survived.

The better news (or worse, depending on your point of view, she supposed) was that all three had to be kept on the same floor as the mindless lesbians, under strict observation, with absolutely no female caretakers. Men only. It was a curious situation, to say the least. Even at this early stage, Serena could see what happening. They were changing.

Like and unlike her father.

A day later, and the caretakers had reported that their, um, members had fallen off. They just wilted and fell off like the antlers of a buck.

Serena wondered but didn’t need to. She could guess.

Contact with the Pink Entity seemed to have increased that peculiar intuition she’d always had.

They were changing into women.

Into lesbian women in all likelihood.

More recruits for a mindless lesbian army she had absolutely no clue what to do with.

136. Sara weeping for Wendy

Sighing, she closed every folder and file on her screen. None of that really mattered now. I mean, some of it did, obviously, all of it did. But then yesterday happened, and though Serena couldn’t know it, obviously she couldn’t know it, she could feel it, every fiber in her body told her so, told her it had arrived and that it was going to come back. She was sure of it.

I’m sure of it, she thought. Obviously, I’m sure of that.

The chicken had come home to roost.

After all, she was her father’s daughter. And wife. Widow. She was her father’s widow. So she should know.

She had come to work that Saturday, not an unusual occurrence in itself, but with urgency of impending doom. It had come. It had damaged the facilities. It had escaped despite their best efforts. She needed to inspect the facility. She needed to catch up on forgotten items too, having spent too much time dawdling on her daughter’s project and not enough time and attention on getting things done at work.

Still, she could hardly blame herself for that.

Sara had outdone herself. Gloriously outdone herself.

And since Sara was a bit of a prodigy, outdoing herself meant, well, obviously something.

When she saw the video of what her daughter and her little friends did to that Love woman. Well. She’d wished she had been there. God, she would have loved that. That woman looked hot. An absolute hot mess. And that ass. God, she’d have to have that ass one day.

Not to mention that daughter of hers, that Wendy girl. Serena didn’t get the attraction, but she had to admit the girl was a looker, a nice, even beautiful face and body to match. Serena had seen both pictures and recognized a wanton slut when she saw one. Still the ardent desire her daughter Sara had for that girl, she couldn’t figure it out. Teenagers, she supposed.

Still, were all those tears really necessary?

“She won’t answer the phone, mama, and her mother was so mean to me.”

Sara crouched on a chair in the corner of her mother’s expansive and expensive kitchen, her arms huddling her knees against her head as she bawled into the space between her knees.

“Just give it time, honey. I’m sure it will all work out.”

“She left me, mama, she kissed me and then she left me and then she won’t talk to me. She won’t answer her phone.”

“She’ll come back to you, darling. They always do.”

“But I don’t want her to come back! I wanted her to stay! I thought she was going to stay.”

Eventually Sara stood up, wiping her eyes, and brushing off her clothes.

“I’m going to get that mother of hers, though. I’m so going to get her.”

Serena had no doubt of that at the time, and now, having seen what Sara had done. Well.

Like mother, like daughter she supposed. She, Serena Craft, certainly wouldn’t have taken that kind of lip off anyone. Obviously.

Daughters of the same father. Well, kind of sort of father. My mother too. I mean. Those issues drove her batty, and she tried to ignore them, tried to settle on more practical things. Making sure her daughter, her sister received a good education, establishing and advancing the cause and position of her company, the company founded and built by her departed father and mother, by her departed wife and husband. Making sure things got done, making sure the experiments panned out, keeping track of the Living Pink, measuring it out, keeping it secret. Keeping it safe.

I mean, just a little of that stuff, and, well, you could imagine.

She didn’t have to imagine, though. They had the proof in the basement dungeons below.

Corporate espionage was a bitch.

Ah, she understood the need. The need to know, the need to steal, the need to sell to the highest bidder. She understood all that, she didn’t mean any harm to Miss Baker, and truth to tell, had she been caught in time, she would have just been fired, no harm no foul.

137. Miss Baker

But Miss Baker had somehow gone farther than she should have gone, farther than she should have been able, and there you had it. They’d been warned. Stay out of the room behind the steel doors. Don’t even go down that hall. Don’t go beyond the first pair of steel doors. And absolutely, positively don’t go into the room behind the steel door without making sure, and this was really super important sweeties, so please listen up you lovely little things, you’re all just so scrumptious, no going in without absolutely, positively, making sure your lab suit is completely, totally, 100 percent sealed.

For the love of god, don’t go in there without a dV-suit, one of those lovely pale pink suits covering the body from head to toe, interwoven with a metal fabric devised by Nero Craft to keep out the Velikovsky waves. Any casual observer would think that the most adorable astronauts had just landed and were walking the lower levels of The Diana Group Research and Development Center.

The most deliciously cute faces peered out at the world from behind pink-tinted face shields.

Serena could, of course. That went without saying. Maybe not without some prolonged recovery afterward, but she could, although she avoided doing so. Even with the dV-suits, those V-waves were no laughing matter.

Sara, in all likelihood, could have too. But she never tried it. Not that Serena knew about.

But Miss Baker? An intern? How the heck did she even get in there?

Obviously, Serena assumed espionage.

But Miss Baker was hardly in a position to answer questions after they’d pulled her out.

Miss Baker’s orgasm-ravaged body popped into Serena’s mind. How could anybody survive that? Just one orgasm after another, more than one after another, really, more like one on top of another after another, stack on top of stack of orgasms just flooding the poor girl, emptying her mind, ravaging her body, twisting and contorting her body in pitiable convulsions. Forced to seal her in a separate chamber, they kept her alive using an independent air system, nourished her with IV drips which often came loose during those prolonged bouts of paroxysmal orgasms.

Miss Baker had never once emerged consciously from her condition, a condition she suffered for more than a year, while The Diana Group conducted test after test, analysis after analysis. She had received a full dose V-waves from the Living Pink. She had even managed to collect a sample, had made skin contact, air contact, and probably even oral contact with the stuff, and now, well, she was fucked.

Almost literally fucked. Fucked beyond any human ability to fuck, deriving a pleasure beyond any human ability to feel, and she’d continue to feel it. The stuff should have burned her brain out by now, but it just took hold of it, stayed glued to it, her brain, and fed her pleasure after pleasure of orgasm.

Lesbian orgasm, let’s be clear about that, Serena thought.

Women were absolutely forbidden to enter Miss Baker’s chamber.

Those who did had chambers of their own now.

They’d learned the hard way, The Diana Group did, and now they boasted an entire floor of their lower levels (what some of the more daring girls liked to call their “dungeons”) devoted to a small army of orgasm-crazed, mindless lesbians, all of them bed-ridden, shackled to their bedframes lest they damage themselves or wound an assistant, always and exclusively male without exception.

Neither the Living Pink nor the V-waves, it seemed, had any significant effect upon the masculine sex.

Well, most members of the masculine sex. One case, notorious in certain sectors, remained salient.

Serena Craft thumbed through the pages of the Jack Randall book she’d brought with her, after Carla Essenza brought it to her attention.

“He knows too much,” the doctor had said. “How, I do not know. But you should definitely read it. That man needs to be stopped.”

After reading the first few chapters, Serena agreed.

It was an odd book, filled with inexplicable information that no one who did not know would know about, replete with innuendos and shameless hints at even more shameless scandals.

The last pages of the book, a thick paperback, had been left blank, though the title of last chapter promised an exposé about something called The Consortium. Suspecting hidden, secret messages Serena had subjected the book to every conceivable and inconceivable test, but every test resulted in a stunning lack of evidence, every test resulted in one unmistakable but obvious conclusion: the blank pages were blank.

So she checked every database she knew about, but nothing came up on The Consortium. That is to say, all kinds of things came up about various consortiums, but nothing that leapt to the eye or captured the imagination. Nothing that Serena could find out about, at any rate.

She’d even prodded that Rascal character about it, but he, like all Roadmen, knew absolutely nothing. They didn’t even know about The Guild, until just recently. Which made sense. As far as she could tell only her father knew about The Guild. At least her father was the only human who knew about The Guild. That is to say she had always assumed that was the case, when Nero told her about it. Them. But now, looking at the Randall book, she wondered. Did this Jack fellow know? But what made her think this Jack Randall character was, in fact, human? She knew better than to make those kinds of assumptions.

Not that she was paranoid. Vigilant, maybe. But not paranoid.

And if The Guild came along, well, they’d learn not mess the Crafts, that’s all. No one messed with the Crafts.

She’d tried to track him down, that Jack Randall, but tracking him down was hard. No one seemed to know how to find him, no one seemed to know what he looked like, no one seemed to know where he lived. Or even if he existed. Then that Rascal made his report. Jack Randall had met with them at Dos Antonios, some Roadman dive on the east side of town. Fellow existed all right. Called himself a Recorder, but what the heck that was, Rascal couldn’t really say.

“He writes things down.”

“A doodler?”

“No, no, more of a note taker, I think. A scribbler.”

And Jack Randall knew about The Guild. And told the Roadmen about them. So now everybody was beginning to hear about them. But what they did, fuck if anyone knew. Anyone except that Go-Between.

Yeah, she knew about him, too.

As she said, vigilant but not paranoid. Best to know who all the players are, that’s all.

She’d learned that from Nero Craft, her father and husband, her daughter’s father. Or her half-sister’s father. How did that work again?

And how did Jack Randall know all this?

Her father had told her his secret, of course, when she was just a little girl, around eleven or twelve. By that time, he had already become something of a reclusive celebrity, a famous scientist, chemist, inventor, a man who revolutionized the cosmetics industry. He had founded The Diana Group, named after his dear mother, to oversee all production, research and development, publications, and all public relations for his subsidiaries, the largest of which was Therapeutic Transformations. He had amassed fabulous wealth. But he never escaped the notoriety of being Nero Craft, the last man to have seen Betty Blake, the man who got away with murder, some said, hinting at more than murder.

138. Moby at home in Glenbogle Trailer Park

Glenbogle Trailer Park, located on the east side of town, coincidentally but meaninglessly not more than a mile and half from Dos Antonios, a place Moby never went, sheltered twenty or so single-wides in three rows exposed to the full outpouring of the sun. A few twisted, bedraggled pinyons lined the boundaries of the park, following high fences concealing the trailer park from two busy streets running on two sides, perpendicular to each other, one street running fairly north-south on the east side of the park, and the other fairly east-west on the south side of the park.

Moby’s trailer, a vintage stainless-steel affair with wide rounded ends and no skirting, occupied the last slot on the third row, the row farthest from both roads, looking vaguely interstellar. Moby kept a tidy cluster of potted plants in front of the hitch, where two small propane tanks used to rest, their function taken over by a large exterior tank maintained by the property owner. For a fee, of course. Moby couldn’t forget that.

That Saturday, as Mary sat on Wendy’s bed, explaining her sudden transformation, Moby huddled in a small maroon armchair, threadbare but intact, resting on four short, wobbly legs. He gazed intently at the television, a small portable device from way back, but the television screen was blank. A tall transistor radio in a leather case sat on top of the television, blaring out news and local weather. Moby nodded at the radio and smiled to himself, letting out loud, short, knowing snorts from time to time.

He heard the sound of the white Corollas crunching the gravel beneath their tires over the blabbering noise of the radio.

He cocked his head at the sound of Toyotas parking on the gravel in front of his trailer.

“Figured as much,” he sighed.

The car doors opened and closed. Moby listened to the sounds of heavy shoes on gravel followed by the tread of feet on his wooden steps. Moby saw a fat Roadman in a white, short-sleeved shirt standing in front of the screen door. He recognized the two thinner Roadmen peeking through the door over the first man’s shoulders. They’d come to see him at school last week. Wednesday. Not a bad bunch of people. Inquisitive though. Asked a lot of questions about that pink critter.

The first man knocked on the door frame.

“Door’s open. Come one in.”

Five minutes later, DP, Frank, and Wade clustered in Moby’s tiny living room. DP sharing a space on a small, lived-in sofa propped against the wall perpendicular to the outside wall. Frank squatted on the other end, hands on both knees of this navy-blue slacks. Wade had, with Moby’s permission, pulled a small kitchen chair from the table in the cramped eating area at the front of the trailer. He set it down just to the side of the television so Moby could still watch the radio.

DP looked behind them to stare awkwardly at the large poster, a portrait of a keen-eyed man in an impressive, grizzled beard. They recognized him immediately, of course. Stanton T. Friedman, renowned physicist, philosopher, lecturer, and theoretician whose work spilled into every facet of human existence.

Before sitting down, he turned to Moby.

“May I?”

Moby gave a non-descript gesture of his head that the Roadman took to mean yes.

Wade turned the volume of the radio down. Then he sat in his chair, emulating Frank’s position, knees close together, hands palm down, clutching the caps.

“The thing is we don’t actually know where to get bug powder.”

“Ain’t surprised,” Moby replied. “Stuff’s not easy to get.”

Moby jerked his head towards the back of the trailer.

“I’ve been making it myself, but I ran out with that last batch. It works, but that damned thing can take a heap of the stuff. Still, better than nothing, I suppose.”

Frank leaned forward, elbows on knees, clasping his hands in a loose knot of fingers. Moby eyed his hands closely, on the look-out, but Frank kept the knot loose. Moby relaxed. You couldn’t tell, he knew. You never could tell, but they always gave themselves away sooner or later.

“Well, how do you make it then? The bug powder?”

“High yield sulfur and boric acid mostly. I throw in a bit of diatomaceous earth because, you know, the Seventies.”

“If those two go get some, could you show us how to make it?”

Frank tossed his head at DP.

“Don’t see why not. Might get some beer too on your way back. Might get a couple of six packs. Then again, might get a case. I drink Murica. But Pobe’s good too. You’ll need a 50-pound bags of sulfur, about four 5-pound containers of boric acid, and oh, say about one 25-pound bag of diatomaceous earth. Should be able to get that at Ward’s.“

D made a list from a notepad P handed him. Then they got up and walked out.

Thirty minutes later they came back the 50-pound bag of sulfur and four buckets of boric acid. P struggled to carry the bag of diatomaceous earth, tripping over the last step of the wooden porch but catching himself before he fell on the carpet of Moby’s trailer.

Moby had a workshop set up near the back of the trailer, in the large bedroom. The custodian stripped it of all furniture, set up a worktable with tools and other equipment. He’d slept on the sofa in the living room anyway, when he slept at all, so the arrangement suited him just fine.

It was a cramped and tiny fit.

Wade and Frank squeezed into the workroom, carrying the bags of sulfur and diatomaceous earth, plopping them down on the table with a loud heavy thud. The smaller Moby, carrying a pail of walked to the right side of the table, while DP stood outside the door, peaking through on other side of the door frame. Sulphur and boric acid covered the top of the worktable, and against one wall stood several olive drab canisters. Wade had to squeeze between the side of the table and a large, tall air compressor hugging the wall opposite the canisters. Moby shoved a canister towards the table, opened the top, grabbed one of three luminium baker’s scoops laying on the table, opened the bag of sulfur, poured two scoops into the canister.

He pulled off the lid to one of the buckets of boric acid and poured three scoops into the tank. He finished by pouring a single scoop of diatomaceous earth into the canister.

“That should do it,” he said, looking at Frank standing beside him. “Two scoops sulfur, three scoops boric acid, one scoop diatomaceous earth. It hates it. I think. Then repeat once more. Or you could go four, six, and two. Your choice, really. Then fill up the rest with air from that compressor. I make sure the gauge on the side of the canister goes at least to 185 psi. That makes a good blast of bug powder.”

“Why the sulfur?”

“Makes it yellow. Bug powder’s got to be yellow. Stinks like hell, though.”

The Roadmen winced at the smell of rotten eggs.

Moby stepped outside the work room.

“You get that beer?” he asked, looking up at P.

D nodded.

“Good boy,” Moby said.

Moby walked to the fridge, saw three six-packs of Murica, pulled a can from the plastic loop, and went back to his armchair to look at the radio, listening to the noise of the Roadmen filling his canisters with homemade bug powder. From time to time the trailer vibrated and shook to the sound of the air compressing bursting to live, giving its breath to the olive drab tanks.

The rotten, sickly smell of sulfur filled the tiny trailer.

The custodial maintenance technician twitched, gibbered, and grinned at the news of the world. Or at least his own small corner of it.

Beyond the barrier in his mind whispers and cries rustled in the darkness, and something underneath the soft or grating voices, coming closer but still far off, the sound of a low droning as of many bees in a fabulously large hive.

139. Jack Randall recounts

Jack Randall paced the small, cramped quarters of his writing room. As much influence and power as the Department of Archives claimed to possess, you’d think they could splurge on something larger and better than a secondhand Exo-Squat for their Recorders. Ah, well. S’pose that’s just their way of keeping the Journeymen in line. Still.

At least it kept him away from prying eyes, the Exo-Squat did. You couldn’t really find him, notice him, get to him, locate him. Not with him not being exactly anywhere. You couldn’t actually get to him unless he wanted to be gotten at. And he rarely did. I mean, sure. Those nachos at Armadillo Lanes were to die for. He’d slip out time to time for that. He was pretty sure The Diana Group avoided the Lanes.

I s’pose publishing that damned book wasn’t the brightest thing I ever did.

Still, it put everyone on notice who needed to be put on notice, and that was the important thing.

That Wendy girl, now.

She needed to know.

He’d gotten the alert that she bought it. Gotten the alert that she’d started to read it, and then nothing.

He expected a call, a text, an email. Hell, even a letter would have been something, but no. Nothing. That girl just dropped the book and went on her way, pretty as you please without giving Craft, Betty Blake, The Diana Group a second thought. Not to mention The Consortium.

He left that part plain as day for her, and not a damned word about it.

Who did she think she was?

I mean, Jack thought. I know. But who does she think she is?

Just some teenager gallivanting around, hung up on the taste of cock? Child, please.

There’s a war at stake, dammit, and a Great Filter to get through, for Reedy Field’s sake.

And what was she doing bouncing on a man’s cock, anyway? That girl needed dyking up, and she needed dyking up fast.

Did she think that the rest of the world would just stop and wait for her conversion? Blond lesbians are a dime a dozen, he could get a platinum teenage dyke anywhere.

Reedy Fields! She’s hasn’t even turned platinum yet.

Reedy, fucking shit-covered Fields.

He couldn’t get another Wendy, though. And he knew it. He’d just have to let the little slut take her time.

Jack kicked the chair away from his desk, sat down, scooted it back in, flipped his notebook open to the last filled page, and began writing.

How did that damned man get involved, anyway?

The Guild? Did they know? Did they suspect?

He knew they’d been flirting with the Pain Rabble, and The Consortium distinctly misliked that.

Jack misliked it, too.

Not that he worried about his own safety. Even the Pain Rabble knew better than mess with Archivist business.

Yeah, but Jack wasn’t really doing Archivist business, was he?

Meh, the Rabble didn’t have to know that.

140. The Go-Between descends for the third and final time

The Go-Between’s bubble descended gently, elegantly, poetically, sunlight glinted off the silvery, thin legs of its landers extending with grace as the craft landed in the middle of a small circle of white Corollas, parked in the desert somewhere in the vicinity of El Hondo. The door opened, and the Go-Between descended the stairs forming beneath his feet. The seven-foot figure, arriving at earth level, looked around him seriously and purposefully.

This was it, he thought. I’m joining the hunt.

Word of the Pink Entity’s capture by the Pain Rabble had gotten round to him, and he’d be damned if he’d let those dirty sons of bitches get in the way of his people’s ascendancy.

Besides, The Guild was worried.

The Rabble should have delivered the thing by now.

Nothing doing.

Which meant he’d have to steal the damned thing back.

Really, he should have just done it all himself weeks ago.

But the rules were clear.

No involvement in back planet affairs. Zero exceptions. Except when authorized by The Guild.

I mean, sure, the Rabble could get away with it. No one really cared what they got themselves up to.

But higher species like his own?

No, they had principles, rules, regulations. Orders.

Ascendancy issues to work through.

And letting that pink thing slip through his fingers into the waiting arms of the Pain Rabble just ready to deliver the creature to The Guild, bowing and scraping all the while, no sir. That would not do. That would not do at all. His people had pride. His people got things done. His people were finishers.

So.

Back to the sticks, the boondocks, the hinterland.

But if the monkeys started playing with themselves in front of him, he was out of there, ascendancy be damned. The Go-Between didn’t have to stand for that.

141. The Go-Between joins the hunt

At that moment, however, the monkeys didn’t show any signs of playing with themselves. They stared up at him expectantly, soberly, even a little reverently, awed. He understood, of course. He’d studied his assignments well over the years, and he knew these particular apes valued size, color, genital type, and hair length. Glands. They were big on glands.

He looked around at his small and attentive audience, a small gathering of a dozen or so Roadmen.

They all wore white shirts, buttoned all the way up, and black trousers. Some of the Roadmen even wore black ties.

“Greetings. I send you good news. I have decided to join your hunt. I have decided to help you find your, um, thing.”

The Roadmen murmured appreciatively.

A voice from someone standing in the front row spoke out.

“Moby says it’s some kind of pink tentacle monster.”

Moby?

The Go-Between furled an eyebrow.

A voice shouted from the back.

“The janitor down there at that high school. Kid Lester. He does maintenance, too.”

The Go-Between waded through the Roadmen to the voice in back.

The voice came from Frank.

“Seems to know a lot of things about stuff no one else has heard of.”

The Go-Between leaned forward, tilting his head to talk to Frank, who stood around 6′2″.

“Janitor?”

“Hm hm,” Frank said. “It’s a kind of job.”

The Go-Between opened the door to Frank’s Corolla, squeezing himself into the passenger seat.

Frank sat down in the driver’s seat.

“Tell me more about this janitor of yours,” the Go-Between said.

“You got a name, mister?”

“Gerald. You can call me Gerald. I’m getting rather old.”

The Go-Between named Gerald looked at Frank. Gerald’s knees were jammed at eye level against the glove compartment of the dashboard.

“Any way to get this seat to go back?”

142. A letter for Wendy

“Dear Wendy,” the letter read, “It all goes way back, doesn’t it? I mean, it all goes a good deal more way back than even the people who think it goes back a very long time. They’re right of course, but it’s mostly guesswork. It’s all mostly just guesswork, even for The Consortium. But it did begin somewhere, or somewhen. Most of us can agree on that. I mean, look, we’re here, right? I mean, right? Well, probably. So just for the sake of argument…”

Jack Randall paused. He wrote the way the Archivist wanted it. Start out light and easy, the Archivist said, and then hit ’em with facts. Clobber ’em with facts. Lots of facts, numbers, dates. Anything you can get your hands on, and just pulverize them. They’ll love it, you’ll see.

So Jack scribbled about explosions, lightyears, eons, novas, supernovas, black holes, strings, worm holes, nebulas, pulsars, quarks, tachyons, and other stuff. Scribbled down a bunch of numbers, gave distances multiplied by infinities, and then settled down to the main point.

“…So you see it just happened. And when it happened, stars were formed, planets were formed, systems developed, life burst forth, species arose, and the first true psychic powers arose shortly after that. Or maybe they came first. It’s a bit of a sore spot with the psychic powers. At least some of them may have come first, joined later by species which made it through what was later called filter events, great filter events. Really just natural processes that tended to wipe life out before it had a chance to really get psychic.

“But, and this has been pointed out before, right, the universe is big.

“Which leaves it plenty of species that don’t get wiped out. Plenty of species that can actually make it past a filter event or two, usually with the help of some latent or dormant psychic abilities. This is all pretty much known. So the post-filter species go on to form pre-Ascendancy societies, clubs, species groups, clusters, whatnot. These clubs are then picked up by The Guild, selected for ascension and move on to that elite strata of truly psychic powers, non-corporeal, immortal, and a generally pretty stand-offish bunch of guys.

“But The Guild has an enemy, you see. A pretty powerful bunch of psychic beings in their own right. And they’ve been battling The Guild for longer than most species have been in existence…”

The letter went on and on and on. Several pages worth of writing about the First Spats, the Separation, the Wars of the Orgasms, and finally the Great Divorce. He ended the letter vaguely with a mention of the Reformation of Hierarchies. And then,

“…My dear Wendy, I really wanted to tell you all this in person, but you just can’t seem to stop fucking your new boyfriend long enough to pay attention to the world around you. That in itself isn’t so bad, it’s actually one of the reasons The Consortium places such great hopes in you, but really, dear, it would be best for us to get together for a little chat. Why don’t we meet, say, at that bookstore you like so much. We can have some coffee. And maybe a couple of tacos. I hear the tacos there are to die for. Yours, Jack Randall, Journeyman Recorder

“P.S. Don’t worry about what day or time. You just get your ass there. I’ll be waiting.”

Jack Randall folded the letter, slipped it into a long, white envelope, stamped and addressed the envelope, stepped outside his Exo-Squat, walked a few blocks to the nearest mailbox, and posted the letter.

Vespuccian postal delivery being what it is, the letter, although posted the Wednesday before Wendy finally had sex with Sara, arrived on the Tuesday, which turned out to offer quite a momentous evening for the young, adolescent newly turned lesbian.

The girl was getting dyked up, and she was getting dyked up fast.

Week 5

Tuesday

143. Wendy wakes up

Tuesday morning. Wendy groggily opened her eyes to the ruins of last night’s debauchery. She had fallen asleep wearing the dildo, rising pink and terrible in the morning light filtering through the lace curtains of Sara’s bedroom. Wendy stifled a giggle as the image of Steve’s perennial morning wood rose in her mind. She turned her head and looked down. Laura’s cute ass met her gaze, her legs spread out wide as she lay on her belly, one leg tossed over Nikki lying on her back, the other stuck at a near right angle to her hips and bent at the knee. Laura’s neatly trimmed pussy, labia extended from last night’s heavy use, asshole and cunt still glistening from repeated slatherings of the pink lubrication that only served to make them, all of them, hornier and hornier, deranged by lust and the need, the hunger, for more orgasms. For more pussy. More tit, more ass, more flesh. More feminine flesh.

Nikki and Melani, Julie and Laura. Sara.

With Mary Love’s transformation playing out on the big screen, over and over, the sight and sound of her lovemaking, her sex, her fucking and licking, filling the room and adding to the cries, murmurs, moans and groans of the girls in Sara’s house.

Until the orgy moved into the bedroom.

Wendy’s own ass felt, well, not sore. Not really. Just well, good, and thoroughly used. As if someone had shoved a baseball bat inside her, wiggled it around for a while, and left it there all night long. Then she remembered the speckled and mottled dildo. Oh god, had Sara really brought that monstrosity out?

All night long Sara had been calling the shots, directing the flow of the orgy, telling whose pussy got what and when and where, and before the night grew too long, every girl boasted a strap-on dildo, fantastically large and realistic, wagging lascivious and grotesque from their groins. And every dildo was directed towards Wendy’s ass, in linear fashion of course.

God, they fucked her good.

Sara had crawled on her large, four-postered bed with its canopy of gauze. She lay on her back, stroking the huge lubricated purple dildo jutting from her groin.

“Get on your hands and knees, Wendy,” Sara had said, and of course Wendy did. “I want you to mount my cock. But stick your ass up too, high, so the girls can get some of you.”

She’d do whatever Sara told her to do.

“We’re going to fuck you in both holes tonight, girl. We’re going to burn your candle at both ends, baby. You shall not last the night.”

144. Lesbian orgy begins

Wendy settled her pussy on the tip of Sara’s cock and sank slowly down on it, enjoying the fullness and length of Sara’s tool. She leaned over, and tossed her golden hair over her face, covering Sara’s face with her own. Sara’s face wore that weird expression of awe and lust as she watched Wendy descend on her cock. She could almost feel the warmth of the girl’s pussy, could almost feel her cock shuddering inside the searing heat of the girl’s cunt.

Sara’s eyes glinted as Wendy stooped her head.

Sara’s lips parted, and Wendy covered her mouth with her pink lips, bright, shiny, wet, warm. Her tongue plunged into Sara’s mouth, found Sara’s tongue, and whirled a dance filled with female heat, driven and urged by the beat of a sexual tom-tom pounding in the cage of her ribs. Her breasts pressed against Sara’s breasts, and the pounding of Sara’s own drum rippled through Wendy’s chest.

She lifted her mouth away from Sara, a string of saliva hung down her bottom lip, snapping to fall into Sara’s open mouth.

“Are you going to make them fuck my ass, Sara? Are you going to make all of them fuck my ass? Are you going to turn me into your little anal whore? Are you going to wreck me?”

Sara winked.

“I’m so going to wreck you, Wendy.”

Sara looked at Laura, kneeling to the side of Wendy’s hips.

“Spread her thighs wide, Laura. I want her all the way impaled on my cock when you start fucking her. I want both cocks deep inside her.”

Laura brusquely kneed Wendy’s thighs apart, so that the teenager bottomed out on Sara’s purple dildo. Wendy grunted.

Laura squeezed a glob of the pink lubricant over both sides of Wendy’s ass and spread the lubrication over the fleshy marvel, reveling in the touch of the girl’s behind.

“Oh, god, Wendy. I just love your ass.”

Laura squeezed her hand through the warm crack and smeared the pink lubrication over the quivering sphincter of Wendy’s rosebud.

“You like that, baby?”

“Yes.”

“Good, ’cause I’m going to make your asshole scream tonight.”

Hearing little Laura, normally so cute and demure, so dainty and polite, speak like a drunken sailor in a whorehouse sent a thrilling wave of pleasure through Wendy.

She’s so dirty, Wendy thought. She’s going to make my asshole scream. God, my pussy’s already so stuffed. Wendy leaned against Sara to kiss one breast then another. She bit her erect nipples, pulling her tits away from her body before letting go with a plop!

145. Laura fucks Wendy

Laura pushed the tip of her dildo past Wendy’s anal ring, slowly sliding the tool up into the blond teenager’s asshole. Wendy felt Laura enter her, and she pushed her backside against the intruding cock, hungry and impatient for the giant phallus. The pink lubrication inflamed Wendy’s ass, sending waves of pleasure roiling over the girl’s mind.

Julie crept on her knees behind Laura, wrapping her arms around the girl to caress and fondle her small breasts while Laura pushed her cock into Wendy’s asshole. Julie bent her head to Laura’s ear and began to neck her.

“That’s it baby. Fuck that whore good. You know she’s been asking for it.”

Wendy’s eyes locked with Sara’s as the two girls, one below and one behind, rocked the blonde between alternating thrusts of the long cocks. Wendy heard rustling beside her, the sound of kissing, wet, sloppy, passionate, rose from Nikki and Melani, murmurs of rising heat swept upward from the girls’ throats, and Wendy broke her contact with Sara’s gaze to see the two girls embrace and kiss, kneeling on the bed, thighs parted to let one hand of each girl caress the bare mound of the other.

Wendy lifted her right hand to squeeze Sara’s breast, running her hand over her hard nipples on the fleshy globes of her young lover. Wendy stooped again to kiss Sara’s neck, just under and to the side of her chin, catching the soft skin of her lover in a desperate tension between kiss and bite, first kissing, then sucking, then biting and kissing again. Sara’s necked dripped with Wendy’s spit as Wendy moved her lips across the flesh of Sara’s neck, running from chin to ear and ear to chin. Sara embraced Wendy, running her hands across her soft shoulder blades, pressing her lover harder against her, breasts pressed together as both women, both girls, tried to merge in a frantic union of rising ecstasy.

Laura’s cock beat harder and faster into Wendy’s asshole, filling her from above while Sara jerked with shorter thrusts below. Wendy pulled her mouth away from Sara’s neck, breathing in the rich intoxication of two cocks filling her, ramming her without let up. She could feel the orgasm now. They came to her so quickly now, those orgasms. Just a few flicks, a few thrusts, a kiss of a woman’s lips, the kiss of Sara’s lips, the kiss of Nikki’s lips. Nikki?

Nikki leaned against Wendy’s body, Wendy’s body pressed so close to Sara’s now, and, clinging to Melani with one arm, bent to kiss Wendy’s neck. Wendy, feeling new lips upon her skin, turned her head to face Nikki’s mouth. Wendy parted her lips, and Nikki covered her wet, pink mouth, glistening with lipstick and spit. Nikki’s tongue wrestled with Wendy’s, a combat of passion and desire, of female and feminine intoxication, of female lust, of feminine delight in sensual fecundity.

And still the wave of lust rose, Wendy beat her ass against Laura’s pounding hips, Nikki and Melani poured kisses upon each other, and Nikki leaned back, her head near Sara’s head, foreheads turning to touch each other, then mouths pressing against each other, and Nikki, turning and looking up at Wendy’s face in throes of ecstasy above her, smiled, and licked her lips.

“So hot. You’re so fucking hot, Wendy. I’m so glad we’re finally doing this.”

Nikki spread her legs for Melani, who crouched, strapped-on cock swinging below her, beside Wendy and Sara. She used one hand to hold Nikki’s right thigh away from the left, while the other hand held Nikki’s dildo up and away from her cunt. Then she dipped her face over Nikki’s cunt, already wet, already hot. Melani slowly licked the thighs close to the Nikki’s center, trailing the tip of her wet tongue slowly over the trembling skin.

“Hurry, baby,” Nikki urged. “I’m so close.”

Melani ignored her.

She swirled her tongue along the edges of Nikki’s outer lips, fat, puffy, red. Trembling. Nikki moved her cunt in the direction of Melani’s tongue, desperate to trap the tantalizing organ, but Melani was too quick for her. Over and over she trailed the edge of the poor girl’s vulva, never quite touching it, never quite leaving that wonderful geography of pleasure, lust, and mounting need.

“Please, baby. Please. I need it. I need it so bad.”

Nikki’s pleas rose from the girl in a violent despondency.

Melani smiled.

“Okay, baby. I’ll make you cum.”

Then she placed her open mouth over Nikki’s mound, sucking and tonguing the girl’s clit in repeated alternating series of sucking and flicking, kissing and nibbling, licking and biting.

Nikki’s cries grew from weak protestations to the loud shrieks.

Wendy beat her ass harder against Laura, who, holding onto Wendy’s hips, quickened her pace, ramming her cock harder and harder into Wendy’s asshole, while Sara beat her cock into Wendy’s pussy in short bursts of thrusting and shoving, grinding her cock into Wendy’s saturated and dripping twat.

Laura herself started groaning.

Julie held her dildo, a glittering purple cock, against Laura asshole. She’d’ve preferred getting her pussy, but the angle wouldn’t give her easy access, so fucking Laura’s asshole became the next best thing. Julie’s hands dropped from Laura’s tits to settle on the Laura’s slender waist, just above her hips, where Julie held her soft body, lightly and lovingly caressing the silky skin.

“I’m going to fuck your ass so good, baby girl,” Julie cooed into Laura’s ear. “I’m going to make your tight ass dance on my cock.”

Julie moved her left hand to stroke the wet, engorged lips of Laura’s soft and swollen pussy, dipping the tips of two fingers into her hole up to the second knuckle.

Laura shuddered.

“You like that, baby?”

Julie saw Laura’s head move up and down.

“Good.”

Julie pushed her two fingers in all the way.

Laura groaned.

146. Laura can feel Wendy’s ass on her dildo

Disbelieving at first, not recognizing or being able to recognize the sensation, thinking her mind must be playing tricks on her, surely her mind played tricks on her, Laura could feel the heat of Wendy’s asshole around the shaft of her artificial dick, she swore she could feel the hot skin of Wendy’s asshole surrounding the shaft of her cock, her hard cock ramming so hard, so deep into backside. Wendy squirmed and trembled around Laura’s tool, reveling in the fire, the heat, the contact of Laura’s sex, Laura’s hard cock pounding relentlessly into her.

And still Sara fucked her from below, and Sara, who also couldn’t believe at first but soon learned, had soon learned to believe, also felt the wet fire, the hot lava, of Wendy’s cunt nearly exploding around her long hard phallus.

“Oh, god, you’re so hot and wet, Wendy. I can feel you. I can feel you around my cock,” Sara breathed huskily, an exclamation tinged with a disbelieving whine.

“I’m going to cum,” cried Laura. “I’m going to cum inside you.”

And for a moment she thought she would.

With Julie pounding her from behind, she could feel the rising orgasm building inside her, deep within her, just behind and through and over the lips of her pussy, the burning lips of her pussy below and behind the flat back of her red dildo sticking from the center of her hips, the panel jamming hard on her mons, that thick dildo jutting in and out over and over, plunging deep inside the gaping hole of Wendy’s ass only to be taken out, tip held against quivering hole, and reinserted, deep, exquisitely deep. She could feel the cock, the artificial cock tremble, ready to explode inside Wendy’s bowels.

And then she came. Laura came.

Her pussy gushed, spasmed, and squirted in a torrent. Shrieking and screaming she collapsed on top of Wendy’s back, wrapping her delicate arms around the larger body of Wendy, feeling the bodies of Sara and Wendy still clinging in a tight embrace.

And Julie kept pushing her cock into Laura’s asshole.

And then Sara pushed Wendy away, tossing her head to howl in an anguished orgasm of her own.

“Oh god, oh god, oh my god, Wendy, I’m cumming. I’m cumming so fucking hard. God, Wendy, you’re making me cum so hard.”

Meanwhile Melani had penetrated Nikki with her own yellow cock. Nikki drew her legs up, knees near her head, while her girlfriend stuffed her pussy with the fat shaft of her dildo. Melani gazed affectionately at Nikki, in love with the look of utter rapture spreading over her girl’s face as an orgasm began to take hold of Nikki’s body. But Nikki had not the power of Wendy Love. Melani could not feel the warmth of Nikki’s pussy, her cock did not shudder and threaten to spasm, her own climax would come less from pleasure itself than in the pleasure she gave, and she could tell she gave Nikki so much pleasure, so much.

Still, as Melani fucked her girlfriend, she reached down to stroke her own hard and throbbing clit.

So good. So hot. So good to be a queer girl, a dyke. So good to fuck my girlfriend. So good to let other girls, other women fuck my girlfriend. Or fuck me. So good to let so many women fuck me.

Last year she had not been. Had not been a lesbian.

Last year.

147. Melani recalls her lesbianification

Last year she’d had a boyfriend, one of the jocks, one of the athletes who hung around Brad and his crew.

Nikki hadn’t really even been a friend.

Then the new girl, or almost new girl, that girl Sara, that girl started hanging around Nikki, she remembered seeing them together, she remembered how Nikki started trying to catch Melani, Melanie then, catch her attention, how she always seemed to make eye contact in the halls, in their shared classrooms, asking for a piece of paper and smiling sweetly, so sweetly, so pretty.

How they started talking in the restrooms.

How they started talking by the lockers.

How Nikki had suggested they try on makeup together some day.

“When?”

“How ’bout this weekend? We can go to the mall and try out makeup. My friend Sara knows a really nice place, a really cool shop. You should meet her. She’s amazing.”

It didn’t take long for Melanie to absolutely fall in love with Nikki, smitten to core and heart.

It was Sara who first made her see how much she was attracted to Nikki. She hadn’t had noticed before, but when Sara pointed it out, everything made sense. Everything clicked together.

I’m in love with Nikki.

I’m a lesbian.

Sara had agreed.

Definitely a lesbian, she’d said. You should join our cheerleader squad.

Now here she was, fucking the most beautiful girl in the world while three of the most beautiful girls in high school howled in a screaming union of orgasm beside her.

It was too much.

Really it was too much.

Melani came.

And at that precise moment, Nikki opened her mouth to let out sounds splendid, ethereal, and inhuman.

Melani just loved hearing Nikki cum.

Then Julie pulled her dildo out and away from Laura’s ass and fell backward, sprawled on the tangled and messed bedcovers of Sara’s king-sized bed, and, legs spread wide, fucked her dripping cunt with one hand, all four fingers driving relentlessly, unceasingly into her hot hole.

“Oh god. Oh my god. Oh my fucking god, I’m going to cum.”

A small pool formed on the bedcovers below Julies spasming vagina.

After both Laura and Sara had their way with Wendy, Nikki and Melani insisted on changing places.

“Let Laura eat you out now, Sara. You know how good she is. You know how much she loves to eat pussy.”

“And ass,” laughed Melani, sliding under Wendy, hand on her dildo, ready to position it at the entrance to Wendy’s sex canal.

True, Laura thought. I love eating ass.

148. Now Nikki fucks Wendy’s pussy

Eventually they made Wendy lie on her back while Nikki fucked her with her long cock, Julie squatting over Wendy’s face while the blond lesbian licked her pussy with devotion. Then Nikki felt it too.

“Fucking unbelievable.”

Wendy furled her eyebrows and, taking her mouth off Julie’s mound, raised her head to question Nikki.

“What’s unbelievable?”

“Your pussy, Wendy. I can feel your pussy. You’re so hot, god, you’re so hot.”

Sara stared at Wendy.

Gone was the fantastic and magnificent being she had witnessed earlier that night, gone the aura and the power, but what remained. Well, what remained was like a lingering light, the pale remnants of a sunset, suffused with pink. Sara could get lost in that pink light, never to find her way out, and never know whether she wanted to find her way out. She was lost now, she knew, lost in Wendy. The rest of the girls hardly seemed to matter.

Sara shook her head as if trying to clear her thoughts.

Wendy eyes were fixed on Sara’s, her pale, lustrous blue eyes, pupils dilated with lust and desire gazed down on Sara’s face.

“Thank you, Sara,” Wendy had said.

Sara grinned and darted off the bed.

“I’ve got something for you, baby,” she said over her shoulder.

Sara had returned carrying the monstrous dildo, mottled black and white.

She planted it on the carpet near the bed.

She waited for the girls to finish their climaxes.

“Are you ready for this stallion, Wendy? Do you think you can fit it up that gorgeous pussy of yours? What about your ass? You think you can fit it up there? You want to, don’t you? You want nothing better than to fuck yourself the rest of the night on this fat horse cock.”

Was that what that was? Why on earth? What in the world?

But Wendy looked at the fantastically huge tool with its strange, flat tip, and her mouth watered, and she licked her pink lips.

“Oh god, Sara. Really?”

Sara nodded her head emphatically.

“Yes, Wendy. Really.” Sara patted the floor next to the dildo. “Get your sassy butt down here.”

149. Wendy fucks the horse cock dildo

Laura and Julia, Melani and Nikki sat on the edge of the bed, some cross-legged, some dangling the feet off the bed, to watch Wendy take the huge cock into both her holes.

Wendy scooted over to the two foot long, maybe two and half foot long, dildo standing upright on the floor.

Sara had slathered pink lubricant generously over the surface of the rubbery cock, making sure every part of the cock could fit inside Wendy’s pussy. And her asshole. She’s going to fuck both holes on this thing. Two large testicles, flattened on the bottom, formed the base of the mottled dildo. A thick section of the cock ran for about a foot, shaped like the sheath of a stallion’s prick, before tapering to a long, thinner, but still very thick, length ending in a flat shape, much like a flattened cone or cup, molded like the tip of a horse’s organ. A ridge of flesh-looking plastic separated the two sections of the dildo, giving the impression of a fully hardened equine cock protruding from its sheath.

Sara instructed Wendy in soft reassuring tones how to crouch over the tip of the horse cock, how to use her hand to adjust and fit the wide tip of the cock into her vaginal opening, and how to slowly, so slowly, sink her greedy little cunt onto the outrageous phallus.

Wendy got six inches in, seven inches in, eight inches in, and then she stopped.

“Keep going, baby. You can do it. You got this, sugar.”

“You can do it, Wendy!” the girls on the bed shouted encouragingly.

“You’re almost halfway there.”

Wendy looked down to see the ridge separating the two halves of the cock just inches from the opening of her cunt, glistening with pink lubrication and her own rampant vaginal secretions, the fluids of her steaming box.

She could do this. She had this.

The pink lubrication sizzled inside Wendy’s deep pussy. She bent over to support herself on her hands as she drove the remaining inches of the horse cock into her love channel. It was so thick, so long, even the strap-on dildos they’d been fucking her with all that night were limp noodles compared to this monster. But Wendy took in the gaze and attention of her audience, the girls on the bed, the girls whom she loved so much, the girls, she could see it now, who had done so much to support her, to lavish her with attention and affection. She absorbed their devoted and happy expressions as she sank further on the horse cock. God, she couldn’t get enough of their lovely bodies.

Laura with her dark pageboy bob, so dainty and slender body, with her small breasts, just crossing over from A to B, her perky round ass, and her bare, waxed pussy, demurely nestled between her legs as the girl sat on the edge of Sara’s bed, kicking her feet as she watched Wendy, dear Wendy, impale herself on the massive dick, her flat, round face, her apple cheeks and button nose so adorable, so cute. So sexy.

Wendy turned to look at Julie, whose light brown hair hung just past her shoulders, breathing in the sight of her large breasts, C-cups, full and pendulous, and admiring the triangle patch of pubic hair above her mons as she sat cross-legged next to her lover, Laura, sitting cross-legged on her wide, long ass. Melani, with her dark hair, no longer long after Nikki insisted she’d look better in a pixie cut, slender athletic body, proud and pert breasts, smaller than Julie’s but larger than Laura’s, smiled at Wendy, eyes shining with affection and lust. Wendy returned her smile and sank further down on her cock, recalling the vision of Melani’s perky ass.

Nikki also hung her legs off the edge of the bed, spreading her legs wide, her left leg over Melani’s right leg, as she, alone of the group, openly masturbated at the sight of Wendy fucking that large equine dildo. The rest of the girls seemed to have taken a break, choosing instead to simply revel in the vision of Wendy’s abandonment. Nikki was as tall as Wendy, with equally large breasts, C-cups, whose body approached full womanhood, curvy and soft. Her long blonde hair fell in waves just past her breasts, and her face, sensual and serious and somewhat squarish regarded Wendy with an expression Wendy suddenly recognized as rivalry. Wendy’s eyes dropped to the landing strip of blonde pubic hair above her mons. So hot.

Sara, as short as Laura, but full bodied, boasting the largest and most beautiful breasts of the group, with her soft wide wipe, so round and peach-like, her long auburn hair, usually braided, now falling in cascades almost to the crack of her ass as she sat to the side and a little behind Wendy, running soft, sensual hands all over Wendy’s blond body, spread her thighs to show the girls her own pussy, so bare, so shaven, so pink and wet.

The eyes of girls went from Wendy to Sara, from Sara to Wendy, from the cock in Wendy’s pussy to Sara’s bare and glistening cunt. Wendy’s breasts hung down as she stooped to her hands, fucking the dildo deep and hard now with with the swing of her pelvis, now getting into the intoxicating feel of the cock inside her, burning the insides of her vagina with its pink lubrication, sending wave after wave of desire and lust sizzling through Wendy’s superheated body.

Filling her inside, entirely, completely.

Wendy shuddered in front of her girls.

They were hers now. And she was theirs.

She knew it now.

There could be nothing finer than this, she realized, nothing better than this, nothing so good, so pure, so hot, as being naked in front of her girlfriends, fucking herself for their pleasure, making them so hot, so fucking hot, as she pumped her pussy, her wet, soaking cunt onto the monstrous dildo beneath her. So nude, so open, so revealed in the midst of her females, her women, her lovers.

Sara was right of course. Sara was always right.

There had never been a time when she wasn’t a lesbian, a dyke, a queer for other girls, other women.

Sara stroked herself, jamming two fingers, three fingers into her wet opening, so slick now, so smooth and warm, hot. She felt the smooth skin of Wendy’s back with the flat of the palm of her other hand, feeling the spine and flesh of the girl fucking the dildo, felt Wendy beginning to shudder with another orgasm, with another orgasm riding fast on the wake of the first. She could feel it.

My god. I can feel her orgasm just by touching her.

Sara’s own body began to quake as she touched Wendy.

I can feel the cock in my own pussy.

Then it came.

Wendy howled, her voice erupting into a fountain of anguish, pleasure, and freedom, as she threw herself backward from the floor, yanked the dildo from her pussy, her vagina wide and gaping now, she quickly flicked her labia with her right hand, frantically rubbing her clit as she spasmed and convulsed. Sara ducked under Wendy’s outstretching legs, face up and mouth open, her body riddled by a savage orgasm, her mind blank against anything but Wendy’s wonderful, Wendy’s enchanting pussy. Wendy’s pussy exploded above her, showering Sara’s face with a sweet and tangy fluid some of which she captured in her mouth as the rest poured over her cheeks and lips.

Wendy screamed above her as orgasm after orgasm flowed through her.

Sara’s body convulsed and trembled, teetered on the edge of collapse, and still the outpouring of Wendy’s cunt flowed over the girl’s face, a tremendous outpouring of orgasmic fluids, a flood of pure femininity. Sara lost track of her climaxes, each climax came on the heels of the last, an endless pounding of waves against the crumbling rocks of her conscious mind. She crumbled into Wendy’s ocean and fell into Wendy’s depths.

When she awoke, she found Wendy’s face above hers, kissing her deeply and tenderly, still licking the fluids from her face, licking her face from chin to earlobe, from lip to nose tip, from ear to ear and back to her mouth again, Wendy’s pink lips kissing Sara’s pink lips in an ardent display of total abandonment, surrender, and love.

“Are you back, girl? Are you back now?”

Wendy giggled into Sara’s ear.

“Was it good for you?”

Sara slowly regained consciousness. She heard laughter, cheers, and the clapping of hands as she realized the girls, the dear girls, had fallen to the floor to embrace the both of them.

Sara looked at Wendy confused.

Did Sara hold sway or did Wendy? Did Sara lose the group?

But Wendy laughed at Sara and held up the horse cock.

“Are you going to make me shove this up my ass now, girl?”

The girls shouted gleefully.

“Make her do it! Make her do it, Sara. You know she wants it.”

Sara’s mind cleared.

She winked at the group and then at Wendy.

“Oh god, Wendy, you’re going to fuck your ass so hard on that cock. You won’t be able to get enough of it. You’re going to fuck that thing all the way up your slutty, lesbian asshole.”

As Wendy perched her ass above the flattened tip of the cock, she heard Nikki say, “God, Wendy, you’re such a slut.”

Wendy’s insides glowed at the praise.

She was. She was such a slut, such a lesbian slut.

She loved the word. She loved the sound of the two words combined.

Lesbian slut. It just sounded. Right.

150. The Roadmen, the Go-Between have lunch at Dos Antonios

That Monday, as the girls sat in the Octagon, convincing Wendy to pretend to be a lesbian to get back at Brad, Frank, Wade, Rascal, Driver, Passenger, Rascal, and the Go-Between sat around two four-tops put together by the waitstaff. Gerald, the Go-Between sat at one end of the table, cramped into a wooden chair with rounded arms. Maybe a seven-foot-tall hominid wasn’t the best choice of bodies. This lot, he realized somewhat abashed, had quickly gotten over his size, and although they still treated him with some deference, Gerald suspected that they would have done the same had he been a more easily managed six feet. Maybe six two. That seemed to be a very respectable height for this kind.

Driver, turns out his name was Tom, and Passenger, he called himself Mike, sat at opposite ends of the table, not having exchanged more than a few words after the Go-Between discovered their bug and corrected it. How could any species manage with such an awkward sense of privacy? Things weren’t meant to be secret. Not thoughts at any rate. Thoughts were always escaping anyway. So what was the point in trying to keep them in? Damn ass-backward apes. Stupid, body-bound, flesh-hankering monkeys.

Secretive, shame-faced, thought-hiding jackanapes.

As if he couldn’t read them like a child’s star chart.

If he wanted to. It wasn’t fun, and he usually kept out of those dank dungeons.

Still. There was something about them. After a week spent tagging alongside them, he felt that. He got it somehow. Something about them.

Pity about their gas.

Did they have to joke about it so much?

Wasn’t the smell enough?

At that moment the Roadman called Rascal spoke up.

“So where are we with the hunt? I know that you all followed it last week to The Diana Group. There it just disappeared you say. But what happened to it? That’s what I want to know.”

“The Rabble has it.”

All eyes looked to Gerald.

“I guess I’d better fill you in. Look, you lot aren’t supposed to know about any of this stuff. Back planets aren’t supposed to know about any of this stuff. Well. Sometimes they do, but they’re not supposed to. And we don’t like to just spill it anywhere. We don’t like getting involved, and we don’t like anyone else getting involved. It upsets things. So we just usually keep our distance, maybe do a little sight-seeing, a little body-hopping, but that’s generally frowned on.’

“You mean like the Prime Directive?” Wade asked.

“Maybe. I don’t know what that is.”

The Go-Between paused, collecting his thoughts perhaps.

“Look. There are two major players in the cosmos. One of them calls themselves The Guild. They’re the good guys. I guess you could say they’re the good guys. The other calls themselves, well never you mind what they call themselves because it’s pretty damned silly if you ask me. We just call them The Consortium. They’re absolutely hands-off.”

“Are they the bad guys?”

“Mm. No. Not bad. Not bad as such. I really don’t know much about them. Pre-ascendants don’t really meet The Consortium. What we need to know we get told. Anyway, these two players, they pretty much run things. Mostly The Guild runs things. The Consortium just, well, I don’t know what they do.”

Tom spoke up.

“What are—“

“Pre-ascendants?” Mike finished.

Tom glared at Mike from across the table.

Mike looked away, shy and embarrassed.

The Go-Between sighed loudly with exasperation.

“Look. The two players are psychic beings. They don’t really exist as such. Not as beings in being. More like, well, I don’t know what they’re like. They exist as pure thought, pure psychic energy.”

“You mean you have to pray to them to get heard,” said Frank.

“No, that’s exactly what I don’t mean. You can’t get heard by them anyway. They don’t, or they won’t, deal with back planet knuckleheads, monkey, lizard, or otherwise. They’ve got other things to do. Establish order. Inspire art. Conceive plans. Or something. I’m not sure, but my people say it’s great. It’s wonderful.”

Gerald stopped talking, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly, as if recalling a very pleasant memory.

“My people are pre-ascendants. We’re close. I’m mean we’re really close. Sure, we’ve got some issues to work through, but mostly we’re close. We don’t need bodies, for instance. I mean we like them, who wouldn’t, but we don’t need them. Not for long periods of time, at any rate. But it starts hurting after awhile. So we have to go back to our body homes. We’ve got lots of them. Some of us can dwell in more than one at a time. I can’t, but some of the bigshots among my people can. But in order to get to that next level, to Guild level, that takes ascendancy, and we need their help to do it. We can’t do it on our own.”

“Ah,” said Rascal. “They keep their thumbs on you that way.”

“Well, no. You still don’t understand. They don’t have thumbs.”

Wade stirred his big body in his chair.

“But you mentioned something called the Rabble. What’s that?”

Gerald frowned at Wade.

“The Pain Rabble. We call them that because they like pain. I mean, they like pain a lot. They like to feel it, and they like to give it.”

“Are they like you? Are they pre-ascendant?”

“No! They’re absolutely nothing like a pre-ascendant species. Although they probably like to think they are. Listen. Do you know what a Great Filter is?”

Wade could answer that.

“It’s what keeps an advanced civilization from going even further. A set of circumstances leading to a civilization’s demise.”

The Go-Between was shocked.

“That’s correct. Every species faces a Great Filter. Very few ever make it through one. The ones that do, do so because of their inherent ability to adapt, adjust, coexist, maintain peace, and generally just behave in decent ways. You’d be surprised how hard that is to do for most species. Mostly because the same evolutionary drives that get them so far actually cause and bring about a Great Filter event. Especially for monkeys like you. Your kind just can’t seem to help yourselves. You blow yourselves up every chance you get. Or choke yourselves on your own pollution. Or create, well, just pretty much any kind of weapon that your dirty little minds can think of. And that gets you killed off, see.

“But sometimes, sometimes, a back planet species makes it through a Great Filter without the necessary enlightenment. They just kind of slide through. Lizards do this sometimes. And when that happens, they keep the same nasty habits that caused the Great Filter in the first place. So they’re advanced and backward at the same time. They can’t possibly ascend because they’re dependent on their bodies, they have no psychic enlightenment, not much anyway, and they can’t really do any damage to a pre-ascendant people, because we’re far more advanced. But they can wreak havoc on a back planet, and for some reason, they love messing with monkey planets more than anything.

“It’s no big deal because your species is a waste of time and space. The Guild just looks away. Even though, technically, no contact is ever to be made by an advanced people with a back planet. As long as the Pain Rabble doesn’t draw attention to themselves, well. Anybody caught by them is in for a world of hurt.”

Silence descended on the table. The mood became grim, restless, doubtful. What were they all doing here, each one of the Roadmen thought to himself. I mean, what am I doing here?

“But why did they capture that thing? What can it do? Why can’t this Guild person, these Guild persons, just get it himself? Themselves?”

That question came from Mike, but everybody else was thinking it.

Gerald himself looked doubtful, suddenly dubious of everything.

“I mean. I don’t ask those questions. I mean, I did. But they don’t like it. And I’m not sure what the Rabble means to do with it because I’m not sure what it is.”

Another pause.

“One thing’s for sure. That janitor of yours knows something, and I’d like to meet him.”

The Go-Between finished the tall mug of beer the waitress, cute little thing, set in front of him.

The moment of doubt had passed. He felt pretty good. Warm.

“Oh sirens,” Rascal yelled, jumping up suddenly, seeing the wet spot pouring from Gerald’s lap. “You people never heard of a bathroom?”

151. Lunch at school, where Sara tells Wendy she has to ask Trina out to Homecoming

They all finally scrambled out of bed. The girls had to run home to get a change of clothes. Sara grabbed some clothes of her own. And some makeup.

“I’ll change at your house.”

She took Wendy home to the sounds of Mary and Renee moaning into each other coming from Mary’s bedroom. Wendy winked at Sara, and Sara elbowed Wendy playfully.

“Sometimes I think. Sometimes I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what the heck has happened to us, and I don’t care. I love it, Sara. I love it. I love what you, what you and the girls do to me. I’m taking a shower. You’re coming with me, right?”

Of course.

The sounds of their own orgasm soon rose above the sound of running water, joining the chorus of gratification that had so recently become the ambient noise of the Love household.

Wendy changed into a thigh high plaid skirt, dark hose, and a black long sleeve pullover with a white collar with rounded lapels and white cuffs. Sara wore her eternal blazer outfit, she had so many of them, skirt, hose, high heels. Wendy helped her fashion her sleek, auburn hair into a long fish braid at the back, and they both helped each other with makeup. Wendy of course wore the pink lipstick, but she applied a rich red lipstick to Sara.

“I just want to strip you and sleep with you the rest of the day. Going to school is so unfair,” Wendy sighed into Sara’s ear, nibbling it. Goose bumps dotted Sara’s arms.

“Hm,” replied Sara. “I bet your mother and Renee would like that.”

“Oh god, Sara. I can’t believe. Am I? Are you really going to make me?”

“Of course, Wendy. You want it so much, don’t you? It’s all you can think about, isn’t it? I bet you’re soaking wet right now, just imagining it.”

Sara was right of course. She was soaked. Wendy’s pussy leaked like an old pipe joint. Her mother was so hot. Mary was so fucking hot.

Sara grabbed Wendy’s arm.

“But not yet. We’ve got to go to school. You need to ask Trina to Homecoming, remember? I bet you can’t wait to taste her pussy, can you? You want to taste her pussy so bad, don’t you Wendy? You just want to fuck and fuck and fuck Trina’s little pussy with your tongue. You might as well rub one out in my car. You’ve already marked your territory there, you little slut.”

Sara slapped Wendy’s ass as she pushed her out the door, rubbing circles over her rump afterward.

I love you so much, Wendy, Sara thought to herself.

All the way to school Wendy fucked herself with her fingers while Sara bombarded her with declarations about how much she loved pussy, how hot her mother Mary was, how good her mother’s pussy tasted, how much Trina needed a good fucking, how hot Trina was, how hot Maddy was, god, don’t you think Maddy’s pussy tastes divine, god she needed another lesbian orgy, how much she loved lesbian orgies, how hot all the pretty girls at school, just how fucking hot, amazing, and sexy all the cute girls in school were, how wet being around cute girls, so adorable, made Wendy, how fucking wet, horny, and sex-deranged.

And Wendy ate it all up. Every word was true, every word became truth, and Wendy screamed on Sara’s shoulder as she leaned over to kiss her in one wet orgasm after another.

Sara smiled to herself. She had it. She still had it.

“God, Sara,” Wendy exhaled, “how can you? How can you do this?”

Sara shrugged. She just could. She always could.

But Wendy. Wendy was something else entirely.

At lunch while sitting at their table in the Octagon, Sara pointed out Trina sitting with Maddy.

“Remember, Wendy. Today’s the day you have to ask Trina to the Homecoming dance. You’re a lesbian now, and not just pretend, and you really, really want to date Trina, don’t you? She makes you so wet.”

Wendy squirmed in her seat. Her panties, still damp from the morning’s ride to school and Sara continual verbal promptings in the hall between classes, once again holding her hand openly or walking arm and arm or sometimes even with her hand laid softly just above her rump, caressing and squeezing her ass from time to time, standing on her toes to kiss Wendy on the cheek before leaving her to go to her class.

Wendy felt good. The intervening weeks seemed strange to her.

Brad’s apology, just yesterday, seemed strange to her.

Why would he apologize for her embarrassment?

She had done nothing to be embarrassed about.

And why would he want to go out with her?

She was gay now, a queer girl, just a complete lesbian slut. A total dyke.

Girl crazy. Or pussy-crazy. Or both.

Trina looked up at Sara and Wendy sitting with the girls, and turned her head away, shy and embarrassed at Sara pointing at her. Maddy had her head in her lunch bag.

“Go ahead and ask her now, Wendy.”

“In front of Maddy?”

“Why not in front of Maddy? You’re a lesbian now, aren’t you? Do you care what she thinks? Would it change you?”

“No.”

“Then go for it, baby. You need to come out to Maddy. So ask Trina to go to Homecoming with you. She’ll say yes, of course she’ll say yes. Just look at you. You’re beautiful.”

She was too. Pink lipstick and glittering blue eyeshadow, dark mascara, black eyeliner, just the right amount of foundation, blush, and highlights.

Hesitating no longer, Wendy stood up, crossed the Octagon towards Maddy and Trina. Wendy put a pronounced sashay in her hips.

Heads turned.

152. Wendy asks Trina to the Homecoming dance

Of course she was scared. Who wouldn’t be? I mean. Gosh. I just really turned lesbian last night.

I’ve never asked a girl out before.

I’ve never asked anyone out before.

Nervous, almost shaking with nervousness, Wendy continued crossing the lunchroom, trying to look confident, collected, cool, and competent.

She could do this. She had this.

Her heart fluttered wildly against her chest.

Butterflies darted to and fro in her belly, tickling her insides and unsteadying her resolved mind.

The pit of her stomach dropped as she stood before Maddy and Trina. Trina smiled shyly, looked away, and Maddy beamed brightly at Wendy.

Maddy had changed.

Today she wore a pale green blouse with her buttons undone far enough to expose a cleavage emphasized by a push-up bra. Her lips were red, she wore eyeshadow and mascara, and Wendy noticed long nails on the tips of her fingers, polished red and bright.

“Hi Wendy, what’s up?” she asked.

“Um, hi Maddy. You look cute today.”

“Thanks. It’s just something I felt like doing. Mom hates it. She thinks I’m turning into a.” Maddy paused. “A slut. But I don’t even have a boyfriend yet. God knows I’m trying.”

Maddy winked at Wendy playfully.

“Are you going to start having lunch with us now? Sara will let you eat with us?”

“Oh, Maddy. It’s not like that. I mean. I know. But it’s not like that. It’s just that. Well. The thing is. The reason I’m here is that. You know. I was just thinking. Hey, Trina.”

Trina jerked her head towards Wendy.

“Um. I was just wondering. Do you think, I mean, do you want, well, the thing is. Um. Do you have a date for Homecoming?”

Trina shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“I’m not going, Wendy. No one’s asked me. I don’t think anyone’s going to ask me.”

“Well, um. The thing is, Trina. Would you go to Homecoming with me? I mean, can I take you to Homecoming. I mean, as a date, not friends?”

This time Wendy, who had had her eyes on Trina the whole time, looked down, cheeks burning, at her tips of her black heels.

What if she says no?

What if she laughs at me?

Oh god, I couldn’t take that.

I definitely wouldn’t come back to school if she laughs at me.

Raising her head to look at Trina, biting her lip in suspense, she waited for her judgment. But it was Maddy who next spoke.

“You gotta be joking, right Wendy? Is this a joke? Are you serious?”

Wendy’s doubt passed, giving way to annoyance with Maddy.

“Of course I’m serious, Maddy. Why wouldn’t I be serious? Besides, I was talking to Trina, not you.”

She turned her attention back to Trina.

“Please say yes, Trina. I really want to go to Homecoming with you.”

Trina, who’d been smitten with both Wendy and Maddy all year long, couldn’t believe her ears or eyes. She’d known since middle school that she liked girls, but she didn’t think Wendy felt the same way until that strange day after school, but then she started talking about boys all the time, and there were rumors about her sleeping with some old guy, which she never believed, but still. She’d been close to that Sara and her gang for a couple of days. And now this. Wendy asking her to the Homecoming dance.

“But why, Wendy? Do you. Do you really mean as a date?”

Wendy sat down in front of Trina and reached for her hand across the table.

“Of course I mean it. I really want to go to the dance with you. I really want you to be my Homecoming date. You see. Well, the thing is, I like girls. I mean, I’m just super attracted to girls right now, but I like you. And I want to show you how much I do like you.”

Maddy’s jaw dropped.

“Wendy Love, are you telling us that you’re.”

“I’m a lesbian, Maddy. I’ve always been a lesbian.”

Maddy gathered her purse and lunch together.

“I’m sorry. But I have to go. Uh, I have to look something up in the library.”

Trina stifled a giggle as Maddy stomped away in a cloud of confusion.

Then she looked at Wendy seriously.

“I thought maybe you and Sara were going out. You two were really close a couple of weeks ago, then that thing happened. With Brad. Then I heard. Then I saw you holding hands today. So what gives?”

Wendy took a deep breath.

“Well, I mean Sara and I are close. But we’re not dating or anything, she’s just been a really good friend. And, you know, she’s shown me that I’m, you know, gay. That I really like girls. I’ve always known it, I think. But then she showed me.”

“But why me? Why not some other girl?”

“Gosh, Trina. I mean, why not you? You’re so. Well, hot, to be honest. I saw that when you came by to drop off my homework. God your ass, it’s just so. Cute. Sexy. And you’re so pretty. And you make me laugh. And you’re so kind and thoughtful. I think I’ve always liked you. And I really want to go out with you.”

“Okay, Wendy. Yes. I’ll go to Homecoming with you.”

“You will!”

“I will.”

Wendy clapped her hands together. She moved around the table to sit next to Trina. She spent the rest of lunch period talking and laughing with Trina, holding her hand between their seats. Once she even leaned in a little to kiss Trina high on her face, just in front of her ear. Trina closed her eyes and smiled.

153. Wendy reads a letter

When Sara dropped Wendy off at her house after school, Wendy kissed Sara goodbye.

.“Careful,” Sara said. “Whatever will Trina think? Won’t she get jealous?”

Wendy rolled her eyes.

“She’ll just have to get used to me being slutty.”

154. Sara making plans to come over

“She’ll manage. Sluttiness suits you.”

Sara watched Wendy jump out of the car and run up her porch steps, her heart-shaped ass jiggling in its red and black plaid skirt.

“Don’t forget I’m coming over later! I’ve got some stuff to do, but I’ll swing by in a couple of hours.”

“I won’t,” Wendy promised. “I won’t forget.”

Wendy saw a bunch of mail stuffed into the mailbox by the door, so she grabbed the mail, unlocked the door and made her way to the kitchen.

“Mom?” she yelled.

No answer.

“Renee?”

Still no answer.

Throwing her backpack on the kitchen island, she sifted through the mail, saw the letter from Jack Randall, recognized the name as the author of the book she’d started and never finished, and ripped the envelope open.

155. Wendy goes to the bookstore

Wendy changed clothes, baggy jeans, her pink sneakers, a pink sweat jacket with hood. She grabbed The Secret History of Edge City and wrote a quick note to her mother and Renee. It was funny how Renee had become such a fixture in her life. She didn’t resent her at all. She was glad she kept her mother, kept Mary busy. Kept that hot body satisfied.

The note said she’d gone to the bookstore.

Jack said he’d be there, no matter when or what day she showed up.

Might as well check it out.

That platinum blond woman came to her mind.

I wonder if she’ll be there?

Wendy chained her green ten-speed to the bike rack, looked around for anybody who looked like they’d been waiting for her, saw no one and went inside the bookstore.

Ed Dvorak had capitulated. The spicy smell of tacos greeted Wendy as she walked through the door of the book shop. The front of the bookstore had been cleared to make room for a short counter and kitchen area, complete with four small tables, two of them occupied by middle-aged readers, mostly graying men flipping through sports magazines or literary journals.

Ed stood behind the counter, taking the orders from a short, plumpish woman who looked to be in her late 30s, accompanied by two girls about six and eight as far as Wendy could guess. Ed Dvorak looked happy. Beyond the dining area, a thin, lanky young woman with horned rimmed glasses and a page boy haircut with short bangs was reading Dragons in the Attic behind the register for the bookstore itself. The girl was kind of cute in her own way, and Wendy started towards the register, suddenly turned on and looking for action.

Early that day the thought of asking Trina out took every ounce of courage she could muster. Now she leapt forward at the chance of making small talk with a girl, chatting her up. Flirting with her. Seeing if she’d be. And of course she would be. Somehow Wendy knew practically any girl would be interested in her, Wendy.

Somehow she knew she could get any girl she wanted.

She might have to work a little for it, but she’d get it.

A cough caught her attention.

A man calling her name stopped her short.

“Wendy.”

156. Jack finally speaks to Wendy

Wendy turned to look at the man who called, sweeping the small dining area with her eyes. She could’ve sworn that the table closest to her had been empty when she walked by, but now a non-descript man in a dark ball cap and denim jacket sat there, a tall paper cup of coffee in front of him. He stood up and held out his hand.

“Oh, this is an honor, Wendy. I’m just so happy to finally meet you. But we gotta hurry because it’s all about to go down now. Well. Soon. You know how these things go. But the buildup, the buildup has been something awful. Just awful.”

The man walked around the table, pulled out a chair, and held it out for Wendy.

Confused, Wendy sat down.

Then the man pushed the chair towards the table and sat back down.

Wendy noticed the book next to the coffee cup.

The Secret History of Edge City.

“So you’re Jack Randall then,” Wendy stated rather than asked.

“Of course, of course. Who else would I be? The one and only. Well, the one of only four. Which makes me special but hardly unique. Not like you.”

Wendy squinted her eyes at that statement.

“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“Well, Wendy. It’s not really easy to say. How much do you know about stuff? I mean, all this stuff? Like, you know. Space. Creation.”

“Um. You mean like the big bang?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Well, I’m not stupid. I might only be a teen, but I’m a brainy one. I mean, that’s what I’ve been called. Sometimes. I read things. Books.”

“Wendy. I’m going to tell you a little something.”

“About The Consortium? About The Guild? You talked about them in your letter. I didn’t know what you were talking about.”

Jack Randall nodded to the book on the table.

“If you would have finished that, you’d understand by now.”

“Well, I mean. I wanted to. It’s just that. I kind of got held up. I mean. My life’s just been really crazy lately.”

157. Veronica gets Wendy’s phone number

At that moment a woman approached the table on Wendy’s side, coming up very close to the girl, standing right beside her, so that her hip almost touched Wendy’s shoulder. If Wendy turned, she’d be in kissing distance of the woman’s ass.

“Excuse me,” the woman said. “I don’t usually do this, but.”

Wendy looked up to recognize the mother who had been standing in the taco line with her two girls.

Wendy smiled.

“It’s okay, you’re not interrupting.”

The tone of Wendy’s voice dripped the sweetest honey.

“It’s just that, well, I was wondering. I mean, um. The thing is. I sometimes need a babysitter for my two girls, Amy and Melissa over there, Melissa’s the young one, and um, I just wanted to know if, well, if you were, um. Maybe interested? I could give you my number. You could call me anytime. I mean to talk about the job.”

Wendy thought sounded like a great idea. She didn’t know if she normally liked round women, well, plumpish, not fat, but not svelte either, but then again, she didn’t know what kind of women she preferred. They all seemed so tasty. So cute. So adorable. And the youngish mother standing at her side, swaying her hip against her shoulder, touching her now with her fleshy hips, gosh. There was just something about her. Her youth lingered in her fleshy face, and her eyes shined mischievously in the best way of womanhood, girl-like and devious.

“Of course,” she said and scribbled her name and number on a piece of paper she tore from Jack’s black Muleskin notebook, much to his annoyance.

She wrapped an arm around the woman’s waist to hug against her, enjoying the warmth and softness of the mother’s contours.

“I’m so glad we met,” Wendy’s voice trailed off.

“Veronica. My name’s Veronica. Oh I’m so glad I found a babysitter!”

Wendy watched the back of Veronica rejoin the two giggling girls at their table.

Jack Randall cleared his throat.

“There’s a reason for that, you know. About your life getting crazy and you not knowing anything about The Guild or The Consortium. And because you didn’t finish the book, I’ll have to tell you right now. It’s a pretty long story though. I’ll try to keep it short.”

So Jack spoke in a quiet voice, keeping his voice at a steady, not quite monotonous rhythm.

He spoke about the creation of the universe, about how the two psychic forces had been a singular whole, how they had somehow inexplicably divided, how they had kept up an almost eternal war, how The Consortium gained the upper hand almost from the start, how The Guild continually conspired to throw down The Consortium, and how the two had put aside differences from time to time, in order to plant the seeds of life, or to nurture the seeds already growing (no one was really sure how all that started), how The Consortium had placed portals on almost every planet, portals that could help a species through a Great Filter Event if that species could learn how to unlock its power, how most species failed but some came through, how no monkey species, no human species, ever made it through, how the Pain Rabble gathered the remnants and debris of civilizations that survived but barely, only limping partially through, how the Pain Rabble had once tried to overthrow both The Guild and The Consortium, how they had been put in stasis for eons, memories wiped and all experience, all stimulus, denied to them, how The Consortium took pity and released them, how The Consortium forbade contact with all back planets, how The Guild sometimes broke that rule, and finally, how during one particularly sordid battle, a member of The Consortium had created a weapon to stun The Guild in order to rescue certain, um, members of The Consortium that had, um, been taken hostage. How that weapon had misfired and had gotten lost. How it had somehow how showed up again eons later in a remote part of the cosmos that The Guild like to refer to as one of those shithole planets.

“What kind of consortium?” Wendy asked after Jack had paused to collect his breath and thoughts.

“Um. Well. I mean. They call themselves the Ch’thologh Mohl.”

“But what does that mean?” Wendy persisted.

“It’s kind of silly, really.” Jack hesitated. “You ever get a chance to meet them, you can ask them yourself.”

“But where do you fit in? How do you know about all this? Are you human? How many human species are there in the universe?”

“You mean this universe?”

“Well. How many are there? Isn’t this the only one?”

“The answer to your fourth question is, a handful. There’s a handful of human species in this cosmos. At any given time. Some still linger here and there, some have already gone extinct, some are just about to go extinct. Like here, for example. This place is just ripe for extinction.”

Jack sighed.

“The answer to your third question is yes. I am human. I’m from this planet actually. The answer to your second question is that I’m a Journeyman Recorder. I work for the Department of Archives. We don’t really fit into the scheme of things. Usually. So that just leaves your first, fifth, and sixth questions. I fit into this because I’ve been asked to fit into it.”

“Who by?”

“The Archivist, for one thing. The Chief Archivist. He asked me to look into this, the weapon, of course, but also you. He seems to think you’re pretty important. And after what I’ve seen and read, I think he’s right. Fifth answer, probably an infinite number. Which answers your sixth question. No, this universe is not the only one.”

Wendy just stared at Jack, waiting for him to say something that made the slightest bit of sense. She suspected nothing sensible would be forthcoming.

“Okay,” Wendy said eventually. “I think you might be crazy. That’s okay, because like I said, my life has gotten really, um, zany lately. But then you said you think I’m important. Why? Where do I fit in?”

“Well, that’s the thing, Wendy. That’s what made the Archivist curious. The thing is, the Archivist, The Department of Archives, they’ve got, we’ve got, access to all kinds of stuff, and we kind of sort of have a bureau in every universe. It’s a pain in the ass to coordinate everything, nobody really knows everything, and I only know what the Archivist tells me, which is kind of dangerous I admit, but it’s my job, so there’s that. And the one thing the Archivist noticed, not at first of course, it’s taken practically forever, but it’s unarguable. An absolutely bedrock certainty at this point.”

“What is? What’s a bedrock certainty.”

“Well. It’s like this. Not every universe is the same. Oh sure, they’re mostly the same. Most of the time you couldn’t tell the difference between one universe and another, except for this curious fact. Not everybody exists in all universes. I mean, yeah, sure. Some people have about twenty or thirty thousand existences somewhere else, but that’s just a drop in the infinity of cosmoses out there. Some people just show up here and there. A few thousand, a few hundred, a couple of dozens. Sometimes just a handful of existences. Like me. I only exist four times, which is pretty rare. But you? There’s only one other person like you in all of reality. You exist in every universe, Wendy. Every damn universe has a version of you in it. Same blond hair, same mousy looks, same blue eyes. And in every one of them something happens to you, Wendy. Something strange happens to you. Do you have any idea what that could be? Can you guess?”

Wendy could guess. Or she thought she could guess. She suddenly remembered all those visions she had, all those faces of Wendy she’d seen, all of them, um, sexual. Sexual with other women, lots of women, lots of sex with women, such lovely women.

And in every image she’d seen Sara.

“You mentioned the other one, the other one in every universe. Who is it?”

Jack returned Wendy’s steady gaze.

“You already know, don’t you? It’s Sara. Sometimes she calls herself Sarah, with an h, but it’s always the same person, the same woman. Sometimes her hair’s dyed, sometimes it’s her natural auburn hair, but she’s always Sara. Always the same person. But that’s not all is it, Wendy?”

“No. No it’s not all.”

“Because in every one of the universes, Sara turns you gay, turns you into a lesbian, a queer girl, a dyke. Just about the horniest lesbian anyone has ever seen. I mean, Wendy, there is an infinite number of universes out there, and in every last one of them, a girl named Sara turns a girl named Wendy into a lesbian. Sometimes quickly, sometimes reluctantly, sometimes lovingly, like your Sara did with you, sometimes brutally and cruelly, which is something I don’t like to read about. But have. Of course I have. I’m a recorder.”

“I just.”

“Look, Wendy. You’re different from the other Wendys. I can’t explain how or why. I think it has something to do with The Consortium, the weapon, what The Diana Group calls the Living Pink, the stuff that went into your lipstick. I don’t know for sure. I just know that you’re becoming aware of yourself. And I know that you were turned easily.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Well, think about it. Were you always a lesbian, Wendy? Didn’t you used to like boys? Didn’t you have a boyfriend, a grown man, for a lover just a week ago? Were you into girls before that? Did you and Maddy play around with each other, did you dream about her, or about Sara, or about any other girl in high school?”

Wendy thought about it.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think so. But I am now. I think about women all the time. I mean, I am a lesbian. I’m just a total dyke.”

“But just a couple of applications of lipstick, just a few kisses from Sara, and now here you are. Ready to have sex with your own mother, who’s also a lesbian now. Doesn’t that seem weird to you?”

“Of course it seems weird. I told you my life has gotten loony, just all sorts of crazy. But I’m not complaining. And I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

Jack shrugged.

“Okay, fair enough. But I just want to explain, or at least help me to understand by explaining to you, what I think’s going on here. Wendy, you’re feeling the effects of having been converted, having been forced into lesbianism an infinite number of times. That’s why it’s so easy for you. You’ve already done it. And you’ve done it, or it’s been done to you, in every conceivable universe and in some that are less conceivable. And you’ve become self-actualized. Alone among all the Wendys out there, you’re beginning to understand who you are. You can guess, but you still don’t know. Not even now. Not even now when you believe me do you understand the full extent of what I’m saying.”

“Which is?”

“You’re a forced lesbian in every universe.”

“You mean I’m—“

“That’s right, Wendy. Infinitely gay. An unstoppable lesbian sex machine. And The Consortium needs you. In their own way.”

Jack let that sink in and continued.

“You see, Wendy, as a forced lesbian in every conceivable universe, and especially as a self-actualized one in this universe, you have access to lesbian powers your sisters can only dream about. The Consortium knows this. I believe The Consortium directly involved the Archivist to get to you. I believe The Consortium desperately wants to make contact with you, but they can’t.”

“Why not?”

“They won’t break their own rules. No contact with a back planet. Oh sure, they have loopholes, just like everyone else, but they won’t just reach out to you. And that’s a good thing, because the experience would kill you. It would kill any human. But you’re not just any human. But you’re not ready. Not quite. You’ve met them before, at the waterfall, but you weren’t ready. You were close, but you weren’t there yet.”

“But why at the waterfall? And how do you know so much about me?”

“I told you. I’m a journeyman recorder. It’s what I do. I’m hoping to make archivist one day. No monkey species has ever made archivist level. I’m one of the few who’ve even gotten this far. Nobody likes a monkey recorder. Too little description. Not enough observation. Too many I-stories. Too much scat play.”

Wendy shook her head at Jack and frowned.

“Also the waterfall’s where our planet’s portal is. The portals I told you about. Our contact with the psychic powers and a way through the Great Filter. You’re the only one who has accessed it. There’ve been others, but they never achieved anything like you did. That kind of contact. It’s extremely rare.”

“You said I wasn’t ready before. Am I ready now?”

Jack shifted uneasily in his chair.

“Kind of. Kind of you are. It’s just that. Well. You’ll have to figure that part out for yourself. I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

Jack’s voice stammered and faltered, as if embarrassed about something.

“Anyway.”

Wendy glanced at the girl at the cash register and smiled at her. The girl averted her eyes, looking away, then glanced back to Wendy still looking at her. God, she was so cute in that nerdy sort of way. Wendy’s pussy got hot, a warm pool of secretion accumulated between her thighs, and Wendy pressed her legs together, wanting desperately to caress herself, and to caress the other girl, right there in the store.

She’d definitely have to call that woman, that Veronica, about the babysitting gig. She was kind of cute too. In her own plump way.

Jack snapped his fingers.

“Earth to Wendy.”

How rude.

A question suddenly popped into her mind.

“Is there a real Wendy?”

Jack shook his head and shrugged slightly.

“I don’t know. The Archivist thinks there is one. The Archivist says there’s a source Wendy out there somewhere. Well. Not somewhere. Not really. Not somewhere reachable. The Archivist has strange beliefs about that. He thinks the source Wendy is the creator of all worlds. He thinks the various universes are the result of a tremendous orgasm experienced by the original Wendy, the source Wendy. He says you can follow the records and the myths, and many of them, most of them suggest a creative orgasm of unbelievable intensity. He’s dropped hints to The Consortium, and he’s listened to a few hints of The Consortium in turn, and he thinks they agree. He suspects that The Consortium knows where the source Wendy is located. But they won’t say.

Wendy’s Hipkick buzzed.

Wendy looked at the caller ID of the text message.

Sara.

I’m at your place, the text said. Where are you?

“I’m going to have to go now, Jack. Look, I really appreciate you taking the time to tell me all this stuff, but really. I just think. Well. I don’t know what to think. But I need to take this call. It’s Sara.”

“About that Sara, Wendy. What do you know about her? About her family? You know her family name, right.”

“Um, yeah sure. Craft. Sara Craft. She’s just wonderful,” Wendy suddenly gushed. “I love her so much.”

“That name doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“What, Sara? Yeah, it’s like you said. She’s in every universe to make me gay.”

“No. I mean Craft. Don’t you recognize that name? From the book? Nero Craft? I mean, you’ve heard of The Diana Group.”

“Oh yeah. Her mother owns it. I think. She’s super rich. Sara’s rich too. Rich and cute. So cute. So hot.”

Wendy started squirming in her chair.

“Is that it?”

Jack sighed.

“Maybe you can finish reading the book? It might help explain things.”

“What’s to explain? I’m an eternally recurring dyke. I’m okay with that.”

Jack watched Wendy get up, go to the girl at the register, write her number on the palm of the girl’s hand, and walk out the door of the bookstore, phone held to her ear, evidently already calling Sara back.

“So much depends upon that girl,” Jack sighed to himself. “She seems to have a good heart. But I don’t think she’s as brainy as she thinks she is.”

Jack’s belly rumbled. The conversation with Wendy had taken longer than he’d intended. He could stand a bite to eat. The scent of fresh tacos wafted from the front of the store. Jack rose from table, stood before the counter, and ordered two foil-wrapped tacos. Returning to the table to eat, Jack’s mouth erupted in an ecstasy of cumin, salsa, cheddar, and savory meat. Ed Dvorak had become, in the shortest of time, a master of his art. Ed Dvorak, vanquished, had come into his own.

158. Wendy rides home

Confused thoughts, ideas, suspicions, and visions whirled through Wendy’s mind as she rode home from the bookstore. Nothing Jack Randall said made the slightest bit of sense to her. Obviously, he was some kind of crackpot. And yet. That business about The Consortium. It seemed kind of vague and foreboding. The Guild. What did he call them? Psychic powers? And what was that business about the Pain Lobby, Rabble? The Pain Rabble?

She glanced up at the sky. The sun declined towards the horizon but did not look like going down just yet. She saw nothing but blue sky and stray white clouds, and the normalcy of the moment relaxed the sudden onslaught of her nerves. Nothing was going to come down from that sky, no Guild, no Consortium, no Rabble. The shadows lengthened across the streets.

Should she have gotten that girl’s number?

No. She’d call. Without a doubt that girl, what was her name Rachel, she’d call. Maybe even tonight.

Tonight.

What was she going to do tonight?

One thing was certain. Sara’d be part of it. The thought of Sara waiting at her house for her made her heart race, and with every turn of the pedal crank, Wendy’s pussy grew wetter and hotter until she was thrusting her groin into the point of the triangle-shaped seat as she pedaled harder and faster.

An unstoppable lesbian sex machine.

Hm. She liked the sound of that.

“I walk the earth my darling, this is my home.”

I Walk the Earth, performed by The Voice of the Beehive, lyrics written by Brad Nack

“The first [riastradh] seized Cúchulainn, and made him into a monstrous thing, hideous and shapeless, unheard of.”

Táin Bó Cuailnge, translated by Thomas Kinsella

“One-third of a collection of beautiful waterlilies is offered Mahadev, one-fifth to Huri, one-sixth to the Sun, one-fourth to Dev, and six which remain are presented to the spiritual teacher. Required the whole number of water-lilies.”

Lilawati of Bhascara Acharya, translator unknown, taken from Kavanaugh by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

159. Wendy comes home

Wendy shoved her thoroughly saturated groin against the front corner of her bicycle seat when she saw Sara’s Mercedes in her driveway. She ground her pussy against her seat, cumming hard while standing astride her ten-speed. She lifted her right hand off the handle bar and unclasped the button on the fly of her baggy jeans, desperately wanting to feel a pussy, any pussy, her own pussy, desperately wanting to cum again. The jammed her fingers beneath the waistband of her panties and quickly rubbed her rock hard clit, so hard now, so big. It seemed to have grown, she seemed to have grown, her clit seemed to have grown. It felt huge against her fingertip, she felt huge against her fingertip, her clit felt huge against her fingertip, larger than a small pebble, not quite the size of a large piece of gravel.

Touching it, herself, her clit, once, twice, three times, a tremor shook through her body as another orgasm sped through her on the heels of the last. She could fuck herself forever now, she realized, I can just do it right her in the yard. Not bothering to look around for neighbors or passers-by on the sidewalk or street, Wendy stepped away from the bike, letting it clang loudly on the driveway beside Sara’s car. Then she pulled down her jeans, impatiently struggling out of her clothes. Suddenly the door opened, and Sara rushed out to greet Wendy.

She had been looking out the front door impatiently for her arrival.

“You’re here,” she cried, practically shouting as she threw her arms around Wendy’s neck. Then she looked down to see Wendy struggling to kick her jeans off her sneakered feet. She watched Wendy shove her fingers into her crotch and pull them out again to lick her juices, staring deeply into Sara’s eyes while she doing so.

“My god, Wendy. What are?”

“I can’t help it, Sara. I need it. I need it so bad, now. I need you so bad.”

Wendy lunged towards Sara, roughly trying to undo the belt around Sara’s skirt, but Sara slapped her hands away.

“You need to get inside, girl. That’s what you need to do.”

Sara grabbed Wendy’s hand and pulled her across the yard, up the stairs, and through the front door.

Hardly had she gotten through the door when Wendy yanked back on Sara’s hand and spun her around, throwing her against the wall as she leaned in to devour Sara’s red mouth, only then seeing how Sara had down herself up. Her auburn hair, so often in a long braid pulled flat behind her head, now billowed in a styled cloud of rolling, luxurious waves, enveloping her pretty oval face, so feline and hot, her face was heavily made up with layers of foundation and blush, and her lips, so full and wide, gleamed wet and red.

Her hazel eyes were beautifully, gorgeously, alluringly set off with by glittering metallic rose shimmer.

Wendy’s eyes ate her up at a glance as she quickly pulled down Sara’s pink PVC tube top. Sara’s right breast bounced free of her restraint. Wendy cupped the tit, delighting in the soft and yielding flesh. Wendy soaked in the sight of her girlfriend, one of her girlfriends, clad only in a pink PVC tube top and white mini-skirt. Sara’s parted legs stood on black strap platforms. Wendy pressed her pink lips against Sara’s red lips and groaned, urging her warm tongue into Sara’s mouth, her tongue caressing Sara’s tongue before pulling out again.

“God, I want your pussy so bad, Sara,” she panted. “I want to taste you so much. That’s right, spread those legs for me, baby. I need to touch you, feel you, oh baby, I need to do so much to you.”

Sara struggled against Wendy and gave up, spreading her legs wide for Wendy.

Why not? This is what she’d come over for. That and other things. And she had time. Let Wendy have her fun.

Let Wendy have her fun with her little kitty.

Sara whined at Wendy’s hands in her bare pussy, exposed to the air beneath her skirt because panties would be no more use than a bra for tonight. There’d be no use for any clothes tonight. She’d just worn the top and skirt because she had to wear something. Sara ground her greedy cunt over Wendy’s thrusting fingers, Wendy’s two middle fingers all the way in her as she massaged Sara’s hardening clit with the soft pads of the palmar monticuli at the top of her palm. Wendy rubbed her hand at a blazing speed over the clitoral hood of Sara’s burning cunt, sending ripples of pleasure throughout Sara’s body despite the unexpected intrusion of the unfamiliar Latin.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god, Wendy. Don’t stop. Don’t stop fucking me, Wendy. Whatever you do, don’t stop. I’m cumming Wendy. I’m cumming all over your hand.”

Sara’s vagina clamped on Wendy’s hand. Wendy felt the hot fluids of Sara’s pussy flow over her hand as Sara hugged Wendy tight against her. Sara’s hands roamed from the soft cotton of Wendy’s sweatshirt down to cup the globes of Wendy’s bare ass, squeezing the two fleshy half-moons. Sara covered her mouth with the side of Wendy’s neck, muffling her screams in the rumbled fabric of the hood.

Renee coughed behind Wendy.

“Girls,” she said. “We need to bring this into the living room. It’s time.”

But what it was time for she wouldn’t say.

Temporarily subdued, Wendy licked Sara’s juices from her fingers as she followed Renee and Sara into her living room, admiring the view of her mother’s girlfriend’s round ass covered in nothing but frilly pink cheeky panties showing the lower halves of her round and jiggling butt. A very short camisole, sheer to the point of transparency covered her top, her round shoulders accented deliciously by pink spaghetti straps that fall down with every bouncing step she took.

Wendy swept along with the flow, sensing a new sensuous turn in her already overheated life.

Sara stood Wendy in the middle of the living room. The teenager noticed two additional flat screens standing on short tables on either side of her usual television.

A video recorder stood on a tripod to one side of the living room, its lens directed at the sofa facing the three screens.

Renee walked behind the camera, her nipples poking hard through the sheer fabric of her almost halter-top-like camisole.

Wendy furled her brows.

“What?”

Sara didn’t let her finish her question.

She held up her index finger and pressed it tenderly against Wendy’s lips.

“Hush, darling,” she said. “Just be patient a little longer, okay girl? I promise, you’ll get see everything tonight. And you’re going to cum so much tonight, baby, I promise. You’re going to have so many orgasms tonight. So many good feelings. But first, we gotta get you out of these awful clothes. You don’t want your mother seeing in this baggy outfit, do you? You want to look good for her, don’t you?”

Oh, god.

Wendy stood still, trembling inside, as Sara unzipped her sweatshirt and pulled it off her body. Then she gestured for Wendy to raise her arms so that Sara could pull her T-shirt off. No bra. Sara smiled. Then she leaned forward to kiss one nipple and then the other. Wendy pressed Sara’s head against her, holding the back of her head. Wendy’s body shuddered as an another orgasm threatened to rush over her. Sara forcefully unclasped Wendy’s hands from behind her hand and backed away.

“Not yet, my love. Not yet. Just wait. Just wait a little longer.”

She stepped back at the heat of the fire in Wendy’s eyes, and she knew that Wendy could not, would not wait much longer.

She knelt and tugged at the waist of Wendy’s panties, a mere thong, pulling her underwear down in a smooth but fast motion. Sara paused, her head, her nose so close to Wendy’s flaming pussy, covered in the golden glow of her blond thatch, and, unable to resist, planted her nose in the midst of the wet, pungent fur, tonguing the hood of Wendy’s clit, the tip of her tongue rolling over the nub and more than nub of the girl’s clit.

Sara tongue explored the folds of Wendy’s steaming cunt, glistening with the hot nectar of feminine lust, her tongue driving through the thick forest of her pubic hair, sweeping across the fur of her fat, puffy outer lips and then down to lick the tangy cleft, so hot, so good, so flowing with Wendy’s secretions now.

God, Sara wondered, how wet could the girl get?

How hot?

Wendy spread her legs and shoved Sara’s head hard against her inner thighs.

“Sara!”

Renee’s shocked voice rang out in the living room.

“We’re supposed to wait. You said we’re supposed to wait.”

But Wendy wasn’t waiting.

Suddenly the girl bent her head back and howled, her voice emerging from her throat in unearthly tones, Björk-like in her tremulous agony, at once guttural and high-pitched. She ground her pelvis into Sara’s face, holding her firmly with her hands as she gyrated and drove her pussy over Sara’s mouth, a cascade of fluid washing over the young lesbian kneeling in front of her.

Sara struggled against Wendy’s hands, fighting to fall back, her body contorting and twisting in a spasm of pleasure wracking her body all at once as the torrent of Wendy’s juices splashed over her body, soaking her tube top. Crying one last time in an exultation of sweet climax, Wendy released Sara’s head, and Sara collapsed to the carpet, falling back in a paroxysm of a climax more than climax, an orgasm of such shocking power, Sara lost consciousness again, although her body continued to spasm as she lay on her back, eyes rolled to their whites, face glistening with Wendy’s secretions, glimmering vaguely pink, shaking and mindless under the shimmering transparent pink coat of Wendy’s juice.

Wendy turned her head to fix her gaze upon Renee.

“Are you ready for me…Renee?”

The question came out derisive and seductive at the same time, laced with a sensual irony and charged with erotic confidence.

Wendy tossed her head, her hair, styled that morning but still holding its shape, shook about her head like a golden halo, and her pink lips flashed and gleamed, wet and lascivious. Her pale blue eyes, outlined with black mascara and dark eyeliner, pulled Renee in, oceans of lust and arousal in which the poor barista sank, losing all sense of memory and time.

When her thoughts returned to her, she found herself sitting on one of two armchairs, legs spread wide, the gusset of her panties turned to one side as Wendy devoured her pussy in long, hungry laps, less intent on delivering a climax than enjoying the sweet, sweet taste of Renee’s beautiful and somehow modest cunt. Her outer labia stretched in a wide, rolling curve of fur-covered flesh from thigh to inner lip, a thin line of pink flesh, strangely demure, a narrow strip of flesh sloping to the glorious crevice of her vagina almost entirely concealed in the thick foliage of Renee’s brown bush. The thin fold opened up at the top, the tight bud of a flower where her clitoris snuggled in her hood.

Wendy felt Renee regain her consciousness. Her eyes looked up, although she kept licking Renee’s vulva.

“I’m in love with your pussy, Renee. I love your taste so much.”

Renee couldn’t tell if Wendy’s mouth moved at the words, but they were loud in her head and hearing them a surge of pleasure and joy overcame Renee, moved by a kind of gratitude for Wendy’s praise.

“Oh my god, really?”

The question burst from her lips like the squeak of an excited schoolgirl.

Wendy smiled and pulled her mouth away.

“Really,” she said. “You’re so good.”

Renee spread her thighs.

“Then keep going, please. You feel so good. Your tongue feels so good, baby.”

Wendy stroked the flesh of Renee’s legs, moving the palms of her hands across the soft muscular tops of her thighs, enjoying the soft touch of Renee’s hair, a fine layer of soft hair covering the skin of the barista’s bare legs. Then her face plunged back into Renee’s pussy, this time more ardent, more deliberate in her oral ministrations.

She heard rustling behind her, but she didn’t stir, keeping focus on her task, not to make Renee cum, but to torture Renee until, squirming, wet, and shaking she cried out for, she begged for, she pleaded for release. And then to let her have it. Because that’s what girls did for each other. They gave each other sweet release.

She felt soft hands caressing her sides, soft palms sliding up and down her sides from the curve of her hips to the sides of her breasts and down again to pet and brush the soft contours of her ass. Crouched on her knees while licking Renee’s juicy center, she felt a soft body lean over her, kiss her lightly on the neck. Wendy kept licking while someone’s legs spread her thighs.

The kissing stopped.

Wendy felt hands on her hips as Sara steadied her ass while holding the tip of a dildo against her dripping lips.

Wendy almost stopped licking Renee.

She pooched her ass out, allowing her lover better access to her enflamed cunt, her engorged lips so ready now for penetration. Her engorged lips always ready now for penetration by any woman whomever, tongue, finger, or dildo, it just didn’t matter. As long as it was a woman.

She knew that now with a renewed certainty.

An infinitely recurring unstoppable lesbian sex machine.

She grunted into Renee’s sweet, sweet vulva, her beautiful and zesty vagina. Such a pretty organ, such a lovely piece of meat, so lovely and welcoming on the outside, leading to such pleasure, giving access to her most private and profound parts in the full generosity of the female, she couldn’t find the word for it, character. The tip of the dildo, evidently strapped to Sara’s hip, shoved inexorably forward, entering Wendy more or less at once, more or less completely, so ready was the girl for her lover.

Wendy shuddered and ground her hips at the phallus digging deep into her.

Her lover once again leaned over her back, squeezing the melons of her breast in her embrace. Soft, warm lips breathed sighs into her ear, a tongue flicked at her lobe, a shiver ran through Wendy, and a voice whispered to her.

“Of course I do, darling,” the voice said. “Of course I love you.”

But the voice was not Sara’s.

“I’ve always loved you.”

Then Mary’s hip swung backward, pulling her strap-on almost entirely from her daughter’s quivering and wet pussy, shoving it slowly in once more in a slow rhythm of intimacy and sex.

“And I always will.”

160. Jack Randalls remembers another thing

Jack Randall paced his Exo-Squat nervously, going over his talk with Wendy. The feeling that he had missed something important nagged at the fringes of his mind. He stopped mid-step in pacing, slammed a fist into the palm of his other hand, striking the hollow surrounded by the palmar monticuli and both the thenar and hypothenar eminences. The sharp contact produced a typical slapping sound in which a lower-pitched pop of air escaping the hollow could be discerned.

“The Warp ’Gasm,” he cried aloud. “I forgot to warn her about her coming change. I forgot to warn her about her Warp ’Gasm.”

Jack Randall shrugged his shoulders in a gesture suitable of expressing resignation to an unavoidable but almost entirely insignificant fate.

“Oh well,” he sighed. “I suppose she’ll figure it out.”

161. The Go-Between meets with the Roadmen at Moby’s trailer

Twig watched the two white Corollas and the one blue Corolla crunch slowly down the graveled entrance of Glenbogle Park. His trailer guarded the entrance on the first row, but he guessed where those cars were going. That Moby’d been having quite a few guests lately, and Twig found himself more than once idly wondering what all the fuss was about. It wasn’t like Moby, and Twig didn’t like change. He didn’t like to see anybody, especially friends of his, break accustomed habits.

That only spelled trouble, and Twig hated trouble.

The Toyotas threw up a small cloud of dust as they rolled down the drive of the second row, and Twig promised to get to the bottom of this someday. He’d been needing to pay a trip to Moby’s anyway. Dude had good weed.

A few minutes later, Gerald, stooping to get through the front door of Moby’s trailer, took his by now accustomed place on the left corner of the small sofa running against the far wall, facing the kitchen at the front end of the custodial maintenance technician’s home. He looked back and up at the large portrait of the bearded man with the piercing gaze. Wade had explained to him that the photograph blown to poster size depicted the poet-scientist Stanton T. Friedman, but the name meant nothing to the Go-Between.

Frank sat on the other end of the sofa. Tom the Driver and Mike the Passenger, intimidated by the imposing figure of the Go-Between, resigned themselves to sitting cross-legged on the floor, tried to keep themselves from feeling like children in a room full of adults, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that they had been listening in on a conversation, a series of conversations, they couldn’t really understand.

“We still really don’t know,” Mike muttered to himself.

“a blessed thing,” Tom finished.

They glanced shyly at the each other and quickly looked away.

Buddy and Rascal had joined the other Roadmen to drive around Edge City on reconnaissance, searching for any sign of the Pain Rabble or of The Pink Entity. Gerald had given them another Handheld Device. The two Roadmen eyed the instrument suspiciously, and Rascal tossed it into Buddy’s glove box as soon as he sat down in passenger seat.

“I don’t think we’ll be using that,” he had said to Buddy at the time.

Buddy had shaken his head in a gesture that confirmed rather than negated Rascal’s declaration, counter to the usual meaning of that particular movement of the head along a lateral plane. But Rascal had gotten the gist.

The other Roadmen waited in Moby’s trailer for their report. For any report from any of the Roadmen.

The Pink Entity seemed to have disappeared entirely, and Gerald could not detect even the slightest sign of the Pain Rabble, a fact which he found upsetting, even dismaying.

The Go-Between withdrew his powers of sensual perception and retired into the privacy of his own mind. His mind lifted from his body, and he hovered over the city, feeling for any emanation from the Pain Rabble, any vibration from The Pink Entity, anything suggesting extraplanetary origin. Except for a few stray Velikovsky waves coming from the corporate park, he could discern nothing. Edge City, for the moment at least, appeared to be entirely terrestrial, humanly if not safely ensconced in the nightmare thoughts of its simian inhabitants.

The Velikovsky waves did interest him. Not that the Go-Between called them by that name. He no more recognized the great Terran astrosophist than he did Friedman. But they were rare on Terra, he knew that much at least, but not impossible, not completely absent. The proximity to the portal, the obelisk, might be a cause of their presence in Edge City. That Diana Group thing might have been conducting experiments, they might have discovered the obelisk, although certainly they would not have known what to make of it. No one on Terra would know what to make of it.

The species just wasn’t that far advanced, and they were running out of time.

That Moby, now. That janitor.

Gerald recognized it immediately. He’d tried probing him, too. During their first meeting. The Roadmen had been trying to explain what little they knew when the Go-Between flexed his mind toward Moby’s mind. But the man turned to him, glared, and said, “Anymore of that and you can just leave.”

Then Moby shut him out.

Just like that.

Pretty as you please.

Gerald had gotten no more out of him. Not even the stray radiation of a straggling thought.

Which got Gerald’s attention right away. Monkeys didn’t do that sort of thing.

But driving around with the Roadmen the past week had taught him that maybe he didn’t know what kinds of things the monkeys did. Or could do.

And if he didn’t know, how could The Guild know?

Ah, but why would they care?

That was all back planet business. No concern of The Guild’s.

Gerald sighed. He knew he shouldn’t think that way. Those were regressive thoughts, and they wouldn’t get his people anywhere.

Just then Moby’s phone rang.

162. Back to Wendy

Sara regained consciousness to the sight and sound of Mary thrusting a glittering purple dildo into her daughter kneeling on the floor between Renee’s outstretched legs. The mother also knelt on her knees, the straps of the dildo wrapping in a wide, wing-shape from her hips, encasing her ass cheeks to wrap around her thighs. Mary’s thighs, ass, and hips were of course wider and fleshier than her daughter’s, but the treatment of pink creams, body lotions, and cleansers had almost completely smoothed over and reduced the clumps and dimples caused by cellulite gained and accumulated during the passing of the years.

Her skin was so youthful now, smooth, young, and glowing.

163. Sara turns on the television screens

Sara found the remotes to the three televisions and turned them on, one after another. She stood up, went to the camera on the tripod, turned it to face Renee, Wendy, and Mary and turned it on. Immediately the third screen filled to the live images of Wendy licking Renee’s pussy while being fucked from behind by Mary Love.

The large screen to the left of the three screens showed Mary sitting on a chair in her bedroom, legs spread with knees bent over the armrests, while fucking herself with her thick dildo, groaning into her webcam as comments from her lesbian viewers scrolled on one side of the screen.

Wendy raised her head from Renee’s pussy and looked back at her mother.

“Oh, god. Really, Mom?”

Mary playfully slapped Wendy’s behind.

“I told you I quit my job at Adamatic. I needed to do something. It was Sara’s idea, but I told her it was a great one. I love doing that. It’s so. Expressive. Like I get to show the whole world the real me.”

Then the video on the middle screen started, and Wendy saw her mother, barely dressed, in the early stages of a heated make-out session with a woman, almost a girl really, several years younger. The girl didn’t look much older than Wendy.

“I’m a porn star, too,” Mary confessed. “Well, I’m becoming a star. There’s still so much to do. I was a little nervous at first, but now I couldn’t dream of doing anything else. I love shooting lesbian porn. I wish you could see me on set. You’d go crazy. You wouldn’t believe the things your mother can do!”

The sounds coming from the three videos filled the living room of the Love residence.

164. Mary starts to feel Wendy through her dildo

Mary Love’s ass jiggled as the she thrust powerful plunges into her daughter, slow and deep. Her hands roamed Wendy’s ass, back and forth, sliding up the sides of her spine and under her chest to cup and fondle her daughter’s pendulous breasts. She pinched the hard nipples lovely, impishly, giggled, and slid her gentle hands in a smooth motion back to Wendy’s ass, never once breaking contact with Wendy’s warm and silky skin.

Mary held the two half-moons of Wendy’s ass, spreading them at her crack to show her light, pinkish peach-colored rosebud, partly opened as if ready for Mary’s intrusion. Mary leaned forward, collecting a gob of saliva in her mouth before letting the spit drip from her mouth in a string of spittle that landed in the crevice of her daughter’s ass.

She used the thumb of her right hand to spread her spit over Wendy’s rosebud, the rim of Wendy’s asshole. Mary urged the tip of her thumb into Wendy’s hole. She felt her daughter shudder with pleasure, excitement, and burning lust. She could feel the lust growing in her daughter, the fire, and felt the same fire burning in her. God, she loved doing this. She could do this forever. She could fuck Wendy forever.

Mary gasped as she began to feel it, the warmth of the scalding canal of Wendy’s vagina heating the surface of her dildo, shuddering and trembling inside Wendy like a cock, a throbbing cock ready to explode. The slow rhythmic fucking increased. Mary shoved her hips forward and backward, the rhythm picking up pace, increasing to a rapid beat, a fast tattoo of explosive pounding, and Mary’s clit, swollen, engorged, hard, sent shivers of delight and need up Mary’s spine.

The fast tattoo became a rapid staccato.

Mary’s backward pulls were shorter now, the forward thrusts deeper.

Then Mary felt a girl’s mouth on her clit, felt soft girl hands roaming and caressing her thighs, squeezing her ass, fingers plunging towards her crevice and the hole in the depths of her crevice.

165. Sara moves toward Mary

Sara stepped behind Mary, dropped to the floor, and crawled between her spread thighs, turning over on her back as she scooted beneath the mother to watch mother fuck daughter from below. Mary’s pussy gaped above her, her lips extended and pierced with small rings, the bar through her hard clitoris bounced and jiggled, and Sara, a rising gale of hunger for pussy swelled the sails of her lust. She gripped Mary’s thighs and lifted her head to taste the dripping cunt of the dyke mother ramming her artificial cock deep into the scalding pussy of Wendy Love.

166. Renee

Renee leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and spread her legs wide, hooking both knees over each armrest and sliding her ass and pussy almost over the edge of the seat of the chair, giving Wendy as much access to both holes as she could. Wendy’s tongue lapped from asshole to labia, licking continuously in long, slow motions, sometimes circular and tickling, sometimes up and down and strangely affectionately. Renee’s pussy had turned to messy goo of spit, vaginal secretions, and matted fur. Spit and pussy juices trickled then flowed down the narrow valley of Renee’s ass. The barista shivered and moaned, tossing her head back and forth, gyrating and grinding her pelvis at Wendy’s mouth.

Then it hit her. The taste of it filled her mouth, the taste, texture, and thrill. She licked her lips, as if making sure, opened and closed her mouth, swirled her short, thick tongue inside her empty mouth, but the sensation, the taste remained. She could taste her pussy, she could taste her own pussy, and then she felt it. God, how could this be happening? She opened her eyes to see Mary driving her strap-on dildo hard into Wendy.

It didn’t make any sense.

It made no sense at all.

She could feel every thrust of Maddy’s dildo, her own pussy trembled, shook, and convulsed both to Wendy’s tongue and Mary’s cock, sensations of pleasure Renee couldn’t even imagine washed over her mind, and she closed her eyes again, moaning and whining to what was happening to her cunt. And when Wendy shoved a finger deep inside her asshole, Renee shrieked, feeling the first of many orgasms she would experience that night.

Wendy gulped the fluids pouring from Renee’s ravaged crotch.

167. Wendy wants to fuck Mary

As she luxuriated in the sensations of her mother pounding her from the rear, Wendy felt regret at not getting to fuck her mother first. The regret passed as Mary pounded her cunt, each deep thrust sending spasm of pleasure through Wendy’s body.

Wendy smiled. No, it was right somehow that the mother be the first to use the strap-on. It felt right to have Mary behind her like that. So good.

Besides, when her turn came, she’d give her mother, she’d give Mary, an orgasm to remember. She give her a thousand orgasms to remember.

Wendy arched her back, thrusting her hips towards her mother, letting her mother know to fuck harder, to fuck deeper. When Mary touched her breast, Wendy used her left hand to clamp her hand there, holding her mother’s hand on her tit, encouraging her mother, who needed no prompting, to squeeze and to fondle her, to knead her precious daughter’s lovely breasts, to tease the hard nipples of her tits.

The dildo sank deeper, and Wendy felt the heat and the warmth of it, so soft and hard at the same time, so hot.

You have access to lesbian powers your sisters can only dream of.

Jack Randall’s voice resonated in her mind, his words delighting and confusing her at the same time.

What powers?

She remembered Nikki’s astonishment as being able to feel her pussy through the lifeless material of her dildo. All the girls had said as much, Sara had said as much yesterday after school. God, was that only yesterday, only last night? The way she sat on that huge cock, the way they shoved it up her ass, clapping and laughing so joyfully. How they all had cum, just fucking had cum, and cum, and cum.

Could she do it again? Did she have to try, or did it just come, so to speak, naturally? Could she feel them? What could she do?

Wendy closed her eyes, continuing to lap between Renee’s legs, and tried to feel, to sense, the women around her. Her darling mother. Renee. Her beloved Sara. The world receded somehow. No, not receded. Changed. No. Her perception of it changed. A little, just a little. As if a new organ for perception had been granted her. She sensed a vibration, a wave, many vibrations, many waves, a vibration like the thousand interwoven strands of a spider’s web, a spider’s web spreading in all directions, with her, Wendy, feeling the strings at the center of it.

And then she knew something else.

168. Wendy becomes aware of some of her lesbian powers

She was not the center of it, and there was no spider, only the web. She was the web. She could feel and move at will along every string of the web. She could hear every vibration, if hear was the correct verb. See, feel, taste, smell, all five senses at once perceiving the web, the vibrations of the web, and one of those vibrations came from her mother, from her mother’s pussy. She could feel Sara’s tongue on her mother’s pussy as sure and a clearly as she could feel the shaft in her own cunt, and she felt the rings and the bar piercing and continuing to pierce labia and clit.

She could feel, she could taste her mother’s pussy in Sara’s mouth, she could taste her mother’s cunt on Sara’s tongue.

She squeezed the cock in her pussy with the muscles of her pelvis, clamping her pussy around the hard shaft. She could feel the shaft inside her, lifeless but not without vibrations of its own. It too was part of the web. She felt around it with her mind, her mind flowing into her vagina, her pussy, her mind becoming one with her pussy until she perceived every fiber and hum of the artificial cock.

She made it pulse. She didn’t know how she did it, she couldn’t explain how she knew to do it, but she did it. Each vibration of the cock vibrated a little more, every vibrating string of the cock thrilled at a higher frequency until the cock throbbed almost life-like inside her.

She heard her mother gasp.

She could do more.

She extended the vibration, the hum, until the artificial phallus became an extension of the vibrations of Mary’s vulva, joined the interstices of Mary’s labia, and Mary groaned at feeling the cock inside her daughter throb, sending wave after wave of sensation and pleasure into the very core of Mary’s being. Wendy made the piercings hum along her vaginal lips, and Mary screamed thrusting harder and harder into Wendy’s burning cunt.

“Oh god, oh my god. I’m fucking you, Wendy. I’m fucking you with my cock, and I can feel it. I can feel my cock, Wendy! It’s growing inside my pussy, Wendy. Like we’re both fucking each other with the same cock. Oh god, oh my god, I’m cumming.”

Wendy sent the orgasm into Renee, and Renee howled. She lifted her ass off the seat of the chair and drenched Wendy’s face with a spray of feminine juices, a cascade of liquid womanhood raining on Wendy’s blond face. Her glimmering pink lips parted as Wendy opened her mouth to catch as much of Renee’s pleasure as she could, Renee’s orgasm rolling down Wendy’s cheek and chin in rivulets of lust.

She rolled a chain of orgasms, little orgasms on a silver chain, little orgasms like pearl beads on a delicate silver necklace, and sent them to Sara, whose little body convulsed as she held tight to Mary’s thighs, jamming her groaning mouth hard against the gaping pussy dripping above her. Mary’s shrieking joined Renee’s.

169. The Go-Between and the Roadmen discover Lynn’s Transmission

Gerald climbed out the white Toyota, his seven-foot frame unbending in quiet agony as he leaned to the side, stuck his long feet on long legs out the small car first, clutched the roof of the car with his great hands and pulled himself out of the backseat, banging his forehead on the edge of the door.

He thought his bubble made for cramped quarters. This, this. Corolla. This Corolla thing beat everything.

Don’t even get him started on the kind of fuel it ran on.

Didn’t they know? Didn’t they care?

But it wasn’t as simple as that, and the Go-Between knew it. They knew, cared, and did nothing, the apes did. Gerald had been on the planet a week, and he’d spent an entire day trying to unwind the complicated reasoning or form of reasoning which imprisoned the simian mind in a cage of resigned inactivity, indifferent paranoia, crippling anxiety, and mindless exertion.

He gave up after three hours, vowing to stay as far as possible from human cranial functionings.

Oh, they did some things well. That thing called rock and roll, for example. That was a nice bit of sound manipulation.

Socks were nice, too.

Socks were very nice.

He’d had Buddy buy him several packages of white athletic tube socks.

You know, to show to the folks back home.

Frank and Wade joined Gerald, each Roadman standing on either side of the imposing figure and carrying a canister of bug powder. They turned around at the approach of the Buddy, Tom, and Mike, hard soles of their patent leather shoes clicking sharply on the pavement. They too carried the olive drab tanks of bug powder.

Rascal’s blue Toyota was parked in front of Tom and Mike’s car on the opposite side of the alley running behind Lynn’s Transmission and Fertilizer.

Rascal stood waiting with Frank in the parking lot across the alley.

Though the town crawled with Roadmen, Gerald wanted only those six Roadmen. Not that he held any particular faith in their abilities. They had none. But they weren’t wholly incompetent, either. They weren’t liable to get too much in the way.

He’d thought of going it alone, but something told him it would be a good idea to take some Roadmen with him. They needed to know the kinds of things that were waiting for them. They needed to know the kinds of trouble they could be getting themselves into if they didn’t turn things around and turn them around quick.

Besides, he’d keep them out of any major trouble.

His kind had dealt with the Rabble before. It didn’t take much more than a casual flick of the mind, so to speak, to get them to scatter harmlessly. They weren’t too big on psychic intrusion.

They liked their gadgets, did the Pain Rabble.

Buddy, Tom, Mike, and Wade waved at Frank and Rascal, then gathered around their leader, waiting for him to begin. Gerald, standing erect now, strode across the alley and onto the parking lot behind Lynn’s. He looked at the Rabble craft hidden under their blue tarps and nodded at the saucers, pointing them out to the Roadmen.

“See? When you called earlier, Rascal, I knew immediately why I couldn’t sense the Rabble. Still, it look me by surprise. I didn’t know they discovered mind-tarping technology. They concealed their minds from me. Should have guessed, but, well. Not really used to this kind of thing, you know?”

Wade and Buddy both spoke up at the same time.

“What do you mean? What’s under the tarp?”

Gerald looked at them.

“Well, go take a look.”

Buddy and Wade looked at each other nervously, and Tom and Mike tried to dig a hole in the asphalt with the toes of their shoes.

“Well, you know. I’d rather not.”

“Go on. Take a look.”

Wade held firm.

“Doesn’t seem right, somehow. Best not to look, I expect. Best to keep out of trouble we’re not looking for.”

Gerald arched an eyebrow at Wade, then looked around at the other Roadmen. Their expressions confirmed Wade’s reluctance.

“Well,” the Go-Between said, “I guess it doesn’t really matter at this point. But they’re spaceships, if you want to know. I think you call them flying saucers.”

Wade tightened his lips.

“Best let them be,” he said. “Best find that pink creature of yours.”

Gerald turned and walked purposefully to the back door of Lynn’s Transmission and Fertilizer. Chicken wire reinforced the small window set in the steel door, and something dark covered the inside of the window so that nothing could be seen of the interior. Gerald tried the door knob. It didn’t turn.

The Go-Between closed his eyes. A small tremor shook his body, a vibrating hum traveling from his head to the hand holding the door knob. The door knob rattled, clicked, and turned when Gerald twisted his hand. Then he pushed the door open and entered the acquired domain of the Pain Rabble.

Gerald’s vision swept the large room, taking note of the suffering human on its metal slab encased in the Rabble’s protective sarcophagus. He adjusted his mind and felt the presence of nine members of the Rabble. Their signal came from a distance. No Rabbler occupied the building, but Gerald extended his mind just to make sure, checking along the corners and walls for a Rabbler hiding behind a psychic diffusion device, but he found nothing. So.

Safe.

“Okay, it’s clear,” Gerald said, “start checking the other rooms.”

Tom and Mike scurried to the table to look through semi-opaque top. Even through the opaqueness they could make out the horrifying figure of Lynn Trammel, disfigured and flayed. They both leapt back from the sarcophagus, throwing a horrified and shocked look at Gerald and at their fellow Roadmen.

“What, who, what happened to him?”

“Body desecration. Pain Rabble behavior. Typical Pain Rabble behavior. It’s where they get their name. They’re masters of pain infliction. And pain reception. I believe they consider pain to be a path to psychic manipulation and progress. It is not. It’s a dead end. But they like it for some reason. Quite immature of them, but they’re not Pre-ascendant, not by a long shot. Still. Best to avoid them.”

Mike stammered out a furious protest.

“But we’re walking straight into them!”

“I’m with you. You’re safe with me.”

Having explored the main room, after looking with disbelief at the various metallic blades, sharp objects, whips, clubs, spikes, and saw blades of every shape and size hanging along one of the walls, the Roadmen followed Gerald into the room off the side of the main room, which had once been separated into offices and a conference room.

The Pain Rabble had gutted the room, pulling down the walls to clear a large space. But for what function was anybody’s guess. The room was completely empty.

Empty.

But Rascal pointed out a large hole in the floor near a corner on the far end of the floor. The opening of the hole was smooth and evenly cut, as if made by a precision instrument. The opening dropped several yards straight down. Frank aimed his flashlight, and the crew saw another opening leading horizontally from the first vertical shaft.

Gerald nodded.

“They’re down there. The entity’s down there, too. But it’s giving off weird signals. I can’t really explain.”

Gerald didn’t say how the signals reminded him of the brain waves coming from the tortured human on the metal table in the middle of the room behind them.

A tall, narrow luminium ladder ran down one side of the shaft. Gerald held a foot of the edge of the hole.

“Follow me,” he said, “but you should probably use the ladder.”

Then he gestured to the tanks of bug powder.

“Just leave those here,” he said. “You won’t need them.”

Then he stepped over the edge of the hole and floated to the ground below.

Wade, Buddy, Frank, Tom, Mike, and Rascal followed the Go-Between, in that order, but taking the steps.

Gerald had already gone several feet down the second opening before stopping to wait for his crew. It wouldn’t do for them to get lost down here. He could feel the nine Rabblers, but he couldn’t know for absolute certainty whether any stray Rabblers lurked in the dark.

170. Wendy scissors her mother forcefully

Mary shoved her cock, what else could she call it, hard into her daughter one final time, blasting an orgasm from her cunt in a fountain flowing from her groin, pouring in gush, an orgasm curling her toes and singeing her head with its electric intensity. She shuddered, feeling her cock throb inside Wendy’s pussy, half-expecting to discharge a mass of semen inside her.

Slowly she regained control of herself, pulling the phallus from Wendy, watching in lustful satisfaction as the girl’s lips gaped open, her mound a flat, vertical open gash covered in blond hair. Mary rubbed the juice-covered shaft and bent down to kiss her daughter’s hole.

“Oh baby, you can’t believe how good you make me feel,” she said, licking the flat of her tongue over Wendy’s drenched snatch.

Renee had in the meantime fallen off the chair, slumping and sliding forward until she collapsed on the carpet shuddering and convulsing with the tremors of a lasting orgasm, an orgasm that would not fade for several minutes. She turned over, shaking in a fetal position, clutching herself by wrapping her arms around her body. Sara had crawled over to her, lightly caressing the side of Renee’s hip, stroking her hand tenderly and affectionately over the young barista.

She slipped behind her and held her against her breasts, holding the girl through her ongoing orgasm, feeling the orgasm spread through her, sharing her orgasm, and muttering quietly to herself.

“Wendy, Wendy, Wendy.”

A pink mist covered Sara, a pink dream, timeless and without space, and when she returned she brought back images of Wendy endless arrayed.

Suddenly Wendy shot up, threw mother on her back, pulled her legs apart, and thrust her own pussy against Mary’s pussy, frantically rubbing her wet cunt against her mother’s wet and shaven cunt. Mary’s cock flopped against her belly, dripping Wendy’s cunt juice onto Mary’s breasts. Wendy felt Mary’s piercings rubbing hard against her pussy, rubbing hard against her swollen and engorged lips. Her thighs rubbed against the leather straps of Mary’s dildo, and she ground her hips hard and fast against her mother, who stared up at her daughter, her head and shoulders jammed against the carpet.

“Oh god yeah. Fuck me, Wendy, please fuck me. Fuck me harder, Wendy. Fuck my pussy, girl. Oh, god your pussy’s so hot.”

Wendy fucked Mary’s pussy.

Throwing her head back, she screamed as a mighty torrent of orgasmic fluid erupted from her, washing over Mary’s groin, rolling down Mary’s pierced navel, and flowing between the valley of Mary’s tits. Continuing to explode, Wendy moved her cunt off Mary’s cunt and shift her hips over Mary’s face. Mary opened her red mouth to the cascade of fluids pouring from Wendy.

Wendy released Mary’s legs and fell upon her mother, licking Mary from belly to breasts, biting the bars in her nipples, from sternum to chin, finally settling on Mary’s wet and open mouth, her red lipstick gleaming wet and bright. Wendy’s pink lips fell upon Mary’s lips, her tongue drove into Mary’s mouth, desperate to make contact with her mother’s tongue, her beautiful mother’s hot and sexy tongue.

171. Wendy remembers the Grotto of the Obelisk

Her lips pressed against Mary’s lips, her pink lipstick burning on her mother’s red lipstick her with a sudden, flaming intensity. Mary covered Wendy’s lips with her own, her tongue urged its way into Wendy’s mouth. Mary groaned as she felt the tip of Wendy’s tongue, swirling in a frenzy against her own wet tongue.

Wendy opened in her eyes, feasting on the vision of her beautiful lesbian mother beneath her, their two bodies, hot, covered in sweat and the fluids of each other’s cunts, squirming, writhing, and grinding against the other. Wendy closed her eyes again, melting into the pleasure of her mother’s tongue, her hand slipping from her mother’s belly to caress the full slopes and soft yielding flesh of her mother’s breasts, her tits, her fingers pulling at the steel bars, pulling her tits hard and letting the fall back again to her mother’s body.

Mary groaned into Wendy’s mouth, shoving her groin upward against her daughter.

This is the first time, she thought. The first time I’ve even kissed her. Like this. Like a lover.

Her mind filled suddenly with the vision of the waterfall at Little Reno Arroyo Falls. She saw her mother kissing her vividly, clearly. She could feel her mother’s tongue on her tongue, then like as now, feeling her hand slip between her parted thighs to caress her pussy, to finger fuck her mother while the water falling into the pool of the basin chimed around her like tiny silver bells.

Did that happen? When? How?

She remembered how it did not happen, how her mother had hugged her close, and how Wendy had pulled away to get lunch. To eat lunch at the side of the pool, not fuck like famished lovers beside the cool waters.

But she had gone into the grotto, had gone behind the waterfall. She had seen it, seen the obelisk. She had seen so many things, so many faces and images of Wendy, of herself, of her infinite beings, her recurring self, over and over again, all lesbian, all forced lesbian, every single one of them a lesbian created by, shaped by, bent by Sara. Or Sarah.

All of them leaping out at her from the pink mist.

And she had been lifted up.

The Consortium!

They had contacted her.

She remembered that now, The Consortium, a million voices speaking all at once, a million million voices compounded by a million voices more, all of them sighing and cooing in ecstasy, all of them female, all of them wonderful, an endless wave and tremor of orgasm filling the infinitely wide halls of what she had no words for, a space beyond space, a reality beyond reality.

Oh, how she had orgasmed!

And then she had fallen somehow, and she had forgotten the entire thing.

Mary cooed into her daughter’s mouth, deliciously intoxicated by the intensity of the sensual bliss washing over her, drowning her whole being, Wendy’s mouth a carnal delight of taste and heat. Mary moaned and writhed into Wendy’s arms. Wendy’s hands swept over Mary’s body, touching her breasts, pinching her pierced nipples hard, squeezing and cupping her mother’s breasts, one by one in her hand, impatient to touch her mother, impatient to feel every delightful inch of that maternal paradise. Wendy’s hips gyrated against her mother’s groin, she thrust her mound against Mary, by now enclosing her mother in spread thighs while lying on top of her, pouring her kisses and love into Mary’s mouth.

Tongue churned and snaked against tongue, the sounds of their kissing, loud, sloppy, making hollow plopping sounds as lip lifted momentarily from lip only to fall back again. Sometimes Wendy nibbled Mary’s bottom lip, and sometimes Mary bit Wendy playfully. The kissing became less desperate, more affectionate, deeper and more passionate, more charged with inexpressible emotion as the two lovers realized who they were and what they were doing.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” smiled Wendy during a brief pause in kissing.

“Is it wrong? I can’t tell. I can’t tell anything anymore. Except that I need you. I need you desperately Wendy. I love you with my whole being, and my whole being is sex. Sex with you. Other women, of course. But you. Mostly just you. I love. You.”

Wendy’s tongue plunged into Mary’s mouth, sealing the declaration.

Eventually her mouth lifted again from her mother’s mouth.

“Sara made me want to fuck you,” Wendy said. “She kept saying it to me over and over, and there was nothing I could do or say to resist. I have to do whatever Sara tells me to do. She made me gay. She turned me into a dyke. Just like you.”

The daughter’s bare breasts mashed against the mother’s bare breasts. Wendy propped herself over her mother by her elbows, each elbow on either side of Mary’s flushed and wet face. Mary’s mascara ran, her makeup was smeared, her red lips a blurred haze surrounding her mouth. Wendy kissed her mother’s chin.

“I love you so much, Mom. I’m just so glad we’re.”

“Lovers?” Mary queried.

Wendy giggled, nodding her face above Mary’s.

“Girlfriends, I guess. You think? We’re girlfriends now?”

“But not exclusive. Oh god, I’m so sorry Wendy, but I’m such a slut now. Your Sara turned me into a total dyke whore. I really am. I just have to fuck practically every women I see. The cute ones anyway. I can’t get enough of cute girls, and I’m so horny all the time.”

Wendy rolled off her mother and spread her legs.

“Mom?”

“Yes, sugar?”

“Would you kiss my pussy again? I want you to eat me to another orgasm. I’m so turned on right now, I just can’t stand it.”

Wordlessly Mary scooted down, crawled between Wendy’s thighs, and planted her face on Wendy’s golden thatch.

172. Twig visits Moby

Twig tapped one time on Moby’s door and walked in.

Moby nodded at him from his chair.

“Half-breed.”

“Nutjob.”

Twig sat on the couch.

“All those Toyotas.”

“Yep.”

“There a reason for that?”

“Hm.”

“You gonna say?”

“Space critters.”

“They gone now?”

“Nope.”

“Hm.”

“I got some bug powder left.”

“That a fact?”

“Might be that I need a lift downtown.”

“Downtown? Where to?”

“Lynn’s.”

“But that place been closed for years.”

“Sign’s still up. Lynn’s still there. In a way.”

Moby stood up and walked to his workshop.

Twig followed him.

Grabbing a canister of bug powder, and nodding to Twig to do the same, Moby walked out of the trailer and climbed into Twig’s Chevy Silverado after heaving the canister into the bed. He saw the crowbar lying on the seat before he sat down. Twig shrugged.

“Just toss it on the floor. Never know when you’ll need a crowbar.”

Moby sat back and closed his eyes. He never drove, and preferred not to go anywhere by car, going so far as to walk the three miles every day to Kid Lester High School. Then three miles again back to the trailer, which kept him in pretty good shape.

But he was in hurry. Those idiots needed him. And those tanks got heavy after a while.

The sun was setting on the horizon, alighting the west in the glow of a pink and orange haze surrounded by the darkening ink of the nightening sky.

173. The Go-Between down below

Wade, Buddy, Frank, Tom, Mike, and Rascal joined the Go-Between several paces deep into the second tunnel. Contrary to their expectations of stumbling through a roughly cut passage, the tunnel led in a straight line to whatever fate awaited them, the floor smooth and even, as if paved. A wavering red light glowed at the far end of the corridor, beyond an opening which appeared small in a distance the Roadmen couldn’t gauge.

It could have been a quarter of a mile away.

Or more.

The walls loomed in a gentle curve high over their heads, and even Gerald could walk forward without stooping. The heels of their street shoes tapped on the ground, echoing down the corridor. The Roadmen looked at each other nervously, somewhat guiltily, but Gerald strode ahead without flinching or even noticing the noise.

They could blow trumpets for all he cared.

He had a creature to retrieve for The Guild, and he didn’t care much what the Pain Rabble had to say about it.

Gerald sent his mind along the corridor. He counted nine Rabblers surrounding the entity. He tried wrapping his mind around the entity but found it blocked somehow, covered in an impenetrable shield, protected against psionic invasion. Curious.

But the Rabble minds were exposed.

Suddenly Gerald stumbled, and the Roadmen behind him bumped into each other at the Go-Between’s abrupt faltering.

More nervous glances.

But the Go-Between soon recovered, held himself erect, and continued down the corridor.

Buddy stepped beside Gerald and touched him lightly on his upper arm.

“You okay?”

The Go-Between looked down, vaguely confused at the question.

“Hm? Okay? Oh, yes. Quite. Just the sudden violence of the Rabble. Their thoughts, I mean. It was quite. Vivid. I’ve packaged it, though. It’s in its own space now. Harmless really. Mostly.”

Buddy dropped back, not at all comforted by the Go-Between’s reply.

Frank leaned into his ear.

“Something wrong?”

Buddy shook his head and shrugged.

“Don’t know. I hope not.”

Eventually the red glow grew to a bright light as the opening at the end of the tunnel neared. The Roadmen slowed, recognizing a danger even if Gerald ignored it. They watched the Go-Between walk into the glow, his long, thin figured surrounded by the pink light seeming to waver as he receded beyond the edge of the opening at the end of the corridor.

Wade cast a confused look around the small group.

“I mean, should we?”

Rascal shrugged.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I mean.”

174. The Roadmen see the Pain Rabble and run

Mike looked at Tom, Frank stared his shoes, and Buddy squared his shoulders, ready to plunge in after his leader. Hesitating only momentarily, the Roadmen stepped one by one into the chamber illuminated by a harsh and sinister red light. The Roadmen saw their leader Gerald advance, his seven-foot frame a formidable body against the nine members of the Pain Rabble.

The Pain Rabble.

When the Roadmen caught a glimpse of the three Rabblers approaching the Go-Between, they almost bolted from the chamber in a mass.

Clad from head to foot in what looked like black leather, straps and steel buckles overlapping one another, with spikes and metal knobs running in all directions, the beings wore weird helmets on their heads, resembling nothing so much as bowler hats with wires, knobs, and red lights studded at intervals along and around the hat. The “brim” of the helmet taking the form of a thick strip of metal, gleaming with a red pulse moving along the circumference of the helmet.

With their tall leather boots on tall platform heels, they looked like a rock and roll band from another era, glamorously metallic.

But their helmets did not hide their hideous faces, horrible reptilian faces with red gleaming eyes revealing dark minds peering from behind black, empty slits. Terrible teeth, evil fangs cruelly pointed, protruded from the short snouts of their maws, and now and then a serpentine tongue, yellow and forked, flicked and darted from between the gnashing teeth.

They lifted their weapons, and the Roadmen fled.

They stopped, recovering their bravery and wits, just outside the chamber opening. They stood without the opening, trying to peer inside the chamber, wondering how the future, the immediate future, would unfold.

Suddenly they heard several loud noises. Severa thuds. Then the floor of the corridor quaked, vibrating all around them. A whirring kind of whine, loud and high-pitched, filled the passage. Then they heard a scream and another thud, like that of a body being flung against the wall of the chamber.

Then another silence broken only be the tread of heavy boots.

But by that time all six Roadmen had broken into a full run as they fled down the corridor to what they hoped was safety at the top of the steps above ground.

175. Mary licks Wendy

Mary’s tongue swept over the furry expanse of Wendy’s mound, worked up and heated by the taste, smell, and closeness of her daughter’s sex. A strange mood had settled on her, a bizarre mixture of frantic, almost demented lust, and a deeply satisfied, profound joy, intimate and maternal, a mood, a sensation, an emotion she remembered from nursing, protective, caring, embracing. She felt a relief, a feeling of accomplishment. The child had grown from a baby screaming in its crib, from the infant quietly suckling on her mother’s tits into this beautiful young woman. She felt something else too. A deep gratitude for Wendy, a deep and utter gratitude for Wendy herself, the daughter who stayed, who remained, who’d stayed with her, quiet as mouse these last years, sometimes overlooked.

A pang of guilt shot through her heart, almost tearing it.

Mary slowly lapped the fat, puffy sides of Wendy’s vulva, long tender laps of the tongue, licking the flesh and hair from crevice to thigh, lapping from just above her ass to the top of her mons and descending again in an oval circle, lapping her daughter’s pussy like a cat lapping its kitten’s ears, cleaning the length of her kitten’s body.

Mary breathed in the pungent aroma of her daughter’s golden snatch.

She raised her mouth from Wendy’s vagina.

“Your pussy’s so hairy, Wendy,” she said, giggling, pulling a pube from her mouth.

“Mom!”

“Just saying, darling,” Mary teased, then touched her mouth against her daughter’s mound again, probing the inside of Wendy’s pussy with the tip of her tongue, extending her tongue deeply into the hot and pulsing cleft, her lips covering her mound, half gnawing, half caressing Wendy’s pussy.

Then Mary rubbed the stud in her tongue against Wendy’s clit, and Wendy arched her back, grinding her pelvis hard against her mother’s mouth.

“Oh god, Mom. There. Oh god there.”

The sounds coming from the television screens, sounds of Mary in the throes of sex with her female co-stars, rocking her ass against one woman wielding a mighty strap-on dildo while crouching between the outspread legs of another woman in front of her, playfully, skillfully, theatrically licking her pussy while crying out to be fucked harder filled the living room, joining the sighs and murmurs rising from the bodies of the three young woman in the room, and the one middle-aged woman, so happy now, so deliriously happy and on fire.

176. Gerald encounters the Pain Rabble

When Gerald stepped into the red light, the nine members of the Pain Rabble turned their heads towards him. The leader gestured with a nod, and three Rabblers moved towards him with arms extended and some kind of weapon drawn. They crumpled to the ground soundlessly, and the Go-Between rushed quickly but calmly towards the Pink Entity, now a dark red, like a strong wine or dark blood, a deep almost black red. He immediately saw the protective netting around the creature, holding it in place. His mind tried to reach out again to the creature, to soothe it, to calm it, but again the creature, or the protective netting, flung his thoughts back at him as if in ricochet.

Then Gerald reached his hand out and took hold of the netting, made of some kind of metallic fabric, charged with psionic energy.

The Go-Between had meant to ascertain the nature of the device, but the netting shot a pulse of searing pain through his body, a pain catching Gerald completely off guard. Still struggling to package it, he failed to notice three other Rabblers rush towards him, weapons drawn and ready. They jabbed him several times with long, spear-like objects with heavy, knob-like endings from which charges of dark energy leapt and burst around the tall figure of the Go-Between.

Gerald screamed, tore some of the netting loose with a fierce yank of his strong hand, turned to face the three Rabblers. He glared at them with dark and angry eyes before knocking them backward with a giant psychic pulse that hurled the three Rabblers against the wall of the chamber.

The last three Rabblers hung back, reluctant to face the psychic power of the Pre-ascendant, who had turned his back to the Pink Entity.

Suddenly the ground trembled, vibrating along the ground, walls, and ceiling of the chamber. A sharp, high-pitched whine screamed from the body of the Pink Entity, and Gerald turned around too late to avoid a long, dark tentacle, a deep red-colored tentacle, darting from the midst of the creature and wrapping around his neck in an instant.

Then the Go-Between felt a pain he could not package.

It was a strange sensation, Gerald decided. Something beyond verbal, beyond linguistic expression. Or even psychic expression. Quite simply, words failed and thoughts faltered.

But he could scream.

Yes, he thought as the tentacle wrapped tighter around his neck.

I can scream.

So he did.

Then the tentacle shook him like a rag doll and flung him hard against the wall of the chamber. Gerald tried to stagger up, but his head rolled limply on his shoulders, and he collapsed unconscious to the ground.

177. Wade stands his ground

As Rascal, the last Roadmen to climb the ladder, making sure Wade got up before him, clambered over the edge of the hole, the Roadmen paused long enough to gather their thoughts and their breath.

“So now what?” asked Buddy.

“What about Gerald?” Wade demanded.

“What can we do about him?” replied Tom.

“We need to get out of here!” added Mike

“There’s nothing we can do about him,” said Frank.

“I mean,” Rascal finished, “if he can’t go against those, those things, what good can we do?”

They all agreed.

Dejectedly, heads hung low, shoulders drooping, they slowly began to file out of the side room of Lynn’s Transmission and Fertilizer.

“No.”

Wade’s voice stopped them short.

They turned around, looking at their fellow Roadman in confusion.

Wade had remained where he’d been standing. Now he stared down the hole in the floor, squatting next to it. Finally he stood up and faced his partners.

Wade stretched his fat neck, turning his head this and then that way, as if working out a kink. Then he raised his hands to his collar and unbuttoned his top button of his white shirt. Then he unbuttoned another button and pulled his collar apart.

“We don’t know anything about what happened to him. About what happened to Gerald. We just took off. We just ran. And I’m tired of it. I don’t know what’s going on, and I’m not sure I want to know what’s going on, but I’ve seen some shit, and I know you guys’ve seen some shit, and I know we’ve been running around now for the past couple of weeks like chicken with our heads cut off. And I’m tired of it. I don’t know who or what this Pain Rabble is, and I don’t much care. But that Go-Between fellow’s been a pretty decent fellow to us.”

He turned to Mike and Tom.

“He unpaired the two of you, didn’t he? He didn’t have to do that. He could’ve left you the way you were. Heck, he probably thought the new you was an improvement, but he unpaired you anyway.”

He looked at the rest of the group.

“He told us things we’d never know. Things we probably shouldn’t know.”

Rascal spoke up.

“I mean. I’m kind of getting tired of being kicked around on my own planet.”

Frank nodded his head eagerly.

“It’s our planet,” he shouted.

Mike and Tom added together.

“Our back planet!”

Buddy stepped forward.

“So big guy. Any ideas on how to rescue the Go-Between?”

Wade nodded.

“Hm hm. We brought that bug powder with us, didn’t we?”

Wade pulled a canister of bug powder from the cluster of canisters they had stacked against the wall earlier. He lugged it the side of the opening.

“We got rope?”

Rascal walked out of the room and came back carrying a length of rope and swinging a long metal object resembling a scythe.

“They got some pretty nice stuff hanging on the walls here,” he said, gesturing behind him. “Might take some of that with us.”

Wade squatted next to his canister of bug powder and tied one end of the rope around the handle. Lowering the canister to the bottom of the shaft, he followed more slowly down the steps built into the shaft’s side. The other Roadmen did the same. Soon all six Roadmen stood in the corridor, each lugging a canister of bug powder. Rascal carried his scythe over his shoulder. Two other Roadmen, Mike and Tom, each held a long knife with a wide flat blade like large meat cleavers used by butchers.

178. Back in the chamber

The three remaining members of the Pain Rabble stooped over the prone body of the Go-Between. He’d incapacitated six of their group, but still. They’d got him at the end. A Pre-ascendant. A bloody, fucking Pre-ascendant. A bloody, fucking, self-satisfied, smug bastard member of a bloody, fucking, self-satisfied, smug bastard species. And they’d got themselves one. Well, with the help of that entity thing. Another stroke of luck, that. A bloody weapon of the bloody buzzers.

They wouldn’t be so fucking high and mighty now.

They wouldn’t be so oh we know so much fucking more than you do, we’re so much fucking better than you are, we’re so much more fucking bloody fucking enlightened than you, you stupid little fucking crawlers.

Crawlers!

Well, they’d show those fucking bloody buzzers who the bloody fucking crawlers were now.

That’s what they’d do.

I mean, once they’d figured out how to get that fucking thing back to them.

In the meantime, they had a Pre-ascendant to play with.

Two of the fallen Rabblers stirred to consciousness, staggering up to their feet like groggy sleepers and joined the other three standing around Gerald.

They dragged the long, unconscious body of the Go-Between towards the center of the room, just a few feet away from the entity, still covered in its metallic, anti-psionic netting, the hole Gerald had made in it having gone unnoticed.

A long metal table stood next to the imprisoned body of the Pink Entity, an assortment of objects, prods, blades, saws, and mysterious boxes with wires, buttons, lights, and switches attached to them covering the top of the table.

Two Rabblers carefully removed the objects from the top of the table, clearing a space for the Go-Between’s body.

The Rabblers lifted the body to the table, attaching the wires from the boxes to Gerald’s head, covering his temples and forehead with needles attached to wires leading to the boxes.

“We could take him above ground. He could join the body of our guest. We have better tools up there,” suggested one of the Pain Rabble to the leader.

“No. Here will do. We are not finished with the buzzer drone yet.”

“And the other humans, the monkeys who ran off?”

“They won’t come back. And if they do, so what?”

So what indeed.

Just then the entity stirred in its netting. Two other Rabblers had regained consciousness and scrambled slowly to their feet. Three Rabblers had their backs turned to Gerald on the table, two Rabblers were adjusting the knobs on the mysterious boxes, and two Rabblers remained on the ground, unconscious. Suddenly the netting from the Entity tore in several places. The creature began to hover. Two Rabblers quickly ran to a kind of cabinet, hurriedly retrieving gun-like objects which they aimed at the creature.

They pressed a button on the grips, and netting burst from the ends of the guns, momentarily trapping the entity.

Other Rabblers ran up to the creature, prodding it with long metal spear-like object, tipped with sharp points that dug into the surface of the entity.

The entity shook with fury, but the Rabblers held tight to their spears.

The Rabblers were so busy with the entity they didn’t notice Wade creeping up behind them with his canister of bug powder. Wade crept closer and closer until close enough to lick the reptilian skin on the neck of the first Rabbler.

The Pain Rabble species had made it through the filter.

They had fast craft, fast minds, good bodies. Though they weren’t fully psychic, they’d designed psionic weapons, and they could go toe to toe with a Pre-ascendant, yeah, sure, they had help, but still. They could float through each other’s minds, they could go collective. With the help of devices, they could go collective. They could mind wander. Not for long, but they could do it.

They were as far above the apes on this planet as the belchers were above the Rabble.

One or two of the Rabblers raised a head at the Roadmen’s entry, but really. What could they do? They saw Wade with his canister, and the danger still failed to register. Besides, that buzzer probe threatened to shake loose, and they weren’t ready yet. They had to focus all their psychic energy through the tubes of their psionic harpoons, pressuring the creature to submit with a combination of pain and dominion thought energy.

Wade raised his canister above his head and swiftly brought it crashing down against the back of the Rabbler’s head in one swift motion.

It had been a long time since any member species of the Pain Rabble had been hit by an ape. Most had forgotten just how hard a male ape, a he-monkey, could swing. The canister of bug powder struck the back of the Rabbler’s skull with the force of a small hydraulic press, and the Rabbler went out cold.

The other Rabblers noticed the psychic disturbance immediately. Two Rabblers, busy with the Go-Between, released their hands from the switches on the mysterious boxes, and strode to meet the Roadmen, to put a stop to this foolishness, this deplorable interruption.

The fat monkey who struck their fallen comrade lifted the metal object to strike over the head of the next nearest Rabbler, who couldn’t drop his net gun without the greater danger of letting the buzzer probe free. A taller thinner monkey ran up to the fat monkey. Four other monkeys stood just behind the first two simians.

It didn’t really matter, though, what the fat monkey did because both Rabblers raised their hands to a button on a device circling like a brim the helmet-like encasing over their reptilian heads.

One pulse of psionic device would be enough to knock out those primates.

Then they’d deal with them later. Show them the meaning of playing and sharing.

The fingers never touched the button.

179. The Pre-ascendant has enough

The Go-Between stirred on his metal table, lifting his head and turning it to see the Roadman Wade strike a Rabbler with a canister of what they called bug powder. The Go-Between’s head span, he felt his mind being prodded and shocked by a thousand tiny pricks, he couldn’t focus. He needed to focus.

The Rabbler fell, and instantly the other Rabblers noticed the attack. The two Rabblers standing over him dropped their psychic probe boxes and left to confront the Roadmen.

Gerald ripped the wires from his forehead and leapt from the table, drawing himself up to full height.

He was a Pre-ascendant, a representative of his people, a people in communion with The Guild, and he had been selected by his people to speak directly to The Guild, and The Guild had agreed to him.

His people had not simply survived the Great Filter, they had avoided it altogether, flourishing, thriving in arts, culture, beauty, psychic communication, and science. They had early on recognized the obelisk for what it was, they had learned to communicate with The Guild through the portal, they had put aside what limited grievances they had held with one another, and they had flourished. Like few other civilizations could boast, theirs had flourished.

His kind didn’t get struck. It didn’t get prodded. It didn’t get poked or probed or stabbed or cut or shocked by any gadget built by or known to the Rabble.

His kind also didn’t play games.

The Guild liked that about them.

The Go-Between blinked, his mind sweeping from his body. The remaining eight members of the Pain Rabble dropped, as if struck at one time with a single blow.

Gerald came back to his body and opened his eyes to see Wade smashing a Rabbler’s skull with his canister of bug powder. Another Roadmen, Rascal, held a Rabbler cleaver, running and dripping with green blood in one hand while holding up the decapitated head of a Rabbler with his other hand. Mike and Tom both raised a canister above their heads, ready to drop it with lethal force on the prone body of yet another.

“Stop it!” the Go-Between shouted.

The Roadmen went quiet and still, looking at Gerald with confusion and more than a little fear.

“Um. Stop what?” Frank asked.

Gerald pointed around him.

“This, this. This desecration. This murder. This is not done. This is not done at all. Nowhere in the cosmos is this done.”

The Go-Between looked around him, angry, shocked, bewildered, and dismayed.

“What do you mean?” Wade asked. “You killed them, didn’t you? They’re just lizards, aren’t they? They were going to kill us.”

Gerald shook his head emphatically.

“No. No. No. A thousand times no. The Rabble doesn’t kill. And I did not kill them.”

Gerald stepped towards Rascal, pulled the head from the Roadman’s loose grip, and knelt by the headless corpse of the Rabbler. He placed the head at the shoulders, as if trying to reconnect it. Tears welled in Gerald’s eyes. Murder and body desecration. These animals. These awful, awful animals.

The Go-Between stood up, towering above the Roadmen gathered around him.

“A unique mind is gone from the cosmos forever. Well, forever-ish. It’ll always have this time, I suppose. I mean, the time right before you killed it combined with the entirety of its life before that. That will always be. It will always continue to exist in that space. So I hope it enjoyed it.”

“Well,” sighed Buddy, “isn’t that just how it works?”

“Yeah,” Tom added, “we all die, don’t we? I’m sorry, but if these fuckers are going to come down here to fuck around with us.”

“Then they’re gonna have to find out,” shrugged Mike.

But the Go-Between didn’t have time to explore the consequences, repercussions, and philosophy of ethics, mortality, causality.

The Pink Entity, now red, suddenly trembled, whining loudly, and thrashed its tentacles against the netting, ripping and shredding it. Pieces of Rabble netting fell from the quivering mass, and the Pink Entity rose, levitating from its pad.

The Go-Between didn’t wait for the entity to attack. He leapt forward, shouting at the Roadmen, and pushed them from the chamber with his mind, each Roadmen seeming to be pushed by an unseen force rapidly out the chamber and down the corridor.

In a moment, they found themselves staring up the ladder leading to the floor of Lynn Trammel’s shop.

“Quick, quick, get up there, quit standing around, you dirty apes and get the fuck up there.”

The voice of Gerald threw them into activity.

Tom, Mike, Rascal, Frank, and Buddy more slowly, then Wade, huffing, climbed the steps to the top of the shaft.

Finally, Gerald stood alone at the bottom of the shaft. He crouched slightly, squatting as if to jump, when a long red tentacle wrapped around his waist. Gerald groaned, closing his eyes to the sudden anguish. Other tentacles burst through the opening, and the Roadmen looked on, horrified, as the massive body of the entity began to squeeze through the opening, crushing the Go-Between against the wall of the shaft.

Suddenly a spray of yellow dust burst down in a wide, continuous stream against the body of the Pink Entity, now red, but rapidly turning yellow in the cascade of bug powder.

“Who’s your daddy now, varmint,” yelled Moby standing at the rim of the shaft. Twig stood beside him, both men showering the shaking and raging entity with bug powder pouring from their canisters.

“Can’t stand the yellow, eh?”

A terrible, high-pitched whine trebled from the creature, but it lurched and backed away from the spray of bug powder, releasing Gerald just enough for the Pre-ascendant to kick and pull away from the creature’s tentacles. He quickly scrambled up the steps of the ladder.

“What the hell is that thing?” shouted Twig.

“It’s a probe,” said Frank.

“It’s a Pink Entity,” said Buddy.

“It’s a damned varmint,” Moby muttered, “but we’d better get out of here. The damned thing’s grown since I last caught sight of it.”

Moby turned to Gerald.

“You gonna be all right, spaceman?”

The Go-Between, stooping with exhaustion, nodded his head and ushered the Roadmen, Moby, and Twig out of the side room.

“What about him?” Twig asked as the group quickly filed past the table of Lynn Trammel in his sarcophagus.

“Not much we can do about him,” Rascal shrugged.

“Best to just put him out of his misery,” Buddy suggested.

“No,” replied Moby. “Someone’s coming for him.”

But who or what it was that was coming for him, Moby could not or would not say.

The Roadmen dropped the matter and soon forgot about it.

180. Sara and Renee, Sara crouches over Wendy’s mouth

Sara sat on Renee’s lap, the back of her naked ass, the bare flesh of her skin on the bare, furry strong thighs of the barista, and draped an arm around the front of the older girl’s shoulders, her lips open to Renee’s tongue, as she made out with Mary’s girlfriend, caressing her face, her shoulder, the round curve of her shoulder, so soft and warm, and down to her oh so adorable breasts, apple-sized and apple-ripe for tasting and biting. Renee squealed into Sara’s mouth as the lesbian empath pinched the barista’s nipples, first the left nipple then the right nipple, painfully and playfully pulling them out and twisting them.

Renee pulled away from Sara’s mouth.

“That hurts!”

“You like it don’t you, baby?”

Renee bent her head and smiled.

“I do.”

Renee’s mouth met Sara’s mouth in another long, wet, loud, and lingering kiss.

Sara watched Mary fuck her asshole with a 12-inch purpled dildo, a pink vibrating toy inserted into her fuck hole, wet and gleaming on the flat screen, her legs spread wide for her webcam audience.

“Your girlfriend is so fucking hot,” Sara sighed.

“Wendy’s mom?” replied Renee. “I guess she’s everybody’s girlfriend now. But you’re right. She is so fucking hot. Look at her. Wendy’s a lucky daughter.”

Sara looked down, smiling to Mary Love between the outstretched thighs of her Wendy, the teenager’s golden thatch glowing like a fire around Mary’s red mouth as the mother worked the daughter to another rising orgasm.

“Do me again,” Renee said, pushing Sara down between her knees. “You’re such a good pussy licker.”

Sara agreed.

She was. She was a good pussy licker.

Sara knelt between Renee’s Rubens-inspired thighs, and then, taking a sudden inspiration from the lesbian porn video playing in front of her, nudged Wendy’s head with her foot just enough for the girl to get the idea. Wendy squirmed and scooted her upper body until her head rested below Sara’s spread legs. Then Sara settled her gaping and shaven cunt onto Wendy’s open mouth.

Sara bent her head to look under her body.

She wiggled her ass playfully.

“Good girl,” she beamed. “You’re such a good slut, Wendy.”

Look who’s talking, Wendy thought to herself, but her mouth said nothing, busy as it was devouring her friend’s gorgeous mound, Sara’s pink labia spread wet and wide, opening into the depths of her warm and shining vagina, inviting Wendy’s loving and dexterous tongue.

Sara looked around the room.

“All of you are,” she said.

181. Roadmen watch the Pink Entity enter the sewers

Once out of the building, once out in the open air, Gerald and his Roadmen along with Twig and Moby stopped, pausing to collect themselves, to collect their thoughts. A few of them carried tanks of bug powder. Moby, Twig, Rascal. Wade. Evening deepened, the sun had set below the horizon, and darkness gathered on the east, mustering its forces for its sweep across the sky while the twinkling stars formed ranks in the rearguard.

Suddenly the back door of Lynn’s Transmission and Fertilizer shuddered and splintered open. The group of men backed away, behind their line of Toyotas on the other side of the alley.

The Pink Entity, now wine red, squeezed through the oblong opening and hovered motionless in the small parking lot beside the three tarp-covered saucers. Shortly the shapeless creature began to vibrate and hum, many long tentacles emerged from its body, and in the flickering light of a street lamp attached to a tall wooden telephone pole standing just outside the parking lot the group of men could see the bulbous head, surrounded by a ring of orifices. A red mist billowed from the orifices.

Gerald recognized the danger immediately.

Velikovsky waves. Not that he called them by that name. Harmless to his kind, but he began picking up the disruption in the Roadmen and the man they called Twig. So that’s what those waves did. Interesting. He hadn’t noticed it in the tunnel. Course, it had been covered in that Rabble net at the time.

That red mist wasn’t going to help them.

The Roadmen fidgeted uncomfortably. Twig stretched his neck, tilting his head as if to crack a vertebrae.

Their trousers tented, and the Roadmen stepped away from each other, creating distance.

The Go-Between cast a protective energy grid over the six Roadmen and Twig. The man called Moby remained unaffected.

Interesting. But not surprising.

“We need to back up slowly,” Gerald said. “That creature is far too powerful, even for me.”

As if in reaction to his words, the Pink Entity, now red, advanced towards them, its tentacles waving around its body in all directions.

One of the tentacles wrapped around the exposed leg of one of the saucer tripods. Jerking the leg in a sudden motion, the tentacle lifted the saucer off the ground. Part of the tarp slid of the body of the space craft.

“I knew it!” shouted Frank. “I just knew it.”

Buddy shook his head at Frank.

The tentacle was joined by other tendrils, all wrapping around the saucer. The entity held the craft over its head and hurled it over the heads of the Roadmen, Twig, the Go-Between, and Moby. The saucer landed behind them, crashing against an old Buick, green and low.

The entity continued advancing, its tentacled body now in the middle of the street. Gerald drew himself up to his full height. The simians didn’t have a chance, but he could hold the probe off long enough to get away. He could do that. He might even survive the encounter.

Gerald stepped forward to meet the entity.

Moby looked at the tentacles sweeping and brushing the asphalt of the road with their rounded tips.

That’s when we saw the sewer hole, covered by a thick manhole cover.

Moby leapt up and ran to the Silverado, throwing up the door, and fetching the crowbar on laying on the floor on the passenger side.

“No!” Gerald shouted. “You can’t beat that thing off with a metal bar, you idiot.”

“I’ll give you idiot, spaceman. Just hold that varmint off me for a second, would you.”

Gerald strode forward, gathering every last micropsion in his brain.

The Red Entity hovered over the manhole, swaying, trembling, and humming. It raised several tentacles towards the Go-Between, and one tentacle darted swiftly at Gerald’s neck, but the Pre-ascendant seemed to shimmer in and out of reality, vanishing at the moment of contact and reappearing in an instant, just out of range of the probe’s tendrils.

The creature seemed to take no notice of the janitor moving towards it, crouching low to the ground and gripping a long iron bar in his right hand.

“Wait for me,” said Moby, inching closer to the creature, getting within a dozen feet.

The Red Entity twirled and hovered, lashing the space around the Go-Between with three or four tentacles at a time, cracking the air in their whip-like ferocity. Gerald managed to duck every lash but the last one, which struck him with brutal force across his cheek, slashing a bloody gash running from his left ear to his chin.

“Wait,” he warned again, getting even closer.

“Hurry,” said the Pre-ascendant. “I won’t be able to—“

“Now!” Moby shouted as he rushed forward, running into a tangle of red tentacles.

Gerald coiled into his body like a viper, pointing his head at the Red Entity, who recoiled by a heavy, solid, and irresistible blow.

Then the Pre-ascendant fell backward, collapsing to the street.

Tom and Mike ran to assist him.

Moby wedged the flat pointed end, the straight claw, of the crowbar into the hole of the manhole and leveraged the heavy steel lid off the hole.

Twig ran up to him, helping him move the manhole cover to one side.

“That’s about all we can do,” Moby said, “Get back now. Damned thing’s coming back already.”

The Roadmen struggled to help Gerald behind the line of Toyotas, joined by Twig and Moby.

The Red Entity, knocked back several yards, rushed forward several feet. Gerald’s psionic blow had driven it back into the parking lot, but it had already recovered from the force of the Go-Between’s psychic expenditure.

No Gerald was spent, exhausted, drained.

If they just had a Rabble net.

Those gadgets weren’t a total waste, after all.

But the Red Entity stopped in the middle of the street, just above the open sewer.

Its tentacles grew quiet, almost still, trembling and vibrating along its body. A few tentacles inserted themselves into the sewer hole. Then in one motion the entity dropped, squeezed through the round hole, and vanished.

Frank, Wade, and Buddy surrounded the hole, looking down into the murky darkness, seeing nothing.

“Some things just like the muck,” Moby said to the Roadmen staring at him. “Me? I got no use for muck.”

“Good riddance and fuck off,” Frank said to the open hole, raising a middle finger at the sewer line.

The others stared at him.

Franks shrugged his shoulders.

“Pardon my Burgundy.”

182. Mary and Wendy sleeping together in same bed now

Friday, while sitting in AP French trying to concentrate on her reading assignment, Wendy reflected on the turn her life had taken. Things had changed at home. For one thing, she didn’t sleep in her own bedroom anymore, although, being a teenager, she loved to hang out there, going so far as to slam the door behind her, mostly in humor, at the constant teasing Renee and Mary put her through. But she’d emerge after a few hours, horny and affectionate, to crawl into her mother’s bed, joining the love-making already occurring between the two lesbians, Renee and Mary Love.

But that first night, that Tuesday, after the small orgy in the living room finished, after the last orgasm poured from their centers, their pussies, their glorious and wonderful vaginas, their beautiful and velvet soft cunts, so soft, so giving, so yielding, so throbbing and hot and wet and glistening, after pouring out their last orgasms and crying out, voices uplifted in a chorus of female ecstasy, after those final orgasms, Renee and Sara, thoroughly extinguished, stumbled towards Wendy’s bedroom, and collapsed upon her bed.

But Wendy had gone into her mother’s bedroom.

Mary slipped into a pair of pink satin bootie shorts, too short to fully conceal her round half-moons slipping and jiggling from the bottom of her shorts, so soft to Wendy’s touch, and Wendy couldn’t keep her hands off her mother’s ass now, and pulled a matching short pink camisole, the steel bars in the nipples of her large breasts now in an almost permanent state of hard arousal poking through the thin material.

She turned to face her daughter.

“Oh god Wendy. I still can’t believe this. Are you really? Are you really going to sleep in my bed tonight?”

Wendy, still nude, ran her hands beneath Mary’s thin nightshirt, moving them up to cup and feel her mother’s soft breasts, pinching her hard nipples between her thumb and forefinger.

Her lips met Mary’s, and Mary held the back of Wendy’s head, her fingers sank into Wendy’s golden hair, and she clasped her other arm around her waist, pulling the girl in close and feeling the soft, gentle curve of her daughter’s body, feeling the heat that never seemed to diminish, the warmth of her skin, her soft, feminine skin. Her tongue licked Wendy’s tongue, and Wendy’s tongue probed the wet regions of Mary’s mouth, and when they both broke the kiss, they wiped their wet mouths, wiped the saliva, the spit from their mouths with the back of their hands, and Wendy laughed at her mother.

“Oh, please, Mom.”

Wendy tickled Mary’s belly.

“How much does the old girl have left in her?”

But Mary fell back on the bed, shuffled off the bottoms she had just put on, and raised her knees towards her head, showing Wendy her readiness, asshole and pussy ready for Wendy’s mouth and tongue.

“Oh god, Wendy. I’m always ready for you, darling.”

Sleep took a long time to come that night.

183. A pink mist at school

School was weird, though. Especially that Wednesday.

The boys shied away from her, though the girls, even the girls who’d usually avoided her or never spoke to her, smiled at her, trying to get her attention.

And she’d give them her attention, all right. Barely being able to hold back the avalanche of lust threatening to overwhelm her at any moment, the girls were so hot, so sexy. Megan Harlowe and her crew.

Trina.

All that morning she felt a growing desire, an increasingly insatiable lust for, well, pussy, for the touch of a woman’s skin, a girl’s skin, the smell of her body, the way her silky hair curled and flowed around her fingers, the soft, pliant flesh of her breasts. Her satin, downy lobes tenderly bitten by her teeth, then kissed, the nibbled again, the line of her jaw in the mouth of her kisses. The touch of her lips on her mouth, so good, so sweet, her lips gliding across her pink lips, Wendy’s pink lips, covered and layered with her pink lipstick, so much a part of her now.

Sara, who had spent the night in her bed with Renee, braided her hair into a long, wide fishtail, the kind of braid Sara herself liked to wear. The look gave both girls a serious, sensual appearance, a sort of restrained sexual prowess, a leopard crouching behind the tall grass of the savannah. The weather turned cool now, but Wendy chose a while, pleated skirt falling to mid-thigh, strapped black heels, three inches to raise and make taut the back curve of her thigh, raising the slope of her ass.

She pulled a thin, long-sleeve pink sweater over her, leaving off her bra.

She felt panties were enough. Too much, really. Even though they were crotchless.

Blue eyeshadow shimmered metallic above her eyes, Sara carefully brushed thick black mascara over her lashes, lined her lids with dark eyeliner, brushed and wiped Wendy’s makeup, her foundation, her concealer, her blush, outlining and contouring Wendy’s beautiful face, at last applying the Pink Sunshine Spice to Wendy, who groaned at the burning which seared her from lip to toe.

“Oh, god, Sara,” she had said at the time. “Please. Please fuck me.”

“No time for that, silly,” Sara had admonished. “Besides, I’m running late as it is. I can’t wear anything you have. You’re too big, girl. In those heels you’re a fucking Amazon.”

Renee dropped Wendy off at school, kissing her passionately before Wendy opened the door of the Odyssey.

“God, Wendy.” But Renee’s voice faltered, and she didn’t finish her thought.

A couple of girls looked at them strangely as they walked by, but when Wendy caught their eyes, she found no hostility.

The school day began in a torment of desire, animalism, cupidity, a building storm of wanton Sapphic whorishness that did not abate.

Even in her heels, Wendy’s body undulated, swayed, and rolled, hot with longing, capturing the eyes of every girl, every woman, teachers included, who passed her. The boys didn’t even seem to notice her, parting around her as she stepped, making room for her without regarding her.

The girls, the women, teachers included, followed her with their eyes, sucking in their breath as she walked by, almost shaking their heads as she passed, as if trying to physically dislodge an unwanted or unsummoned or unexpected thought, unexpected in its loveliness, its charm, its seduction.

The hallways trembled pink.

The hallways shimmered, tremors ran the length of the floor, and Kid Lester High School, the edifice of Kid Lester High School, shook with a thrill, a vibration only Wendy could detect.

Fine, pink threads unfurled from the walls, the floor, the locker as she walked down the hallway, caressing her as she passed with fine tendrils charging her with an unbearable eroticism.

Wendy’s pussy tightened, twitched, and dripped.

Wendy found herself in the girls room between classes that day, quickly raising her skirt to slide her hands over her drenched cunt.

The girls flocked to her as if summoned, Nikki, Melani, Julie, Laura.

Sometimes all the girls would join them, or one or two of them at a time, all morning long between classes, not caring for any eye that saw or ear that heard, a quick make-out session, a mutual fingering of spread legs and upraised skirts, pulled-down jeans, shirts raised up or unbuttoned, bras unhooked and hanging loose, breasts exposed.

Or she’d fuck herself that morning in a stall, not stopping at the approach of someone in the restroom, someone, some girl, whose heels clicked on the hard floor as she’d stepped to the stall next to her. Wendy didn’t pause or slow or try to muffle her breathing, and soon she’d hear it, the girl in the stall next to her fucking herself silly, beating her hand against the wall of the stall as she came, and came, and came.

And they would emerge at the same time, and the girl would look shyly at Wendy, smile shyly at Wendy, fix her appearance, and quickly leave before being fully overwhelmed by that sudden strange desire and almost need to stay with Wendy, to hold her, to embrace her, to kiss, and to make love to her.

She ate lunch with Trina.

Trina was reserved, restrained.

The Octagon buzzed, a faint, very faint pink mist swirling fell upon the students, muting the boys, and tinging the girls with an obscure longing, a tingling in the groin, and a slight intoxication with the scent of the girl beside her, shampoo and perfume swelling in her mind.

Trina fidgeted beside her, sitting beside Wendy, and Wendy held herself back, knowing herself the cause of the sexual tension, the sexual heat filling the lunchroom, tried to restrain herself, tried to hold the tempest back, not wanting to drive the girl Trina away, realizing with a sudden thought how much she liked her, really like her and wanted to be around her, to enjoy her company, her voice, her laughter, and her smile. Such a pretty smile.

Wendy held Trina’s hand, leaning into her to give a her linger kiss on the side of her lips. Trina smiled, looked shyly away, then brought her face close to Wendy’s kissing her directly and openly.

“Wendy,” she murmured, sighing. “It’s just so. It’s all so.”

The pink mist thinned to near dissolution, melting away to the merest hint of pink, a thin pink glaze over the nature of things.

The voices of the boys rose loudly in the Octagon, a clashing discord of competing laughter, braggadocio, claims and counter-claims.

The voices of the girls were like the chiming of many bells coming from a far off place, a silvery tinkle of birdsong far from the madding crowd.

Maddy squirmed in her seat, looking nervous, even upset to the point distraught. But she said nothing and avoided meeting Wendy’s eyes. She looked away from Trina’s embrace of Wendy. Abruptly standing up, she collected her things, her tray of food, and left.

Wendy frowned at her friend’s behavior who so recently had made up with her.

Now she was backing off again.

After lunch, Wendy stopped her in the hallway.

Wendy caught her arm as she tried to walk by her.

“Maddy.”

“I’m sorry Wendy. You and Trina. I can’t. It’s just that. Everything about you now. You’re so different. You’ve. Changed.”

Maddy jerked her hand away, and fled down the hall, practically running.

Wendy thought about what Maddy said.

It was true. She had changed.

And not just by turning dyke.

She could feel the tremors, the vibrations, the thrills, the agonizing quivering of the world around her.

This morning, of course, throughout this morning especially.

But also something different.

She controlled it, somehow. Or controlled something.

That feeling, that experience, on Tuesday evening, while feeling her mother’s orgasms, of Sara’s and Renee’s orgasms, of being able to send them back and forth, of experiencing their bodies, their emotions, their beings as a total immersion of vibrating being, each vibration connecting to another vibration like a vast web came back to her at times throughout that week.

Especially in the midst of passion, of sexual heat with Renee and Mary.

It was as if a new world had opened up before her, a new way of perceiving the world only she didn’t quite have the organ for it. Sight beyond sight, sound beyond sound, taste beyond taste, touch beyond touch, and smell beyond smell. Grinding her cunt against Renee’s cunt, with her mother’s pussy over her mouth, Wendy could sense it, feel it, touch it with the tip of her tongue, vibrating like her quivering lips, throbbing like her heart beating in its cage.

She could edge her mother and Renee at the same time, simply by thinking it. No, not by thinking it. By not thinking it. By holding their orgasms in her mind. No. By spreading her mind across the thickening knot of vibrations clustering around each girl’s, each woman’s orgasm, and holding it, keeping it wrapped in delirious readiness, until Wendy let go.

Oh god, how’d they scream then, crying her name over and over again, shuddering above Wendy’s open and greedy mouth, Wendy’s legs spread wide for Renee, spread wide for Renee to pound her, or kiss her, or lick her, or finger her, or simply to rub her delicious and steaming pussy against hers.

Her mother tried asking her about it.

“Wendy,” she’d said one day, “don’t you think it’s strange? I mean. I mean. Do you know what you do to us? Do you know you’re doing that to us?”

But Wendy really had no answer.

She didn’t want to talk about what that Randall person had said.

She didn’t really want to talk about how she existed in every conceivable universe as a forced lesbian. Or that the person who forced her, bent her towards lesbianism, broke her will, and converted her to girl love was always Sara.

She didn’t want to lie, but she couldn’t tell the truth just then. So she did the next best thing.

“Can we talk about this later, Mom? It’s just so confusing for me right now.”

184. An orgy-lite in Trigonometry

Wendy’s pussy seeped, a slow, continual leak of juices and lust. Though she’d jill herself after every period, rubbing her clit vigorously in the girls room, pushing one finger, two fingers, three fingers into her greedy hole jerking forward on the bowl to meet her hand, that Wednesday after lunch, during Trigonometry, it hit her full on, the building lust, the insatiable need.

She found herself dozing off, drifting into a semi-conscious state filled with the scent and taste of luscious women, of hot, naked women, slick with perspiration and oil, twisting and stretching the tight contours of their bodies, one after another tasting and touching Wendy, their hands, their soft hands in a continuous trek across the rolling plains and soft hills of her body, bodies gliding endlessly together.

From time to time Wendy opened her eyes, suddenly aware of where she was, suddenly aware of class and her fellow students.

Melani.

She shared the class with her, gorgeous, sexy Melani, sweet, delectable Melani with her oh so adorable pixie cut highlighting the sharp and tender features of her sweet and tender face.

Melani caught her look and smiled, biting her lip.

Wendy closed her eyes again.

So many sexy girls.

So many sexy girls in this class.

Marcia, Glenda, Pam, Christina, Judith, Rebecca, Maria. Anne. Susan.

All dressed in the cutest outfits. Skirts, dresses, snuggly soft sweaters, and tight smooth jeans. And their shoes!

Oh god, their shoes.

Wendy suddenly glimpsed a vision of herself kneeling in front of a long row of all the girls in her school, slowly unlacing or unstrapping or unbuckling their shoes, the heels, sandals, and boots of her lovely classmates, rubbing their bare feet in her soft and worshipful hands, kissing their heels, their toes, and kissing the arches of their feet.

“A true lesbian loves every part of a girl,” a strange voice seem to say to her, but she couldn’t recognize the voice. It came from nowhere and reverberated in her mind. “Even the feet.”

Wendy groaned loudly enough for the girl in front of her to turn around. The girl, Sofía Torres, flushed at seeing Wendy, her own center growing warm and excited as she gazed on the blond.

Her dark eyes tried to peer into Wendy’s blue eyes, but Wendy’s eyes closed and did not open.

With her eyes still closed, Wendy raised her hem to move her hand below her skirt, feeling the saturated heat of her cleft through her crotchless panties. She lifted off her seat to raise her skirt past the globes of her ass, the back of her skirt crumpling around her back while she spread her legs to gain better access. She slipped her fingers between her wet lips, her pubic hair soft against the sides of her fingers, her warm wet folds yielding like soft petals to the stroke of her fingers, her two middle fingers stroking her pussy as she began to writhe, squirm, and groan in her seat.

A pink mist swelled, billowing around the girls, her fellow students.

One girl after another leaned back into her seat and spread her legs.

Shoulders bared as shirts fell open or down or both, past the shoulder, dropping to the slope of their breasts, catching on bras, or a quickly fading sense of decorum, of decency, of embarrassment.

Hands reached up and out, grasping, fondling, caressing.

Sighs and murmurs arose.

Threads, gossamer fine, unspooled from the mist, connecting one girl to another, covering Wendy and her fellows with a fine silky mesh.

Sofía’s right hand rose to her chest, rubbing her breast over her bra, over her blouse, as she stared transfixed at Wendy, unable to look away, and unable to stop her left hand from drifting between her legs.

No, she told herself, not here. But her fingers unbuttoned the fly of her jeans as she half-turned in her chair to face Wendy. Slowly she unzipped her jeans and slipped her fingers beneath the band of her jeans and panties. The boy sitting next to her, a boy named Sean, didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t seem to notice anything, staring straight ahead with dull, lusterless eyes, his jaws slack, his mouth open.

Sofía’s mind raced, she’d done nothing even half as daring as this in her life.

Her mind screamed at her to stop, to stop at once and turn around, but a pink mist filled her mind, a pink mist filling her mind with lust and need.

God, she thought, Sofía thought, she’s so beautiful. Wendy is so beautiful.

The screaming in her head dwindled, Sofía’s jeans had slipped half-way to her knees, pulled down mid-thigh. She wanted to look at the rest of the class, to make sure no one saw her, but of course they would see her, how could they not see her, but her eyes never left Wendy’s face, transfixed and enchanted by Wendy’s blond glow, shimmering with a pink and beautiful aura.

And Sofía’s fingers entered her vagina. In the middle of Trigonometry, the very middle of Mr. Vernon’s lecture, she was masturbating, openly and without the slightest qualm. And no one said anything. No one said a word. She couldn’t even hear Mr. Vernon’s voice droning monotonously on about what she never had any idea in the first place.

Then through the lust-filled pink fog of her mind she heard it.

The sighs and groans of people pleasuring themselves. No, not people. Students, and not just students. Girls. Through her pink fog flashed the lightning certainty that every girl in her class masturbated along with her. Looking in her direction but not at her. At Wendy. She knew without looking that every girl’s eye in the room had turned towards Wendy, and that as Wendy did, so would they.

If she opens her eyes, if she looks at me, she should see my tits, Sofía realized. She should see my tits.

Sofía clumsily unbuttoned her blouse with her right hand.

Her blouse fell open, and she raised the cups of her bra above her tits, baring the light brown skin of her breasts, so hard now, and pert, so ready for Wendy’s admiration. Her tongue if she wanted.

She was ready for Wendy now, she realized.

She can have me any time she wants, wherever, whenever.

I couldn’t even begin to say no.

Díos mío I want her so bad.

Wendy plunged her fingers, her two middle fingers, into her steaming orifice, pumping her pussy like a piston. Short, ragged breaths escaped her lips, and a pool of liquid formed on the hard plastic of her desk seat. The pink mesh ballooned, billowing and puffing out, spun and blown like pink cotton candy, filling the room.

She could feel eyes on her, feminine eyes, pretty girl eyes upon her as she jacked herself, plunging and pumping her two fingers into her wet hole, thrusting her hips harder to fuck herself, and she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t even slow down, her need drove her.

185. Melani gets involved

She felt them. Every girl in the room trembling inside the pink mesh, a node of sexual energy, the closest just in front of her.

But she felt Melani the strongest, Melani, so adorable, so cute, so perfect, so in love with Nikki, trembling with a ferocious shudder inside her node, ready, so ready for Wendy.

Melani had felt Wendy’s onslaught first.

It hadn’t caught her by surprise, but it certainly caught her.

She had felt it that Monday night, the night of their orgy. They all had felt it. Wendy’s power. Wendy’s amazing, incredible power, so hot, so sexy, so wild, like a wildfire threatening to engulf. What? What could it engulf, Melani wondered.

Kid Lester High?

Edge City?

The world, the whole world?

Melani didn’t doubt it. Not for a second. She’d never felt anything like Wendy.

Not even Sara.

And Sara was just so. Incredible. Amazing.

Wendy reached out with her left hand, continuing to hammer her pussy.

Pink tendrils floated above Melani, caressing her, stroking her, brushing against her skin, charging her with a pink electric heat, so pink, so hot, so juicy. Tendrils slipped down her abdomen, caressing her belly, flicking soft and hot against the skin of her belly and going down, slipping down beneath her skirt, touching the firestorm of her cunt, raging.

Melani’s hands went to the zipper on the side of her skirt, unzipping the fly she raised her hips of her desk.

You’re in class, a voice warned.

I don’t care. Wendy wants this.

You’re in school, the voice warned. Stop.

I can’t. Wendy wants this.

Melani’s skirt dropped to the floor, and Melani slumped against the back of her seat, spreading her legs over the top of her desk as her right hand jackhammered her raging pussy, shaven and wet, lewdly open for the rest of the class.

No. Not the rest of the class.

For the girls.

For all the girls of the world.

And Wendy perceived her.

Seeing her friend so confident in the glory of her sex, she pulled strands of the pink mesh gathered around her and wove it into a ball, a ball of spun pink, and tossed it lightly towards Melani, sending the ball rolling along the lines and threads of the pink mesh stretching across the classroom from wall to wall and floor to ceiling.

Melani shuddered.

The ball unspooled over her, and Melani knew it and knew what it meant.

Oh, Wendy!

Melani sent tendrils of the pink stuff, she didn’t know how to do it, she just did do it, over the head of the girl masturbating in front of her, sending the tendrils deep into the girl’s mind, and the girl stood up, turned around, the girl Susan stood up, her jeans below her hips, her left hand inside her groin. She stood up and turned around, stepped silently towards Melani and knelt between the outstretched thighs of Melani, who had turned to greet her new friend. Her new lover for the moment.

Melani patted her vagina, stroking the folds of her glimmering and shining pussy.

“Kiss me here,” she said. “I want to feel your tongue inside me.”

And Susan did. How could she not?

Melani was so gorgeous. So hot. So sexy.

Melani closed her eyes and groaned.

Oh, god Wendy.

The classroom resonated with the sighing of the girls in her class fucking themselves silly. Their sighs rose to groans, loud groans of a rising orgasm, and Wendy’s hand reached out to caress the face of Sofía Torres sitting in front of her, and Sofía Torres took her hand, brought it to her warm mouth, and sucked on Wendy’s fingers, one by one, intimately, affectionately, with a tenderness charged with erotic urgency.

“You’re so sexy, Wendy.”

Sofía’s voice shuddered inside Wendy’s mind.

“So hot. God you’re so hot. You make me so hot, Wendy. I can’t take it. I’m touching myself, Wendy. I’m touching myself for you.”

Then Wendy came, and her cumming was like a sudden rain in a dry place, a summer rain whose sudden downpour emptied the storm and let the sun shine behind the stray rags of clouds melting away after washing the parched ground already springing to renewed life.

When Wendy finally opened her eyes, she looked around her, fingers in her mouth, sucking on the juices of her pussy, and met the ardent gaze of every girl in the class, faces flushed and eyes dilated behind heavy hooded lids.

She wanted to feel embarrassed but couldn’t.

She wanted to feel alarmed, but it all seemed so normal.

The boys faced the front, drooling from open mouths, staring at nothing. Mr. Vernon sat behind his desk, seeming to pause in his reading of the Lilawati of Bhascara Acharya. Not necessarily trigonometric, he had deliberated the night before, but altogether joyful in its expository of the mathematical arts.

She smiled sheepishly.

“Um.”

But the girls were already sucking on their own fingers.

Wendy quickly pulled down her skirt, brushed herself off, and fled out into the hall, tapping a quick text to Sara, and dragging the pink mesh with her.

When the boys finally came to, they found a roomful of sheepish girls, not exactly embarrassed, no. But awkward and strangely disheveled.

But Mr. Vernon stood up from behind his chair, holding the book in his hand and speaking, almost chanting in a rhapsody the contents from the page before him.

“Pretty girl with tremulous eyes, if thou know the correct method of inversion, tell me the number, which multiplied by three, and added to three-quarters of the product, and divided by seven, and reduced by subtraction of a third part of the quotient, and then multiplied into itself, and having fifty-two subtracted from the product, and the square root of the remainder extracted, and eight added, and the sum divided by ten, yields two.”

But though the girls all were pretty, and though their eyes upon him all were tremulous, he received no more a satisfactory answer than did Mr. Churchill before him.

186. Sara and Wendy in restroom

Wendy texted Sara, who had arrived late to school, having missed the first three periods.

Now? Sara texted back.

Now.

But that janitor, that Moby, stood outside his closet, rolling a yellow mop bucket with his mop.

When Wendy passed him, the janitor stared her down.

Their eyes followed each other even as she dragged Sara into the restroom.

“Weird,” Wendy said as the door closed behind her.

“Creep,” Sara agreed.

“No. Not creep,” Wendy reflected. “Just. Weird.”

Sara shoved off her heels, struggled out of her jeans and panties, hopped onto the sink counter, and spread her thighs.

“Whatever,” she had then said. “I’m ready. Lick me, please.”

Oh god, Sara. But Wendy wanted it. She wanted to taste Sara so badly.

On her knees, Wendy gazed affectionately at the wet snatch of her mistress. Mistress. It was the first time Wendy thought of that word, and it sounded so right.

After all, she thought. What else could she be?

She owns me. In every conceivable universe she owns me.

And no other pussy in the cosmos, not even her mother’s pussy, smelled so wonderful.

Wendy’s heart beat faster, her mouth felt dry, she licked her lips slowly, enchanted by the sight and smell before her.

But she pulled back, and kissed her way down to Sara’s feet, sliding her tongue slowly along the full expanse of Sara’s muscular thighs, the tender area behind her knee, along the hard slope of her calf, the bony prominence of her ankle, and along the hard sponge of her heel.

Wendy kissed the bottom of Sara’s foot, licking the arch, kissing the arch.

It smelled of sweat and tasted of, well, foot, but Wendy didn’t care. It belong to Sara’s body, and that made it utterly precious.

Then she brought her toes to her mouth, kissed the big toe, and slowly, seductively, sensually wrapped her pink lips around the big toe of Sara’s foot.

Sara giggled.

Wendy sucked on her toe like she sucked on the bulbous tip of Sara’s dildo, and then slowly, almost regretfully, she removed Sara’s foot from her mouth, and kissed her way back to Sara’s cunt, swollen and dark and waiting.

Wendy slid her tongue from the side of Sara’s inner thigh just above the knee, tortuously working her way to her lover’s box, her mistress’s slit.

She touched the tip of the tongue against the warm, wet flesh surrounding her slit, surrounding the bare and exposed lips of her lover’s pussy. Her lover. Her mistress. Her owner.

She tongued the warm, salty, tangy juices surrounding Sara’s cunt, the tipping of her tongue gradually turning into a full-fledged lapping from the top of Sara’s asshole to the knob of her clitoris, licking, licking, licking the wet, the hot wet insides of Sara’s breath-taking vagina, so beautiful and wonderful.

Then she tongued the clit, flicking her tongue against the hood of her clit rapidly and playfully.

Sara squirmed and moaned on the counter, wrapping her legs around Wendy’s back.

“Oh, baby, that’s so good, that’s so good, yeah, baby, you like my pussy don’t you girl? You can’t get enough of my pussy, can you? You gotta have it. And you’re so good at it.”

She did. She did have to have it. And she was. She was so good at it.

“So good,” Sara sighed.

Sara, getting wetter and wetter, tightened her leg grip on Wendy, squeezing the girl against her pelvis, feeling the approach of her orgasm.

Wendy felt it. Pink tendril drooped from the ceiling, flailing softly against the bodies of the two girls.

Wendy groaned into Sara’s vulva, mouth covering her pussy, and flicking her tongue like a buzz saw against the hard nub of Sar’s clitoris.

Then Sara’s orgasm broke out from her, but Wendy held it.

“Oh god, Wendy, what?”

Wendy shook her head on Sara’s mound.

“Please, please let me cum. I gotta cum so bad baby, please let me cum.”

But Wendy shook her again on Sara’s mound.

Sara’s orgasm ticked like an unexploded bomb in Sara’s brain.

“Please.”

Wendy pulled her mouth off Sara’s cunt, looked up at her lover, her mistress, her own, grinned, and said, “Okay.”

Sara couldn’t even scream.

She shuddered in a spasm of such ferocity, such intensity, Wendy had to catch her as she flailed off the counter, limp and trembling, almost silently groaning.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god, Wendy. Oh fuck. Oh god. Oh my fucking god.”

Five minutes later Sara had calmed down enough to dress.

Wendy stopped her before going out the door.

“Sara. Wait. I need to tell you something. Earlier. In class. I made the whole class masturbate. I mean, I made all the girls in the class, in Trig, fuck themselves, and they I was doing it, and they didn’t care, and they didn’t stop, and Melani, Melani made the girl in front of her eat her pussy. Because I gave her the power. I let her have some of it. And.”

Sara hugged Wendy.

“I know, baby. I’ve seen you.”

“Wait. There’s more. Um. I don’t know how to say it. But you and me. We—“

Sara stood on her toes to kiss Wendy’s mouth.

“I know, darling. I’ve seen you. All of you. Yesterday. I didn’t understand at first. I still don’t understand. But you’re in all of them, aren’t you? Every single one of them.”

Wendy nodded.

“And I’m in them too. Right there with you.”

“But how?”

Sara shrugged.

“I can’t go where you go. I just can’t. But when you get back, I can see. I can you. I can’t see anyone as clearly as I see you, Wendy. You’re in every one of my dreams, and in every one of my nights, and I think.”

Sara stopped talking.

“You think what, Sara?”

“I think you always have been.”

Standing outside the restroom door, Sara stopped again and suggested cutting class the next day.

“We should take the day off,” she had said while pulling up her jeans. “Tomorrow. Just you, me, and your girlfriend Trina.”

Wendy curled her lips in a thoughtful frown.

“I don’t think Trina will skip class.”

“Why not?”

Wendy didn’t answer. She didn’t want to admit that she was the one who didn’t want to cut classes.

“I just think.”

“Well I’ll ask her. I’ve got a great idea where we can go.”

“Where?”

Sara pulled Wendy against her, leaned up for a quick kiss, and smiled.

“Remember our first date?”

Of course Wendy remembered.

And that was another thing that had changed about her life, Wendy decided as she sat in class that Friday, being careful not to unspool her skein of pink mesh.

Yesterday at the waterfall.

That was strange, wasn’t it?

187. Arrival of The Consortium, Ch’thologh Mohl but not contact with Wendy

Infinite. Infinity. Endless. Endlessness. Unfathomably deep. Unfathomable depth. Pink. A pink infinity filled with sighs and murmurs, cries and sudden shrieks of extreme pleasure, of arousal massed and piled high on arousal, waxing and waning without cessation. The pink infinity touched every corner of the cosmos, its tendrils touched the tiniest of fraction of a quark, and in its recessive shudderings it felt the tiniest stir of a dreamer’s whim or a poet’s fancy. Trembles, vibrations, quivers, shakes, and buzzes ran along every thread of its vast network, but at its center, it held itself remote, reclusive, and untouchable in its private ecstasy.

Then that last shudder hit it. That one. No. The other one darling. No, I mean, yes. There. Yeah, there. But not now sweetie, oh god, yeah there too. But we were. Oh go ahead. Just this once. Oh god yes. There. But she’s awakening and we really must, darling. Oh god if you insist. So hot. So juicy. Yeah, there. There. Yes, and there too.

Crikey, girls. You do make us late for simply everything.

The pink infinity began to stir and take shape. From the infinite void of its own pink mist of nothingness it emerged, sub-infinite in this incarnation, but still. Pretty damn big. A huge pink hive the size of lightyears surged across the galaxies, groaning with pleasure and the sharp thrill of orgasms.

Yes, yes. They do have nice butts, honey.

The monkeys do have nice butts.

Yes, yes. It is a pity about their brains.

188. Jack scribbles in his Exo-Squat

Jack Randall wiped the sweat from his brow, yawned, shook his wrist, and brought the tip of this ball point pen, a fine point ball pen filled with black ink, to a fresh blank page of his black Muleskin notebook.

Ch’thologh Mohl, he wrote. The Consortium.

He lifted his head up, closed his eyes and sighed.

Ch’thologh meaning a deep unifying orgasm, especially low frequencies with intermittent peaks of poignant climaxes, eons long, cosmic and universal, a shared orgasm filled with unifying purpose and Mohl, a communal, cosmic orgasm, feminine and mutual, higher-pitched and eons long, trembling and vibrating in a constant trill of female ecstasy. Pairs well with everything.

Ch’thologh Mohl, or as we might say in Aenglisch, The Intergalactic Consortium of Beehive Space Lesbians.

Jack Randall threw his pen down and groaned a groan of outraged sensibility.