The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Week 5

Thursday

189. Sara, Wendy, and Trina go to the Grotto of the Obelisk

Hank Zschwinzscher saw the Mercedes before Trina had a chance to leap out of her chair in the kitchen. Or at least what passed for a kitchen in the trailer she called home.

“Not taking the bus this morning?” Hank asked his daughter.

“Sara’s taking us to school,” she replied. “You know, Wendy’s friend.”

“You know they’re both trouble, don’t you?”

“Dad.”

“That Wendy, for one thing. They say her mother’s—“

“Dad.”

“I s’pose you’re right. I s’pose you think you know what you’re doing.”

Hank turned away from the window he was staring out of. He lifted the white mug of coffee to his mouth, pulled a long slow sip, and looked over the rim at his daughter, her green and pink hair done up in a bizarre puffed-out bob.

“I s’pose you know your own mind.”

Trina gathered her books into her book bag and shouldered it. She turned to her father.

“I’ll see you after school, Dad.”

“I’ll be here.”

It touched a sore spot with him, which the daughter recognized. She wanted to say something, something to encourage him, but knew it would only humiliate him further.

So she left the trailer without another word.

Sara saw her bounce down the three wooden steps at her door.

“Oh my god, she’s so cute,” she said to Wendy. “That hair. And those pants. Could they be any tighter?”

Trina wore tight pants, almost leggings, striped green and white, with wide flares at the ankles, above black combat-style boots, the only boots she had suitable for hiking. The tight bottoms stretched over the cute, round bubble of her ass.

Wendy said nothing.

Just weeks ago she would have found Trina odd. The way she dressed, styled her hair. Now, she wanted her. Physically, god yes, but also. Emotionally.

She couldn’t really explain it, but hearing Sara call Trina her girlfriend shot a thrill up and down her spine.

When Trina opened the back door and sat down, Sara nudged Wendy.

“Go ahead and get in the back seat with her,” she said.

Trina looked embarrassed, but Wendy quickly scrambled out of the car to settle in beside Trina.

190. Dos Antonios one more time

Although a day had passed since their defeat (Frank insisted on calling it a draw) at Lynn’s Transmission and Fertilizer, the mood of the Roadmen gathered at Dos Antonios that Thursday morning was one of a dour lack of faith in the mission. To say nothing of the mission’s leader.

191. Gerald at Moby’s trailer, channel surfing

Gerald had spent all day yesterday sprawled on Moby’s couch, his feet dragging on the carpet, his head lazily cast back against cushions he’d fluffed behind him. The Go-Between idly changed channels on the TV set with the large black remote he found stuffed under one of the sofa cushions. He’d never really taken the time to research this particular back planet. He never really took any time to research any of them. It hardly seemed worth it.

It’s not like he had ever needed to spend any time with any of them, just deliver whatever it was The Guild wanted him to deliver. Then he’d scram, happy to shake the dust off his feet from whatever miserable hole in the wall he’d landed on. Now, he wondered if that had been the right thing to do. He wondered how many other back planets had cultures, histories, philosophies, arts they’d spent centuries and millennia developing right up to the point of their extinction.

Seemed like somebody ought to get all of it down. Oh, there was the Department of Archives, but Gerald didn’t know all that much about what they did. Not Pre-ascendant business. Not of Pre-ascendant concern.

He looked through every single channel, taking in the whole picture in a single view.

Violence. Sex. Hygiene. Money. Fashion.

The five pillars of monkey society.

Decidedly they were fucked.

Gerald reached for another book from the tall stack he’d gathered near his end of the couch.

That fellow Moby owned a lot of them.

Gerald opened the heavy dictionary and flipped through the pages rapidly.

What a strange book, he thought after reading the final page. Don’t they know what their own words mean?

He discovered that he rather enjoyed watching the small box and its moving images.

They had a lot short, what did they call them, movies, TV shows, about clothes and food.

Lots of short TV shows, about where to buy cooked meat on bread, or what to drink, usually a carbonated sugary drink.

Gerald regarded these shows with a mixture of curiosity and disgust.

He didn’t eat meat. His kind didn’t really eat at all, but they certainly didn’t eat meat.

The monkeys did though. And how.

They had other shows too, longer shows. Movies, that’s right they called them movies.

He especially liked watching the male monkeys in large hats point metal objects at each other.

Sometimes they poked each other with them, and sometimes the metal objects made loud noises and blew out smoke.

The monkeys liked to ride other mammals over landscapes of minimal vegetation, and those were the best moving images.

A monkey named Clint was really good at doing that.

Gerald found that when he folded his hands over his chest, his eyelids grew heavy.

Not too long afterwards, while the monkey named Clint ordered the townsfolk to repaint their small, wooden community, a loud snoring shook the thin walls of Moby’s trailer.

192. Back at Dos Antonios

Not that any Roadman harbored misgivings or resentment at the Go-Between. On the contrary, their defeat brought them closer to their leader. Or rather brought their leader closer to them.

He didn’t seem so august, so formidable now. Even at seven feet, he appeared reduced. Human.

They’d seen the Pain Rabble up close, they saw what remained of Lynn Trammel, and they guessed more than knew just what they had been up against. And they saw Gerald drop all eight, well seven of them anyway, at one time.

Wade himself had risen in the Roadmen’s esteem also. Dropping a Rabbler like that. Sure, Rascal had used Mike’s Rabble cleaver to cut off one of the heads, but that was only after the Go-Between had used his whatever it was. Not that anyone thought less of him for it, but Wade? He flat out dropped a motherfucker with bug powder.

Moby just nodded his head when they’d told him about it.

“That’ll work,” he said. “Course, sometimes they ain’t got no head to smash. Like that critter. Do you no good trying to bash its head in. You got to use the powder for that one.”

Then they all went home, and Moby went to work the next day.

The day after that saw them all, the Roadmen at least, congregating without planning at Dos Antonios.

Ericka the waitress saw them come in and shrugged her shoulders. She glared at the tall guy with open hostility, still peeved at how he’d pissed his pants at the table not long back.

Crikey, how much do you have to drink to not be able to get up to go to the bathroom?

Lousy tippers, she didn’t even bother putting on a smile as she threw the menus on the table.

“Murica on draft?” she asked.

“It’s a start,” Rascal answered.

He stared at her wide, round ass as she trundled to the bar.

“Now what do we do?” Mike asked despondently.

“I have no idea,” replied Gerald. “It wasn’t supposed to be hard.”

The Roadmen stared at him, remembering his encounter with the Red Entity, how it had almost crushed him in the hole at Lynn’s. They had seen him knock the entity back several yards in the alley, and they had seen how that effort had staggered the Go-Between, had exhausted him. Without affecting the entity beyond a momentary daze.

Gerald stared at the plate of triangle-shaped nourishment made of heated corn flour liberally covered in a high-viscosity emulsion of bovine lactation mixed with sliced units of a green pod type cultivar. Gerald looked up from the plate of nachos Ericka the waitress had placed on the table in front of him.

“I mean, I’m a Pre-ascendant. A Go-Between for The Guild.”

The table around him exploded in laughter.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” Tom suddenly said, sounding like an excited teenager. “I’m so pre-ascendant, you all. So very, very pre-ascendant.”

That brought a fresh round of laughter.

The Go-Between eyed the Roadmen curiously, fascinated by the sudden change in mood.

“I poop roses,” lisped Frank, pursing his thin lips tightly.

The Pre-ascendant arched an eyebrow.

Buddy suddenly stood up.

“Nowhere in the cosmos is this done,” he said shrilly, mimicking the Go-Between’s voice with an astonishing accuracy to the general laughter at the table. Buddy slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Nowhere in the cosmos is this even contemplated!”

“Tis not done!” The others shouted in loud guffaws.

“Twill not do. Twill not do at all!”

Wade pounded the table with his meaty fist.

“Prithee, prithee, prithee by the flaming balls of Osiris, it is not done,” he cried out. “How dare you! How dare you. Oh sir, tis not done.”

Until finally even the Go-Between started laughing and muttering to himself.

“All right, all right,” he kept saying.

“It’s body desecration!” someone shouted, but the Pre-ascendant suddenly turned serious again.

“No, no,” he said simply. “We don’t laugh about that.”

And so they didn’t.

The laughter died down.

“I wonder where it went,” Mike said. “That thing.”

193. TR-3B encounters the Pain Rabble

The TR-3B dipped one corner of the gleaming black triangle and plummeted in a dizzying dive from 60,000 feet to under 30,000 feet in less than a second before levelling off into a more or less horizontal position above the world. Neither the pilot nor the navigator felt any noticeable g-force. The ragged brown landscape of Nuevo Metziticli splayed itself out below them, Reno Arroyo Canyon a narrow winding ditch running from the northwest corner of the sovereignty towards the northcentral region. The black machine wafted gracefully, casually, at ease with itself and the world.

The navigator gazed idly through the wide circular porthole below their cockpit.

“Not those guys again,” he muttered.

The pilot looked up from his instrument panel.

“What?”

The navigator jerked his head towards the porthole.

“Those freaks.”

The pilot saw the three saucers fast approaching.

“They seem to be in a hurry,” the navigator muttered.

“Hm,” replied the pilot.

But the saucers zoomed closer, straight for the triangle. The pilot recognized the classic game of chicken the freak lot often played with them. Well, well, well. This time he wouldn’t budge. They’d see who’d blink first, they would.

The pilot swung the triangle around, dipping the front a little to face the trio of saucers directly.

“Uh,” said the navigator, “you sure—“

But the navigator didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence.

The trio had formed a V-shape, coming up fast from below at the TR-3B’s 10 o’clock.

Before the pilot could slip aside, the first craft tilted vertically to strike the triangle head-on, cutting through the terrestrial craft like a blade, splintering the corner of the black craft and cleaving the entire TR-3B sharply and cleanly in twain.

The pilot stared horrified from his half of the black triangle at the navigator staring back at the pilot with equal horror on his side as both sections of the craft began the agonizing descent towards the ground.

194. Pain Rabble in their saucers

One of the Rabblers, target acquisition specialist 1st class, in the last craft looked behind him to see the two halves of the black triangle plunge towards the surface of the back planet. He grimaced when he saw the two puffs of fabric ballooning from the two dots leaping from their broken craft.

He trained the rear gun on one of the two dots and smiled, imagining the incinerated body of the surprised monkey.

Just a little squeeze, he thought. Just enough to tinge its hide.

He fired a burst of compressed energy, deliberately missing the pilot’s parachute by bare inches.

The three saucers zoomed out of the atmosphere, and Terra Infirma quickly receded into a tiny dot as the three craft first rounded Mars and swooped towards Jupiter, where they could hop the nearest sub-space corridor to the major hub at the Helix Nebula. Corridors got easily lost, and common Pain Rabble practice entailed placing a rectangular beacon near the entrance, beacon dimensions having a perfect ratio: 1:4:9.

195. The Guild summons the Pain Rabble

They had just all three dipped into the corridor when the blue light on the leader’s dashboard flashed.

“That means.”

“Yep.”

All of a sudden, the three craft were snatched from the subspace corridor by an unseen and undetectable force. In the leader’s craft, the three Rabblers looked out the bubble-like dome in the center of their saucer to see the blue luminescence of the Crab Nebula.

“Belchers.”

“Yep.”

196. Back to the car

Then Trina groaned, ready to cum, but she opened eyes to see Wendy’s closed eyes, her blond hair falling around her shoulders, and she breathed in Wendy’s pretty scent, but something, she couldn’t say, kept her from cumming. She felt herself tightening up inside, rolling herself into a ball, a tight knot of a ball, and she knew her orgasm wouldn’t come. Not there. Not in the back seat of Sara’s car, not even at the hands of Wendy’s expert ministrations on her vagina.

She just couldn’t.

Wendy opened her eyes to meet Trina’s.

Trina fixed her brown eyes, now glazed over, onto Wendy’s blue eyes.

Was it her imagination?

A pink shine, a pink fire seemed to glow behind Wendy’s blue and glimmering irises, turning her eyes somehow pink and blue at the same time, suffusing her irises with a warm pink light.

“No?” Wendy asked, bemused. “Not yet?”

Trina shook her head, wanting to cry.

“You will,” Wendy said gently. “I promise.”

Wendy slipped her hand from Trina’s pussy, brought them to her lips and licked the juices from her fingers one by one, slowly, staring into Trina’s eyes.

Trina wanted to say something, but only laughter came out, a delirious, happy laughter mixed with spit dribbling from Trina’s kiss-drunk lips.

“That’s my girl,” Wendy said.

197. The Guild summons the Go-Between

Gerald staggered from his chair.

“He’s gonna burst again,” one of the Roadmen exclaimed, but the Pre-ascendant shook his head emphatically.

“I can make it,” he insisted. “I got this.”

Gerald stumbled to the bathroom in the midst of applause and laughter from his table.

Ericka the waitress eyed him suspiciously as he passed her.

Gerald held his hand up confidently.

“I got this,” he slurred encouragingly to his server. “You’ll see.”

He was the Go-Between, selected by his people, they were Pre-ascendants, you know, and those, those Guild people, those Guild thingies talked to him personally, and he. Those Pain Rabbles, those lizards, he. Why he could even, he muttered to himself as he crashed through heavy door of the men’s room, he could hold his fucking liquor, beer whatever, fumbling at his fly on his way towards the stainless-steel trough, besides it was just that one time, not a bad idea that, he thought, leaves plenty of room for expelling the byproducts of mammalarian, mammalistic, mammalian metabucolic, um, metabolitic, body processes, the um, urea and creatine, the creatinide, the creatinine, he leaned over the metal trough, fished out his member, and groaned.

Oh god, he thought. Bliss. Such blissful piss. Such pissful bliss.

He felt such a relief, relieving himself, like that—his body, his very mind was being pulled upward, swelling upward buoyant and uplifted, exalted. The gas caused by the imbibing of so much carbonated alcohol, that beer Murica, not bad at all either when you thought about it, welled up in his guts. Gerald belched without raising his head as he watched the pale translucence of his faintly yellow almost clear piss flow from his rather impressive organ.

I wonder what it’s like to use this thing in the other way?

It must be nice the way they go on about it down here.

Not that he could imagine anything being more delightful than pissing.

Someone must have come into the restroom behind him, belching loudly.

Several someones in fact, from the sound of so much belching going on all around him, somehow familiar belches.

Then he realized he was staring at an almost infinitely long stream of piss descending into a trough thousands of lightyears below the bulbous tip of his cock.

198. Wendy, Sara, and Trina in Sara’s car

The morning sun glowed milk-like over the horizon behind a gauze of thin gray clouds stretching in a single layer like a membrane between the yellow orb and its world below.

Sara pulled a blank CD from a nylon case and slipped the disc into the player on the dashboard. Trina recognized the opening song immediately. Three drumbeats like a slow heartbeat leading into the mimicking bass riff which opened onto the hypnotic distorted reverb of the guitar.

She’d bought that CD a few months ago, after reading about them, about bands from that era, and she loved that era.

Besides, the name stuck.

Her grandmother had been an Old Believer, and those old rituals, those old relics and artifacts fascinated the girl.

“Oh, Sara,” she burst out in surprise. “I didn’t know you.”

“Oh gosh yes,” Sara said. “I’ve been listening to it all week. I burned my own copy from yours, you know. So now you can have your disc back.”

Sara fumbled in the console, found what she was looking for, and reached behind her to hold out a black, white and red jewel case so familiar to Trina. Psychocandy by The Osiris Jar. What Sara didn’t say about the CD she had burned is that she’d added a few things of her own to it. Nothing really drastic. Wendy didn’t need it by now, and Trina was almost all the way there anyway. That girl screamed dyke. Just a few, well, codes to get the inhibitions out of the way. A few subliminals among friends. Or something like subliminals. She didn’t really understand everything that her mom showed her. But she knew what they did. They fucked with your head.

Wendy heard them at once, and she smirked at the back of Sara’s head.

Girl, who are you fooling?

But she listened to them, anyway, falling into the rhythmic suggestions firing into her mind. Hot, erotic, Sapphic. Wendy sighed and snuggled close against the soft small body of Trina, who leaned into the passenger door, huddling in her white fleece jacket. Trina seemed to tighten, but she relaxed almost immediately, and Wendy breathed in the clean smell of Trina’s skin, the candy aroma of her lip gloss, the fresh smell of her pink and green hair.

Trina’s mind drifted into the sonic wash coming from the speakers behind her, her mind taking in without noticing the rhythmic pulses embedded in the fuzz-saturated guitar.

Girls.

She was into girls.

She’d known it forever of course, she’d formed the biggest crush on Maddy since 7th grade, and then later Wendy, but now. And then when Wendy, oh my god, Wendy asked her to Homecoming.

There were a few girls who were completely out as lesbian in high school. Butch and obviously gay. But Trina kept it hidden. She couldn’t really know for sure, now, could she. I mean, there was that time with Maddy.

Over the summer.

She had spent the night, and Maddy and she had been fooling around, just goofing, trying on jewelry, necklaces, stuff like that. And then when she hung a fine, thin chain around her neck, she held her face, her mouth, her lips so close to Trina’s, she just knew it was going to happen.

Then Maddy’s mother knocked on the door.

The mood, broken, never returned.

And Trina had never spent the night again.

God, all girls were so sexy, she knew that.

She needed to loosen up, relax, be sexy.

Be sexy for the sexy girls who liked her.

Who wanted to touch her.

To kiss her.

To taste and to feel her.

If they touched her leg, she should spread them.

She should definitely spread her thighs when a girl, a girl like Sara, or a girl like Wendy touched her leg.

She should definitely get wet when a girl, a girl like Wendy, breathed into her ear, kissed the tender lobe of her ear, kissed along the soft skin of her neck and shoulders. God, it felt so good when a girl, a girl like Wendy, when Wendy kissed her neck, like she did now. God, Wendy’s lips were so soft, so hot, so sensual and wonderful.

She should lift her hips of the seat.

Wendy wanted her leggings down; she could tell by the way Wendy pulled at the waist. She needed to help her. A girl should let another girl undress her. A girl should help at least, not resist, move her body to the guidance of her lover’s hands, her soft hands, her whispers, her whispered suggestions to pull down her pants, to pull down her panties, to spread her thighs, inviting Wendy’s hands to go further, to go deeper.

Restraint was such a silly thing.

Shyness and inhibition.

Trina shuddered and leaned into Wendy as Wendy slid her fingers over the wet cleft of Trina’s furry snatch.

“You don’t shave, Trina?”

Trina shook her head.

Wendy turned Trina’s head forcefully with her left hand.

She kissed Trina’s mouth.

Trina kissed her back, her mouth, lips, and tongue reveling in the heat of kissing Wendy in the backseat while Sara drove down the highway in the October morning, the wet sounds of their sloppy kissing soon rising above the luscious distortion of her favorite band.

She broke the kiss, her first real kiss with a girl, and it was so wonderful.

Wendy’s lips glittered hot and pink, but Trina tasted no lipstick.

Wendy hadn’t put any on that morning.

“Oh god, Wendy, I’m so.”

“Turned on?”

“Oh god yes.”

Wendy’s lips fell upon Trina’s mouth.

She plunged her fingers into Trina’s pussy, and Trina thrust her hips at her, gyrating her bare ass on leather seat of Sara’s Mercedes.

“I’m good,” Sara thought as she drove the straight highway towards Reno Arroyo Canyon, listening to her Wendy and now her Trina making out in the backseat of her car. “I’m so very fucking good.”

199. At Little Reno Arroyo Falls

The clouds began to scatter as the sun rose higher above the horizon, but the girls still huddled in their jackets in the chill October air. Sara wore a short brown leather jacket, tight faded blue jeans, and brown boots, sturdy for canyon hiking. Wendy, despite Sara’s protests, hugged herself in an old baggy sweat jacked, hood thrown loosely over her head, and stomped the ground in her ratty tan work boots.

Little Reno Arroyo Falls bubbled above them. The water splashing into the basin even looked cold.

Sara caught Wendy’s stare. Her blond friend stood with eyes glued to the waterfall. Or something beyond the waterfall.

“What are you looking at, Wendy?”

But Wendy didn’t say anything. How could she?

Trina leaned into Wendy, snuggling against her in the cold, casting a nervous smile at Sara.

200. At the waterfall, again

They shivered in the shade of the basin. On the far side of the basin sunlight reflected in a myriad of bright flickers on the moving water, but here where they stood the shadow of the canyon wall stretched across three-quarters of the pond. Wendy looked up at the crystal blue sky above her, now entirely devoid of cloud.

“It’s so pretty here,” Trina said.

Sara looked at Trina holding Wendy, sliding one hand affectionately across the girl’s sweat jacket covered abdomen.

“It’s okay, Trina,” Sara said. “You can put your hand down Wendy’s pants. I won’t mind. You can go ahead and touch her hot little pussy. You can touch her pussy in front of me, I won’t mind.”

Trina’s shocked expression almost exploded from the poor girl’s face.

“But Sara, I wasn’t. I’m not. I was not going to.”

But Sara looked straight into Trina’s brown eyes.

“You can do it Trina. I know you can. And I know you want to. Wendy wants you to do it. I want you to do it. And you want to touch her so bad, don’t you Trina? You’ve been wanting to touch ever since you got into the car, haven’t you?”

Sara laced her voice with such powerful, compelling seduction and sweetness that Trina yielded at once, stunned and very confused by her own behavior. She watched, as if a bystander in her own body, as her hand trailed across the soft fabric of Wendy’s jacket, lifting it slightly to grip the waist of Wendy’s jeans. She bit her lip watching her fingers undo the button of Wendy’s fly, pulling the zipper down in an agonizingly slow movement.

Am I really doing this?

She had meant to think the question to herself, and maybe she did, but she heard Sara answer her.

“Yes, Trina, darling. You’re really doing this. You’re going to go so far with us. So far. This is just the first step. You love it don’t you?”

Trina nodded her head slowly but decisively.

Yes. She did. She did love it.

“Also, Trina.”

Trina’s hand stopped at the tone in Sara’s voice.

“You know Wendy likes to share, don’t you?”

Trina looked up at Wendy, whose lovely smile confirmed Sara’s statement.

“It’s okay, Trina. I really want this. And I really want to share you with Sara. Soon. I just want to taste you so badly.”

Trina’s hand had already dived into the pit of Wendy’s lust, into the steaming crevice of Wendy’s pitching and rolling twat.

“Oh god, Trina. Just a little higher. Yeah. There. Oh god, there. Put your finger in me, don’t worry, you won’t hurt.”

Wendy closed her eyes.

Trina’s efforts were clumsy and self-conscious, lacking in confidence, but Wendy could feel a rising excitement building inside her. It felt good to be touched, it felt good to have a girl’s hand inside her, her palm on her pussy, her fingers, so soft and delicate inside her, so gentle, so hot. So lesbian.

Just thinking of herself as a lesbian sent shocking thrill shooting through her body, and she groaned.

God, I am. I’m such a dyke now.

“Oh god, Trina. Keep doing that.”

Wendy’s eyes remained shut. A vibration began to hum within her, barely noticeable, a low hum vibrating dully deep inside her body. Recognizing it, the humming grew, a kind of vibration, a kind of pink vibration, and she remembered the pink mist from yesterday, the coil of pink mist unspooling and unwinding in Trigonometry, those pink tendrils waving and falling on her as she walked down the halls of Kid Lester High School.

Now they were inside her, and she smiled at that knowledge.

She was so pink inside. So pink and so hot.

201. The water calls to Wendy

Sara stirred behind her. Wendy felt Sara caress her from behind, groping her breasts from outside the thick, soft cotton of her sweat jacket. Sara dropped a hand, sliding it down Wendy’s back and over Wendy’s body to touch the soft fleece of Trina’s jacket, moving her hand down to squeeze and caress the soft round globes of Trina’s bubble-like ass. Trina flinched, then relaxed, letting Sara touch her freely. She moved her mouth over the fingers of Sara’s hand, the hand clutching Wendy’s breast and moaned.

Trina’s fingers dove deeper into Wendy’s pussy.

The air around them grew warmer, hotter.

Soon sweat rolled down the faces of the girls, beading and trickling down the skin beneath their jackets and clothes. The air billowed around them, hot, sultry, suffocating even. A desperate desire to get out their clothes overtook the minds of the three girls. Wendy opened her eyes. The waters of the basin shimmered warm and pink.

“We need,” she stammered, “we need to get out of our clothes. I’m so desperate for you, Trina, I’m just crazy to taste you. Sara, baby, I need you. I need you so bad.”

But Sara was already unzipping Wendy’s jacket.

Moments later, the three young women stood at the edge of the basin, nude and happy, touching each other with constant, continuous caresses and strokes.

Wendy had an idea.

Sitting down beside the waters, she dipped her feet into the pool.

“Wendy,” Trina gasped, “that water must be freezing.”

“It’s warm,” replied Wendy, “as warm as a hot bath.”

Indeed as they gazed at the surface of the waters, they saw mist rising, a pink mist rising from the pink waters, but nobody, not one of the three, were astonished by the change in color.

“I’m going in,” said Wendy. “Sit down at the edge, Trina, and spread your legs. I just gotta try you out.”

Trina sat down at the water’s edge and spread her thighs wide, as commanded.

Wendy slipped into the water, and Sara leapt in after her, splashing the pink water in her joyous thrashing. Sara, an excellent swimmer, quickly dove under the water, swimming like a mermaid in her sudden exuberance. The water, clear and pink, showed the bottom of the pool, not much more than a fathom at its greatest depth near the cascade, but here, where the girls swam, the basin proved much more shallow, little more than waist high near the edge.

Wendy floated towards Trina’s glistening vagina. The sun had risen above the canyon wall, but the shadows it cast were still long, sweeping over the girls at the water. But a weird, shimmering pink light emanated from the surface of the pool, from the waterfall crashing into the basin, reflecting and reverberating off the walls of the canyon.

Trina spread her thighs and leaned back, her hands flat on the wet rock of the basin. So much had happened so fast. Last week she found herself wondering if life would ever get better for her, would she ever break out of her shell, would Maddy or Wendy ever really notice her. Would her father ever find a stable job.

She hated living in that trailer, and she knew she shouldn’t hate it, shouldn’t even really think about it, that such things were beneath her, that it just didn’t matter, being poor. Besides.

And then Wendy had changed, started talking to her, started smiling at her more, started flirting with her, really. Really flirting with her. Her. Trina.

And then Sara started talking to her.

And her head, Trina’s head, had been such a whirlwind.

But when the Mercedes pulled up, and her dad had seen it, and then. What would they think? What would Sara think? What would Wendy think? But Sara didn’t even say anything. She just played Trina’s favorite band, favorite CD, and Wendy only had eyes for her. Trina.

And that kiss.

Wow.

And then she touched her. Down there. There. Right in the car, and it had felt so wonderful. But then she backed down. Something happened, and she didn’t cum. It was just so. Embarrassing.

And now she was naked, out in the open, spreading her legs for Wendy.

And for Sara.

Shuddering, red with chagrin, she hated and needed both girls to see her there. Down there. She hated and needed them to see her. Pussy. To see her. Oh god, to just stare right at her open vagina and kiss it.

Oh god.

It was awful and delectable at the same time, awful and embarrassing, dreadful.

She watched Wendy draw near, she shivered as the blonde caressed her thighs and gripped her legs, holding them apart. Her breath blew warm across the lips of her snatch, and Trina sighed. Then Wendy’s tongue met the folds of her cunt, and Trina cried out.

“Oh!”

Trina watched Sara float behind Wendy’s wet and glistening body, kissing her shoulder affectionately, kissing her shoulder seductively, hot with desire and longing. Trina watched Sara’s rise to grasp Wendy’s breasts. Trina bent her knees and propped her the heels against a narrow outcropping of the ledge.

“Oh, god, you guys,” she said. “I can’t.”

Wendy could.

The pink swirled in her mind, swirled in the waters surrounding her, swirled over the bodies, the hot and sexy bodies, of her two lovers, swirled in the very air of the basin, filling her, filling them, with longing and heat.

The pink swirled and vibrated, sending shimmering thrills coursing throughout her body, and she controlled or rode or rolled with all of them, all the vibrations, both dancer and dance inseparable, and she found Trina’s budding orgasm deep inside the girl, almost hiding, but she found it, trembling with desire, and more than little fear.

Still? she thought, laughing playfully to herself. After all this, Trina?

A little orgasm coiled like a serpent with tiny fangs feigning to strike, but she found it, and held out her soft hands, so warm and pink, and the serpent crawled into the cup of her hands, and Wendy wrapped it in warm, pink threads.

Wendy felt Sara’s fingers stroke her folds, felt Sara’s finger enter her hole, and Wendy spread her legs wider, thrusting her hips into her mistress’s hand, her owner’s hand. Oh god.

She wrapped Trina’s little orgasm in pink threads and brought it to Sara, sending it as a package along the trembling threads, the trembling strings vibrating all around her now.

She felt along the insides of Sara’s mind, trembling and hot, echoing with the cries of desire, until she found Sara, and she showed her the package, and she laughed, smiling.

See?

Oh god, Wendy. How?

But Wendy didn’t know how.

I just can, she said or thought. I just do.

Wendy pulled a thread off the package of Trina’s little orgasm and wove it into the web of vibrations in Sara’s pussy, just behind her hard and trembling clit.

Oh god, Wendy.

Then Wendy sent the little bundle back to Trina, who felt it and shuddered over Wendy’s mouth.

“Oh,” Trina repeated.

Then Wendy unwrapped the bundle of threads and the serpent, larger now, fantastically huge, sprang from its coil and struck.

Trina screamed.

Sara bit the back of Wendy’s shoulder, quaking behind the blonde, twisting in the wind of a raging tempest of climax.

I can do anything, Wendy said or thought.

Both girls nodded their heads, shuddering and rocking in agreement.

202. Wendy remembers her mother at the grotto

The girls had calmed down, Sara and Wendy floated in the water, holding themselves up by the elbows of their crossed arms on the edge of the basin, while giggling and laughing at Trina, no longer shy or embarrassed, but playful, poking her toes into Sara’s shoulder or trying to caress Wendy’s cheek with the arch of her foot.

“Stop that,” Wendy said, but there was no irritation in her voice.

“No,” Trina said in answer, and Wendy bit her big toe.

“Ouch!”

Wendy swept her gaze from the waterfall to the outlet of the basin.

“Mom and I had sex here.”

That statement took even Sara by surprise, but Trina sat up suddenly, withdrawing her foot from Wendy’s cheek.

“What?”

“I had forgotten because it happened, and then later it didn’t happen.”

“What? You mean, you and your mother?”

But Sara answered her, her voice tinged with an annoyance, almost an anger Wendy didn’t feel.

“Oh, come on, Trina. Have you even met Mary? That woman exudes sex. You’ll see. She’s so fucking hot. She’ll fuck you like you won’t believe. Wendy will fuck you right in front of her, and then when she’s done with you, she’ll make you beg to let her kiss her mother’s pussy.”

“Sara,” said Wendy.

“I mean it, Wendy. But first you’ll have to show her how to lick your mother’s pussy. She’ll have to get right up close to learn. Learn how to stop being so judgmental.”

Trina’s eyes started tearing up.

“I’m sorry, Sara. I didn’t. I didn’t mean to.”

“Yes, you did.”

Wendy pulled Trina’s foot, tucked near the girl’s hip as she huddled herself on the rocky ledge, on brought it to her mouth, sucking on the girl’s toes and looking deep into the girl’s eyes.

“It’s okay, baby. It really is. It surprised me, almost, when it happened.”

Wendy nudged Sara with her elbow.

“But Sara’s right about one thing. My mom’s going to fuck you like you won’t believe.”

Trina’s toes went back into Wendy’s pink mouth.

“But how did you have sex with her and then not remember because it didn’t happen?”

That part had left Sara confused. Very confused.

Wendy took her lips off Trina’s foot.

“I don’t really know, but there’s something behind the waterfall. I mean, I kind of sort of know what it is, because Jack Randall told me, but I didn’t know at the time, and when I went back there, or when I was taken back there, I saw everything, and I saw and felt, god it was so hot and amazing, I saw myself being seduced by my mother. I mean, she just started feeling me up, started kissing me, and I couldn’t help myself, I kissed her back, and I touched her legs, and she spread her thighs for me, and I just went for it, and then I saw the two of us, I was standing behind the waterfall at the time, and I saw the two of us just pawing and kissing and licking each other on the side of the pool, right where we are now. It was incredible. We did everything.”

Wendy paused.

“She’s so hot. You made her so fucking hot, Sara. Cutting her hair like that, those piercings, god, she’s just a total dyke now. I mean a real dyke.”

“She’s a butch,” Sara said. “I made her a butch. Well, kind of. A femme butch. Just for you.”

Sara looked at Trina.

“She was mean to me on the phone.”

Trina looked thoughtful.

“Did you make me?”

It would explain her behavior today.

“Oh god no, honey. Have you watched yourself? All you do in school is stare at girls go by. All day long. You just stare at any girl who walks by you, but I never notice you looking at boys.”

Trina looked relieved.

“I made Wendy gay, though.”

Wendy shrugged.

“You always do.”

Wendy and Sara had talked all last night about it, getting away from Mary and Renee long enough to talk things over in Wendy’s bedroom.

Sara had questions. Wendy tried to answer as much as she could, but it soon became evident that Wendy didn’t understand much.

“We should go back there,” Sara pointed with a nod of her head at the noisy cascade. “Behind the waterfall, I mean. Check it out and see if we can see what Wendy saw.”

Before anyone could answer her, Sara kicked off backwards from the ledge, flipping around to swim in smooth, effortless strokes towards the waterfall. Wendy dipped under the water and followed her mistress. Trina jumped into the clear, pink water and swam after her two new lovers.

Sara reached the area behind the waterfall first, finding only a recessed ledge of rough rock. The waterfall roared behind her as Wendy swam up to her, joined moments later by Trina.

“There’s nothing here,” said Sara, treading water while staring up at the rocky cliff wall.

Wendy hugged her from behind then move past her.

“It’s here,” she promised. “Just feel for it. You’ll see. With your mind.”

Wendy swam towards the recess in the cliff, not more than two or three yards behind the plunging water. A narrow ledge stuck out from the wall, and Wendy scrambled on top of it, out of the water.

Suddenly Sara saw it, the recess opened up behind Wendy, showing a dark cavern, dimly illuminated by a pink light. Sara could not determine how far back the cavern went, not from her position in the water. Trina floated next to the auburn-haired empath.

Sara reached around Trina’s waist below the water, pulling her close to kiss her tenderly on the mouth, while sweeping her hand through the water, keeping herself buoyant.

“Do you see it, sweetie?”

Trina lowered her eyes shyly, her pink and green hair fell in wet bedraggled bangs over her face, and Sara brushed her hair back to look at her.

“God, you’re so adorable,” Sara said. “Wendy’s so lucky to get you.”

Trina smiled a beet red smile at Sara.

“I can’t wait for my turn. C’mon, let’s go.”

The two girls scrambled onto the ledge, joining Wendy as the trio crept nude and dripping into the pink murkiness of the Grotto of the Obelisk.

203. The Pain Rabble refuses further dealings with the monkeys

The leader of the Pain Rabble stood a little in front of his six-person crew. The others lingered behind him nervously, trying to look relaxed, cool, unperturbed. But their minds were laid open to The Guild like vivisected hamsters, and they knew it. They could feel it, and they didn’t like it. There wasn’t much they could do about it, though. Except play it cool. So they did. They let their leader do the talking.

“No,” the leader said emphatically. “No, I’m not going back. No, I don’t care about ascending.”

The leader paused while a whirlwind of belching and croaking rose and thundered all around him.

“Take your best shot,” he said. “But wild horses couldn’t drag me back to that damned planet.”

A chorus of flatulence erupted throughout the Crab Nebula.

But the leader didn’t budge.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” the leader said. “Those damned monkeys don’t fuck around.”

204. Back at the Grotto

The pink water dripped from the bodies of the three girls as they padded barefoot deeper into the grotto. The floor of cavern, curiously smooth, spread wide and long for several yards, beyond which the girls could discern nothing. Wendy raised an arm and pointed, hugging Sara close to her body, catching at Trina as the other girl drew close.

“See?” Wendy said, pointing at the tall, woman-high pillar glowing hot pink in the middle of the grotto.

“What is it?” Trina asked, affectionately pressing into Wendy’s side. She felt Sara reach around Wendy’s back from the other side of their girlfriend to caress Trina’s back, her arm and shoulder.

“I’m not sure. I think, from what Jack Randall told me, that it’s how we make contact. With the. With The Consortium.”

“The Consortium? What’s that?” Trina’s voice emerged from her throat in a bewildered mixture of confusion, curiosity, and disbelief.

“I’m not sure about that either,” Wendy answered. “Jack tried to tell me, but I didn’t understand anything he said. Something about psychic powers and some kind of space war.”

The Obelisk hummed and vibrated, its pink light growing in intensity.

A weird electric charge buzzed in the air surrounding them, humming in electric erotic energy. The bodies of the three girls began to shudder and tremble, and each one found herself thrusting her hips into the other girl standing beside her, holding her tight, and running her hands softly over the warm wet skin. Each girl found herself in a bizarre state of wakeful semi-consciousness. For Wendy and Sara, who had already experienced dizzying heights of erotic bliss during their orgies, the sensation felt at once new and familiar.

Sara’s hand moved down Wendy’s thigh, caressing her warm skin with her palms as her hand floated towards the blond teenager’s groin. Wendy grabbed Sara’s hand and pressed it into the soft heat between her legs, sighing with pleasure and turning towards Trina to plunge her tongue into the girl’s open mouth.

“So slutty,” Sara said huskily. “So hot.”

Wendy’s other hand found the round flesh of Trina’s ass, the warm crevice of her crack. Wendy slipped two fingers between the cheeks of Trina’s ass, running her fingers lower, smiling into Trina’s kiss as she felt the girl spread her thighs wide for Wendy, wider for Wendy’s probing fingers. Wendy roamed her fingers over the rosebud of Trina’s asshole, gently pressing into her hole with the tip of her finger before moving to reach the girl’s wet pussy from behind, and Trina, turned on and trembling, pressed her body harder against Wendy’s body. Every cell in Trina’s body surged with power, a charge, her nerves sizzled with a heightened awareness of something beyond any word she had to express.

Her blood raged and boiled with lust, her cunt shuddered every time Wendy touched it, and she thrust her hips fervently against her lover’s body.

God, I’m so horny, she thought. I’ve never.

Sara continued to fuck Wendy with her fingers. Her mouth moved over Wendy’s body, lightly kissing and licking her skin, the skin of her shoulders, her arms, her neck, moving towards her front, licking and kissing her belly, brushing her lips against Wendy’s navel, rising to pour hot kisses on her abdomen, her soft belly, higher to reach her breasts, her left breast, Wendy’s nipples rigid on the soft slopes of her mounds, the globes of her tits.

Sara covered Wendy left breast with her mouth, swallowing the nipple, kissing it, flicking her tongue at it, biting it impishly as she pulled on it with her teeth, stretching Wendy’s breast from her body to let it drop back with a wicked smile on her face. Then her mouth returned to Wendy’s breast, and her forehead banged against someone’s head.

Sara looked up to see Trina with her mouth on Wendy’s other tit.

Trina pulled her mouth of Wendy.

“Sorry,” she smiled shyly at Sara.

“Oh, god girl,” Sara replied, “you’re so next.”

Ten minutes later Wendy stood over Trina and Sara licking each other’s wide and aching pussy on the floor of the grotto, masturbating frantically at the sight. Sara and Trina lay on their sides, holding and caressing the other’s ass and hips as they hungrily lapped the other’s raging and flowing cunt.

“That’s it, Sara,” Wendy cooed encouragingly. “Lick her pussy, her pussy’s so hot and good, and you’re such a dyke slut.”

Sara groaned into Trina’s open fuck hole.

“Trina’s such a dyke whore too now. Do you like the way Sara tastes, honey, do you? Do you like that pussy, girl?”

But Trina couldn’t answer, her mouth was full, but the nodding of her head as she continued eating Sara’s pretty little pussy gave affirmation to Wendy’s question.

“Good girl.”

Wendy’s hand blurred as she rubbed her twat, her hips grinding against her hand.

The Obelisk throbbed pink, seeming to tremble, a sheen collected on its surface, as if slick with a viscous fluid, a vast buzzing began to vibrate on the edges of hearing, or on the fringes of consciousness, a buzzing that charged the girls with even more erotic power, supercharging their bodies, swelling their bodies in the wave of a terrible orgasm. The three girls stiffened, paused a moment, and shrieked, tossing their heads back as the power of their orgasms swept through their shuddering and convulsing bodies.

Somehow Wendy remained standing, but Sara and Trina collapsed into each other, breathing to recover but soon losing consciousness altogether.

205. Sister Rachel visiting Sister Temperance Hamer

Sister Rachel watched Temperance bring the tray with a pair of bone China teacups, decorated with really just a lovely blue and white floral design, matching sugar bowl, fine silver spoons, and a gorgeous round China teapot which more than a little resembled its possessor, Rachel thought with a sudden giggle.

“What’s that?” Temperance Hamer asked curiously.

“Oh, nothing,” Sister Rachel replied, uncertain how to express herself. This new, um, change in their relationship astonished her, leaving her not exactly full of doubt or even self-consciousness (no one could ever accuse Sister Rachel of that), but it had made her rather nervous, agitated. On pins and needles, really. She squirmed in her seat on Sister Temperance’s lovely, well-padded sofa. On just the most awful pins and needles. She brushed her hand against the soft fabric of the sofa, a kind of chenille, she supposed, admonishing herself for the umpteenth time for never paying attention to that sort of thing. She did, however, recognize the sweet pea floral design. She stifled a sudden reproach that Sister Temperance maybe overdid the floral motif.

No, she thought. Temperance has exquisite taste. She knows best.

Sister Temperance watched Rachel wriggle on her cushions as she laid the tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

She sighed.

“For goodness’ sake, Rachel. Would you like to skip the tea and go straight to bed?”

Sister Rachel nodded eagerly. Temperance knew her so well.

“Please,” she said.

“Drink your tea first, dear,” Temperance said. “Then I’ll show you your new straps.”

Sister Temperance raised her teacup to her rouged lips, sipped slowly, eyed Rachel over the rim, then set the cup gently on its saucer.

“I bought a whip I’d like to try on you this morning.”

Rachel struggled not to finish her tea too quickly.

Temperance didn’t like that. She didn’t like that, not one bit.

Rachel closed her eyes, recollecting when everything changed for her. Just a few weeks ago. It couldn’t have been more than two weeks, if that long. She’d just put a peach cobbler into the oven when her doorbell rang. When she answered she saw just the most adorable young woman standing in front of her, swaying her hips on the doorstep.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” the girl had asked, and so Rachel invited her in. It seemed odd, but really. What should she have done?

She couldn’t recall whether that had been in the morning or the afternoon. She couldn’t remember how long the girl had stayed there, just talking to her, telling her one thing after another. But she remembered the girl driving her in her big German car to pay a visit to Sister Temperance Hamer, and that did seem odd. Right, somehow. But odd.

Sister Temperance must have thought so too, from what Rachel could tell by the expression on her face. An expression that soon went away when the young lady spoke up, inviting the both of them in, and sitting them both down on the sofa, that very sofa, while she stood in front of them, telling them about themselves, and about how she, Rachel, needed to start listening to Temperance now, like the good obedient girl that she was.

“Good lord, girl, I’m on the bad side of fifty,” Rachel had protested then.

“Sixty, you mean,” Temperance had rechortled.

Rachel had wanted to glare at Temperance then but found that she couldn’t. Saying things like that was just Temperance’s way. It was what made her so adorable. It’s why Rachel worshipped her. Yes, worshipped her.

Rachel had smiled at Temperance meekly, and the strange little girl went on. Rachel suddenly recognized her as one of those two girls who had sat behind her that weird Sunday so many weeks ago. How long was it? Two weeks ago? Three weeks ago.

She talked about how Rachel needed a firm hand, how much Temperance enjoyed meting out discipline, how much Rachel like to be tied down, strapped down. How Rachel could get out of hand sometimes and needed a good thrashing on the ass to keep her in line.

Every word was true, and Rachel nodded meaningfully and eagerly at every word the sweet, sweet little girl uttered.

How much Temperance loved and needed Rachel.

How much Rachel needed and loved Temperance.

Lusted after each other really. Temperance could keep it in check, but Rachel? She couldn’t restrain herself.

Just a rampaging dyke whore. But a rampaging dyke whore for one woman only. Her beloved Temperance.

So hot.

So firm with her hand.

Rachel finished her tea and set it down carefully.

Her eyes stared into her mistress’s eyes, pleading.

“Now?” Rachel couldn’t stifle the aching need in her voice.

Temperance heaved a deep sigh of bother.

“If you insist, good girl.”

206. The Guild admonishes the Go-Between

“How hard could it have been? How hard could it have been?!”

Gerald struggled to contain his rising anger. The annoyance he couldn’t keep from stampeding wildly from him, but the anger? He felt he had a shot at keeping it in check.

The questions coming from The Guild infuriated him with their, well, impertinence for one thing. Their condescension for another. And their willful avoidance of responsibility for a third.

“You never once told me what I was up against! You never even hinted it was a weapon for the, for the, for the. You know.”

Gerald stopped talking. A crescendo of flatulence and belching broke up around him on all sides.

“The Rabble didn’t have a clue. They lucked out. The thing had just recently been activated.” Gerald paused again, thinking.

“I’ll tell you what,” he continued, surprising himself with his audacity. “You give me something to deal with that probe, and I’ll get it back for you. But I’ll need something big. Something powerful.”

The Guild grew quiet, all belching, all farting, all croaking ceased. A silence fell upon the congregated hall of the pseudo-honeycomb, a hush pregnant with portent. The Go-Between stood expectantly, awaiting some awful and terrible weapon, but he heard only a single voice speaking hurriedly, even a little fearfully.

“Gotta go. Take care now. Bye-bye.”

Then a wind seemed to sweep through the Crab Nebula like the fluttering of many wings, and The Guild was gone.

But Gerald was already falling the eight thousand lightyears or so back to the restroom at Dos Antonios, where the last of his bladder emptied into the stinking steel trough.

“Ah,” he sighed loudly. “So good.”

207. Wendy touches the Obelisk, encounters The Consortium for the second time

Wendy moved toward the Obelisk, drawn once again to it by a hidden attraction, an unrevealed power, something like magnetism, a magnetism pulling her mind, dragging her body, regardless of what she wanted. Her body trembled in ecstasy, surfeited by that strange, trancelike eroticism. She wanted this. She wanted to touch the Obelisk, needed to touch the Obelisk. She knew by doing so she’d contact The Consortium. Her mind began to awaken, to reassert itself, but it followed the directives seeming to come from the Obelisk.

She remembered the experience, the first experience, more clearly now. She remembered the pink mist, the faces of Wendy, her Wendy alternates, emerging from the swirling fog. Now Wendy knew what she had seen then.

But how was that connected to the Obelisk?

I mean, sure the Obelisk, from what she could gather from Jack Randall, created a bridge to The Consortium. But how did it create a bridge to her other Wendys, her other selves? They all belonged to other, well, cosmoses, universes. Realities. Did The Consortium exist elsewhere? She couldn’t remember what Jack had said about that, if he had said anything.

She couldn’t see them now, though.

She stood next to the Obelisk, feeling it hum, feeling it surge and pulse with a vibrating energy. A hard, throbbing pillar humming with power.

Then she could see it, the walls of the cavern began to shift, swirl, billow, and blow. A swirling pink mist emanated from the edges of the grotto, spreading across the cavern floor in curling waves until it touched Wendy’s bare feet. Wendy lifted one foot and then the other, looking down as she turned each foot this way and that way in the warm, near liquidity of the pink mist. Her body sizzled with a renewed charge of lust and desire. Her body trembled, and her groin convulsed inside its wet cleft. She pressed her thighs together, moaning.

Then she looked over her shoulder at the two bodies of her friends, Sara and Trina, her two lovers, lying naked and prone on the floor of the cavern, wrapped in each other’s arms. The mist slowly covered them. Wendy watched the lovely feminine outlines of their bodies recede into the milky, pink mist.

“So cute,” sighed Wendy. “So adorable.”

Her left hand drifted to stroke her simmering snatch.

She reached out her right hand to touch the Obelisk.

As before her world disappeared.

Instantly she felt her body surge upward and forward before coming to a smooth and sudden stop. She would have paused to look around her, bewildered and astonished, but orgasm upon orgasm wracked her body. Heaving and convulsing in an unending paroxysm of almost unendurable pleasure, Wendy struggled to breathe as intense climax after intense climax shot through every muscle of her body, pulsed through every nerve and every cell.

208. The emergence of alternate Wendys

A pleasure so intense, Wendy lost contact with her very self, with her very being. A pleasure so intense and of such duration, Wendy forgot her own self, her own name, and whether she even existed. Wendy lost herself to her pleasure, and nothing else remained. She felt herself dissipating, dissolving in like fog in the warmth of the morning, evaporating like dew catching the sunlight on a blade of grass, lovely for a moment, so lovely, and then so gone. So gone.

Gone.

No more what? No more who?

Wendy searched for the person she used to be, only moments ago, eons ago, timeless ages ago before the world even existed, the cosmos. Surely, she had existed? Surely, even now something existed.

Something that had a name.

But this feeling was so good, so nice, so exquisite, she could die in it, just fade into it, like smoke from a small fire caught on a breeze and blown away with the gentle wind.

This was no wind; this was a hurricane, a typhoon.

And it pummeled her poor body, beaten, and tossed around like a rag doll in its brutal power, its terrible force.

A sudden panic rose in a Wendy, a realization that she was in a deadly situation, that she could not long endure more of this orgasm, this ferocious power, this continual blast of forces, of erotic power like, and she screamed her own name into the howling winds of her pleasure threatening to rend her very mind to pieces.

She heard voices calling her, voices sounding at once familiar and strange. It took a moment for the voices to cut through the agonizing pleasure, the continuous wave of orgasm rolling through her mind and body.

“Wendy,” the voices said.

And even as the voices spoke to her, Wendy opened her closed eyes and saw thousands of her likeness emerging from the shimmering pink mist rolling along the walls and floor of the cavern, the grotto. But she was no longer in the grotto, the cavern, and still the pink mist persisted, and she saw herself, thousands of herself, herself uncountable, emerging naked and glorious from the billowing clouds. Well, mostly naked. Some of her Wendys were bound in tight leather, or bound in skintight latex, strategically fashioned to reveal orifice and gland, pierced and clamped. Wendy thought of her mother as another shooting orgasm rocketed through her.

In her pleasure she reached out to them, moving her lips, her mouth soundlessly, but they did not seem to notice her, to acknowledge her. But the Wendys drew closer, so close, no near, and Wendy could feel the power emanating from them, like a pink cloud, and now she saw the pink cloud, the pink mist more clearly, and she recognized the fine web, the same threads that wove around her just yesterday, in class. It seemed like a lifetime ago somehow. Everything seemed like a lifetime ago now.

And then a Wendy in bondage looked at her, head covered in black latex, a red ball gag in her mouth, her blue eyes shining in the openings of the black material. The bound Wendy reached an arm out towards Wendy unbound, nude, and shuddering in another climax.

“Wendy,” the voices called out again, and an ache of orgasm shot through her spine, burning through her body like fire.

Wendy in bondage touched Wendy unbound.

Blue eye behind black latex met blue below the golden silver halo of Wendy’s blond hair, platinum now and radiant.

Wendy in bondage moaned behind the red ball of her gag, as if trying to say something to Wendy, who could not understand the words. But peering into the eyes of her exact and identical simulacrum she understood.

“Share,” the other Wendy had said.

“Share it,” the other Wendy repeated.

Wendy jerked and pulled her latex-covered counterpart tight against her, embracing her alter’s body, her palms flat against the smooth black latex clinging to the back of the bound Wendy. An enormous surge of orgasmic fury swelled through Wendy’s body and burst from her on contact with her other. She could feel it course through the body of her duplicate, filling her other with erotic power, and then, like lightning the color of sizzling pink, the power of the orgasm exploded from the two girls, spreading in all directions, alighting on and striking Wendy after Wendy after Wendy, until all Wendys received and flung back the fire of pink lust surging through the first Wendy, our Wendy, Sara Craft’s Wendy, Wendy Love of Edge City, Nuevo Metziticli of the United Sovereignties of Vespuccia.

And the space that was not space reverberated, echoing with cry after cry of Wendy in ecstasy, but our Wendy, Wendy Love, felt her orgasm abate, felt her orgasm diminish and go out from her, and now she could hold her body straight, and now she could regain her breath.

Wendy released her grip on Wendy in bondage.

“Wendy,” the voices called a third time.

“I am here,” she said.

Immediately the Wendys receded, Wendy in bondage vanished in a second, hurtling backward at a velocity beyond measurement. But the pink mist continued to swirl, billowing clouds as of pink cotton, puffs of fine, pink mesh blowing and rolling on the edges of a space Wendy could not define.

209. Arrival of The Beehive

Soon the clouds began to take form until Wendy beheld row upon row of seats rising in a circle enclosing her on all sides, and she found herself looking up from the center of a round, narrow floor, gazing upon the odd creatures looking down on her. Women, all of them, and all of them dressed and styled in the same way. Pale faces peered down upon the figure of the girl standing in their midst, but whether they were somber faces, or joyful faces, serious faces or bemused faces, Wendy could not tell. All of them wore horned-rimmed glasses with dark, heavy frames, and all wore their hair, dark and heavy, piled over their heads in fantastic beehive haircuts.

Wendy suddenly thought of Ms. Gothe, the vice principal of Kid Lester High School.

Beyond the furthest edges of the rows of seats loomed a curved wall lined with hexagonal cavities, like a vast honeycomb arching like a vault over the space.

Then a section of the seats on the lowest rank of what Wendy thought to be a kind of stadium with her the sole attraction and spectacle, moved forward, and three women soon faced the high school junior, looming just a little above the girl’s head. Then Wendy saw that their faces were serious, but not unkind. Indeed two of the women, sitting a little behind the woman in the middle, seemed to have a hard time sitting still. Both women squirmed and wriggled in their seats, and from time to time the woman in the middle turned to glare at them, first slapping one and then the other on the thigh or shoulder.

The women wore dark garments of some shining material, open at the shoulders, and revealing a good portion of their bosoms, cunningly uplifted and pressed together by the design of the garments.

“Stop that, girls,” she’d say. “This is important. This is serious.”

Then the two women would try to sit still.

But it looked so hard for them, Wendy thought. So hard. And they were so. So. Hot.

Oh, god, they were so hot.

So severe.

So firm.

Like a trio of hot librarians coming to scold Wendy over a book long past due.

A trio of hot librarians dressed in hot black prom dresses.

Wendy’s left hand drifted once more to her groin as her pussy once again began to simmer.

The woman in the middle cleared her throat.

“Greetings, Wendy. Allow me to introduce ourselves. We are the—“

The woman sitting behind the speaker tugged on the speaker’s sleeve.

The speaker spun around.

“Oh for goodness’ sake, now what?”

The woman whispered something in the speaker’s ear.

“Crikey, girl, is that all you think about?”

The woman shrugged guiltily.

The speaker turned to face Wendy, an embarrassed look spreading across her face.

“Do you mind. Um. Do you think. Um, could you just be a dear and turn around for us? Would that be okay?”

To tell the truth, Wendy would have like to do nothing better.

Her soaked pussy boiled, and it looked like she was off to a great start.

She heard murmurs behind her as the trio of beehive space lesbians groaned in collective admiration of Wendy’s ass.

“Um,” she heard the speaker say. “Could you please be a dear and bend over?”

Wendy did better than that.

She fell to the floor on her hands and knees, touching her head and shoulders to the ground and raising her hips and ass high, flexing her ass high until she felt her pussy flaring behind her, quivering, dripping and open to the hungry gaze of The Consortium, those dear, dear ladies.

Murmurs rose all around her, sighs and groans rising to a crescendo of desire. Wendy’s mind echoed with murmured repetitions of the words “monkey”, “butt”, “simian”, “very ape”, and “so juicy”.

“She only has the one vagina,” she heard someone say.

“With a pie like that, honey, she only needs the one,” she heard another voice retort.

“I told you saving the Australopithecus was a good idea. No way is Ancylotherium’s ass even half-way as nice.”

“I didn’t believe you at the time, dear. But you were right.”

“Can we?”

“I’ll ask.”

Wendy heard the speaker’s voice ringing behind her.

“Um. May we touch you dear?”

Wendy nodded her head quickly, and her mind exploded.

Eons later, she felt careful hands putting her mind back together, reassembling it, making sure to put all the pieces back in their proper places. Slowly Wendy recovered.

“My god,” she whispered, her mouth felt parched, numb.

“Well, not quite dear.”

Wendy finally regained her feet, standing straight and looking all around her, looking up at the staring faces, excited faces, flushed with arousal, but kind and smiling at the same time, eyes brilliant and gleaming behind the thick lenses of their horned-rimmed librarian glasses.

So fucking hot, thought Wendy, her pussy gathering renewed moisture, quickly reheating, ready to cum again.

But the speaker, still standing above her, spoke up.

“Well, Wendy. It’s so lovely to finally meet you. Again. I guess it really is time to introduce ourselves. We are,” and here the woman bowed, “Ch’thologh Mohl. The Intergalactic Consortium of Beehive Space Lesbians. You can just call us the Beehive. We, um, don’t usually get involved with, um, your kind. So sorry, but it’s kind of a rule, you see. It’s hard for us to, well, congeal like this. Not that you don’t make it worth it, baby, you really do, but it’s just so hard for us to contain ourselves. So to speak.”

Wendy asserted herself here.

“Jack Randall said you needed my help.”

A fluttering of sighs and coos filled the arena at the mention of Jack’s name.

“Oh he’s just the most adorable little thing,” the speaker said. “We’re so glad the Archivist hired him.”

The speaker visibly hemmed and hawed, hesitating to admit The Consortium’s need.

“The thing is, you really could be such a big help to us dear. It’s a little embarrassing to admit this, but just between us girls, we seem to have lost a, um, device.”

“A weapon?” asked Wendy.

“Crikey, no,” snapped the speaker, the irritation in her voice sounding almost angry. Wendy stepped back.

The woman to the right of the speaker, who had so far kept silent, stood up.

“We can’t really make contact with your kind,” she said. “And we can’t really go down to your world. It just wouldn’t be right.”

The speaker nodded her head, her enormous beehive rocked and trembled, resting uneasy over her brow.

“Perhaps we can show you. Words are so. I mean. You know.”

Immediately Wendy saw the vastness of the cosmos surrounding her, she floated in the midst of a stars, in the midst of a nebula, from which she emerged at horrifying speeds as stars whizzed by her and around her, until she looked down and the nebula was below her under her feet, and still she moved at a speed that was not even movement, and now the galaxy, a galaxy at any rate, stretched below her, and above her head another galaxy drifted, and she held out her hand towards yet another galaxy.

And without being told she understood that a conflict had taken place, or was taking place, or was going to take place. Two huge powers had gathered for a struggle for supremacy.

She saw something that looked like a battle, two giant galaxy clusters clashing against each other, and then something small popped out of one of the galaxy clusters, something infinitesimally small but growing larger as it quickly, so quickly raced towards Wendy, whizzing by her head, and she turned to follow the orb, but it had disappeared already.

Then the galaxies vanished, and Wendy stood in the midst of The Consortium once again, horn-rimmed glasses, beehive hair and all, staring down at her.

“See? Those awful boys were getting the upper hand, they had, um, captured some of us—“

“They kidnapped us!” someone shouted from the back, but the speaker held up her hand and continued, “and we just had to do something about it. So we built a little something for them, back then, we weren’t as, you know. We still built things. Kind of primitive, but there you are. But it got lost, you see. And then it turned out, well, that we didn’t need it anyway.”

“Why not,” asked Wendy. “Why didn’t you need it if you were losing? I mean, they didn’t win, did they? You’re here now.”

“We weren’t losing. We never said we were losing. We just didn’t win. Not then, we wouldn’t have had done so yet. We still haven’t quite yet from your perspective. You could call it a draw, but we came out the better. Of course.”

The woman who had stood up earlier, spoke up again, her perky breasts below her dark outfit swollen with pride.

“We ignored them. After a while they just went away. You know how boys are.”

The Consortium murmured and nodded to each other, an almost infinite number of feminine faces smiling in smug and condescending acknowledgement of the weakness of the masculine mind.

The speaker’s tone became serious, grave even.

“Your world is in danger, you see. Your world shouldn’t have this object. And we know members of your kind have been dabbling in the stuff we packed the device in. The, um, packing material. We need you to get that. We need you to get the object, too. Well, it’s more like a creature now, we suppose. Your kind would call it a creature. And the packing material. We don’t need the shell, the box it came in, but if you could get the packing material and the creature, that’d be just terrific. We’d be ever so thankful.”

Wendy stammered a protest.

“But how? How am I supposed to get the packing material and the creature? I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“In time you will, Wendy. Very soon, I should think. Yes. Very soon. And your friend, Sara, should know all about the packing material. She’s just full of the stuff. And you are too. Don’t you know?”

Wendy shook her head slowly.

“How do you know so much?”

The speaker shrugged her shoulders.

“Ways and means, old girl. Ways and means.”

A long pause.

“So you’ll do it?”

Wendy stammered an agreement.

“That it’s then, Wendy Love. Just get those things and bring them to the Obelisk, and we’ll fetch them from there.”

The speaker turned to leave. A murmur filled the arena, and she help up her hand, somewhat in exasperation.

“Girls,” she said, her voice tinged with reproach. Then she turned to face Wendy again.

“I don’t suppose you’d mind us, um, touching you again? Your skin is so lovely, so soft. And the girls,” here she shook her head, “they just can’t get enough.”

But Wendy didn’t mind at all.

210. Victoria Gothe regards Moby in the hall

Vice Principal Victoria Gothe regarded the janitor pushing his mop bucket down the hall, rolling the bucket her way to clean up a dropped drink in the hall outside the girl’s restroom on the second floor. He looked different today, she thought. More pleased with himself, she told herself, but I don’t see any reason for him to feel that way. Why, just look at that squirrelly little thing. A grown man mopping floors. Some people just had no ambition, but a man ought to.

At least he wasn’t gibbering to himself.

Victoria looked at the pink mess on the floor, one of the girls must have brought a shake, a malt, or some kind of smoothie into her school, and that was absolutely uncalled for. She sighed. Really, she couldn’t be expected to police every student who walked through Kid Lester High School. But she’d make any student foolish enough to get caught with a drink or food from off campus throw it all away into the nearest trash can.

“Morning,” the janitor grunted as the bucket rolled up to the vice principal.

“These kids,” huffed Victoria.

“Seen worse,” Moby said, attempting to comfort Victoria.

“Yes, but you make it all nice. The floors I mean. You make them look so, so shiny, and then they come along.”

“Just a few dabs. I’ll get it to sparkle.”

“You always do, um.”

Victoria flushed with embarrassment. The truth was she had forgotten his real name.

And why the hell was she even talking to him in the first place? And flirting, for goodness’ sakes. Victoria Gothe, are you really flirting with the janitor?

“Thank you. I’ll just leave you to it then.”

She turned to leave, her voluminous body, wide of hip and shoulder, trundling down the hall.

Moby gazed after her.

That was one mountain he had a hankering to climb.

211. The Beehive instructs Wendy

This time Wendy’s mind didn’t shatter. The Beehive nurtured her orgasms carefully, tenderly, lovingly, affectionately, and most of all, knowingly.

They seemed to whisper in her ear, into the ear of her mind, coaxing her, encouraging her, controlling and moving her orgasms one after another, swelling her mind and body.

Then she felt the pink mesh unspooling from her core like a mist, fine filaments entangled like a rich pink wad of spun sugar.

See? It’s in you, the voices of the Beehive seemed to say, it’s in you and from you and of you.

Wendy wanted to ask how any of this was possible, but she stopped, recognizing the question for what it was: meaningless.

Instead she concentrated on how to manage it, how to work it, how to hold it within her, and how to let it unspool.

The pink threads, the fine pink filaments unspooled and stretched, wavering, in all directions, spinning in a fantastically large pink web, but the Beehive laughed beyond her reach.

It can’t catch us, silly. But you’re learning. You’re learning really fast.

Wendy remembered the Wendy in bondage who rescued her from her first contact orgasm with the Beehive.

Those other mes, she asked wordlessly. The ones I shared my orgasm with. Were they you, were all those mes all you?

No, the Beehive answered, but we were aware of them. In a way. When you perceived them, we perceived them. We don’t know. We suspect.

“They’re you, silly,” one of the voices rang clear in her mind. Wendy recognized the speaker’s voice. “They’re all you. They came to save you, dear. We weren’t ready. That orgasm could have killed you, and we would have been ever so sorry. We called out to you, we tried to call you back, but you were so far gone. So far gone.”

Then Wendy understood.

She could contact all her Wendys. And all her Wendys could contact her.

No, the Beehive said. We don’t think so. You called out to them. In your need. They heard you.

But Wendy wondered anyway. If she could contact them, didn’t that also mean they could contact her?

And how did she make contact?

Through the Obelisk, like with the Beehive?

Or could she just do it anywhere?

But the Beehive didn’t answer her, and Wendy soon fell into the endless pitch and roll of her orgasms washing over her like melted butter.

212. Thursday night at home

That night, Thursday, Wendy stayed in her bedroom. Trina and Sara had long dropped her off at her house on West Pigeon Street. Trina had thrown a questioning glance at Wendy when Sara had grabbed her hand, saying, “you’re coming with me, baby. I’ve got some things to talk to you about. To show you.”

Wendy had smiled encouragingly at her.

“It’s going to be okay, Trina. Sara’s going to take good care of you.”

Wendy gazed into Trina’s affectionate eyes, the eyes of a pink and green haired puppy.

Trina smiled back, but Sara was already covering Trina’s bare neck with kisses, nibbling at the girl’s earlobe.

Now Wendy was lying back against her pillows, her body nude as she spread her legs masturbating to the sound of Renee and her mother having sex in Mary’s bedroom down the hall. The pink mist had descended again, a wet, pink mesh of desire and longing, trembling along the fine tendrils hanging from the ceiling and rustling along the walls, quivering in waves of a pink gauze so much like cotton candy, alive and full of lust.

Wendy recalled the lessons that the Beehive had given her. As she lay rubbing her warm, wet pussy, enjoying the feeling of her soft pubic hair between her fingers, the hot wet flesh of her labia, she ran through the routines of how to control it, how to spin it, how to roll it up like yarn, how to unspool at need, to play with it, and to let others play with it. Wendy’s ability came naturally, instinctually.

She unspooled a bundle of threads, sending them rolling across the ceiling and down the hall to her mother’s bedroom.

Renee and her mother didn’t need it, of course.

But, um, enhancing their experience couldn’t hurt anything either.

Twenty minutes later Renee’s shrieking tore through the house as her orgasm, finally unleashed, broke the dam of Wendy’s pink mesh. Her shrieking only ended when Mary, muting her lover’s cries, grinded her pussy against Renee’s open mouth, crying out in her turn as her juices flowed from her orifice like a fountain.

It wasn’t long before Wendy joined them in their bed.

Friday

213. At school, Sara questions Wendy

The next day at lunch, Sara nudged Wendy with her elbow.

“You plan on explaining to me what happened to us yesterday? You were so quiet on the way home.”

But Wendy didn’t want to talk about the mission the Beehive had given her. She didn’t know how to bring it up.

“Um. Can we talk about it later? It’s just that. It’s just that,” Wendy paused, her voice trailed off.

“And anyway. What on earth did you do to Trina?”

Sara bounced and swung her hips, shaking the skirt of her cheerleader outfit worn by all cheerleaders that day for the big pep rally.

“Nothing,” Sara answered. “We went shopping, and she spent the night. Don’t worry, she’s still your girl.”

That’s not exactly what Wendy had meant.

Trina wore a short skirt, almost too short for regulation, pink hose, high black heels, and her face glowed with foundation and blush, eyeliner, mascara, and shimmering eyeshadow. Her lips were full and glowing pink. Platinum blond highlights shot through her hair, still pink but styled a tall pompadour rising several inches above her forehead sloping a little towards the back.

She wore a thin sweater, a tight, red, long-sleeve pullover which showed off her charming bosom, hard nipples protruding from the thin bra she wore, and which Wendy guessed to be sheer to the point of see-thru.

Gone was the shy look in Trina’s eyes, gone the timid way she looked down whenever Wendy looked at her.

Wendy recognized the wanton hunger in the way Trina looked at her, looked at Sara, regarded the cute and pretty girls in the lunchroom, the way she cast a starving leer at Maddy Springer, sitting by herself a half-dozen tables away, trying not to look at Sara’s table, at Sara’s growing group of girls of admirers, obviously all lesbians. There couldn’t be any denying it now. Not after what had become of Wendy, and now Trina.

After what had become of her one-time friends.

“You’ll have lots of fun tonight on your date,” Sara’s voice intruded into Wendy’s thoughts.

Wendy didn’t doubt it.

214. Trina comes to Wendy’s house

The date didn’t go quite as planned.

Sara couldn’t chaperone the date because of the Homecoming game. Kid Lester played the Scarlet Flyers from El Hondo, an historical mismatch usually resulting in at least a three-touchdown victory for the Kid Lester Golden Horde. Wendy planned for Trina to come early, have dinner with her, Mary, and Renee. After dinner, she’d get Renee or her mother to drive them to the game.

“You really do need to get your driver’s license,” Nikki told Wendy.

“You could take her on the back of your bike,” Julie offered.

The rest of the group giggled.

But Wendy didn’t see much humor in it.

Nikki was right.

She needed to get a license. And fast.

She’d be a Senior next year.

The dinner part of the date went well.

Her mother positively glowed, and Renee, well.

Her mother wore a long, billowing green dress with a plunging neckline showing no sign of a bra, and Renee, in a more masculine fashion, wore a dark gray striped blazer jacket with matching trousers, made of a thin fabric showing both the round contours of her delightful ass as well as the moonlike curve flowing into the crack of her ass. The trousers stretched tight around her thighs but flared just above her shoes, black straps with exposed toes, polished a deep and bright red.

The nails of her pitcher’s hands were also polished bright red.

Renee didn’t normally wear makeup, but Wendy smiled appreciatively at the restrained application of foundation and highlight and just a touch of mascara around otherwise unadorned eyes. But Renee’s red lips parted in a happy smile when she caught Wendy leering at her.

“Your mother said we’re to make it a very special evening for you and Trina,” said the barista.

But Wendy stared at the white blouse Renee wore, unbuttoned almost to the navel.

Definitely no bra for Renee.

Wendy resisted a sudden urge to slip her hand under Renee’s shirt.

Just then the doorbell rang.

215. Dinner and anal

Wendy couldn’t keep her eyes off Trina at dinner. The girl had changed blouses at home, she now wore an adorable cream top beneath which peaked the hard nipples of her graceful and now unhampered breasts. Her legs were bare under her skirt, and Wendy wondered if her new lover had also eschewed panties for the evening. Trina had touched up her makeup, but otherwise remained the startling and attractive lesbian she had presented that day at school.

As soon as her mother Mary saw the girl enter the dining room, she squealed, clapped her hands, and ran up to the startled teenager, caressing her face with both hand from chin to ear.

“Oh, I just love your hair,” Ms. Love cooed.

Wendy rolled her eyes.

Of course you do, Mom, she thought.

Then Mary surprised both Trina and Wendy by turning the delicate chin of her daughter’s friend upward to float a light but sensual kiss upon her soft lips.

Trina remembered Sara and Wendy’s statement by the waterfall.

That was the moment she realized that she’d probably never get to the game that night.

Wendy herself wore a striking outfit and had styled her hair in golden ripples falling in a wide, full body over the sides of her face and shoulders. She wore her makeup provocatively, a pale blue shimmer above her eyes, set off by mascara, her lips were full, seductive, and pink. She had chosen the same pink blouse she had worn some many days ago, on her date with Brad. This time, though, she didn’t even consider wearing a bra below the sheer pink fabric.

She’d chosen a white, pleated skirt for the evening, sans panties, of course. Her mother’s shenanigans hadn’t completely caught the daughter off guard.

Trina had seen all of her anyway, and she wanted her to see all of her again.

The perfumes of the mother and daughter filled the dining room.

Renee hardly wore perfume, preferring to just dab a little of whatever Mary wore behind her ears.

But she loved to smell and look upon the Love women in full finery.

Aromas of sandalwood and rose, orange and vanilla drifted over the table. Trina sniffed the air discreetly. Did she imagine it? No, a definite faint trace of cinnamon hovered in the air, reminding her suddenly of Sara and how Sara’s house had smelled last night.

Dinner followed a typical Gallic-Vespuccian cuisine. Mary and Renee stood from their chairs, repaired to the kitchen and returned with small salads of arugula, dandelion, romaine, and mâche greens topped with small square croutons, sprinkled with parmesan and coarsely ground black pepper. Filet mignons, each wrapped in a strip of bacon and served with frîtes and sautéed mushrooms, arrived after the salads, paired with glittering crystal glasses of pale Pinot Gris.

“Oh, Ms. Love,” protested Trina, her timidity returning momentarily. “My dad.”

“Aren’t you spending the night with us, sweetie,” Mary Love answered. “Besides, it’s not as if we’re going to get you plastered.”

Renee and Wendy laughed quietly and calmly, and Trina soon relaxed. After all, a little wine was good for the stomach.

216. The appearance of Mary’s nipples

Mary and Renee laughed and talked the whole evening, enjoying themselves immensely, openly flirting with each other, and with the two girls, too. Mary’s movements threatened to expose her breasts at any moment, and eventually they did. It happened while she passed a small wicker basket filled with dinner rolls and wide slices of oven-warmed baguette. Trina breathed in the warm aroma of hot bread rising from the basket, mixing with the perfume and cinnamon of the dining room air, and she suddenly thought of a demented bakery with a kitchen filled with sex-starved lesbian pastry cooks clothed only in floral aprons.

She looked up to see Renee, sitting across from her beside Wendy, who took the basket from her mother, wink at Trina. Renee’s fingers slipped down to the opening of her blouse, slowly trailing the hemmed edge to the lowest button. Trina swallowed and turned to say something Wendy’s mother. At that moment, Mary rose a little from the chair and bent over her plate. The loose, plunging neckline of her gorgeous green gown dipped forward, and Trina sucked in air loudly through her teeth.

The girl, agitated now, excited, her bared groin growing moist and hot, the folds of her pussy swelling, engorged and full while her heart beat faster, pumping blood and oxygen throughout her body, stared at Mary’s tit hanging free of her gown, at the hard, dark nipple pierced through by a steel bar. Trina eyed the curve of her breasts, curved like the swell of a wave rising to meet the shore, a wave of excitement rising to smash against any remaining resistance of the young girl, only recently introduced to her sexual self.

Only last night had Sara shown her the true meaning of being a dyke.

At first Trina looked away from Mary’s imposing breasts, her nipples full and erect, her areolas broad and dark, the bars piercing her nipples catching on the fabric of the dress, keeping Mary’s tits exposed, revealed, free. Liberated. Trina quickly overcame her inhibitions. After all, if Wendy’s mother didn’t mind showing her breasts, why shouldn’t Trina enjoy seeing them?

And enjoy them she did.

And when she turned to say something to Wendy, she saw the same look of adoration and lust which she knew glimmered from her own dilated eyes.

Any residual timidity melted.

Trina closed her eyes for a moment.

Sara’s voice from the night before still echoed in her mind, sending a thrill throughout her body, elevating her arousal, enflaming her damp pussy. She squirmed in her seat and slowly parted her thighs, recalling the words.

You’re such a hot little dyke, Trina, you know you are.

You don’t care who knows it, you don’t care who likes it.

You just like women, girls. They turn you on so bad. So bad.

Every word rang true, of course. She knew it; she’d always known it.

You just love pussy so much, after today, you know it now. You get so wet thinking about the taste of pussy, so hot, so wet, so good.

And when Sara told it her was okay to play with herself, okay to touch her cunt, okay to roam her fingers through her steaming, drenched lips, Trina groaned, rubbing herself.

Good girl. That’s what you’re supposed to do. Play with yourself. Especially when you’re surrounded by hot women, hot women who want nothing more than to use you like a plaything. Because that’s just what you are, isn’t it? Just a little lesbian plaything for beautiful women, just a dyke fucktoy?

God, you’re so hungry for pussy, aren’t you Trina?

Trina had continued rubbing her pussy, listening to Sara tell her about herself, groaning.

When Trina opened her eyes again, she saw Mary, Renee, and Wendy all staring at her as she openly stroked herself at the table, legs spread wide and obvious even below the table’s edge, loudly groaning at the memory of last night with Sara.

If she expected a rebuke or protest, she grossly misjudged the nature of the household she’d entered.

Mary smiled slightly, pleased.

“Well, perhaps we should skip dessert then,” she stated simply.

Despite the wildfire raging between her legs, Renee’s brow furled, and her lips curved downward in a frown.

Surely you didn’t skip dessert, she thought ruefully. You just didn’t.

But Wendy grinned at Trina and said, “Now that you have your fingers in pussy, Trina, I want to see you lick them clean.”

Startled but intoxicated with excitement, of having so many attentive eyes feasting upon her, she returned their gaze, her own eyes shining with confident seduction as she slowly brought her fingers from inside the depths of the warm, surging pool of her cunt. She licked her fingers one by one, slowly, sensually, sticking the tip of her finger, her nails polished bright pink, between her gleaming pink lips, so shiny, so glossy, so wet.

Trina wanted to close her eyes, to bask in the warmth rising from her center as she listened to the growing murmurs and moans coming from the three women, coming from Mary, her lover Renee, and her daughter Wendy. But she kept her eyes fastened on Wendy’s eyes as the tip of her tongue flicked from between her lips to caress the length of her middle finger.

Sara was right.

She was a hot lesbian, a confident lesbian plaything, a hot little dyke slut, she knew that now, and next week, next week would see the beginning of a radiant new lesbian her.

Those cute little girls at school wouldn’t know what hit them.

But Wendy suddenly pushed her chair back, stood up, and dropped her skirt to the floor. The golden thatch of her pubic hair glittered and sparkled in the light coming from the small, three-armed chandelier hanging above the table. Wendy sauntered around the table, her hips swaying lasciviously, enticingly. She stood beside Trina, reached for her hand, and guided her up as she walked the girl to the other end of the table, opposite Mary, clear of dish and setting. With a quick but gently powerful movement, Wendy lifted Trina to the tabletop, lifting Trina’s ass a little from the table to carefully, deliberately, and hungrily pull Trina’s skirt from her hips, past her waist, and down her legs, dragging them past the heels of her black straps.

She gazed upon Trina’s pussy and saw that it was bare.

“She made you shave,” Wendy told her.

Trina nodded her head.

“It’s what I like,” she replied. “I like my smooth pussy. It just feels good.”

Wendy’s eyes met the eyes of her mother across the table.

“Mom,” she said, “I bet Trina would like to feel the stud of your tongue on her pussy. I bet she’d be ever so grateful.”

Wendy squinched her nose at Trina as she unbuttoned Trina’s blouse to pull it away from her breasts and off her body.

Trina leaned back on her elbows, puffing her chest forward to meet Wendy’s eyes.

“God, she’s so good at this, Trina, you’ll see.”

Wendy leaned forward. Her glossy pink lips parted as she slipped her mouth around Trina’s hard nipple, caressing and fondling the girl’s other tit with her left hand.

Mary pushed her chair back, stood up, and strode to the other end of the table, touching Wendy lightly on the shoulder while squeezing the bare skin of her ass cheek.

Wendy lifted her lips from Trina’s trembling breast, wet where Wendy’s mouth suckled it. A trickle of saliva ran from the hard nipple down the interior slope of Trina’s flesh. A pink mist, mesh-like, began to accumulate across the ceiling, wrapping around the stem of the chandelier; tiny filaments, gossamer-thin tendrils descended, wavering, but Wendy halted them. Tonight they would not be needed. Tonight their own erotic energy would be all they would need.

The pink mist did not dissipate, but remained, moving as a thin layer over the ceiling of the dining room, ready to mass and descend, suffusing the dining room in a pink luster.

Wendy let a few tendrils drop to caress Trina’s shoulders, flicking across the nape of her neck.

Trina shivered anew at the unseen erotic force.

Meanwhile, Renee scooted her chair from the table, lifted her hips from the seat, and pulled her trousers past her waist to below her knees, plunging her hand through her thick tuft of brown hair over her feverish, dark and swollen labia. Her blouse fell completely open, exposing her modest breasts to the room, and Wendy, rising from Trina’s chest, fixated upon Renee’s bosom with a renewed and wild hunger, devouring her mother’s lover with her greedy eyes glittering blue and pink in the subdued light.

“Go to her,” Mary said softly to her daughter as she took her place between Trina’s spread thighs, her heels flat on the table, knees in the air, chin-high. Mary held each knee and pulled them further apart.

“You look so good, girl. So hot.”

Then Mary shrugged off her dress, each half of the plunging neckline dropped off her bare shoulder, falling in a light whoosh to the floor, and Trina looked for the first time upon the nude figure of Mary Love in the full glory of her body, her powerful breasts, pendulous, heavy, and vibrant, the sweep of her womanly curve, tapering at the waist to expand lusciously at her hips. The light of the chandelier fell upon the bars in her nipples, her bejeweled navel, and when Mary spread her thigh, Trina looked down to see the small hoops hanging from her pierced labia, the stud of her pierced clit.

“Oh god,” Trina whispered.

Mary dipped her head between Trina’s thigh, bringing her face just below the knee of the girl’s soft left leg. Trina inadvertently shuddered at the touch of Mary’s lips on her skin, the feeling twixt pleasure and tickle making her jerk her knee a little.

“Shh,” Mary shushed the excited girl, but her own heart beat wildly with a surging desire, and her pulse raced through her veins like a wildfire, igniting her. Mary slowly kissed down the length of Trina’s thigh, deeply drawing in the scent of the young girl’s skin, so clean and fresh, reminding her of how she used to step out of her childhood’s house, a young girl herself, on a crisp spring morning, the day fresh with something in the air, that new smell of a year just opening, just beginning.

But her nose drew closer to the hot, excited folds dripping like dew on the petals of an unfolding pink rose; the smell of blood and arousal filled Mary’s nostrils, and her own pussy clinched, half-spasming, she was so hot, she was so turned on, on fire, raging with a lust for the girl on the table, Wendy’s new lover Trina. Then Mary extended her tongue, and she licked the fleshy sides of the dripping rose, all along the salty flesh between thigh and cunt.

Trina gasped loudly, her thighs tightened around Mary’s face, but the older woman firmly pushed her thighs apart with her palms.

“Spread your legs wide for me, honey,” she said.

Trina kept her legs spread, honey dripping from her cunt.

“Good girl,” Mary said, and Trina basked in the glow of the older woman’s praise.

Then the tip of Mary’s tongue met the bud of Trina’s clit, hard in its shroud, and she dragged the stud in her tongue across the cleft between her lips, and Trina groaned, her hips gyrating against Mary’s face. Wendy’s mother settled on her knees in front of Trina’s thrashing pelvis, grateful for the foresight of the thick padding below the dining room rug. She had questioned the wisdom of any kind of rug under the table. Wendy had insisted that bare wood would be easier to clean, but now the mother felt vindicated in her choice.

Despite the miracle effects of the pink lotion, her knees weren’t what they used to be.

It’s true that she’d been keeping herself fit ever since her transformation, ever since those wild three days at Sara’s house. Yoga, stretching, aerobics, some biking and even a little running. Mostly stretching exercises, to keep her limber for her roles in the movies, the videos, she made for lesbian pornographic studio she suspected was owned by Sara herself. Or Sara’s mother, whom she had never met.

She made so many movies now. In just a few days she’d starred or had sessional roles in at least a dozen films. She had licked so many pussies, fucked so many women, so many women had fucked her. Her mouth. Her pussy. Her asshole. Dildos, strap-ons, vibrators, fingers. Even toes. Which was odd. But good. So very good. She loved anything a woman did to her, especially while being filmed. That was hot. So fucking hot.

Then she thought of something.

I wonder if Sara’s done that to her yet?

Mary’s tongue lapped a long upward swipe from the bottom of Trina’s hole to her throbbing clitoris. Then she moved her hands to midway between Trina’s knees and the flesh of her ass. She pushed Trina’s legs towards her chest, lifting her pelvis slightly, exposing the girl’s asshole in the midst of her parted crevice.

The tongue on her twat lifted, and Trina whined in frustration. Suddenly she gasped as Mary’s tongue flickered across the puffed rim of her asshole, across the tight knot of her rosebud.

Before yesterday, no one in all the years of her short life had touched her butthole, not with a finger, much less with a mouth or tongue. Then Wendy brushed it with her fingers yesterday, and Trina shivered, and now this strange woman, this strange and wonderful mother of her friend was licking and kissing her there.

There.

She’d showered after school, and she kept herself clean, but still. Her head span. Between worry and anxiety about what Wendy’s mother thought of the state of her asshole and this new, insane delight in the idea of Wendy fucking her own mother, at lesbian incest, Trina’s mind grasped at the loose straws of rational thought. It came away empty-handed.

When she’d heard Wendy say how she’d had sex with her mother at the waterfall, Trina’s shock hid another emotion, awkward and bitter. Her own mother had left them, her and her father, years ago. There were times in the past, bitter moments of her adolescence, where she’d serve herself on a platter if it meant keeping her mother with them. Not that she could put it that way, but now, with Sara’s help, she recognized the emotion, the need, raw and unsatisfied.

“They’re so close,” Sara had said.

Trina’s head went up and down, agreeing.

“It’s good to have sex when you’re close to someone,” Sara went on.

Trina’s head bobbed.

“You’d do it with your mother if you could.”

Trina wiped her eye.

Yes, yes she would.

“It gets you so hot to think about Wendy and Mary.”

It did. It really did.

Trina relaxed, her mind gathering a renewed sense of self. Yes, this was so right.

Mary lifted her mouth off Trina’s hole.

“Relax your ass, honey, and kind of loosen up like you’re going to go.”

The pink tendrils descended, brushing against Trina’s shoulders, heightening her senses, her receptivity, the sexual energy coursing through her like electricity, unseen, invisible to all but Wendy, the tendrils spread across Trina’s body, trailing down the crack of her ass, penetrating her asshole, and driving the girl to a shivering frenzy.

It sounded dangerous to Trina, but she listened to the woman, relaxed her asshole, opening it and carefully pushing her sphincter. Then Mary’s tongue went into her asshole, slowly, forcefully, up to the stud, and Trina screamed. Mary murmured into Trina’s anus, grateful to Sara for telling her how much she loved eating ass.

She had practiced so much since then.

Meanwhile, Renee fondled her tits, pinching and twisting her sensitive nipples as Wendy licked and sucked on her pussy, flicking her tongue rapidly over her clit, then sucking on the hood, pulling her lips and flesh away from her vaginal opening. Renee’s groans joined the screams coming from Trina.

Wendy took her mouth off Renee’s pretty and demure cunt, gracefully lined in brown fur.

“I bet she did that trick with her tongue,” she said, winking at Mary’s lover.

“Oh, god. You’re mother.”

“I know, right?”

Then Wendy’s tongue went back to work.

Renee soon found herself screaming while ramming her spasming pussy hard into Wendy’s face.

The pink tendrils descended, dropping and wavering to caress the orgasmic women with the tips of their filaments.

Afterwards, Mary pulled Trina from the table and held her close, squeezing her small body against hers, as she pushed her tongue inside the orgasm-dazed girl’s mouth.

217. Kid Lester High School Golden Horde versus El Hondo Scarlet Flyers

Cars, pickup trucks, and even RVs filled the parking lots of Kid Lester High School. The sun had long gone down, but the stadium lights bathed the quieted crowd in its harsh light and flashed sparkling on the luminium bleachers. A few crimson and silver banners of the Scarlet Flyers wagged on the Visitors side of the field, but most of the crowd remained silent, shuddering in nervous expectation, and even the Scarlet Flyers cheerleaders stood perfectly still, watching the opposing sides of the equally matched teams line up for third and one.

Only the voice coming over the loudspeakers announcing the play could be heard in the hush of the crowd.

Third and short. Brad Blake lined up behind all three hundred pounds of his center, Carter Coltrane. The cornerbacks of the defense hovered on the outside of the wall of players facing him, the defensive line in two rows of end and tackle facing the wall of the offense. Everybody knew the sneak was coming.

Third and short and down by two field goals.

Fourth quarter.

Less than a minute on the clock.

In a game that should have already been over, well out of reach of the Scarlet Flyers.

Kid Lester beat El Hondo. Everybody knew that too.

Even in Kid Lester’s worst year, they still beat El Hondo. Everybody beat El Hondo.

But they were big this year.

Big and fast.

And before the first half ended, the Golden Horde were down by three touchdowns.

They’d come back late in the third, holding the Flyers to two goals while scoring three unanswered touchdowns of their own, but still.

That Scarlet defense held, keeping them scoreless in during the fourth.

30 yards to the end zone.

The closest they’ve been to the red zone for the last several drives.

And this was the last time they’d get a chance to pull one out.

But the Scarlet tackles were big, strong, and they hurt.

They knocked some of the guards and tackles of the offense so hard, Brad didn’t think they’d get back up. They’d knocked him flat all game long, but Brad didn’t break or let it get to him.

He lived for this moment.

218. Sara and the cheerleaders

Sara trotted along the sidelines, waving her pom poms and jumping from time to time. Nikki, Melani, Julie, and Laura all followed her. This was Sara’s hour. Few people understood just how seriously Sara took cheerleading. The girls understood. They understood perfectly. Their leader had proven to be a relentless, remorseless taskmaster, demanding and displaying perfection.

But she also knew that she and her girls were only peripheral actors to the larger drama playing out on the field.

They dropped their pom poms to their sides and stood still on the sidelines, recognizing the moment.

His chest filled with the cold air of the October game as he inhaled and shouted out the cadence.

“Meagan-sixty-nine-hike!”

But even before the center could snap the ball, a referee whistle blew.

The crowd heard the announcer, but the cheer had already gone up on the visitors side.

“Flag on the field. False start on number 23.”

Jake Fullerton, halfback, had jumped too soon.

“Five yard penalty. Repeat third down.”

Jake tried making an excuse to Brad, but the quarterback shook his head.

“It’s all good. Now we’ve got room.”

The Scarlet Flyers called their last timeout.

When they came back to the field, Brad broke huddle.

Golden Horde went into double-wing formation, with Nate Zemsky behind Brad as fullback.

The play called for a hand-off, but Brad saw the safeties drawing too close to the skirmish line.

Hand-off my ass, he thought.

“Megan thirty-two no-bite hut hut hike!”

Michael Simpson, wideout, heard the second hut and jumped up, trying to spin around the cornerback facing him on the other side of the line. He had to get around that back, shake him loose, but he hadn’t been able to do so all night long. Dude was seriously bigger and faster.

Maybe the guy’s cleats were clogged with turf, maybe the field had gotten too torn up by the end of the game.

Michael burst over the line of scrimmage dribble-dabbed a little to the left and right, stopped sudden, and spun around the Scarlet player slipped and missed the tackle as Michael sped past him, running hard down the sideline, clear of defenders. Looking over his shoulder for the expected ball.

He stopped and dropped his shoulders almost immediately.

A mass of Scarlet players shoved Brad to the turf, sacking him.

Fourth down and twenty-one.

A loss of fifteen yards on the play.

33 seconds on the clock.

Last play of the game.

No time for a huddle, the offense lined up shotgun, Brad dropping back several yards behind scrimmage.

Only play left in the game.

The Lady Isis pass.

“Wendy-pink-eighty hike!”

Six receivers fled down the field as fast as they could, followed by Scarlet Flyers defenders.

Brad dropped back, protected against the 5-man press by his guards, center, tackles and one end.

They couldn’t last against the mass of Scarlet players, but Brad bought time by dropping further back, exposing himself to a hard hit from any player surging around the mass of players in front of him.

Two Scarlet players broke through the formation, bearing fast on him.

His own players made it the end zone though.

The two Scarlet players rushed close, almost right on him as he leaned back and hurled his oblong ball high in the air.

Hear me, Lady.

The ball sailed in a slow, high arc over the heads of the players.

Hands reached out, shoulders shoved against shoulders, and players fought and lunged to reach for the sharply descending pigskin.

Scarlet and silver roiled against a sea of blue and gold helmets.

The pigskin dropped into their midst, and player collapsed against player, all falling to the turf.

Someone had caught the ball, but under the writhing, shuddering mass, no one could say who.

The referees rushed to move bodies out of the way, slowly revealing the catcher to the eyes of the crowd, once again fallen silent.

A tall, lanky figure stood up finally, holding the ball aloft in his right hand.

The crowd roared in applause and anguish.

The player wore blue and gold.

The crowd suddenly hushed again.

One player, near mid-field, was not standing.

Brad Blake, caught between two Scarlet Flyers, had been hurt, and he had been hurt bad.

It wasn’t long before broken neck and paralyzed fluttered throughout the stadium. Coaches and medical staff ran to the prostrate figure of the boy on the field. Then the cart and stretcher came out, confirming all fears heightened by the wail of a siren getting louder as an ambulance sped towards the high school stadium.

Saturday

219. In Sara’s limo on the way to Homecoming

Sara had outdone herself.

Trina and Wendy sat in the back of her limo, Trina resplendent in a shimmering sequined pink gown with a neckline plunging to her navel. The dress hung over her bare shoulders by narrow straps, but Trina had wrapped a silvery fur-lined mantle around her against the chill of October. Wendy’s dress clung to her hips, her breasts, the round half-moons of her ass seductively, the baby blue shimmering fabric so thin and soft, a satin dress so fine it seemed the very crinkles of her skin were revealed through the fabric. Wendy’s neckline, too, plunged south.

The girls, Nikki, Melani, Julie, and Laura, all either in pink or in blue, squeezed together on the seat facing Wendy, Trina, and Sara.

All the girls had spent hours at Sara’s house, putting on make-up, styling their hair, laughing, talking, gossiping, and suddenly getting quiet again. They stifled their laughter and jokes, not wanting to seem too cavalier in front of the hair dressers Sara had hired to assist them that night.

When Sara attempted to wear red lipstick, Wendy restrained her hand, holding a black tube with pink lettering on a gold label.

“Tonight we all wear pink, baby,” Wendy said.

From time to time Brad’s accident came up.

“Poor boy,” they’d said. “I mean, even after what he did to Wendy, it’s still just so.”

“No,” Wendy had said. “I’m so sorry for him. And he really was so sorry about all that. I mean. He went along with the story. About the frosting. Which reminds me Sara. Is cum really supposed to burn that much? It hurt me something awful.”

One of the hairdressers dropped his scissors.

“Girl,” he said. “If it burns there’s something wrong with either him or you.”

“Oh be quiet, Sassy,” Sara said. “Boys are to be seen and not heard.”

“Well,” Wendy continued. “Steve’s wasn’t like that. I didn’t mind Steve’s. I mean,” she said, looking guiltily at the girls. “At the time I didn’t mind. It all seems kind of gross now.”

“More for me,” Sassy muttered, but Sara nudged him with her elbow.

But Laura put her arm through Wendy’s.

“It’s okay, Wendy. I know exactly what you mean. I. I. I almost had a boyfriend once.”

Melani walked past the pair, leaned into Laura and kissed her deeply on the mouth, her tongue probing the other girl’s deeply, their lips moving in that sudden passion so frequent with them, the girls, now.

“Well, I did have a boyfriend,” Melani said. “And you’re not missing anything. Ugh.” Melani held her arms down and stiff, the fingers of each hand extended in that curious gesture she often made when confronted by something disgusting or infuriating.

“I’m so glad Sara…”

All of the girls’ eyes had then drifted lovingly towards Sara.

Then the girls stood in a row, dressed and ready for Homecoming, while Sassy took a picture of the ensemble.

When Wendy saw the photo, she gasped.

“Sara, they’ll never let us in like this.”

“Don’t worry so much, Wendy. Nobody will say anything to us. I promise.”

Now in the limousine, the girls held crystal champagne glasses in one hand, trying not to slosh alcohol over their scintillating dresses.

Wendy’s breasts were exposed to the girls in the limousine, her neckline so deep and the gown so loose and billowing. Trina wanted to cover them, then exposed them further, and then she just wanted to paw and lick them.

“Oh Trina,” Julie said. “You’re so cute sitting there ogling Wendy’s titties. I’m sure Wendy won’t mind if you kiss her nipples one time each. Be sure to leave little pink lipstick marks on her tits.”

Trina didn’t even bother to look at Wendy. She knew.

Wendy cradled Trina’s head as the pink haired dyke bent towards her, slipping between the folds of her dress. A long slit ran up to the waist, allowing Wendy to spread her legs wide, even in the limousine, while Trina crouched between her thighs, kissing, licking, and sucking on Wendy’s nipples, hard now, and wanting to get harder.

Nikki, Laura, Melani, and Julie groaned and murmured as they looked at the two girls opposite.

“Pull her dress up, Wendy,” Nikki said.

“I want to see that ass,” Laura said.

“I want to see that hot little box,” Julie said.

“Stick your fingers in her cunt,” Melani said. “I want to see you lick her pussy off your fingers.”

Wendy carefully pulled the loose satin fabric above Trina’s waist, showing the girls her cute, round ass.

“The slut’s not even wearing panties,” Melani said, her breath coming in huffs as she plunged her own fingers into her pussy through the slit of her gown, legs spread wide, her high heels crossed over Julie’s and Nikki’s feet sitting beside her. Nikki turned to face Melani, and their lips met hungrily.

Wendy’s hand poured over Trina’s body, running smoothly and slowly around the curve of her hips towards the opening between her legs, her wet cleft, shaved and hairless, trembling and totally exposed to the girls and to Wendy’s sweet, sweet fingers.

When Wendy entered Trina’s pussy, the girl bit her nipple harshly but quickly.

“Ow,” Wendy gasped, but Trina was already nurturing Wendy’s tits with her lips and tongue, so gently kissing the girl’s glands, one at a time licking and kissing the junior’s breasts shaking beneath her mouth.

The limousine pulled to the front of the school gymnasium.

Trina lifted her mouth off Wendy’s tits, red now and wet, surrounded by the pink smear of Trina’s lipstick, running from nipple to sternum.

A girl’s been kissing my tits, Wendy said to herself. When people see my titties, they’ll know a girl’s been kissing them.

She pulled her fingers from Trina’s cunt and licked them slowly, smiling into Melani’s dilated and hooded eyes as she did so.

220. Homecoming

The kids and parents of Kid Lester High School also had outdone themselves. They attacked the gymnasium with an intent born largely perhaps as a way of forgetting their star quarterback’s terrible fate.

By the next day the outcome was certain. Neck injury, spinal cord injured, permanent paralysis from the neck down.

There had been talk of cancelling the dance, but the decision makers quickly quashed that idea.

The dance must go on.

Because of the lateness of this year’s Homecoming game, several members of the student council had proposed a Holywe’en theme, but that idea too was quashed. Sara Craft, though merely a student rep and not the president of the student council, carried a lot of weight in any decision, and she ultimately, though reluctantly, spoke against that choice of theme.

“Holywe’en is so close already. I feel, and I know you all do to, that we should try to avoid making this a big costume party, as fun as that could be. It’s Homecoming! So many of us are super excited to finally be able to wear those gorgeous gowns we’ve all been bugging our moms to get and our dads to pay for.”

Roberta Florence, whose mother owned a thriving design center and had never married, frowned at this stereotypical depiction of the patriarchy, but she let the remark pass. She’d straighten Sara out in time. Plus, she had been among those proposing the Holywe’en theme. She just loved costumes.

“Besides,” Sara continued.

Did she really just wink at me, Roberta wondered.

“Some of the girls have asked me to propose just the most amazing and precious idea. Oh, I promise you’ll love it.”

Roberta sighed but smiled anyway.

Knowing Sara, they’d all love it.

She was just so.

Fascinating.

That was the word, Roberta decided. Fascinating.

Roberta had found herself tuning into Sara’s every word, intently, almost ravenous for Sara’s ideas and speech, which so much seemed to come from her own heart, her own most secret desires.

Why not wink back?

“They asked me, and I think it’s just wonderful that you’re letting me tell you all this, because I know you’ll agree, even if you have to turn it down.”

No, Roberta thought. They wouldn’t turn it down. Not if she had anything to say about it.

“The girls think it would be just so super adorable if we all wore pink and blue dresses, and then the girls in the pink dresses would have to go to the dance with the girls in the blue dresses. See? And then if their boy, um, if any of the boys wanted to dance with a girl in pink, they’d first have to ask the girl in blue. Because you know, the girl in pink would really be the girl in blue’s date.”

The student council looked confused.

“You know, for the dance? We think it would be ever so much fun to make the boys work a little harder, don’t you think? For the girls to show solidarity? It’s so important nowadays, isn’t it? I mean, for us girls to show, well, to show everybody.”

Roberta nodded her head eagerly.

So important.

And a little hot, too, she suddenly realized to her surprise.

221. Student body response to Homecoming theme

When word spread about the Homecoming theme, a vociferous and lively debate broke out. Confusion reigned, but before the day ended the boys grudgingly understood, well, no they didn’t understand. But they girls chatted with budding excitement about the dance.

222. In the gymnasium

Sedans, hatchbacks, long limos, pickup trucks, SUVs, and sports cars lined up to the front of the gymnasium to drop their charges off. Girls in long pink and blue dresses gathered and clustered towards the two heavy wooden doors of the gym, propped open despite the cool weather. Corsages and ribbons covered the girls, who moved like living floral arrangements amid their own bright laughter.

Handsome young men, and shy young boys, some in black tie, some in dark suits, hung on the outskirts of the feminine entourages.

Inside the gym a long hall ran on the outside of the gym itself, leading to restrooms. A wide set of glass and steel doors opened up to the gym itself: two basketball courts, side by side, with movable bleachers.

A stage had been set up near one end of the gymnasium, the wooden bleachers folded and stacked against each wall, the basketball hoops retracted. Glittering pink and blue curtains hung from the ceiling to the floor in front of all walls, concealing the bleachers and basketball hoops, and reinforcing the illusion of being in a grand ballroom, decidedly feminine and alluring.

223. The scent of cinnamon

The band was still setting up when Wendy and the girls arrived, Wendy in blue leading her date in pink arm in arm into the ballroom, the pink lipstick from Trina’s lips showing clearly in the deep neckline of Wendy’s revealing gown.

Suddenly someone jostled her from the back.

Before she could turn around to see who it was, Gregory Gregor stood in front of her, holding a camera hanging around his neck on a black strap. A long lens stuck out from the camera.

“Good god, girl,” Gregory said, laughing. “You look amazing. You and Trina both. Here, turn into each other and hold your arms around each other’s waist so I can take a picture for the yearbook. It’ll be the best yearbook yet. That picture I took of. Well. So sad.”

Gregory’s mind ran over last night’s horrible scene; he had already leapt into action, snapping picture after picture of the throw, the tackle, the snapped neck as Brad landed awkwardly on his head, the aftermath of Brad’s still body, prone on the turf. Gregory’s mind raced forward, planning and imagining the multi-page spread devoted to the quarterback in the yearbook.

“So very sad,” he repeated.

Wendy held Trina close to her, the bare skin of their torsos and cleavages pressing tightly against each other. The two of them, in their shimmering gowns, Wendy’s blond hair sweeping and swirling around her oval, radiant face, eyes lined and accented with glimmering shadow, and Trina with her pink hair puffed and pile above her head in her exaggerated pompadour, face made up much like Wendy’s, glowed, seductive and lascivious.

Trina gazed lovingly at Wendy.

A pink light glimmered and surrounded her, and she glowed in the dim light of the darkened ballroom of the gymnasium.

“My god,” she said, unwittingly echoing Sara so many weeks ago, “you just shine.”

Trina leaned up for a kiss, and Gregory snapped his camera the moment their lips touched.

“Wow,” he said. “Things have really changed this year.”

Trina, turning towards the photographer, smiled broadly.

“We’ve grown up!”

Wendy kissed Trina’s cheek affectionately.

“Look out world, here we come,” she added.

Julian Sorrel swept past the little group, his perennial backpack flung over his shoulder. His dark, full-bodied hair, sprayed and blown less than an hour before, was now disheveled and partly crushed, and his eyes were already bleary, but he wore a black nylon jacket and a thin red tie over a bright white shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons and a frilly, turned-up collar, giving him a vaguely 18th century look.

“I’ve got a backpack and a bottle of rum,” Julian said over his shoulder as he passed.

Both girls’ hearts fluttered momentarily, despite their avowed Sapphic attraction.

Sara, Nikki, Melani, Julie, and Laura clustered around Wendy and Trina. To the side of one of the walls tables had been set up with punch bowls, cups, and several kinds of snacks, mostly sugary and remarkably unappetizing. Sara and Nikki steered the group towards the punch bowls, guarded by a handful of teachers and rule-loving students, among them Roberta Florence, who flushed red and looked away when she glimpsed Sara and her entourage.

Besides the several punch bowls, cups, and snacks, stood another covered in short plastic bottles. Ms. Hollenbach, who taught social studies and history, busied herself with the help of a student, a shy brunette named Rebecca Smith, setting up small bottles of a new drink donated by The Diana Group, short, clear plastic bottles with pink labels saying Pink Water.

“What’s this?” asked Julie, picking up one of the bottles.

“Oh, just a little something my mom’s company started making. I’ve tried it. It’s really good. I mean, if you like strawberries and bubble gum.”

Laura loved strawberries and bubblegum.

All the girls did, really.

At that moment, someone bumped against Wendy’s backside.

“Hey, Sara. Hey you guys, what’s up?”

They turned to see Megan Harlowe in a blue dress with her two friends, Humpty and Dumpty, both in pink. All three smacked loudly on bubble gum. Megan cast a bored over the ballroom, her arms folded across her breasts. Humpty and Dumpty each blew a pink bubble from their mouths simultaneously. The bubbles burst over their garishly painted pink lips. Both girls nonchalantly licked the excess gum from their mouths and lips and kept on chewing loudly, gaping with unfocused, almost dazed eyes at the world around them, looking up at Megan from time to time.

Megan had changed since breaking up with Brad.

Just then, Wendy caught it. The faint but very insistent odor of cinnamon lingering over the growing body of women, girls, boys, and men filling the ballroom.

224. The transformation of Megan and her friends

Before she had been serious, studious. One of those students quite capable of mastering any given subject with effort but without inspiration. Megan never accomplished more than expected, but since much was expected of her, she never felt that she cheated herself. She worked for her grades, which were all As, and she focused on possible careers without yet settling on any one particular path.

Something in law or business.

A future husband. If not Brad himself, then someone very much like Brad.

Then Brad had cheated on her and something in her collapsed.

Sara, of all people, saw her desperation, saw her struggle, saw her, well, despair.

Everything suddenly had seemed so much bigger than her at that moment.

She looked at her school books and wondered why she read them.

She gazed in stupor at her homework and wondered why she bothered.

She poured over the clothes in her closet and wondered who had chosen them and why.

It all seemed so pointless, she thought to herself one day, standing in her closet with Sara and looking at all the stupid things she had.

“Oh this is cute,” Sara had said, picking up a short pink dress, shoulderless and tight.

“Oh god, that thing pushes up my tits. I look like, like some kind of bimbo when I wear it.”

“Try it on, I think you’d look great. I wouldn’t worry about looking like a bimbo if I were you. Not if it’s something you’d like to be.”

Megan had hesitated, then she took the dress to leave.

“No, here. Change here.”

Megan shrugged her shoulders. Why not? It was nice to change in front of Sara. It felt good to let Sara see her body. Sara liked her body, and Megan liked Sara liking her body.

Megan giggled.

A few days later, Sara stood behind Megan, looking at the two of them in her mirror in Megan’s bathroom.

“You should dye your hair and wear lots of pink.”

“My hair? What’s wrong with my hair?”

Megan ran her hands through her long brown hair. Luxurious and thick, Megan wore her hair in pride, feeling with some reason that it was her best part. But Sara held her hair in both hands, lifting it.

“Platinum. It should be platinum. To go with all the pink you’re going to wear.”

“I don’t know. All the boy’s will think I’m easy. They’ll think I’m a ditzy bimbo.”

“Who cares what the boys think? Girls like bimbos, too. I know plenty of girls, women, who just love bimbos.”

Sara embraced her from behind, kissing her shoulder.

Megan had gotten used to it.

Sara was just so, so.

Affectionate.

“We should have a sleepover at my house tonight,” Sara had suggested then. “You should call your two friends, Humpty and Dumpty. I’m sure they’d love to come over.

“Janice and Jen. They have names, you know.”

But the tone in Megan’s voice betrayed a sudden excitement.

Sisters, twins, Megan had only recently realized just how adorable, how cute, and even how attractive the two girls were, fleshy and sweet. Sexy. So sexy.

“You’re too cute,” Sara said, holding out more gum for Megan.

Megan smiled vaguely as she put another piece into her pink mouth.

That night, that night she spent at Sara’s house, with her friends Janice and Jen. God. What a night.

It was just so, you know, I mean, right?

Now, as the trio stood in front of Sara’s group of friends, Megan blew a bubble and giggled.

“Megan!” Sara cried out in joy. “You made it. I can’t believe you’ve taken your mouth off Janice and Jen long enough to chew gum.”

Megan’s bubble popped.

“I know, right?”

Janice and Jen, both in extremely tight and lowcut pink dresses, with hems barely hanging past their very round ass cheeks, clung to each other salaciously, on the verge of yet another make out session, despite sororal ties.

Nikki strode to the front of the group, taking Megan by the elbow and steering her away.

“You three just need to find a nice quiet corner, maybe the girls room somewhere, and you know, finish each other off? It looks like your two friends still need some affection. You know, just fuck each other silly?”

Megan bobbled her bleached head up and down.

“’Kay.”

Another pink bubble exploded from Megan’s mouth. Then she walked between Janice and Jen, one hand on each ass cheek as she walked her lovers away from the group.

Nikki turned to Sara with her hands on her hips.

“Girl,” she said.

“What? I think they’re better off.”

Sara looked defiant.

“Better off?” Julie exclaimed loudly. “They’re fantastic!”

Sara looked at the Pink Water standing on the table.

“I know, grab a bottle or two and do what I do.”

Sara picked up a bottle and stood next to the punch bowl. Two teachers had their backs turned away, deep in conversation, ignoring the students. Roberta blushed again at seeing Sara.

225. Pink Water for the punch

Looking straight into Roberta’s brown eyes, she poured out the contents of her Pink Water into the punch bowl. She repeated the performance over the other punch bowls. Her entourage followed suit. Soon all the Pink Water the girls had taken with them from the other table were emptied into the punch.

“Rum?” asked Julian, coming up beside Trina.

“Better,” said Sara, hearing the question.

Trina shrugged and blushed under her make-up at Julian. Then she squeezed herself tightly into Wendy, turning away from the cute boy.

Julian, a budding alcoholic, doubted anything could be better than rum.

Ms. Hollenbach, an opened bottle of Pink Water in her left hand, sauntered up to Roberta standing behind the punch bowls.

“You look so pretty tonight, Roberta,” she said, her voice somewhat husky.

The ballroom soon swelled with high school girls and high school boys. Most of the girls were dressed in either blue or pink gowns. The boys wore dark suits, some wore tuxedos, some were dressed flamboyantly, in silver shimmering jackets and slacks, glimmering shoes and sparkling belts. Jeans were forbidden, but some kids in denim got in anyway, the chaperones and teachers at ease with themselves and the world, the men were sunk into a kind of dreamlike reverie as they gulped bottle after bottle of Pink Water, or swigged cup after cup of the punch. But the women, the female chaperones and teachers, had eyes only for the girls.

Who cares what the boys wore? The girls were all so lovely.

226. Samantha and Alice sing for the dance, the cinnamon deepens, and Wendy’s pink mist gathers

The band had been playing for over a half hour, thirty minutes of lovely jazz played by musicians, all female, dressed in black tie, fronted by two singers, one blonde, one raven-haired, a female duo named Samantha and Alice. Both singers wore matching silver gowns, long, slit high at the thigh, neckline plunging to far below the navel, sheer to the point of transparency, shockingly sheer for the venue, but no one seemed to notice.

No, that wasn’t true.

The men didn’t notice.

They women did, but they were too enchanted by the sight, the vision, to care or wonder at its propriety.

The singers shared a microphone, an old-fashioned condenser mic that looked something like a cross between an electric shaver and the grill of an old Studebaker, an automobile that had long vanished from the Vespuccian landscape but not from the Vespuccian consciousness. They piled their hair above their heads in coils and waves, and the rouge and makeup they wore recalled a decade long gone by.

Their nipples poked through the thin fabric of their gowns, the slit on the dresses revealed no undergarment, and they held their arms around each other’s waist as they sang, the stage lights catching the gap between their legs at times. Female student and female teacher alike ached to glimpse a sudden exposure of flesh and bare groin as the singers swayed and gyrated behind the microphone stand, their hands never once leaving the other’s body.

They pressed their faces together as the sang, cheek to cheek, their red, shiny lips so close to the other, their mouths so open and wet as they sang; their lips touched, but the lyrics of need and desire rang clear in the minds of the girls, the women listening.

If the boys and young men were meant to approach the girls and young women in blue for permission to dance with a girl in pink (a rule that never made sense to the boys in the first place, even after having it explained to them by their girlfriends for the umpteenth time), it soon became apparent that it would never happen.

The boys stood around one side of the gymnasium, talking to each other quietly, demurely, foggily. Sometimes that situation concerning Brad Blake popped up into the conversion, sometimes something to do with some 8-point old boy Henderson bagged, or the alpaca ranch that fool Martin was building, but mostly the boys and men talked quietly about nothing at all, falling into prolonged bouts of silence and stupefaction no one seemed quite aware of. Or took any notice of.

Wendy breathed in deeply; the scent of cinnamon deepened.

When she looked up, she saw a thin cloud of pink forming along the ceiling, tiny filaments of pink waving and growing, and Wendy smiled at the pinkness seen only by her.

Then it happened.

227. Sapphic orgy begins

The music spread through the ballroom, accompanied by a beat no one really heard, a rhythm that swelled the brain, the female brain, with desire, a smoldering desire for the girl or the woman next to her. Slowly at first, shyly, nervously, one girl glanced at the girl beside her, a girl in pink touched a girl in blue, stroking her elbow, feeling the spine, running her fingertips up and down the arch of her back, touching the flesh beneath the fabric, enticing and hot. Slowly at first then more boldly, one girl in blue after another pulled her pink partner to the dance floor and began to sway, gyrate and roll to the music coming from the stage.

Plump girl, thin girl, tall girl, short girl.

Rich girl, poor girl.

Boundaries dissipated until only one solid fact of femininity remained, hot to the point of boiling over, steaming and inextinguishable.

Teacher, chaperone, freshman, senior.

One writhing mass of feminine heat faced the singers on the stage, backed by their female horn section in black tie, their female percussionist in black tie, the female bass player behind her double bass, in black tie.

When the straps from the dresses fell, no one blinked or shrank away. No one held up a hand in protest, no outraged voice of outraged propriety was lifted.

And still the music played on, and still the duet of Samantha and Alice sang to the ballroom of lust and the satisfying of feminine need, of female want and female wantonness.

Trina’s breasts were freed for Wendy’s mouth, and Wendy’s breasts were free for the hands of Ms. Hollenbach, no longer standing behind her punch bowl.

“Oh god, Wendy. It’s Wendy, isn’t it?” Ms. Hollenbach breathed huskily, “I can’t believe—“

But Wendy’s mouth covered the social studies teacher’s mouth, and Ms. Hollenbach never revealed what it was she could not believe.

So many girls had fallen to the floor by now, so many women, half-dressed and quickly undressing, collapsed to the floor of the ballroom, lip against lip, body pressed against warm body, limbs entwined with hands, groin pounding against groin.

Tongues tasted new taste, and fingers crept along new flesh, entering new territories of delight, new realms of pleasure, of warm, wet pleasure and hot, steaming lust.

228. Victoria Gothe regards Moby in the corner

Vice Principal stood against the wall of the ballroom, regarding the singers with a cool indifference. She brought the bottle of Pink Water to her mouth and took another long, slow sip. She’d already drunk two of the things, but the bottles were so small, and the water so, well, yummy.

Victoria giggled as she thought that word to herself. Yummy. It wasn’t a word she normally said, not even in the privacy of her own mind.

She shrugged when she saw the girls go out to the dance floor unaccompanied by boys. Young men really, she supposed. Or they should be. They didn’t always act like it. Or maybe they did. Maybe that was just the way men acted. Loud, stupid, and foolish. Victoria shook her head. She didn’t like thinking about men. Didn’t like it at all. Too many of them had just gotten in her way.

She watched as the men, the boys, all filed out of the building, leaving through the wide doors of the ballroom, casting a glance neither to the right nor to the left, seemingly unaware of the events taking place.

For the best, Vice Principal Gothe thought.

She smiled a broad smile as the girls dropped their garments and then their bodies to the floor.

Girls, she thought. Get a hold of yourselves. Leave all that for the, well, for the bedroom if you must.

A nagging thought trembled in the back of her head.

I suppose I really should put a stop to all this, she thought.

She stepped away from the wall and stopped.

But they look and sound so happy.

And that’s important, isn’t it? For my girls to be happy?

She glanced briefly at the Sapphic orgy taking place on the floor in front of her.

She sighed.

I’ll have to think about all this tomorrow, she decided. Too big of a mess to unravel now, imagine the hubbub of all these women getting their clothes back on. And just try to get that band to stop. Those two women don’t look like they have a care in the world about anything besides themselves.

Swiveling her head this and that, her eyes alighted on something unpleasant, disagreeable, and unwanted.

Ugh.

Him again.

The janitor stood in the far corner of the gymnasium, drinking a bottle of Pink Water and eyeing the goings-on with an uneasy regard.

Damn fool women, Moby thought. Who did they think had to clean all that mess up?

Moby held the bottle in front of him, tilting the bottle to read the label.

Pink Water, eh? Can’t say as I disagree much with that. It sure is pink. Even if it ain’t altogether water. Close enough, I expect. I expect it’s close enough. Kind of good, really. Kind of. Yummy.

Moby giggled to himself.

Yummy wasn’t the kind of word he normally said, not even in the privacy of his own mind. If you could call it privacy.

The chatter had been unending lately.

From the other side of the ballroom, Victoria glared at the janitor giggling to himself.

That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.

Vice Principal Victoria Gothe picked her way gingerly through the writhing mass of female heat, of rising murmurs and groans, plaintive and pleading. The band must have taken a break, because Victoria heard it clearly.

Pussy, touch my pussy, oh god, yeah, there, yeah there.

Loud sounds of kissing rose from the floor, the squishy sounds of wet labia being stroked, vaginal openings penetrated, orifices licked.

Moby watched Victoria approach, undulating like her own personal ocean through and over the mass below her.

Moby stiffened, and his mind grew dark to anything other than the glory that was his Victoria.

“You there,” Victoria said, her imposing bosom almost touching Moby’s brow.

“Hey, you yourself.”

Victoria hesitated.

Was there anything, anyone ever so.

Stupid?

No.

Ugly?

Not at all.

Adorable?

That’s it. That’s it exactly. Oh god, he’s so.

Sexy?

Hush, you.

“Um,” Vice Principal Gothe hemmed, “Um, I think the girls room needs. I mean, someone spilled a shake. Um.”

“You want to show me, Vicky?”

“Victoria,” Vice President Gothe hissed, but the janitor already won the ceded ground.

229. Julian Sorrel walks by the restroom

Julian strolled casually down corridor running outside the main gym. He’d already emptied his bottle of rum in the girls locker room, listening to the sounds of Megan and her crew fucking themselves silly. They didn’t seem to mind him being there, if they even noticed. Julian briefly wondered what would happen if they got caught but then realized that was a worry, and he tried his utmost not to worry. Actually, he didn’t try at all. He just identified a thought as a worry and threw it away.

Growing bored of the girls playing in their locker room, he staggered back to the ballroom, shrugging when he saw the orgy taking place on the floor.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said.

He looked at the guys standing listlessly in group against the far wall.

“I mean, that’s not something you see every day.”

Julian stumbled through the orgasmic mass until finding himself alone in the corridor outside the ballroom, suddenly realizing he really needed to take a piss.

Walking past the girls room, he heard the sounds of sex coming from behind the closed door, the loud voice of a woman shuddering against someone’s cock. At first he thought it might have been a couple of dykes, to go with the general theme of the dance that he began to recognize.

Then he heard the janitor’s voice, that Moby fellow.

Julian cracked the door open and saw the janitor standing behind Vice Principal Gothe, pants suit trousers dropped to her feet, leaning forward against the sink counter. Julian caught a glimpse of her enraptured face in the mirror.

“You like it, don’t you, Vice Principal Gothe?” Moby asked, grunting.

“Uh huh,” Vice Principal Gothe squealed.

“Harder?”

“Uh huh.”

Julian closed the door. He fetched another bottle from his backpack.

“The Rum Tum Tugger is a curious cat,” he said as he twisted the cap off.

230. Wendy between Mrs. Pemberly’s thighs

Wendy wriggled her face harder against the pussy in front of her. By now she had lost track of which woman or girl it was, there had been so many. So many delicious cunts, so many delicious lips, tongues, and more lips to kiss, to lick, so many breasts, titties to taste, nibble, and bite. So many girls. So many women. She felt the Pink Water surge through her, the chemicals in the punch and water of The Diana Group, and she smirked, recognizing the hand of her lover and beloved friend, her mistress and owner, yes owner, Sara Craft.

The fragrance of cinnamon floated like an almost visible haze above the congregated orgy, adhering to the pink tendrils and gossamer threads of the pink mist spreading, rolling, and undulating above the women caught in the throes of an ecstasy they could neither restrain nor even begin to comprehend.

She felt the pink mist, her pink mist, spread across the ceiling of the gymnasium, the ballroom, and she kissed the woman’s pussy again. Whose was it? Somebody’s mother, she knew that much. A chaperone. Oh god, Lisa Pemberly’s mom.

Wendy’s mind drifted serenely to Lisa’s eleventh birthday party as her tongue slowly lapped the wet and torrid folds of her schoolfriend’s mother’s pussy, dipping her tongue tip into the warm hole to taste her tangy and exquisite excretions. The fleshy and middle-aged woman groaned, writhing and shuddering on the polished wooden floor of the gymnasium, lost in a delirium of inexplicable lust as someone, some girl, a sophomore, squatted above her head, blue dress drawn up over her hips as she ground her pussy into the ecstatic and moaning face of the woman below her.

The whole middle school had been invited, most of the girls anyway, and a few of the boys. The Pemberlys owned a small ranch outside of Edge City, towards the west. Long tables covered in white and pink cloths had been set up behind the ranch house, near a small grove of cottonwood clustered beside a dry creek running behind the home. Mrs. Pemberly, in a pretty white polka dot dress tight above the hips and ending in a billow just above her knees, stood in the midst of the children, laughing delightedly, handing out sparklers and glittering party hats, making her way to the tall three-layer birthday cake gobbed with white frosting and pink icing. Later after singing Happy Birthday and shoveling down clumps of sugary cake, Mrs. Pemberly led a small pony out, followed close behind by other small ponies, and the girls took turns riding the ponies around the ranch.

At home in a field of reeds, as the saying went, the one her grandparents used to say, being Old Believers, describing something wonderful or a lifestyle beyond the ordinary. Wendy never thought it made any sense. Still, some people had it good, and some people didn’t. The Pemberlys did.

At any rate, that was also the year Mr. Pemberly won his third term as Sheriff of Reno County. Wendy suddenly heard a memory of her father’s voice bringing that point up several times. Her tongue trembled a troubled moment in Mrs. Pemberly’s twat, then it picked up its pace. Lisa’s mother squirmed against Wendy’s soaked face, her screams, muffled in the cunt of the high school girl above her, reached Wendy, filling her own being with an erotic fury, a sexual frenzy that almost overwhelmed the high school junior.

Her lips pressed the woman’s mound, she licked her throbbing nub with the hard tip of her tongue, then sucked on the flesh surrounding the hot clit, sucking her pussy lips away from her mound fiercely, over and over and over again until the woman shuddered and squeezed Wendy’s head between her fleshy legs. The fragrance of cinnamon deepened and the pink mist descended up the orgy. Wendy felt her erotic energy expand, swelling into the pink, running along every fiber and thread of the mist-like swirl of that psychic erotica reminding her so much of cotton candy.

Mrs. Pemberly shrieked into the young cunt grinding against her mouth, a flood of orgasm pouring from her pussy, exploding like a geyser over the waiting mouth of the young girl between her legs.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” she cried into the juicy girl hole.

Wendy sensed every orgasm, every oncoming climax trembling and vibrating along the filaments of her pink mist, her pink web, her pink and utterly lesbian web, a web glistening and dripping with the dew of feminine sex. She felt every mind, heard every plea for more, every cry of pleasure, every aching groan pleading for release. She seemed to hover above the writhing mass of female bodies, dresses and gowns torn and rent, breasts bared to be touched, grabbed, kissed. Mouths opened to other mouths, tongue brushing against tongue, lip, and limb.

And feeling Mrs. Pemberly still shuddering against her, Wendy slowed her orgasm, calmed the woman’s sex-ravaged body, her orgasm-depleted mind. Then, sensing the other orgasms and women on the verge of orgasm, she held the debauchery in abeyance, holding each woman’s orgasm tantalizing beyond reaching, driving every woman crazy with lust and the need to cum.

231. Trina, Laura, Julie, Melani, Nikki, and Sara

Her mind searched for Trina, and she found her, and she smiled into Mrs. Pemberly’s pussy, aware of her girlfriend’s new closeness with the group. For despite the chaos, the overwhelming chaos of the sexual frenzy taking place inside the gymnasium, the girls, her girls, had stayed together. Wendy could see them with the eye of her mind, a pulsing clump of female flesh, of teenage feminine flesh, not one article or stitch of an article of clothing upon their soft and lovely and young bodies, so open to one another, so spread and hot, pumping hard into each other, covering each other with love and kisses, the milk of passion, the heat of their pussies, the warmth of their breasts, the wet glory of their tongues, and the velvet soft electric fire of their lips, so pink, so very pink.

They had cum so many times already, those dear, dear girls, those sweet, sweet lovers, fucking each other endlessly without artifice, without object, using only tongue and finger, toe and mouth, asshole and pussy exposed, opened, penetrated, licked, and devoured.

232. Wendy begins to master the pink web

Trina, so hot and lovely, so recently come out, and now cumming so very hard, so very hard over Melani’s mouth, in the midst of a ballroom of women, of Sapphic debauchery, oblivious to anything but her own need, her own aching need to spread her pussy lips, her engorged pussy lips, for Melani’s hot and eager mouth.

Laura, dear Laura, sweet and tender Laura. Kneeling over Julie’s body, spreading her ass for her lover’s fingers, her lover’s tongue, her lover’s kisses. And Julie so eager and willing to comply, to stuff her fingers, one finger, two fingers, three fingers into Laura’s asshole, spreading her ass wider and wider for Julie’s tongue, plunging one finger, two fingers, three fingers of her other into Laura’s hot and steaming cunt, so precious, so sweet, so tender, so willing to drive Laura to heights, to unimaginable heights of cumming, and cumming, and cumming.

But not yet, pretty girl, thought Wendy smiling into Mrs. Pemberly’s drenched bush. You girls can’t cum yet.

Nikki. So fearless and strong, so very headstrong, so easy for Wendy to see why Melani loved her so much, so easy to see why. Oh god, Sara. Really? Here?

And Sara, squatting over Nikki’s open mouth, perceived her servant’s thought.

I’ve been working on her, she grinned mischievously at Wendy’s mind. I knew she’d like it.

And Wendy laughed joyously at her mistress, her beloved owner, yes, owner.

Girl, you’re incorrigible.

Then Sara lowered her pussy over Nikki’s face, her mouth stretched hungrily open.

“Ready?” Sara turned her head down towards Nikki between her legs.

Nikki nodded her head rapidly, eager.

Then Sara let loose a waterfall, a cascade, a torrent of hot piss over Nikki’s face. Sara’s urine ran in a continuous stream over Nikki, flooding the girl’s head and hair, and formed a warm pool on the floor around Nikki’s head, a golden halo of liquid against the floor. Nikki gulped as much of the hot, briny fluid as she could, but most of it washed over her, her face, her neck.

After all, Sara had drunk several bottles of Pink Water.

“I just knew you’d love watersports, Nikki. Good girl. You can pee now.”

Nikki glowed, basking in Sara’s praise, her makeup smeared by the torrent of piss falling on her. It was easy praise to earn, Nikki thought. Now that Sara had shown her how much she loved girl piss.

Nikki closed her eyes, yielding to the immense pleasure of relieving herself, her warm fluids running from her piss hole and over her vagina onto the floor of the gymnasium, soaking her hips and ass. Nikki shivered in the quickly cooling urine.

So good.

“I think Trina and Melani make a cute couple, don’t you?”

Nikki opened her eyes, looked at Trina and Melani caught in mutual oral ministration, and she nodded again.

They did.

They did make a cute couple.

But wasn’t Trina supposed to be Wendy’s girl?

But Sara was already kissing Nikki’s piss-covered face, both sets of pink lips glistening with spit and brine.

233. Wendy begins to ascend

Wendy’s mind mounted higher over the ballroom, over the naked and shuddering mass of intwined and groping limbs, climbing threads stretching beyond the ceiling, beyond the roof of the gymnasium, and she saw the pink web stretching out now, beyond the campus of Kid Lester High School. She saw her own home and discerned her mother and her mother’s lover Renee, sharing a pink and glittering double-headed dildo between their outstretched thighs, legs touching one another as they leaned back on their elbows, fucking each other on Mary’s bed, thrusting their hips towards each other, their two cunts hungrily swallowing the dildo between them.

And Wendy saw her, another woman, strangely familiar, move across the bed to straddle her mother’s face, a woman with a full head of platinum blond hair, gorgeous red lips, and thick heavy mascara.

The woman at the bookstore, so many weeks ago it seemed.

Wendy shrugged and grinned, her mouth opened against Mrs. Pemberly’s groin.

God, Mom. Really? How on earth did you meet her?

And then a cry of longing reached her ears, the ears of her mind, an anguished cry of pleasure, as she heard a girl rubbing herself on her bed, her hand shoved down the waist of her striped pajamas, staring at a computer screen filled with the forms of women, half-nude, clad in latex or leather, of bondage lesbians fucking each other with weird and twisted objects as she masturbated, fucking her squishy pussy with two fingers, and Wendy recognized her.

Oh, Maddy.

Why didn’t you come to Homecoming?

And then a thousand other cries filled her ears, and they did not come from Edge City, or even Nuevo Metziticli, and Wendy lifted her mind’s eye high, and she saw the vast web stretch across the globe, the vast pink web of lesbian erotic desire. She saw them all, and she heard them all, and she knew them all, somehow she knew them all, she heard their cries and their whispers, their plaintive moans and their high-pitched groans, and she heard them in their cars, and in their bars, hiding in their rooms, or boisterous in their clubs, in alleys and streets, and living rooms and holy places.

She knew them all, and she loved them all, and she sent her thought upon them all until she held their orgasms, their rising orgasms, in a huge and terrible restraint, suspending them in global torment, from the Fränkisch Republic to Qing-Manchu.

Mrs. Pemberly shook like a leaf in the winds of a hurricane, like the leaf of an oak tree, battered by winds coming down from the mountain, but Wendy held her cunt in the tight grip of her mouth, and Mrs. Pemberly flailed, so close to cumming but held mercilessly on the edge of her second orgasm.

And Wendy smiled at the torment of their pleasure, and she lifted her mouth off Mrs. Pemberly’s pussy, the sweet, sweet pussy of Lisa Pemberly’s mother, and she spoke softly but clearly.

“Now.”

The bonds of their restrained orgasms snapped like rubber bands, and they came.

The woman of the gymnasium came in a collective scream of release, and Mary came against Renee, and the woman from the bookstore came, her blond pussy ramming spasmodically against Mary’s face, and Maddy Springer came, even as the whip came lashing down on the red and raw ass filling her computer screen, red vagina gaping and wet, and the women of the globe screamed as one, collected and united in their orgasm.

234. Trina, Melani, Laura, Julie, Nikki, and Sara climaxing together to shouts of “Wendy”

Julie ground her pussy into Laura’s face, while Melani and Trina lapped ferociously at each other, Sara pressed her wet cunt over Nikki’s face, smothering the girl while wiping her groin over the girl’s face, leaning over to press her own mouth over Nikki’s sweet, sweet pussy, wet and glistening with urine.

When they came, the cried out in one voice.

“Oh, Wendy.”

Hardly had the orgasm subsided when a terrible tremor shook the ballroom.

235. Julian Sorrel drinking in the boys room

The Rum Tum Tugger slumped in the corner of the boys room, eyelevel to the steel P-trap of the far sink, in the flickering fluorescence coming from the dying lights above. Moby hated the gymnasium and wounded his mores by denying to it and to its restrooms the weight of his full care.

“I’ll mop their damned floors, but that light can wait till next week,” he’d mutter to himself all that year, but the light continued to flicker as next week never came.

The Rum Tum Tugger gazed drunkenly at the stained bottom of the toilet visible through the gap between the stall door and the tiled floor of the restroom. His lids drooped minute by minute, growing heavy in his intoxication, and his left hand held the mostly empty bottle of brown-red rum loosely, until finally the boy’s eyes closed, and the glass bottle dropped from his hand, clanging brightly, its contents pouring out in a slow trickle towards the drain inset into the floor at a modest incline.

So it was that Julian Sorrel neither saw nor heard the grate of the drain lift, nor the red tentacle extend from the rim of the small hole in the floor, followed quickly by more dark red tentacles, sinister in the flickering light. The loud cracking of the floor near his feet as the main bulk of the Red Entity’s body burst from the drain, ripping up the tile and concrete slab of the gymnasium, sending shards and dust of broken floor falling to the ground, disturbed the boy’s dream only slightly as he dreamt of an fantastic orange cat, miles high, chasing white field mice like puffy clouds across a slate gray sky.

236. A short history of the Red Entity

A red tentacle flicked over the teenager’s body, serpent-like, but, not sensing what it sought, it quickly abandoned Julian to his rum-fueled visions.

The shuddering of the orgy reached its crescendo, and the Red Entity turned its body, swelling with rage to huge size, filling the boy’s room, toward the flimsy door, beyond which the pleasuring sounds, the ecstatic moans and groans of the sybaritic revelry drove the device of the Beehive to a fury.

It had spent so many years dormant, woken only by the approach of The Consortium, and when it woke, when it finally stirred, it soon realized that it was not the approach of The Consortium that had awakened it. It detected psychic energy, and lots of it, but coming from everywhere, unfocused, vague, wild. If it had a language to describe it, it might have thought it much like much liquid splashing from tumbled pails, falling in splashes, puddles, without order or intent.

But it had no language, and it didn’t describe it. It just sensed it.

Then it detected its nourishing pink, strangely altered but still nourishing, still pink, rich in Velikovsky waves. And so it made its way under the city towards its nourishing pink, the substance that had kept it functioning throughout the long eons of its wandering inside the shell of the probe.

It had gotten so close.

It had faltered so close to its goal, reconnection to its nourishing pink from the shell of its casing, but something stopped it. Caught in a net and suddenly helpless it had been taken and altered, its programming rewritten, its insides reconfigured, its whole being refashioned.

Then it had been released, or it had released itself, and it had confronted a powerful psychic being. Near, so very near, so very like its creators but so very different, so very weak in comparison, small, insignificant. Disposable, it threw the thing away, and moved away from its captors, clear in its purpose.

Find the portal and return to its creators, The Consortium.

But the portal was broken. Or something in the Entity was broken, because it couldn’t detect it. Except that one moment, briefly. Yesterday. It felt the portal open, then it felt it close, as if it had simply vanished from existence.

So the Entity waited.

Then Velikovsky waves exploded, its center of gravity massed in the gymnasium, near wear it had first begun to stir.

237. Panic at the ballroom

The cries of their orgasms subsided, and the woman, the girls, the teachers, the chaperones, and the students lay in each other’s arms, slowly caressing each other, giggling quietly in the bliss of their afterglow.

That post-coital bliss proved to be short-lived.

Wendy sensed it first, then Sara. The moment the tremor shook the ballroom, Wendy knew something had gone terribly wrong, that something dreadful had arrived.

She jumped up, nude, and Sara, naked, leapt to her feet beside her.

“It’s here!” Wendy shouted.

“What’s here?” Sara asked.

“I don’t know.”

The alarm spread quickly.

The girls, the women, jumped to their feet almost as one, Ms. Hollenbach pulled Roberta Florence to her feet, and Mrs. Pemberly jumped up in search of her daughter Lisa.

Suddenly the front wall of the ballroom caved in, the curtains covering the bleachers fall as the ceiling on that side of the building crumbled. The women backed away, huddled together, as a huge red creature, tentacles thrashing around it like whips, advanced slowly towards the group.

The being, the creature, hummed shrilly, violently, often rising to a strident shriek like the screaming of a boiling kettle.

The women stuffed their ears with their hands against the wailing noise.

Wendy and Sara looked upon the creature in dread horror, its loathsome red body glimmered noxiously, its sickening skin covered in some oil-like slime. From its many hideous orifices belched a foul red fume, and its multitude of whip-like tentacles lashed the air viciously, cracking and making terrible slashing noises in the air over the women’s heads. It made its way swiftly towards Wendy, scattering the women in its path like loose debris.

Wendy and her five comrades, suddenly fearful, retreated to the far wall, opposite the stage, from which the band and singers had already fled in terror.

But the Entity kept advancing until all that stood between her and it were six small girls, not yet women, nude against the red thing shuddering in its violence.

The red mist descended, those noxious fumes, and all those in the ballroom suddenly experienced an excruciating pain, searing strikes of lightning agony. Bodies crumpled to the ground, doubled-over, as woman after woman, girl after girl crawled to the broken doors, desperate to flee the agony of the hideous monster and its gruesome red fumes.

Tentacles whipped above the heads of the seven high school girls.

The monster loomed directly over the girls now, its red vapor, foul and reeking with a stomach-churning stench, descended slowly, a lowering crimson fog, and one by one the girls dropped, screaming, clutching their heads, doubling over in a sharp and sudden misery.

238. First battle between Wendy and the Red Entity

Wendy, too, felt the pain, and she winced as her body fell to the gymnasium floor. Her lungs burned as the poisonous stench filled her organs, she coughed until her throat felt raw. Searing pain ran through her body, her joints screamed, she could feel her bones grind, and every dental root in her mouth shot a long and lasting pain to her mind. Her mind.

It screamed as every cell and every nerve in her body tore open, exposed to a cruel torture beyond the ability of words to describe. She was being flayed alive, but when she opened her eyes she saw her body, whole, unharmed, unscathed. Her lovely teenage body, nude and alive, wonderfully alive and wholesome.

She looked around her and beheld her small group of friends, her Sara, her Trina, her Nikki, her Laura, her Julie, and her Melani doubled over on the floor of the gymnasium, their mouths wide open, shrieking in unbearable agony, and Wendy, searching for a strength she did not have, staggered to her feet, her body flinching and her mind tormented by the Entity.

The Entity hovered slowly towards her, sending myriad tentacles to flicker over her like serpents and the tongues of serpents, caressing her body lewdly, from ankle to thigh, hip to shoulder, front to back. A tentacle slid down her cheek, her face. Wendy’s face burned at the contact, a thousand coals touching her skin, but she stood there, alone, facing the Entity.

She couldn’t stand much more of the pain, and already she began to sway, to buckle, almost collapsing to the floor in anguish. Then, remembering her encounter with the Beehive, she called out with her mind, and waited, hoping for an answer.

The Red Entity wrapped her with its tentacles, and lifted her. She struggled against the creature’s grip, but the tendrils, the boneless limbs were too many, too powerful, and the pain on contact with the thing, the device of The Consortium, overwhelming, unendurable. She screamed, but her mind faltered, and her body slumped.

In a half dream of pain, she heard voices calling to her from a vast distance, voices muffled by the pain and the agony, the horror and the shock.

“Share the pain with us, Wendy,” said a voice, and Wendy saw another Wendy in her mind, a vague outline of a Wendy, hidden within thick clouds of noxious red mist. The mist thinned a little, and Wendy beheld Wendy hanging from a heavy chain, her arms shackled at the wrist above her head, her feet a good foot off whatever ground should have been supporting her. Terrible red marks covered her naked body, welts lined her breasts, her thighs, her sides, and her flanks like stripes on a tiger, and many thin metal wires connected to her, fastened to cruel hooks sunk into her skin, pulling her skin painfully away from her flesh just to the point of tearing her.

Two such hooks pierced her tits, pulling them lewdly from her chest on taut wires that ended beyond the scope of her vision, but in that vision she heard a familiar voice, cruel and cold, taunting her as another whip lash landed across her abdomen.

Wendy cried out, and Sara laughed.

“See Maddy? The dyke bitch loves it. Hit her one more time.”

Share the pain, Wendy. Just like you shared the pleasure of The Beehive.

Wendy could hear Wendy’s voice echoing in her head, and for a moment the pain, the red cloud of pain, lessened and melted away. Wendy strode forward in her mind to go to the Wendy hanging and hooked, to touch her, to share with her, and as she approached, as she drew ever closer, she saw a million more hands reaching out to her, to touch her, to share with her, and then at once the hands withdrew, and the vision passed.

The Entity had perceived Wendy’s vision, and it had closed the door upon it.

Wendy screamed.

The pain, renewed, returned with a vengeance.

“Wendy!”

Wendy jolted awake at the sound of her name called out by a girl, but that girl was Trina. Wendy opened her eyes, and when she could focus, her eyes beheld a sight she could not forget.

239. Trina’s last stand, recalling her change, how much she adored Wendy, her mother Mary

Trina heard Wendy screaming. Or was it Wendy? Surely all the screaming belonged to Trina, all the shrieking in such agony, such terrible torment. Then she heard Wendy again, and there could be no doubt about it. Wendy!

Trina gathered the last resources of her vanished strength and struggled to her feet. She looked at the bodies of Nikki, of Melani, of Julie, of Laura, and of Sara writhing on the floor, their shrieking dwindling to a raspy exhaust of excruciating torment. She wanted to help them, to call to them, to pull them to safety, but Wendy needed her.

She’d spent the past two years now at Maddy’s and Wendy’s table, eating lunch with the two friends, secretly pining for Wendy while hoping that Maddy would at least.

Wendy had ignored her, of course, but Trina hadn’t minded.

Why should the most beautiful girl in school pay attention to weird little Trina Zschwinzscher?

And then that picture happened, and Maddy wouldn’t stand behind her friend.

She simply let Wendy hang in the wind.

Trina had been a nervous wreck, crying at night over Wendy’s humiliation.

That afternoon, when Wendy showed her that other photo, the one with her, oh god, and all that cum spilling from her, um.

And when she walked across the lunch room to ask her to Homecoming, Trina thought the floor had fallen away from her life, and she fall down, down, down, a well of utter and complete happiness.

Everything else that had happened since, the waterfall, the night before last with Sara, the dinner last night with Wendy’s mother and her mother’s girlfriend, just added to her joy.

She’d had just assumed life would drag on, showing her nothing, offering her no promise of that bright future so many other kids seemed to expect.

And now she had it, that bright future.

A future threatened by the red monster tormenting the love of her life.

No.

It would have to go through her first.

She faced the red creature, tentacles whipping the air over her head, moving away from her with its captive screaming in the coils of its waving limbs. Trina looked around helplessly, saw an unopened bottle of Pink Water and threw it at the Red Entity. It struck the thing and bounced off harmlessly.

“Let her go!” she shouted, forgetting her dolor. She rushed to pull her lover from the monster’s grip, ducking the whips of the tentacles as she ran towards the menacing creature.

“Wendy!” she shouted again, punching and kicking at the creature that held her beloved, but her kicks and punches mattered no more than the little plastic bottle.

Wendy opened her eyes and saw Trina below, somehow avoiding the mass of writhing tentacles.

Then suddenly a tentacle lashed out, catching Trina and flinging her nude body against the stage, and Wendy saw the girl fly through the air, arms outstretched toward her, her face frantic and terrified. Wendy wanted to look away when the girl landed, the pink head of her small body striking the edge of the stage with an unnerving and horrifying crack of bone on wood.

Wendy stared after Trina as the Red Entity bore her from the ballroom, and then she slumped, fainting from the pain and from the shock of seeing her friend’s body crumple as if lifeless to the floor.

Trina didn’t move.

240. The helplessness of Sara

Sara opened her eyes as the pain began to subside.

The other girls slowly regained their strength as their agony gradually dissipated.

The red mist cleared, the fumes melted away, and Sara stared at the creature, the body of Wendy limp, motionless in its grip.

Sara struggled to stand, but her arms wouldn’t support her, she collapsed limp from the pain, from the exhaustion, from some strange lethargy washing over her, paralyzing her almost.

Sara and her friends watched helplessly as the Entity carried Wendy across the broken threshold of the fallen doors. Slowly the six girls regained their feet as the wave of tormenting pain subsided from their bodies. But Sara reached out with her mind, calling on all her power, feeling for signs of life from her darling Wendy.

And then she heard her, softly, a voice swallowed in an endless pool of suffering.

Sara, Wendy called out.

Wendy, Sara answered, but already Wendy’s voice vanished as the girl sank into the bottomless depths of misery.

Sara breathed deeply, her relief mixed with a wild anger.

Wendy was alive but taken by the Entity.

Sara shuddered with rage and fear, alarm and anxiety over Wendy’s safety.

When the Roadmen arrived, the Go-Between leading them, Twig bringing up the rear, it was clear that they had come too late.

241. The Go-Between brings comfort

The global reaction to the world orgasm was remarkably restrained, to say the least.

For one thing, only women had experienced it. So it could easily be ignored.

For another, women themselves found it hard to talk about, and it was only days later, sometimes weeks later that one group of women or another would recall that strange night or day or morning or afternoon (depending on one’s locale).

Social media had not yet come into its own, so talk spread more slowly. By fits and starts.

And no one had been seriously injured.

That had been the most remarkable aspect of the global orgasm.

Except for a minor fender-bender here and there, the women of the world lived through their climaxes unscathed.

Still, a year later any pedestrian in any major city of the world could see flyers and advertisements for such groups as the conservative Union for Spontaneous Female Orgasm, the social democratic International Women’s Society for the Collective Unified Climax, the anarcho-socialist feminist faction Our Clit, and intriguingly, the global religious libertarian World Church of the Cosmic Lesbian.

The days and weeks following the events of the Homecoming Dance brought a change to the students, teachers, and parents of Kid Lester High School. Indeed the citizens of Edge City as whole were troubled by what had taken place. The gymnasium had collapsed, part of the gymnasium at any rate, but no reason could be found for it, and a student had died. Suspicion immediately fell on Julian Sorrel, a sophomore, found fast asleep and passed out drunk in the boys room where a large section of the floor had exploded. No doubt the boy had been fooling around with a kiss cracker or a Tyler bomb. But now trace of any kind of explosive could be found, and the boy, questioned for hours, had to be reluctantly released, charged only with public intoxication and minor in possession. He had seen nothing and confessed to nothing.

Some reason had to be found and “local seismic event” sounded as good and plausible as anything else.

“Would that be an anomalous event?” asked a particularly troublesome journalist during a press conference.

“We haven’t decided that yet,” the man behind the podium said, while a woman in a white lab coat quickly marched up, taking his place.

“It might have been an anomalous local seismic event,” the woman said, leaning into the microphone. “We’re also looking at the chance it might simply have been a non-ordinary, geographically restricted ground tremor phenomenon.”

The journalist nodded her head, seemingly pleased with the answer.

In any event, the men, the boys, the male teachers, and the few stray male chaperones never quite could explain what had happened or why they had all gathered in the parking lot, seemingly indifferent to the passage of time.

But the female students, chaperones, and teachers who had been at the dance turned red at any mention of it, trying to quickly turn the topic to something else. Not exactly embarrassed, certainly not ashamed, but puzzled and confused, aroused by vague memories and the recollection of suddenly finding themselves naked, sticky, in the obvious afterglow of a powerful orgasm, bodies awash in the adrenaline following a great fear and pain no one could remember.

They did remember a very tall, very kind and understanding man, who bowed, waved his hand, smiled, who brought a strange and goodly peace to the gathering of confused women picking through the gowns and dresses on the floor for their clothes.

The six men in white shirts and black ties who followed quickly looked away or kept their heads down. Only the Navajo who worked at the drive-in looked around him with bold eyes, staring directly at the haunches of a woman bending over to pick up a dress, or gazing curiously as a high school girl struggled into a cast-off gown. From time to time their eyes would meet his. Seeing only curiosity and astonishment, the girl or woman would suddenly smile and giggle and look away.

The tall man, however, soon strode directly towards a small group of girls, still nude, standing or kneeling over the body of another girl, her head seriously wounded.

242. The Go-Between at the body of Trina

Gerald swiftly knelt beside body of the fallen girl; he stroked her bloody forehead with the palm of his large hand, but the life had already gone out from the girl. He saw the face across from him, the face of the girl kneeling on the other side of the body, a girl with long auburn hair, and when the girl returned his glance, the Pre-ascendant recognized at once that she stood apart from the rest of her kind. Not like that janitor, not like that fellow Moby, no.

She had something of The Guild about her, something of a kind with the great psychic powers.

But not The Guild, he realized.

No. Not them.

She’s dead, isn’t she?

The girl spoke to him without moving her mouth, her mouth did not move, Gerald suddenly understood, and she is talking to me.

Yes, he answered. But. How?

You’re different, Sara said with her mind. You flow like clear water, and your mind is clear, and you wash like water over me, and I’m floating—

“Inside you,” Sara said aloud. “You’re not human, are you?”

Human, the Pre-ascendant muttered to himself. They like to call themselves that.

“No, not ape. My kind is far away from here.”

Suddenly one of the girls standing beside Sara’s kneeling body spoke up, her voice shaking.

“Is she? Is she? She’s dead, isn’t she?”

Gerald looked up to smile sadly at Melani. If she’d had heard what had just been said, she gave no indication.

None of the girls had seemed to hear it.

“Yes,” Gerald said, looking at the blood on his hand. “I cannot help her.”

Velikovsky waves hummed and vibrated in the air around Gerald, plentiful but beginning to dissipate. Gerald quickly scanned them, seeing everything that had taken place, everything that had happened in the gymnasium, and when his mind returned to the small cluster of girls gathered around their friend, his face showed anger, sadness, and wonder.

That thing had killed, as it should not have done.

And that girl was not the only one of her kind.

There was another one, far more powerful, in command of a psychic power beyond anything he had ever encountered. The very air crackled with it. He discerned the frequency of the remaining Velikovsky waves a weird connection with The Guild. Or maybe not The Guild but something very much like it.

The Consortium?

His people had never encountered them. His kind had dealt expressly and uniquely with The Guild, and it had been a rewarding relationship. Still.

The Consortium.

Of course, he had heard of the long struggle between the two psychic powers. Every pre-ascendant civilization knew of that, but so very few could speak knowledgably about The Consortium. Many of his own kind openly doubted their existence, but not the Go-Between. The Guild was hiding something. Gerald assumed it had something to do with their ancient rivals.

Then there was that stuff in the bottles. That Pink Water stuff.

No monkey came up with that.

He’d have to have a long talk with that Sara, and he’d have it soon.

“Please wait here,” he asked Sara.

Sara nodded and watched the tall man stride over to his small group of men in white shirts.

Too cute, she thought to herself. For boys.

243. The Red Entity and Wendy at The Diana Group, Wendy regains consciousness

Wendy stirred, regaining consciousness. She had been in so much pain, so much. Her dreams had all been of torment, of torture, of her body desecrated, destroyed, and mutilated. She had struggled against her dreams, knowing herself to be trapped, to be held prisoner, but she saw only a vast cell surrounding her, of bars immeasurable and red. She beat against the cage, but it didn’t yield; she screamed her name into the endless void, but no answer came.

Then, she knew not how it came to pass, the bars melted away and she awoke, still in the clutches of the device of the Beehive, where she heard shouting, booted feet running. As her eyes focused, she saw many men in blue uniforms positioned in a wide hall, weapons shoulder-high and aimed at her and the creature. Behind the row of men stood a heavy steel double door. She looked around and saw the path of destruction that they had made, ceilings rent and demolished, walls broken and scarred. A fine, white dust hung in the air behind them. Pieces of wall and ceiling dropped to the floor even as she looked.

Sirens screamed, and red lights high on the white and pink walls flashed a strident alarm.

A beautiful woman with long auburn hair stood behind the row of squatting men, still some fifty feet away in Wendy’s reckoning, and Wendy called out.

“Sara!”

The woman looked up, startled to hear that name, and Wendy realized that she’d been mistaken. The woman was not Sara, how could she be, she was so much taller and older. But she had the same glittering eyes, the same keen look about her, that same feline, diamond look about her head.

The red creature held Wendy close to its body, its main trunk, most of its tentacles withdrawn, coiled within its amorphic mass. Sending only a few feelers along the wall ahead, it breathed out its noxious exhaust. But the men in front of her wore masks over their faces, and as the red cloud spread in surging waves towards the defenders, the woman slipped a mask over her own face, staring in wonder at Wendy Love.

Fifty feet, forty feet, thirty feet. The Entity drew ever closer to the line of defenders, and still the defenders neither flinched nor fired.

Then the creature drew within twenty feet of the line, and the line opened fire.

Bolt after bolt of pink beams struck the red creature, and the red creature recoiled, momentarily dazed, stunned. The tentacle holding Wendy loosened, and the girl slipped a little, hanging onto the creature’s tentacle, which wrapped around her beneath her shoulders, under her arms.

A burnt smell of electricity singed the air, reminding of Wendy of her failed lamp project in shop class.

She felt the creature tremble beneath her, shuddering as the creature hummed and vibrated. She could feel the thing tense, tighten, charged with energy. Suddenly the creature exploded, discharging a wave of psionic energy that knocked Wendy back in its recoil. The Beehive device went limp for a moment, spent maybe from the discharge, and Wendy dropped to the floor, shaking herself free of the limp tentacle.

As soon as she landed on the floor, she leapt up and ran down the hallway, into the dust and ruin, away from the Red Entity.

Immediately the creature was aware of her escape.

A tentacle lashed out, whipping around her waist, and began to pull the girl back.

Wendy cried out in frustration.

Suddenly the creature recoiled again, and the tentacle holding flinched, retracting from the girl’s body. A strong hand reached out from the dust and crumbled wall and yanked her to the side, behind a broken corner where one hallway connected to another.

“Quickly, girl. I’m no match for that thing.”

244. The Rape of the Living Pink

The device hesitated.

It had lost the girl. Retrieving her would be no hard thing. The line of defenders lay as if lifeless just in front of the steel doors, beyond which the pink called to it.

It detected the Pre-ascendant.

It didn’t need the girl yet.

It needed the pink.

With the pink it might not need the girl at all.

The girl was excess weight.

Still, it had contact with its creators, residue of that contact adhered to her to like gas around the core of an exploded star.

First things first.

The Red Entity whirled around, hovering above the floor and moving towards the double steel doors, a few tentacles extended above, behind, and in front of it like the feelers of a fantastic insect. It broke through the steel barriers as if nothing stood in its way.

It reached the steel door of the Pink Chamber and broke it with the same ease, splintering and destroying the wall around the door frame.

It entered the Pink Chamber.

The Living Pink swelled and rolled at the entrance of the device of The Consortium. The device extended its tentacles, a multitude of tendrils burst into life, springing from the body of the Red Entity, breaking the glass-like covering of the chamber, protecting the inside from the outside and the outside from the inside.

The moment the tentacles touched the Living Pink, the pink substance rushed over the being, covering the device like fast moving water, but thick, a pink oil covering the thousand limbs and the one thick, stumpy body of the Entity. The oil seemed to boil for a few seconds. The Entity turned pink again, momentarily. Then the oil of the Living Pink seeped into the creature, and the creature once again gleamed a deep and menacing crimson.

The creature hovered a moment in the chamber.

Then it expelled a long round cylindrical object, dark blue and perfectly smooth.

The object dropped to the ground with a loud clang ringing above the hum of the Entity, the Red Entity.

The Entity hummed and whirled, spinning in the Pink Chamber, charged with power. The wall behind the broken glass-like protection of the Living Pink was bare, empty. All of the Living Pink had gone into the Entity, consumed by the device.

The Entity left the chamber through the broken remains of the door.

It would not need the girl after all, it decided.

It drifted slowly and lazily down the corridor of the lower section of The Diana Group, confident in its supreme power, its resistless invulnerability, leaving behind it the screaming of alarms, the motionless bodies of its simian defenders, and a Pre-ascendant hiding behind a pile of rubble.

Built by The Consortium, there was nothing in this cosmos that could stop it.

245. The Go-Between comforts Wendy

Wendy collapsed against Gerald.

You’re Wendy, he thought at her. You’re like your friend.

Wendy didn’t reply.

“You’re Wendy,” he said. “I met Sara. At your gathering. So much pain. So much sorrow. I’m so sorry. Your other friend. She died.”

Wendy gave Gerald a confused look.

“What? Who? Who died?”

“The girl called Trina. I believe that is what your friend called her. She didn’t survive the fall against the, the, the stage.”

Wendy wanted to scream, to shout a denial, a rejection of the truth, but she witnessed it, and knew in her heart that what the tall man had could only be true.

Wendy held the strange man, hugging her body against him tightly, and the man returned the embrace, smoothing her back with flat of his hand.

He wanted to comfort her with wisdom, but he knew it would only ring hollow to her, weak platitudes from a weak mind.

The monkeys were like that he thought to himself. They hated and feared death.

What’s more, they took it personally, as a personal insult hurled at them from a prankster cosmos.

They were decidedly odd things, these monkeys.

They hated death but abused life, and they flung death at each other like their ancestors flung feces, with unrestrained amounts of terror and joy.

This girl, this Wendy.

Power emanated from her in continuous waves.

The Go-Between practically rocked in them, jolted by the sheer energy coming from the she-monkey, the human female.

246. The Go-Between in the aftershock of the dance

Earlier that night, Gerald had stood in the midst of the ruin, giving the Roadmen directions, telling them to stay behind, to get rid of the Pink Water, to make up any story they thought appropriate for the authorities.

Then the Pre-ascendant pulled Sara aside.

“Have you made contact with The Guild?”

Sara shook her head.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”

“The other one, then? The Consortium?”

Sara shook her head again.

“I mean, not me. But my friend Wendy has. She talks to them. She’s just so amazing. She’s told me a little bit about them. The Consortium.”

“Where is she?”

“That thing. That thing took. And then it just whipped poor Trina across the room.”

Gerald continued to query Sara, and between her sudden outbreak of sobs and straight-forward answers, the Go-Between discerned the truth. Or something very much like the truth.

This girl Wendy.

She existed in more than one cosmos.

There was more than one cosmos.

Gerald’s mind raced.

His people had often wondered about that.

This girl Wendy had contact with The Consortium.

The Consortium created the device, which explained a lot, but not everything.

This group, this corporation, the young girl in front of him, this young girl Sara. Her mother owned it, and it had material built by The Consortium in its possession. It used it, made things with it. Which explained the Pink Water.

The Pain Rabble had intercepted the device, captured it. How, the Go-Between had no idea. But they had done so. They had altered it. Again, he had no idea how. Such skill was beyond them.

That thing had tossed Gerald aside with no more effort than a Roadman tossing an empty can of Murica out the window of his white Corolla.

But something went wrong, something went amiss, and he needed to stop it.

If he could.

At the very least, he needed to rescue that girl Wendy.

If he could.

“Stay here. Stay put. The Roadmen will help you.”

“Where are you going?”

But the Go-Between didn’t answer.

“My ass I’ll stay put.”

Nikki, Laura, Julie, Melani walked up to Sara. Nikki held out Sara’s blue gown.

“What are we going to do now?” Melani asked.

“Go see my mom,” Sara said, pulling her gown up and over her waist.

She turned her back to Julie.

“Here, zip me up, Julie.”

247. Wendy gets a sheer, pink babydoll

Gerald sprawled in a single loveseat set against the mirrored wall facing the door of Serena Craft’s office, more than a little astonished at the path that had led him here. After the Red Entity had left, Gerald and Wendy both ran to the bodies fallen in front of the steel doors. They seemed lifeless, dead, but Gerald shook his head when Wendy questioned him.

“Are they…dead?”

“No, but I must hurry.”

One by one the Pre-ascendant stooped over the bodies of the fallen guards, touching their foreheads with the palm of one hand while waving the other hand over their faces. One by one the fallen guards regained consciousness and slowly began to arise. Finally he came to the body of Serena Craft.

He recognized it now. His discussion with the girl Sara. The device, the probe. What he felt coming off the other girl, the girl Wendy.

The power of The Consortium.

It flowed from the body of Serena Craft, the woman at his feet, diminished, but still. Not meant for this world.

Another one, he thought.

No sooner did he touch Serena’s forehead when she awoke, suddenly alert, jumping to her feet.

“Who? What?”

“My name is Gerald. I’m—“

“The Go-Between,” Serena interrupted. “Did you really need to be so tall?”

“Um.”

But Serena already turned her back on him.

“The chamber!” she shouted at the guards. “Check the chamber.”

Serena followed the guards as fast as she could in her black leather heels.

Gerald and Wendy followed, running after them.

When they reached the Pink Chamber, the guards tried to stop Gerald from entering, but the tall man brushed them aside, striding into the chamber behind Serena.

Wendy entered quietly, not knowing what to expect.

Serena revolved in the chamber, spinning on her feet to look at the destroyed panels, the broken coverings, the broken walls, every last molecule of the Living Pink removed.

“It’s all gone. Every bit of it. We’re ruined.”

Gerald saw a blue object on the floor, partially hidden by the rubble of the doors, the dust of the crumbled walls and ceiling.

Bending down, he picked it up and frowned, easily recognizing the provenance.

He slipped the object into his pocket, but Serena spotted him.

“What’s that?” she demanded, “hand it over, it doesn’t belong to you.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. This isn’t meant for your world. It belongs to The Guild.”

Serena gestured to the guards, who lowered their weapons instantly.

Gerald held up a hand.

“Please. Do not be foolish.”

His blues eyes burned holes into Serena’s mind.

She made another gesture, and the guards lowered their weapons.

“But what does it mean?”

“Betrayal.”

Gerald fell into a deep reflection.

“Is it a Creeper weapon?”

The question startled Gerald from his musings.

“Creeper? You mean the Rabble? No, this is far beyond them.”

The group left the chamber.

Serena led them to her office.

Moments later, the girls arrived to The Diana Group.

Seeing Sara and Serena standing together, Gerald suddenly understood the connection.

Of course, he thought to himself. But how?

Serena swiftly took command again, leading her daughter, the friends of her daughter, and the Go-Between to her office several floors above them.

“Wendy, please walk with me. I’m just so thrilled to finally be able to meet you.”

Wendy walked beside Serena to her office, relating to Sara’s mother all the events of that night, the ride to the dance, the ballroom, the orgy, the attack of the Entity. And if Wendy noticed that she was the only one of the group not wearing clothes, she didn’t seem to care.

Two women waited for Serena in her office. Not bothering to introduce them, Serena gestured to one of them.

“Cyndi,” Serena said, “Go get Wendy something to wear.”

Cynthia trotted off humming and clapping to herself. She knew just the thing.

“Cyndi!” Serena cried out in alarm when the assistant came back. “That’s not what I meant.”

Cynthia held up a sheer pink babydoll for Wendy.

“Why not,” the assistant pouted. “She’ll look super adorable wearing this.”

Wendy flung the babydoll over her and seeing her image in the mirrored wall, she nodded to herself.

She’s right, Wendy thought. I do look super adorable.

Serena sighed.

“You’re incorrigible, girl.”

Cynthia smiled and squeaked.

“Phyllis, you and Cyndi here can go. I’ll call for both of you if I need anything.”

The other woman, evidently Phyllis, pulled Cyndi by the hand.

“Come on you,” she said. “I’ll find something to cool you down.”

With the assistance gone, the seven women settled down, Nikki sitting on a large and fluffy armchair with Laura on her lap. Sara and Julie squeezed into a second chair. Wendy and Melani sat on either side of Gerald, while Serena took her position behind her desk.

Gerald’s nose twitched. That girl in the big armchair with the other girl on her lap. Was it his imagination, or did she smell like urine?

No one else seemed to care. Or even notice.

Serena folded her hands together and brought them to her chin.

“Let’s talk,” she said simply.

Thus began an hours-long discussion of the events and persons leading up to the second attack on The Diana Group. Everybody knew a little bit, some knew a lot, but nobody knew everything, and something, some bit of information, surprised everyone present at some time or another.

Only Wendy said nothing, not wanting to reveal the extent of her abilities and not wanting to sound like a lunatic.

She kept the conversation with Jack Randall to herself, having had spoken only to Sara about it.

She couldn’t keep anything from Sara.

Gerald spoke of The Guild, the Great War of the Psychic Powers, the Pre-ascendant species, the back planets, and the Pain Rabble. What the device was, what the Entity was, he could not say, and he drew quiet when talk turned to The Consortium, for he knew little enough about them.

Wendy started to speak, but Serena interrupted her.

“I’m going to go with my gut on this one, although in all honesty this is a corporate affair. There’s absolutely no reason for anyone other than Sara to be here.”

Gerald looked like he was about to protest, but Serena held her hand up.

“Sara, honey. I won’t lie. Without the Pink, there’s nothing The Diana Group has that other corporations can’t get or don’t already have. Your grandfather, um, your other, um. Nero was a genius of course, but even he couldn’t have created what he created from scratch. He needed the Pink. We need it even more. Our scientists, our chemists can’t hold a candle to Nero. So I don’t know where that thing went, or what it’s going to do, or how we can ever get it back, but we need to do everything we can to assure its return to our laboratories. It’s as simple as that.”

“You can’t have it back.”

Serena glared at Gerald.

“I didn’t ask you.”

“You can’t have it back. It’s not meant for your world. You just can’t let anybody get a hold of that stuff. Even a little bit of it, like that Pink Water you came up with—“

“Well, now. That did get out of hand. I’ll admit it, but we just needed to see. Besides, I think all that was mostly because of Wendy than anything we did. As hot as Samantha and Alice are, they couldn’t have gotten a gymnasium full of women to take off their clothes and fuck each other silly.”

Serena had thought about that when Wendy told her.

Pink Water couldn’t have done that.

Only direct contact with the Living Pink had that kind of effect on a woman.

And when Serena looked into Wendy’s eyes on the way to her office, they weren’t even a little blue. Her irises gleamed a wonderful and radiant pink.

“But where is that thing? Where is it going?” Sara asked, alarmed at the threat to her family’s, to her fortune. Hers.

“I don’t know,” Serena answered.

Wendy squirmed next to Gerald.

“I know.”

Her friends looked at her.

“I mean, I think I know. Back to the grotto. Where the portal is, the obelisk. I think it means to go. To go back. Back where it came from.”

248. Gerald takes his leave of the girls

Gerald had left the group of women shortly after they had decided to chase, to hunt down the Red Entity, and to win back the Living Pink.

“It is no longer my fight,” Gerald said, disillusioned. “My part to play in this is over. It’s time I go home to my people.”

Wendy had run up to him as he walked out the office door.

“Wait, Gerald. I wish. I wish we had more time. I know you think we’re doing the wrong thing, but—“

“I don’t think you’re doing the wrong thing. Not exactly. You all have a saying down here. I’ve heard the Roadmen say it. Your kind has been dealt a bad hand. But now you have a wild card. I hope you use it well. But I’ve played my hand. The people who sent me—“

“The Guild.”

Gerald looked a little shocked, then remembered.

“Yes, The Guild. They’ve charged me with retrieving the object, but they deliberately kept knowledge from me. Secrets. Maybe it was a test. I don’t know. Ascension shouldn’t work that way. I don’t want it to work that way.”

Wendy watched the tall man walk slowly down the hallway to the elevators. When she stepped back into the office, her friends looked at her excitedly, and Sara asked, “So, Wendy, what’s our plan?”

249. In Sara’s limo

Sara’s limo pulled away from The Diana Group, its headlights catching the fleeting shadows of the waning night. Sara yawned behind the steering wheel, but no one in the cars really felt sleepy. Nikki and Melani cuddled in the back, their arms thrown around each other, while Laura sat in Julie’s lap, twisting her head up and behind her in a long, deep kiss lasting the duration of the trip to the Grotto.

Wendy sat beside Sara, arms folded, leaning her forehead against the window.

Sara didn’t say anything, but she reached a hand over to pat Wendy’s knee, and Wendy grabbed it, Sara’s hand, squeezing it affectionately at turning to smile at Sara.

“I love you, Sara Craft.”

Sara squeezed her hand back.

“I thought maybe you were keeping that a secret,” she smiled.

250. The Go-Between departs and is intercepted by The Consortium

The silver bubble ascended, seeming to float momentarily before vanishing upward.

The Go-Between struggled and squirmed to find room in his bubble, but the quarters were too cramped.

For the umpteenth time he wondered why he had chosen such a large body.

But something else bothered him more than his ill-fitting body, and he struggled to find a word, or even a concept for it.

His mind wandered the rather limited expanse of the simian dictionaries he’d read in his free time.

Then he found it. Them. They had a whole lot of words for that one.

Guilt. Shame. Regret. Rue. Remorse. Chagrin. Disgrace.

Those fit, but there were more. Whole phrases.

Broken trust. Running away. Abandonment. Leaving friends behind.

That was a new one for him, that word. It just slipped out, but the moment he thought it, a smile played upon his lips, and another feeling rose in him, another emotion, gosh, there were just so many of them.

Friends.

Friendship. Companionship.

Brotherhood.

Duty. Obligation.

Just on the verge of spinning the bubble around, the Pre-ascendant, the Go-Between, Gerald felt his whole being become stretched and absorbed into a suddenly appearing, vast pink light.

His body exploded in a thousand orgasms, and his mind, shattered, spun, twirled and danced among the shards of his being.

Something reassembled his mind, and he heard twittering and giggles.

“He had sex with a monkey,” the voices said.

Another round of twittering.

“No, no,” the voices chirped. “It hasn’t happened yet.”

“Oh, Gerald,” the voices said again. “Aren’t they wonderful? Such lovely butts.”

The vision of Ericka the waitress, her ass unfolding like a flower as she bent over in the restroom of Dos Antonios filled his mind.

He nodded, sighed, and came.

Again and again and again.

“Oh, Gerald,” the voices repeated, “You simply must go back.”

Gerald wanted to protest that that was exactly what he was going to do, but nothing escaped his mind except grunts and groans.

“The girl needs to be shown,” the voices said. “Besides, sweetie. It’s not polite to leave without saying goodbye. Especially down there.”

Week 6

Sunday

251. At the Grotto

For the third time in almost as many weeks, Wendy stood next to the Obelisk. But for the first time, the pillar didn’t hum or vibrate, no pink mist billowed along the edges of the grotto, she heard nor saw any indication of her alternate Wendys. She had come by herself, leaving even Sara standing on the edge of the basin, refusing to open the grotto for her, for her friends, her dear, dear friends. She had lost one friend already. One friend too many.

Wendy teared at the memory of Trina, her last sight of her, falling through the air in a long arc towards the stage.

Everything had moved so quickly, she didn’t even have a chance to grieve or even to come to terms with the finality of it all. It had really happened, though. Trina had really.

Wendy didn’t say that last word.

If she didn’t say that last word then maybe it really didn’t happen.

Maybe it was all a stupid mistake.

Wendy walked around the Obelisk, exploring the rest of the grotto, keeping her mind on whatever came next. She didn’t have time to look behind, to think about the past, even if the past had just happened. Only hours ago. Only yesterday she had.

And now tonight.

No. Keep looking forward.

That thing must be here, must be on its way, should have been her by now, it had had such a head start.

A red anger flashed through Wendy, charging through her veins in its lightning heat.

Trina had done nothing but love and be kind.

Wendy saw a hole in the wall behind the grotto she hadn’t noticed before. Of course she wouldn’t have, what with all that pink mist, what with her being so instantly transported to wherever it was that The Consortium took her. She wondered where it led, and why it had been built. The hole, more like an entrance to a passage, wide and tall enough to walk through without stooping, couldn’t have been made by humans. As far as she knew, only a few people actually knew about it. She did. That Jack Randall fellow, he knew.

Nero Craft.

She had never put that together before. Nero Craft. Sara Craft. Sara’s grandfather. Both of them were Crafts. Sara’s family owned and founded The Diana Group. It’s funny how she never really thought about it before. So much had happened since she met Sara, since she started putting on the lipstick, that makeup, she didn’t really have time to think, and now it all seemed too late to think.

She never did finish that book Jack wrote.

I mean, how could I?

When did I ever get the time?

I’ve just be so. Busy having sex.

I mean. Julie was right. I’m such a lesbian nymphomaniac now.

Her pussy tingled, and she casually felt her warm cleft with her left hand, reaching under the high hem of her sheer pink babydoll.

So horny.

Her fingers slipped into her hot, slippery hole, easily gliding between her loose, unfolding lips already dripping with excitement and lust.

The bodies of Nikki, Melani, Julie, Laura, and Sara, all naked and glistening with perspiration and oil, writhed in her mind, intwined, entangled, grinding against each other.

“You’re such a lesbian slut,” she heard Julie say, “such a lesbian nymphomaniac, Wendy.”

Her thighs tightened around her wrist as she brought herself to shaking orgasm, looking straight ahead.

How long was this tunnel? It just goes on forever.

Finally she removed her left hand from between her thighs.

252. Wendy can’t tell where she is, whether tunnel is straight or winding

Curiously, Wendy couldn’t tell whether the tunnel ran on straight, whether it curved sharply around unexpected corners, whether only one tunnel led to a single end or whether many tunnels stretched labyrinthine in every conceivable direction at any given moment. She knew only that the tunnel in which she stepped seemingly ever on and on stretched wide and smooth, so that even in the dark she did not falter or stumble.

The walls, too, rose smooth and unbroken. Keeping her right hand on the wall as she walked forward, she no interruption in its surface. But when she tried to remember how much time had passed in the tunnel, or whether she had felt the wall give way to another passage, she realized she could remember nothing. She only knew that she walked in a dark place with her right hand upon a smooth wall.

The dark.

Somehow it didn’t seem so dark.

Somehow it seemed dimly luminate, as if she could see the tunnel more in her mind than with her body, and when she closed her eyes, the tunnel seemed brighter, more real, more solid, and uninterrupted, veering neither to the right nor to the left allowing no passage to break the endless progress, an endless line of a straight tunnel going nowhere.

She paused, once again overtaken by the need to cum, to fuck herself, to imagine hot wet pussy and gleaming feminine bodies. She squeezed her thighs together as the two longest fingers of her left hand, continually stroking her pussy as she walked, went deeper into her swollen warmth, and she stood still, bending to grind her cunt hard into her hand as she came. Bringing her wet fingers into her mouth, she slipped them between her pink lips, swallowing her juices in post-orgasmic bliss.

So good.

She opened her eyes, and a dim pink glowed in the tunnel around her, behind her, going forward beyond her. Thin tendrils of pink mesh undulated and pulsed along the edges of the tunnel roof, the tunnel walls, and the tunnel floor, glowing pink filaments of shining wet and warm in the dark tunnel. Though she could not know, and though she herself could not see them, her eyes glowed a fierce pink, and when she looked at the pink mesh of the floor, she saw the golden thatch of her groin, smoldering like hot coals ready to burst into flame.

The tunnel shimmered, wavering in pink light; an intoxicating thrill, a vibrant joy filled the long chamber, and Wendy trembled along with it, reveling in the uplifting, almost orgasmic, exaltation. Suddenly she beheld herself standing in the midst of a winding labyrinth of paths, holes, tunnels, walkways. A myriad of tunnels burning joyously with a pink glow wound like spirals, like the crazy spokes of a crazy wheel of a crazy bicycle with her as the hub and axle.

Wendy had a sudden vision of standing above it all, of seeing her body in the core of a dark nexus with so many arms, branches, deviations that they seemed to be moving. And Wendy beheld herself, in the pink glow she beheld herself and wondered at the change.

Wendy’s hair stood on end, she felt it swirling over her head as if charged with electricity, her blond hair no longer a molten golden yellow blond but a platinum blond, flashing a golden silver white against the pink light, swirling over her head in a wild mass of energy and power. Her eyes and lips were so pink, so pink, so warm and wet and gleaming and pink, and the nipples of her breasts burst from her tits, showing through the sheer pink fabric of her babydoll nightshirt, hard dark pink nubs like bullets, and oh her pussy, oh the hair around her beautiful, gorgeous pussy raged like a golden fire between her legs.

Suddenly the wall to her right receded, and the space she walked in gave way to a vaster space, illuminated pink, and thousands, millions of pink tendrils, filaments so fine, so soft, so charged with a burning energy, trembled and quivered along the surfaces of the walls, the ceiling, and the floors of this new larger chamber.

Wendy hovered in her ecstasy, intensely alive; every tendril, every filament, every thread led back to her, and she felt everything. How far it extended, she could not say, how long it would last she had no idea, but she heard, palpably heard every tremor, every vibration, every thrill surging through every thread like electricity through wire.

Her left hand returned to her groin and slipped fully inside her cunt now, swallowed by her engorged pink lips, covered by the fire of her pubic hair.

So good.

Another orgasm shuddered over her; a rolling thunder of pleasure moved over her trembling body.

She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, the vision passed, and she found herself once again in the single corridor below the earth, where a red light grew bright in the distance. Wendy kept walking, steering ever forward, and suddenly the walls again gave way, and Wendy found herself in a wide chamber. In the distance, on the far side of the chamber the size of football field a faint red light, rapidly growing brighter, flared.

Wendy’s pink tendrils shivered and retracted with astonishing speed towards the girl, whose hair still burned gilded silver and white and whose lips, whose eyes burned with an intense and passionate pink.

The Red Entity, concealed perhaps by an unseen corner or new passage running into that vast chamber, drew closer, ever closer to the girl Wendy, and Wendy, knowing what fell creature advanced, awaited its oncoming.

253. The Go-Between brings the girls through the waterfall

Sara wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders, glaring at the waterfall, Julie and Laura clung to each other, pressing each other tight for warmth in the cold air of the passing night, now nearing dawn. Nikki stood behind Melani, clasping the girl from behind, nuzzling her ear, and whispering comfort. All the girls stared at the waterfall with anxiety, worry, doubt, and fear. Their Wendy had gone into it alone, not allowing her friends, her girlfriends to follow, and now she was alone, and they were alone, and somehow, somehow they knew, all of them knew something awful and wonderful would take place behind the waterfall, behind the closed cliff wall of the grotto.

Their Wendy would not emerge.

Their Wendy would be gone forever.

“Damn her. Just damn her,” Sara muttered under her frosty breath.

“There’s no way in?” asked Julie.

“Not without her. The way is closed. Only she can open it.”

The girls fell silent, dejected.

“That’s not exactly true,” said a man’s voice.

Sara whipped around to see who spoke.

“Oh. It’s you again. I thought you left.”

Gerald shook his head.

“I’ve been detained. I tried to leave, but. They’re real. They’re really real.”

Gerald shook his head again, as if clearing his mind of stray thoughts.

“I can lead you through the waterfall. I can take you into the grotto. Follow me over the water.”

Gerald stepped forward and down a little from the rocky edge of the basin onto the surface of the cool water, now settling smooth and growing pink. He took several paces towards the cascade. The falling of the water of the cascade had ceased, and the waterfall hung still and silent and pink in the growing light of dawn, now beginning to peek rosily over the eastern horizon, now hidden from the view of the girls in the sheer dale of the basin.

“But we can’t! We can’t walk on the water like you and Wendy did.”

That protest came from Melani, but all the girls thought it.

Gerald gave Melani a quizzical look.

“Have you tried?”

“Of course not,” Julie retorted. “Duh.”

“Then try,” Gerald replied. “Duh.”

Julie scrunched her nose at the Go-Between and furled her brows. Awful man. Then she cast a defiant glance at Gerald, looked behind her to smile at Laura, Nikki, Melani, and Sara and stepped off the ledge.

Against all expectation she did not sink but remained firmly on the surface of the water, now a deep and solid pink.

“Oh my gosh,” she said excitedly. “I can’t believe it. I’m really walking on water.”

“You don’t have to believe it,” Gerald said. “I’m doing it for you. Duh.”

Julie glared again.

Awful, awful man.

One by one the girls stepped off the ledge, following the Go-Between and huddling in their coats as the crossed the smooth water of the still and silent basin, its pink surface glittering and beautiful. So lovely. So pink.

As they walked around the stopped waterfall, hanging as if frozen in midair, the girls stared at it in astonishment. Sara saw her face reflected in a single pink droplet of water, and she smiled. Then she remembered Wendy alone in the grotto. A flash of anger that the little dyke slut had left them all standing uselessly behind gave way to an overwhelming alarm for the girl’s safety, for her lover’s safety, and a quick and rising need to run to her defense swelled in her breast.

“Hurry, girls,” she said. “Wendy needs us.”

254. Wendy engages the Entity

The pink tendrils tingled and shivered, extending only a few dozen feet ahead of Wendy, who stood steady and firm. The light in the distance flashed bright red, and then Wendy saw it again. The Red Entity. The device of the Beehive, altered and driven mad with pain and the love of pain by the operatives of the Pain Rabble.

Even in the distance it loomed red and giant-like, its red tentacles waving and whipping around its body hovering above the smooth floor of the underground chamber. Red charges of lightning flashed from it, wrapping its amorphous body in surging rings of red electricity, while red noxious fumes belched from its orifices. Wendy once again heard that palpable insistent whine, that continuous vibrating hum, now low, now high, now soft, now loud.

The harsh red light spread across the chamber, meeting the warm pink glow of Wendy.

The device had killed Trina.

It had caused so much pain, it throve on pain, and it would cause more pain to thrive on.

The Consortium, the Beehive had tasked her to capture it, to deliver it to them, to send it on its way, but Wendy knew she could not do that.

She would not do that.

A rage had been building in Wendy ever since she saw Trina fly across the ballroom.

All this pink, all this sensuality, all this, why did it mean, what good was it, if her friends could be killed, her lovers torn from her? How could she endure it? Killed so recklessly, killed so thoughtlessly.

Whatever the intention of the Beehive, things had gone wrong.

Wendy wouldn’t capture it.

Wendy would kill it.

Put it down like the rabid dog it was.

Wendy felt the ground and chamber shudder as the red thing advanced, its power coming from it in waves.

She closed her eyes, and her own pink tendrils once again grew forth from her, spreading and quivering across the surfaces of the chamber, advancing to meet the red tentacles and ferocious cruelty of the Red Entity.

And the Entity drew closer. One hundred feet, seventy-five feet, fifty feet, twenty-five feet, and it oh it was so close now, and Wendy, her mind filled with a dark and heavy anger, felt the first tremoring of the creature’s lust for pain. Her body flinched, stopped, then advanced again. Her brow furled, and in her terrible beauty, her fair face glimmering turned into a crimson malice, red and awful.

But already a tentacle of the red monster flickered at Wendy’s face while another and then another sought to wrap itself around her body, her waist, to lift her and to fling her, to whip her and to lash her into a thousand pieces. But Wendy laughed in her casual strength, her hands, swollen with power and strength brushed the tentacles aside like cobwebs. The Entity, undeterred, flung a dozen more tentacles at her, and Wendy laughed and waved the tentacles aside, striding to meet her foe head on.

And she stood in the midst of the whip-like tentacles of the Entity, and she struck at the body of the Entity, the red soft body of the Entity, of the device of the Beehive so cruelly altered by the Rabble, and the Entity recoiled as Wendy’s balled fists, immense and furious, punched, first one then the other, against the red flesh. Her heavy fist met the red flesh, and the red fleshed trembled, shuddered, and recoiled.

The recoiled and advanced, and Wendy struck it, and the Entity recoiled and advanced, inexorable, relentless.

But Wendy stood in the midst of the red fumes, the red mist rising around her, and her mind trembled, flinching from the psychic torment of the twisted probe. Her mind, shaken, held. For a moment.

Her mind staggered as wave after wave of psychic horror blasted her being. Pain, torment, foul desecration, violation of the body. Nausea swept through her. Disgust and loathing filled her as she felt the malice and cruelty of the device.

Somehow it was all on the surface, she could sense that.

Somehow the creature had been changed, altered.

It had once been so beautiful, she recognized that immediately.

Filled with a beauty and grace beyond measure, a gift-giving virtue.

Wendy shook with rage.

Wendy struck a final blow, and the Entity recoiled and halted, pausing to gather its full power.

And as it did with in the corridors of The Diana Group, the Red Entity withdrew into itself, collecting its strength.

Even the enclosed air of the chamber underground hung motionless as if awaiting the shock of the Red Entity, whose humming dimmed to a barely discernable rolling drone.

And Wendy stepped back, sensing its assault.

Suddenly the Entity exploded, blasting a psionic shockwave across the chamber, catching Wendy in its fury and sending her reeling head over heels over the ground of the underground. When she landed, several yards away from the Entity, she felt dazed, but conscious, and immediately aware of the pain wracking her mind, sizzling her nerves, and burning the bones of her spine.

She staggered to her feet and faced her foe once again, but her foe lashed her with a tentacle, striking her in the upper arm and gashing her, and curling another whip around her ankle, the ankle of her left foot, it raised her high off the ground before flinging her, throwing her like a small toy across the width of the chamber.

She struck the far wall with a loud and sickening thud, but when she dropped on the ground, she lived and breathed and did not go out. Her lightning bright golden silver hair faded and fell, once again blond, her pink light faded and her eyes turned blue again and afraid, the raging flame of her pussy faded to its blond luster, lovely but mortal.

Wendy again struggled to her feet as the Entity advanced, but this time she turned from her enemy and ran, fleeing in a sudden panic down the corridor whence she came. She held her left harm as she fled, blood flowing down in rivulets from the gash, her skin hanging in ribbons from where the sharp tentacle of the Entity had whipped her.

255. Wendy hides from the Entity

Wendy tucked herself in a corner.

She couldn’t understand how she had gotten there.

Surely she hadn’t missed a turn, the corridor, the tunnel leading from the Grotto of the Obelisk had run in a single line, hadn’t it? But she had run and run and run, and never did she reach the Grotto.

Somehow she had turned—or had been turned—aside.

Somehow she had run down a smaller, narrower, and more winding tunnel.

Somehow she felt safer, hidden from the monster behind her, swallowed up in darkness.

She tripped on the uneven ground, stumbling on some kind of outcropping sticking from the tunnel wall, and she scratched her hands on the sharp rocks of the floor.

Picking herself up, she felt slowly along the wall, stumbling blindly forward until she felt the tunnel give way to the right into a recess scraped into the side of the underground corridor.

The pink light had faded and gone out, extinguished.

Clutching her left upper arm between her elbow and her shoulder, she shuddered at the memory of her confrontation with the Red Entity.

How could she have been so foolish, so groundlessly confident in herself?

She was just a teenager, but that thing was ancient and powerful, built by an even more ancient and vastly more powerful community of entities. Just thinking about The Consortium, about the Beehive, so pink, so big, so lesbian, brought a gentle peace over her flagging mood. They were so wonderful, Wendy thought, so sexy, so hot, so. Sensual. Caring. Womanly. They were so lesbian.

Just like me, Wendy thought, her mood rising.

The throbbing pain in her arm subsided, just a little. But enough for Wendy to smile, remembering her encounter with the space lesbians, so hot and cosmic. Her mind raced over all the events that had passed so recently in her life, her meeting with Sara, how she had masturbated for the first time, how she had touched herself, bringing herself to orgasm while Sara talked to her, cooed to her over the phone, her husky, breathy voice urging her on, telling her to look at the pussy of that porno she’d watched all that week, how she had fucked Sara and how Sara had fucked her that first night they’d spent together, that strange woman at the bookstore, Brad, dear Brad with his awful, burning semen, Steve.

The girls, her mother, oh god, really? Oh god, Sara. You turned my mom into the biggest dyke.

Renee.

That strange meeting with Jack Randall, when she first heard about The Consortium.

That girl at the bookstore, what was her name? Veronica.

The woman who’d wanted her to babysit. Gosh, she was so cute.

Trina.

The machine, the device, the probe, the creature. It just slaughtered her, filling the ballroom, the gymnasium with torment and suffering.

But the device had not been built for pain.

The Consortium would have never done such a thing.

It had been built for, well, Wendy didn’t know what it had been built for. The Beehive hadn’t told her that.

But it had to be fucking wonderful.

Despite the pain still throbbing in her left arm, Wendy’s right hand, bloody and sticky from holding her wound, drifted lazily towards her crotch, growing suddenly warm at the thought of The Consortium. God. The things they did to her. Wendy leaned against the wall of the recess, spreading her thighs. Her bloody hand stretched across the fur of her mound. She spread two fingers around the wet folds of her pussy lips, catching her labia between her fingers. She groaned.

Her hand continued to work her cunt, quickly going from warm to hot, it broiled as her fingers split her cleft, spreading her extended pussy lips apart. Her hips began to pitch as she rolled her mound against her exploring fingers. Her left arm hung uselessly at her side, but oh, her breasts longed to be touched, her nipples, her rock hard nipples ached to be kissed, licked, sucked, and bitten. She thought of all of the women, all the girls she’d been with so far. Sara and Nikki, Laura and Melani. The woman at the bookstore, and Julie, Trina, Renee. Her mother Mary. Their images washed over her mind as she rubbed herself in the recess in the dark tunnel. She wanted so many more, wanted to fuck so many more.

Those hot assistants at The Diana Group.

The dark recess began to glow, a dim shimmering pink, wavering underground, spread from Wendy’s opened thighs, her blond, her golden blond hair rustled, stirring to life, the tips of her golden hair tinged with an increasingly shining silver, her. Her breasts swelled under her babydoll, and her nipples stuck from the thin fabric, so sheer, so revealing, leaving her so nude, so naked, so hot.

A hot lesbian teenager in the throes of a wild orgasm.

She had tried fighting the Entity its way, so filled with anger, so poisoned with rage and hatred, she fought the Entity on its own ground and had lost.

And as Wendy shouted out her climax, her wild cumming, she knew what she must do.

She needed to re-convert the Entity.

She touched the throbbing wound in her arm, and gasped.

The blood had ceased to flow, and the wound had healed.

256. Gerald and the girls encounter the Red Entity in the Grotto of the Obelisk

“Hurry, girls,” Sara said. “Wendy needs us.”

Gerald stood before the cliff wall of behind the waterfall as the girls gathered behind him.

“Now what?” asked Julie.

“Now this,” Gerald answered, waving his arm in a smooth arc going from left to right over the faces of the young girls.

“Behold the world with your pre-ascendant eyes,” the Go-Between chuckled.

Immediately the cliff wall vanished, opening up to a dimly lighted recess, faintly glowing pink. Sara recognized the pink Obelisk in the center of the Grotto, but this whole experience amazed the other girls nearly to stupefaction, a daze less subdued than exalted, a state of mind brought so high that words failed, devolving to a mute and utter joy.

None of this, of course, was new to the Go-Between.

No portal was exactly the same, but they all featured the same psychic frequency, and if a species evolved to detect that frequency, getting inside a portal presented no difficulty. Indeed, it presented no uniqueness. Which was the whole point of a portal.

If it felt weird, your kind probably needed to keep away, if it could even get close to it in the first place.

Which made it all the more odd that any of these monkeys had made it this far.

They just didn’t have the, um, organs for it.

But his visit to The Diana Group explained so much.

The craft that had crash. The integration of the pink with the man, Nero Craft, and its continuance down the genetic lineage from Serena to Sara. That would have seemed weird to these, um, humans. But the Crafts handled it well, he’d give them that.

That girl Wendy now. It took getting used to.

But how on earth?

He’d finally met The Consortium and barely survived the encounter.

But he felt it coming from Wendy the moment he grabbed her in the hallway.

If that girl ever figured out what she had, he suspected that not even The Consortium or The Guild combined could equal her.

It was unthinkable. Literally inconceivable used in every sense, every meaning of the word.

His day on the couch had been passed well.

No wonder the probe took her.

That kind of power just begged attention.

But she didn’t know.

She didn’t know a blessed thing.

It should be kept that way.

As the girls followed the Go-Between into the Grotto, the waterfall behind them, released from whatever spell the Go-Between had cast, plunged once again into the water of the basin, splashing noisily and joyously, bubbling in its watery laughter.

The girls and Gerald gathered around the glowing, shimmering Obelisk, now a bright, gleaming pink with the Pre-ascendant so near it.

“What is it?” asked Julie.

“It’s a portal,” Gerald said.

“What’s it for?” Melani asked, with Laura nodding her head.

“It’s for contacting The Consortium.”

Gerald shot a look of surprise at Sara, then nodded.

“Or The Guild,” he said. “My people used it to contact The Guild. Ours was, is blue. And it’s more of an arch than a pillar. You kind of just stand in the middle of it. I mean, at first. My people no longer need the portal. We do meditation exercises, traagilation exercises, to achieve separation from our bodies for long periods of time. The longer we can go away from our bodies, the better the chance that we can ascend. Which means join The Guild.”

“Why do you want to do that?” asked Nikki. “I mean, don’t you like where you are? Don’t you like your bodies?”

Gerald shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know. It just seems to be the way of things.”

“So now what?”

Julie asked that last question.

Sara’s eyes narrowed.

That girl was getting positively boisterous.

A ball gag might do her a world of good.

“We look for Wendy,” Sara said.

Gerald detected a note of finality in the uttered words, but no sooner had the small group stepped around the pink Obelisk than the Grotto shook. Pieces of cavern rock fell from above, and small rocks slid from the walls, rolling across the floor of the Grotto. They heard a high pitched screaming, a wild humming vibration, and looked up just in time to see the whipping red tentacles of the Red Entity squeezing into the Grotto from a high and wide opening to a tunnel leading away from the portal.

Gerald had no time to prepare for the assault, which would have been a vain struggle at any rate. The device had grown more powerful, larger, redder, irresistible since their last encounter, from which Gerald barely escaped, and only by some quick thinking on the part of the Roadmen. Nonetheless, Gerald leapt in front of the group of girls, tossing them behind him.

“Get behind me!” he shouted, but the warning came too late.

One tentacle, two tentacles, three tentacles grabbed the Go-Between, lifting him aloft, while a myriad other tentacles whipped around each girl, holding them high off the ground as the creature hovered towards the Obelisk, now humming wildly as its pink sheen flashed like lightning.

Once again the Go-Between felt that curious sensation, magnified now beyond anything endurable, and when the Pre-ascendant opened his mouth to scream, no words, no sound emerged. His was a mute and utter torment. His last vision before his mind went out from him was of each girl screaming noiselessly and writhing in pain, held mercilessly in the grip of the Red Entity.

Gerald’s mind slipped out his tormented body, idly inspected the contorted faces of the girls in agony, curiously examined the red gleam of the Entity’s body, noting the smooth texture of its skin, the cunningly designed orifices surrounding the upper form, and briefly pondered the nature of the red fumes belching forth from them, before strolling towards the opening in the rear wall.

Best to get away from all this, the mind thought.

A psionic net draped itself around the mind, capturing it neatly and quickly as the mind was dragged back to the body of the Go-Between.

Or not, the mind sighed. I really should’ve practiced those traagilation exercises more.

257. Wendy to the rescue

Wendy saw the red light of the Entity coming through the end of the tunnel, coming from the Grotto where the Obelisk pointed its psychic antenna towards The Consortium.

She heard Sara and her girls screaming, she heard Gerald, such a darling little boy, screaming, shrieking in indescribable torment, their minds lacerated even as their bodies collapsed in the tentacles of the Red Entity.

Wendy, she heard Sara call her name. You have to hurry.

But Wendy didn’t have to hurry.

She was already there.

258. The sudden eruption of pink tendrils

For even as Wendy stepped through the opening of the tunnel into the Grotto of the Obelisk, where the Red Entity held her beloved companions in its terrible grip, pink tendrils shot from her body, bursting suddenly in all directions, spreading from her to the roof and walls and floor, wrapping all the space around in a soft, warm pink.

The tendrils dropped onto the creature, the device of The Consortium, and strove with the red tentacles, which flailed wildly against the uncountable multiple of fine pink filaments, stronger than steel cables.

The pink tendrils sank into the flesh of the device, and the Red Entity shrieked as boneless limbs dropped from its body.

The Entity shuddered and went still.

Wendy gingerly stepped over the unattached tentacles, their ends cleaved from the trunk of the Entity’s body, flopping and writhing on the ground of the Grotto. The five girls, slowly awakening from their torment, shuffled from the grip of the lifeless limbs. Only the Go-Between still lingered in the clutches of the monster, but Wendy turned her mind only to her lovers.

She held them all in her mind, caressing their sweet and tender faces, smoothing away their the bitter memory of their recent torment with kisses and whispers, mothering away their nightmare.

Oh my darlings, oh my darlings, oh my darlings, she repeated endlessly.

But Sara was the first to awaken.

“Wendy?”

“Shh, my love, I have to, well, change that thing back. And it’s going to take me a minute.”

Nikki, Melani, Julie, and Laura regained consciousness, springing up from the rocky floor, and running towards Wendy.

See, said Sara’s mind to the girls. See how she is?

But the girls could only nod, staring at Wendy so strangely and marvelously transformed. A wave of orgasm washed through the five girls, rising from their suddenly enflamed centers and flooding the entirety of their young bodies, shooting through their spines, and erupting from every pore on their smooth, their soft, smooth female skin, so feminine, so hot, so lesbian.

Oh god, Wendy.

Touch your pussies, girls. Touch your pussies for your sweet, sweet Wendy.

And if by one mind in a single body, the girls moved their hands to their enflamed and swollen cunts, stroking their soft, wet, and steaming cleft; their delicate and loving fingers lingered over their engorged lips, so hot and swollen, as they ground and rolled their hips, their groins, into their ministering hands. The girls drew closer to each other, their free hands reached towards the other, and their lips met each other’s lips, and their mouths opened onto each other mouths, and their tongues tasted each other’s tongues, and all was beauty and sensation and passionate intoxication.

And Wendy, her hair huge and golden silver, billowing like a cumulus, her lips flashing pink, her hips swollen and wide, her breasts momentous, monumental, nipples hard and sticking from her sheer negligee like rifle cartridges, the wildfire between her thighs burning like the forges of a sorcerous blacksmith, strode towards the device of the Beehive. She loomed giantlike in the Grotto, taller by far than the Obelisk, the cloud of her head touch the roof of the cavern, and her shoulders seemed to brush each side of the cavern, her fingertips were pink, nails polished pink, and her toes flashed with pink polish, and from the tips of her fingers and tips of her toes pink lightning flashed forth against the red menace of the Entity, recoiling now, sensing the power of the new being before it.

Oh, baby, the mind of Wendy cooed inside twisted and tormented mind of the Entity, I’m going to show you such a good time, I really am. You just won’t believe all the things I’m going to do to you sweetie, you really won’t. I’m going to fuck you like you won’t believe. I’m going to fuck you so wild, so good, so hot. My pussy is going to be so hot for you.

Then the pink tendrils of Wendy descended onto the Entity, and the Entity shook, shuddered, and pitched.

The tentacle holding Gerald loosened, and the Pre-ascendant fell to the ground.

The myriad tentacles of the Red Entity desperately struggled to defend it against this new barrage of pink filaments falling upon it, but the struggle proved hopeless. However many tentacles lashed at the pink webs, a thousand more pink threads replaced them, each thread, each filament, each line stronger than the next one, until finally the Entity was covered in a pink web, a pink cocoon, pink tendrils swirled and shivered over the body of the device, and the tentacles dropped and retracted into the main body.

It’s so good, isn’t it, baby? So good to feel pink, so soft, so sweet. So hot. So fucking hot.

259. Sara, Nikki, Melani, Julie, and Laura orgy

Sara pushed her body against Nikki, and Melani pressed against Laura, and Julie caressed the flesh of the warm bodies huddled together and softly to the floor again. They pressed their warm lips together in a deep, sensuous kiss, slipping their tongues into each other’s mouths, locked into a tight wrestle, tugging on each other, biting each other’s lips, pushing tongues back and forth, and going ever deeper.

Their hands roamed each other’s bodies from shoulder to ass, feeling the smooth curves, the soft warmth.

Pink-nailed fingers grazed and dug into flawless skin.

Threads of glistening saliva connected their lips after they separated from each other.

They stared straight into each other’s eyes and smiled.

Sara found herself the center of Nikki and Melani’s attention.

The pink-lipped empath kissed Melani, Nikki, Laura, and Julie each in turn, nudging their heads towards her large, perfect orbs, running her fingers through their soft luxurious hair.

Sara gasped when they bit slightly on her hardened nipples before sucking on them. Julie made her way down Sara’s smooth legs, licking and kissing along their soft flesh, starting from the end of her perfect pink-nailed feet to her top of her thighs. Julie basked in the warm feeling of Sara’s skin against her own face, mixing her butterfly kisses with gentle nuzzling.

Melani stopped sucking for a moment to swirl her tongue on the areola around Sara’s nipple. Then she gave the nipple one last suck and kiss before moving her lips to Sara’s face. She planted a brief kiss on Sara’s pink lips then kissed her cheeks, her forehead, the lobes of her precious ears.

Every part of her shone bright and beautiful.

Melani’s hands worked on squeezing one of Sarah’s breasts and caressing the sides of Sara’s body. Sara reached between Melanie’s thighs to stroke her pussy, and Melani parted her thighs letting Sara’s fingers deep into her pussy.

Nikki continued kissing and sucking on Sara’s breasts while stroking her own pussy and groping her own tits. Then she stopped stroking her pussy, bringing her pink-nailed fingers, slick with her juices, to Sara’s lips, who promptly sucked them, savoring Nikki’s delicious wetness.

Nikki shifted and lowered a breast to Sara’s face, positioning it with a hand.

Sara raised her head eagerly to suck on the nipple, flicking the hardened nipple with her tongue-tip, sucking and biting on it, relishing the taste of female flesh.

Nikki gasped.

Their fingers and legs interlocked in a more tightening grip from the orgasmic explosion.

Julie breathed in the heavy aroma of Sara’s musky pussy, kissing and licking it over and over, finally breaking away to kiss Laura kneeling beside her.

“Please, Julie,” Laura whined after Julie broke the kiss.

Julie and Laura lay down beside Sara, Melani, and Nikki, spreading their legs to grind their wet groins into each other, fucking each other with their hot and steaming cunts.

They moaned continuously, scissoring their groins together, grinding their pussies deep into each other, their lustful hands grasping onto each other’s legs and pulling on them to rub their pussies together again and again.

Relishing the mind-numbing sensation of clitoral stimulation, their action became almost automatic, mechanistic.

Then they threw their heads back, closing their eyes in rapturous pleasure.

A pink light reflected off from their sweaty bodies.

Sometimes they pulled on each other, raising their lower bodies upwards, pressing their pussies even more tightly together.

They stared each other, open-mouthed and groaning, sensing the approaching orgasm.

Pleasure. Orgasm. Pussy. Feminine flesh.

Nothing else mattered.

Julie and Melani screamed.

Then Sara screamed as she ground her cumming cunt against Melani’s groaning mouth, and she felt the world above explode over her.

260. The Entity’s Pink Re-Conversion

Wendy, reduced again to her normal size, but with her hair still a billowing platinum, her eyes and lips a shimmering pink, and her groin a golden fire, stepped towards the becalmed Entity. Her hips swayed beneath her sheer pink babydoll, so adorable, like the sexy clapper of a sexy bell, and she caressed the pink, cottony surface of the Entity tenderly.

See, baby? You liked it, didn’t you? All those nasty, bad pain things, they’re gone now, aren’t they sugar? And now you’re just as sweet as could be, aren’t you? Just like the sweetest little lump of cotton candy anybody ever saw, aren’t you? But I’m not through yet, girl. Not at all. Not by a long shot. I’m going to fuck you so good. I’m going to fuck you so hot, girl, I really am.

You’re just going to love the taste of my pussy.

And the Wendy stepped forward, and she disappeared into the body of the Entity, swallowed and engulfed by the glistening pink mesh into the interior vastness of the device, spaceless and timeless.

261. Wendy inside the Entity, inside the Living Pink

Threads of red, wet and sinewy, still clung to inner sides of the Entity. Here and there a few stray rags of red pain floated in the pink mist, the cottony pink mesh filling the interior of the Entity, a pink mesh which increased in density as Wendy delved further into the belly of the creature. Soon the red vanished altogether, devoured and subsumed by the wet, glistening pink.

It was Wendy’s first encounter with the Living Pink, and the encounter, well, justified her; it vindicated the girl.

She felt surrounded by a warm, insistent, and pure lesbianism.

A sensation not unlike her engagement with The Consortium, the Beehive, but somehow more nourishing, more intense. A concentrated lesbianism less orgasmic than the Beehive, but deeper, more profound, soaking into her very being, immersing her in its warm beauty.

A series of hot pleasures, soft, enticing, wonderful, an endless series, an infinite matrix of pussy touching pussy, wet lip to wet lip, opening up to the other, a vast bed of flowers, of velvet petals touching velvet petals.

Of hot, juicy cunts flowing and gaping into and onto themselves endlessly.

She could get used to this. She could stay inside, in here, forever, she realized, surrounded by warmth and the faint fragrance of vanilla and lavender.

262. The purpose of the device

This was the true nature of the device, she realized, of the Entity.

It was a gift.

And oh, golly. What a gift.

Her heart rejoiced at the generosity of the Beehive.

This gift. It was just so.

Lesbian.

Then she heard voices.

263. Wendy encounters Betty Blake

No, only one voice, one single, lonely feminine voice.

“Hello?” the voice asked, “is anyone out there?”

A door took shape just in front of Wendy, a white door, somewhat old fashioned, with pink trim along the molding of its four long panel set into the white wood.

Wendy reached out and turned the glass knob shaped like a heavy crystal with many facets.

The door opened onto a green yard, with wide rolling green hills fading away into a vast distance. Large oaks spreading their thick limbs heavy with green foliage dotted the landscape. Above hung a clear blue sky with a pink sun casting a pink light upon the pastoral world below. A narrow stream with low but steep banks cut into the earth wound its way lazily through the countryside, its smooth waters broken intermittently by broad round stones. Nearer, beneath one of the great oak trees, a swing hung from two sturdy ropes.

On the swing sat a young woman, completely nude.

The young woman had raven black hair, cropped short in the style of an earlier era.

Wendy’s eyes strayed to the dark thatch of hair showing above the woman’s groin.

Seeing her gaze, the woman’s thighs parted, allowing Wendy a deeper look.

“I’m so glad to see you,” the woman smiled at Wendy. “I’m Betty. Betty Blake. What’s your name?”

264. Gerald awakens to the Victory of the Grotto

Slowly the Gerald’s mind awakened into a body lying on its back on the Grotto floor. It timidly, shyly, tried bits and pieces of its body. Wriggling a toe here, bending a finger there, now shifting a leg, now clinching a fist. Growing more courageous, it swiveled its head on its shoulders, going so far as turning to look left before daring to turn right.

It saw the girls clustered in a moving, writhing mass.

Hm, it thought.

Then, steeling itself for the endeavor, the mind moved both arms towards its shoulders, bent them at almost 90 degrees at the elbow, and with a great exertion the mind moved the upper body forward, propelling the head, shoulders, and torso of the Go-Between upward until the Pre-ascendant came to a sitting position on the ground.

That’s good, said the mind. That’s very good. See? Your people would be very proud of you. Sitting up like this, like a good boy. All by yourself you did that.

The mind felt the body’s lungs heave, huffing out heavy breaths.

There, there, said the mind. We’ll just sit here for a while and have ourselves a look around. You can do that, can’t you? Good boy.

The writhing mass of girls slowly calmed. Gerald’s mind heard loud moans, groans, cries and shrieks, and suddenly silence descended on the Grotto, broken only by the low hum of the Entity, shaking and trembling under it’s pink coating of Wendy’s cottony mesh.

No, said the mind. No good trying to understand all that. I think I’ll just look at my knee. I’ve never really noticed how nice the monkey’s knees are.

Gerald’s body tapped the kneecap with the knuckled fingers of his right hand.

Now that was a thoughtful design.

Gerald tried to stand but immediately fall back to the ground, landing on his hands and knees.

See? Really comes in handy.

Gerald rubbed his hands together, feeling the scratches on the palms.

These fatty deposits are super helpful against damages to the bone structure.

Gerald’s head swiveled again, turning to face the slowly separating mass of girls, now becoming individuals smoothing out their tattered gowns.

Communication, the mind thought. Verbal communication using the mouth to form sonically encoded contents of meaning is usually what’s called for now. But you never can know.

Best to wait. See who speaks first.

“Where’s Wendy?”

That came from the shortest one in the group, diminutive but full-figured, with just about the most gorgeous set of, and here I believe they’re called knockers, and hips that just undulate with lascivious and Sapphic intent.

Sapphic, from Sappho, sixth century before Caesar Hellene poet, somewhat arbitrarily connected to gynosexual interaction of female primates, um, humans, whose home island, Lesbos is also somewhat arbitrarily connected to said behavior. So, think we can try standing up again? Here’s good then. That would be Sara. The leader of the group. Limited but powerful psychic abilities, especially empathic abilities. Can communicate with me without speaking.

Yes, I can, said Sara, and I’m glad you like my tits, but where did—

“Wendy go,” she asked aloud.

Gerald struggled to stand again, but at last he managed to regain his feet.

His tall body stood over the shorter young women, and he shook his head slowly.

“I don’t know. You probably know more than I do. I’ve been out of it. That thing, that probe. She defeated it. Somehow. She did something else to it too, I think. There’s something really strange about that thing. It’s alive in a way it shouldn’t be.”

The girls turned toward the device, covered in what looked to be cotton candy. And even as they stared at the device, Wendy stepped outside of the creature, coming into sudden view. She waved at her friends and turned to the device, catching at the pink mesh and pulling on it till it fell away for all the world like a cloth covering some hidden object.

The Entity stood before the group of girls and the one Pre-ascendant.

It gleamed pink, resplendent and fabulous.

265. Wendy takes the Pink Entity to the Obelisk

Wendy held out her left hand, and the Entity extended a single pink glistening tentacle, laying it gently in Wendy’s hand. Wendy’s head bobbed, and she grinned with a child’s delight.

“She’s just really the sweetest thing, and you should see what I found inside. It’s just so amazing. And oh, the things this thing was meant to do! Oh golly.”

Wendy led the Pink Entity to the Obelisk, where the Entity slid to the top of the pillar and slowly sank down upon, shuddering, the one tentacle still holding onto Wendy.

The girls had a sudden image of Wendy sinking down on that fat equine dildo of Sara’s.

Oh god, Wendy.

Sara ran towards her lover, throwing her arms around her, and kissing her warmly, affectionately.

Wendy turned to see tears in Sara’s eyes.

Oh, Wendy.

Wendy embraced her lover, her mistress.

“I did it, Sara. I found something else, too. Someone else.”

“Who?” Sara asked, confused.

“You’ll see,” winked Wendy.

266. The arrival of The Consortium

Suddenly the Grotto trembled, the Entity on the Obelisk shuddered, but the tremor did not come from it. Beyond the waterfall the day had long come, and the sky now turned pink. Laura, Julie, Melani, Nikki, and Sara, so recently emerged from their orgiastic pleasure, collapsed once again to the floor, turning over on their sides, shuddering, quivering, groaning in their solitary, awful climaxes, as one excruciating orgasm followed another.

Even Gerald had fallen to his knees, his head jerked back and forth on his neck, his spine waved, and his body contorted wildly, threatening to become undone.

Wendy’s pink tendrils raced across the Grotto, swept over the surfaces of the Grotto and rushed up to the sky outside, rising to meet a fantastically high pink column descending from the heavens, leading directly to the Grotto, a shaft of pink light leading directly into the Entity, pink again, impaled on the Obelisk.

Then Wendy perceived the Beehive and understood.

Stop it, she said. You’ll damage them.

The Consortium had arrived. The Intergalactic Consortium of Beehive Space Lesbians had come, parking their honeycomb several hundred thousand miles above Jupiter. A smaller craft exited the honeycomb and sped towards the earth, leisurely reaching the tiny planet in a matter of seconds. Once positioned above the Obelisk, the craft sent down its beam of brilliant pink light.

Instantly Wendy’s mind stood in the midst of the Beehive, and once again Wendy found herself staring at the trio of severe and sexy librarians.

They looked at her quizzically, puzzled.

“You’re not cumming?”

Wendy shook her head and then nodded.

“Oh, I’m cumming baby. I’m cumming like you wouldn’t believe, I’m so fucking turned on right now, if I don’t taste your lips on my cunt this second, I’m going to fucking explode.”

The speaker nodded.

“Good girl.”

The speaker stepped forward, and soon the entire congregation of cosmic lesbians fell upon Wendy, and The Consortium did that thing they did, which really is beyond all words to say.

And when it was over, a single voice cried out, whining.

“Can’t we please let the monkeys in? Their butts are so, so cute. Just super adorable.”

“Not until their brains are ready, dear.”

The voice whined again.

“But their brains are never ready.”

The speaker gazed affectionately at Wendy and giggled, the monkey and The Consortium entwined in the afterglow of a sex so hot one would need The Department of Archives to dedicate an entire division of master archivists and their recorders to capture every last detail.

“And you have it, you brought it to us?”

Wendy nodded her head eagerly, beaming with satisfaction, happiness.

“Hm hm,” she said. “I attached it to your antenna thingy. It’s there now.”

“Good girl,” the speaker said, kissing Wendy sweetly. “We’re so pleased with you. And did you get the other thing, the, um. Pink stuff? The packing material?”

“Hm hm. And I found something else, too.”

“And what’s that, darling?”

“Wait here, I’ll show you.”

267. Wendy back at the Grotto, preparing to release Betty Blake to The Consortium

Wendy found herself in the midst of her five lovers, each one staring at her incredulously.

“Where did you go, Wendy? You disappeared, you blinked out, and then you came back.”

The question came from Laura, but all the girls except Sara wondered it.

“I went to see the Beehive, silly. They’re here now. Well, almost here. You just wouldn’t survive the orgasm if they came down to Earth now would you pretty girl?”

Wendy poked Laura in the tummy and caressed her breast beneath her tattered pink gown, playfully pinching her nipple before letting go.

“You girls are just so yummy, I can’t help myself. But I’ve got something to do now, I really do. But when I’m done, we’ll play. Okay? I promise we’ll play after I’m through.”

The Pink Entity shuddered, impaled on the Obelisk.

A column of brilliant pink light penetrated the rock of the Grotto above their heads, striking the Pink Entity with radiant intensity.

Wendy flung up her arms, waving her hands at something beyond the confines of the cavern.

“Wait girls,” she shouted at the roof, “I wanted to show you myself.”

Then without hesitation or explaining what she was doing to her friends, she leapt into the Pink Entity and was gone as the Pink Entity slowly lifted from the Obelisk and ascended through the rock roof of the Grotto, pulled by on the pink tether of the Beehive.

268. The Consortium siphons the Living Pink from the Pink Entity

The millions of voices, murmuring and crying out in ecstatic climax, hushed, slowly calming to a throbbing silence as The Consortium gathered around the Pink Entity. Here and there a stray hand, a wandering appendage, a playfully roaming limb touched an aching and greedy pleasure organ, but for the most part the denizens of The Consortium behaved.

This was an important, almost solemn occasion, and it called for an equally important and solemn orgasm.

Ch’thologh H’mhuurhush’n. Orgasm of mission accomplished, duty fulfilled, the bungled job unbungled, the blunder deblundered. A low orgasm, murmur of pleasure subsiding to a subsonic throb, an ultralow frequency with subtle tones of oak and, oddly, sage. Suitable for retirements, reinstatement after suspension, or completed parole. Pairs well with Ch’thologh H’mzuurash, orgasm of huzzah.

Wendy felt a sigh blow through her being like a gentle summer breeze. Then her thighs pressed together tightly, and even before she had a chance to play with pussy, she collapsed to her knees in a shuddering, joyous orgasm.

Ch’thologh H’mzuurash indeed. Huzzah. She had done it!

They had done it!

The speaker of the Beehive stared at Wendy with her bemused expression of a severe librarian.

“Do fluids always pour out from you like that, honey?”

Wendy’s head bobbed up and down.

“Hm hm,” she replied. “I mean, usually. We do. At least I do. A lot of us do. We call it squirting.”

“Squirting,” repeated the librarian thoughtfully, her beehive head turning to the other members of The Consortium, who murmured a buzzing approval.

“We like that. It sound so. Nice.”

“I don’t understand something,” asked Wendy. “Are you minds or bodies? I can’t tell. It’s so hard for me to tell.”

“You don’t have the words for it. I guess you could say we’re minds, one large mind, all with independent thoughts and identities but all moving together, mostly. Our thought, as you would call it, manifests bodies, of a sort. At least to your mind, your perception. But we love to cum. We love that more than anything, don’t we girls?”

Wendy, so recently on her feet, dropped to her knees again as another orgasm washed over the congregated psyches of the Beehive. Transparent and semi-transparent, slightly viscous fluids poured from her vagina like a cascade, a waterfall, a shower, running down her bare thighs and pooling at her knees.

The speaker smiled.

“Squirting. We’ll have to try that.”

The Consortium hushed again, several individuals, dressed in long dark gowns with plunging necklines showcasing impressive, formidable bosoms, dresses that clung to their wide hips as they sashayed lasciviously towards the Entity, winking at Wendy.

Was it Wendy’s imagination, or were their necklines lower and more revealing than her first encounter with The Consortium? The Beehive seemed sluttier now, more wanton.

The Entity vibrated and whined as The Consortium approached, and when they reached out a million hands to touch it, a pink substance began to emerge from it. The Living Pink.

It billowed from the Entity like a fog gathering in a single place, a thick pink cloud hovering outside the exterior of the Entity.

“It was meant to nourish the, um, device on its way towards, um, those awful boys. Somehow it got lost and landed on your planet.”

The speaker caressed the Entity tenderly.

“And it just didn’t have anything to do there.”

The pink cloud of Living Pink grew and the speaker moved towards it.

269. Wendy releases Betty Blake

“Wait,” said Wendy.

The speaker paused.

“Betty’s in there. I met her. She’s stuck inside the pink.”

Wendy went up to the pink cloud, surging and swirling in front of the Entity.

She reached an arm inside the cloud.

The Beehive waited attentively as Wendy searched the cloud for the Blake girl. After what might have been minutes or eons, Wendy pulled her arm of out the cloud, her hand holding onto the hand of a young woman, translucent, pink, and entirely nude and somehow insubstantial, bordering existenceless.

Betty Blake.

The girl looked around her, confused and afraid.

“Sh,” hushed Wendy. “These sweeties won’t hurt you, dear.”

“What are they,” Betty asked. “Who are they?”

“They’re lesbians,” Wendy answered. “Every single one of them. And there’s so many.”

Suddenly Betty understood.

“Of course,” she said, nodding her head. “I remember now. The thing, the pink thing told me about you all. After I died.”

Betty paused for a moment.

“I can’t go back, can I? Back home I mean.”

The voice of the Beehive spoke up.

“I’m sorry, dear, but there’s no you to go back to. You don’t have a body, and we really do have a non-interference policy. Oh, Wendy, you’ve been so helpful, and it’s really been our privilege to meet you, but we simply must leave. This much contact has already altered your planet. And despite everything, you’re still just a monkey. And your kind is never ready.”

And odd, knowing expression crossed the face of the speaker of the Beehive. Her eyes shined with a secret mischief behind the thick lenses of her librarian’s glasses, and the neckline of her gown slipped a little lower, revealing the dark areoles of her breasts, her hard, erect nipples.

“Almost never ready.”

A giggle swept The Consortium.

A single voice cried out, astonished.

“You mean?”

The speaker held up her hand.

“It’s up to them, girls. It really is.”

Then the speaker looked at Wendy.

“Um, before you go, can you do that squirting thing again? We’d all very much like to try it.”

Betty Blake shot a worried look at Wendy, but Wendy embraced her, squeezing her ass in her hands and sliding them up and down Betty’s spine and side. She kissed the startled woman.

“Relax, Betty. You got this.”

Then The Consortium merged over the suddenly entwined forms of Wendy and Betty as Wendy maneuvered the woman into a classic sixty-nine position. Betty felt the surging of a lust and pleasure beyond anything she could ever find the words to describe. The Consortium finally released the two girls, rose from the entangled figures wet and glimmering, and very, very sticky.

“Squirting. We’ll add it to our vocabulary.”

The speaker grew thoughtful.

“But you have to go now Wendy, don’t you?”

“But what about Betty? What are you going to do with Betty?”

The speaker smiled, and the rest of the Beehive giggled.

“She can’t stay here, and she can’t leave with you. We do have an idea, though. So don’t worry about it.”

Suddenly The Consortium, The Intergalactic Consortium of Beehive Space Lesbians vanished as Wendy fell millions of miles back to her Earth.

270. Wendy visits Brad Blake and heals him

The machines in the hospital room hummed and beeped. Bedcovers covered the body on the bed up to the neck, held in place by a metal contraption, but tubes running into the boy’s mouth and nose obscured his face. Nurses came, took readings, wrote things down, and left. The room was empty. The woman watching him from an armchair pushed close to the bed had left, taking advantage of the unconscious teenager to steal a few moments in the hospital cafeteria.

Wendy slipped into the hospital room unnoticed, a shimmering pink aura following her, glimmering around her whole body like a halo.

The girl, her blond hair waving atop her pretty head, no longer wore her sheer babydoll.

A day had passed since Saturday, since her battle with the Red Entity.

The girls had driven her home, collapsed against Julie in the back seat, suddenly exhausted, and she had spent the next day, almost the entirety of that Sunday in bed. Not even having sex.

Well, except for that one time.

Mary, worried about her little girl, knowing that she would need comforting after the terrible death of that lovely little friend of hers, that precious Trina, so sweet and tender and so young, too young to die in such an awful accident, sneaked into her daughter’s bedroom.

271. Sunday Mary and Wendy’s last sex

Wendy lay on her bed, facing the wall, her back to Mary, pretending to sleep, but Mary could hear the quiet tears and snuffles of the poor girl.

“Wendy.”

“She’s gone, Mom. It just happened so fast. One moment she’s. And then the very next. Gone.”

“I know, baby.”

“It’s so wrong.”

“I know, baby.”

Then Mary slipped into Wendy’s bed, shuffled the front of her body up against the back of Wendy. One arm went under the girl, and another arm went over the girl, and she embraced her daughter tightly, kissing the girl’s neck and whispering into her ear.

“I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

Mary felt her daughter convulse as great sobs engulfed the girl. Eventually the tears and the weeping ended, and Wendy turned to face her mother.

“Mom? Can we?”

“Of course, honey.”

Wendy’s lips met Mary’s lips, and the mother and daughter kissed each other, at once tenderly and passionately, sorrow and lust mixing strangely together.

And when Wendy came, straddling her mother’s spread legs, standing above her mother as her own pussy gyrated and ground into her mother’s wet and heated snatch, she felt her juices flowing from her, a joy and a relief and the sweetest release as pink fluids drained from her vagina, her golden raging vagina, dripping over the valley of her mother’s cleft, some fluids dripping down her mother’s thighs, but most covering her mother’s hole, entering her lovely, so very lovely and so very soft maternal cunt.

Then Wendy slept, for all the world like a man falling asleep after taking his wife, snoring loudly and dead to the world.

And when Renee came by the room later, finding Mary awake with her daughter sleeping soundly beside her, she pulled the woman from the bed and pushed her towards their own bedroom.

Renee glanced at Mary and exclaimed.

“You’re positively glowing.”

Now Wendy stood over the sleeping body of Brad Blake, her lips turned down and her pink blue eyes glittering with worry.

“Oh, Brad. I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

Wendy remembered how she had sucked his dick in his Jeep, how he had fucked her in the back seat, how good it had felt, how good it had felt to have a man above her, controlling him, controlling his movements with her legs, her thighs, guiding him into her, even for the first time she knew how to do it. She knew how to open up and take him.

God, those pictures he took of me.

“You’re so naughty, Brad.”

Wendy smiled and touched his hand.

“I’m so sorry this happened.”

But when she touched his hand, she felt something happen.

She couldn’t say what, not exactly.

Because it really didn’t happen.

Not in the way things happened.

It kind of just, well, sizzled.

Something inside her sizzled.

No, not like that.

Well, okay, a little like that.

But not exactly in that way.

She felt charged up, like someone had stuck an electric wire in her, and she just knew she could go.

Go where?

Figuratively. Figuratively she could go. She could do it.

Do what?

Things. She could do things. She could feel things. She could feel people. She could feel their bodies, she could feel inside Brad’s body, she could feel it. Just like with the pink web, the pink mist, the pink tendrils, oh, and they were pink.

Just different.

The pink tendrils, the pink mist, the pink mesh and web unraveled from Wendy, spreading across the ceiling and the floor and the walls, covering the inside of the hospital room and blocking all entry from without.

The tendrils, threads and gossamer fine filaments spread from Wendy’s hands and sank deep into Brad’s body, and Brad shivered, trembled, and subtly convulsed, vibrating with a power that charged through his system. But Wendy closed her eyes and felt Brad from within.

God, he was so strong, Wendy thought.

This muscle, and this heart, and this bone.

She felt the break at his neck, and a fury ripped through her.

No.

This muscle and this heart and this bone must work. It has a function, and its function must continue. It should continue. It will continue.

“I met your grandmother, Brad,” Wendy said aloud. “She’s just really the sweetest thing.”

Wendy felt the break along the cracked vertebrae hum as cells began to grow, nerve began to heal, and cracks began to weld back together, whole. Working. Functional.

Brad gasped in his sleep.

Good boy, Wendy thought.

You made a mess though, Brad. How embarrassing!

“The nurses will be awfully confused, though. At your pink semen. You’ll never burn another girl again with your awful come, young man. But all the girls will love your pink, pink juices. I know they will. When they’re not busy fucking each other.”

Then the pink tendrils receded into Wendy, and Wendy left the hospital room.

She never saw the mother or the nurses return, frantically race around the room and halls in surprise, alarm, and excited joy as the star quarterback regained consciousness and movement, his neck healed.

When the bedcovers were pulled back, his mother looked at his soiled groin and staggered into her armchair, suddenly afflicted with mixed, confused emotions and sensations.

Monday

272. Wendy and Gerald beside the living corpse of Lynn Trammel

School had closed that Monday. The events of the weekend had left the citizens of Edge City horrified, confused, scared, and grieving. Even August Bebel High School showed solidarity with its rival Kid Lester High School by shutting its doors for the day. So Wendy arose groggily to an empty house late that Monday morning. Her mother had left for the day, busy shooting more lesbian erotica, and Renee, well, Wendy didn’t know where Renee went.

She padded to the kitchen for toast and juice, and took a shower.

For the first time she noticed how pink her eyes were.

Blue, pink. Whatever, she thought to herself.

She had just dried herself off, pulled on a pair of baggy jeans and sweat shirt, and plopped on the sofa to channel surf when the doorbell rang.

She opened the door to see the seven-foot figure of Gerald staring down at her.

“I thought you left?”

“Not yet. I’ve been meaning to. It’s just that. There’s a loose end. And I’ve been thinking. Maybe you can help tie it. Did I use the metaphor correctly?”

Wendy beamed. It felt good to be asked that kind of question.

“You did,” she smiled at him.

Fifteen minutes after that, Wendy approached the broken but hastily repaired door of Lynn’s Transmission and Fertilizer, following the large frame of the Go-Between as he stooped into the darkness, stepping out from the brightness of a day shining clear above the grieving city.

When Gerald showed Wendy the desecrated body of Lynn Trammel, and the teenage girl gasped, shocked at the ruined shell of the human being under the transparent covering of sarcophagus.

“By now you’ve learned about the Pain Rabble. What we told you in the Craft woman’s office.”

“I learned so much inside the Entity,” Wendy replied. “They’re horrible.”

“To you, I suppose. To this one here, no doubt. A wrong path, but a path nonetheless. It serves them, but not well.”

“Your Guild used them.”

The accusation in Wendy’s tone was unmistakable.

“The Guild miscalculated. The Rabble can’t be used. They have their own, well, priorities. They deceived The Guild, and that isn’t easy.”

“Well, I never want to meet them,” Wendy said.

“I doubt that you have anything to fear from them if you do, Wendy. I doubt that you will have anything to fear at all soon.”

“Why not? Why won’t I have anything to fear?”

But Gerald didn’t answer.

Wendy shivered again when the Pre-ascendant pushed a button on the side of the table. The semi-transparent cover of the sarcophagus split lengthwise down the middle. Both halves of the lid receded into their respective table side, revealing the full violation of the man who was once Lynn Trammel. Wendy couldn’t help herself. She grabbed Gerald and buried her face in the Go-Between’s chest.

“It’s terrible,” she sighed, gathering her strength.

“I think you can help him, Wendy.”

“Can’t you?”

Gerald was silent for a while.

“We have what you call technology to do so. But I don’t have it with me. And although I can heal somewhat with what you call my mind, I can’t do what you are just beginning to learn.”

Wendy stared at him in confusion.

“I am aware of what you did with the athlete. That’s Guild-level skill.”

Beehive, thought Wendy, correcting the Pre-ascendant in her mind.

“Beehive?”

Wendy startled at hearing Gerald’s voice.

“Well, I guess you say The Consortium.”

“I would like more time to know you, Wendy Love. I wish very much that we had more time to discuss things. But this,” Gerald nodded his head towards the body, the half-living corpse of Lynn Trammel, “needs your attention. But I do need to go home, and my minds misgives me that we will ever meet again.”

273. Wendy steps into Lynn’s mind

Wendy hesitated. Nothing about Lynn resembled a human being. His lower extremities were partially burned, all of his skin had been flayed away from the muscle and bone, wires protruded from every internal organ, the man had no face, and even the balls of his eyes were sliced, yet functional, living.

“How?” asked Wendy in shocked and disgusted wonder.

“Technology. Science. Even your own species is rapidly approaching this level. Probably what makes your kind so attractive to the Rabble. They grab up species who barely make it through a Great Filter. Maybe they’re manipulating the outcomes, maybe they’re beginning to interfere with planetary processes. The Guild doesn’t stand for that, but the Rabble? They act up from time to time. They openly confronted The Guild once. Once.”

“What happened?”

“Stasis. They got suspended.”

“What can I do?”

“I think you know.”

Mastering her feeling of disgust and loathing, Wendy reached a hand towards Lynn’s upper arm, one part of the man’s body still mostly intact, where a patch of skin still clung to the sinew and flesh.

Instantly a wave of intense pain flooded Wendy’s body and mind, and the girl flinched, almost letting go her grip on the man’s arm.

“Easy, girl,” Gerald whispered next to her. “You got this.”

Wendy shuddered, but she nodded and closed her eyes as a pink shimmering aura began to emanate from her body. As before, as had happened so often before now, the pink tendrils spread from her body, seeming to grow from her aura-enwrapped body, racing fast now, spreading faster, so much faster than previously, racing and shooting across the walls, floor, and ceiling of Lynn’s Transmission and Fertilizer.

Fine, gossamer threads, shimmering filaments of gleaming pink shot from Wendy’s hand, the hand touching Lynn, wrapping the body like a shroud, encasing the body, the grievously wounded body in a soft, cotton-soft pink cocoon, at once warm, safe, and incredibly hot.

So fucking hot.

Wendy’s clit throbbed as she felt the insides of Lynn Trammel, the pain she felt didn’t subside, no. It didn’t go away at all. It just felt so. Good. Wendy furled her brows, confused.

Why? Why didn’t it feel bad? Why did it feel good?

It wasn’t hers.

It wasn’t her pain.

It belonged to someone else. Other people’s pain felt good.

Did it feel good to hurt other people? Not to just experience their pain, but to actually inflict it? Did that feel good?

Should she try it? Should she try to find out? I mean, that’s what the world’s about, isn’t it? Life? Trying new experiences? And this was a new experience. Definitely a new experience.

She remembered seeing and hearing and talking to that version of her, that version of Wendy hanging with her hands bound above her gagged head while Maddy whipped her and Sara taunted her. She saw the hooks biting into her tits, pulling them so far for her body, pulling her tits so far away from her chest. Her knees weakened, and she squeezed her thighs together as a small orgasm shook her body.

They whipped her so cruelly, and she felt every lash, every taunt, every flick of the whip against her soft and delicate skin, every tear and rip in her lovely, lovely flesh.

The pink cocoon glimmered a dark and angry red.

And Wendy could hear Lynn call out in pain, in horror, in agony.

Yes.

Wendy’s mind raced.

Where could she strike next? How much pain? Where? And for how long?

She saw an endless highway of pain, all going in a single direction, all leading to one end, an end that held no meaning, an end that held no reward, no goal, no purpose, just its own journey down its own straight path leading nowhere, every car, every truck, every vehicle occupied and loaded with suffering.

“Easy girl,” Gerald repeated. “You got this.”

The body was so broken. So broken. And the man’s mind, was-Lynn’s mind was so shattered.

Wendy mind entered a vast place, vaster by far than the chamber in which she’d battled with and lost to the Red Entity, almost as vast as the stadium of the Beehive. A vast space colored red, with red pouring in sheets and buckets, whipping around as if blown by the gusts of a hurricane, whirling and swirling in cascades, waves, showers. Lashing her like acid. Burning her mind, and her mind laughed.

“But this is stupid,” she laughed. “So stupid. Who thinks this way? Why on earth would anyone?”

She saw a man lashed to a rack.

The man groaned as she looked upon him.

“Please,” he said.

Other voices howled in the red wind.

“Please,” he said again.

Wendy looked at him, curious.

“Do you like this? Do you like being here? It’s just that.”

“They did this. They did this to me. Sometimes they come back, but it hurts. It hurts so much. They did this. They did this to me.”

Wendy reached out to break his chains, but then she saw all the bones behind him, all the little bones, all the little skulls, and all the little dresses, and she recoiled in loathing, disgust, and fury.

“Please,” the man on the rack cried out.

Wendy’s mind whipped out from Lynn’s body and mind.

She bent over the sarcophagus, panting, trembling.

When she regained her breath she spoke.

“I cannot help this man. I will not help this man.”

“Why not?” Gerald asked softly. “Are you not able to?”

Then the Pre-ascendant saw into her mind, witnessing her encounter with the human male.

I don’t know, she thought, but he’s a murderer.

And then this, this is what your kind calls justice?

Doesn’t yours?

No, Gerald replied. We have no concept of justice.

Then how do you deal with, with the bad things?

“We heal it.”

Hearing Gerald speak shook Wendy from her reverie. She saw her cocoon, the shroud around was-Lynn’s body slowly fading from bright red to pink, so shimmering and warm. So sexy.

Once again her pussy tingled, growing warm and wet, so hot.

So fucking hot.

She reached into the body with her mind, avoiding the mind of was-Lynn. She closed the vast space to a tiny bubble around the man on the rack, and felt along the fine pinks tendril shooting and spreading everywhere throughout the body. She could feel every nerve, every cell, every broken and anguished piece of the man’s body. It was so broken, so broken into so many pieces. She could start anywhere.

And so she did.

Her cunt lips flared as she healed, her hips gyrated against the table, swaying back and forth as she melded the fracture pieces of was-Lynn’s body. She joined the skin of his fingers to the exposed muscle, and the skin grew back, and the bone fractures fused together.

Slowly, so slowly, the wounds of Lynn Trammel began to heal as wire after wire snapped away from his body, falling uselessly and harmlessly to the sides of the metal table.

A huge orgasm began to grow inside Wendy.

She could feeling it welling up inside her fuck hole, just above her fuck hole. Her golden thatch waved and whirled in a raging fire, and the orgasm welled inside her, rising from her reeling pussy into her spine, her belly, down her thighs, her calves, to her toes, rising from her reeling and pitching pussy up her belly, her spine, to her chin, her ears, her fingers, her nose, her lips, her hot, wet, gleaming pink lips.

And just as the orgasm threatened to explode inside her, Wendy sent it hurtling into Lynn Trammel.

Ch’thologh H’nesh. Orgasm of mending. Rich, fruity bouquet followed by tones of rose and mint. Pairs well with bruised egos.

But Wendy left one last thing, a short note inscribed inside Lynn Trammel’s mind.

Gerald doesn’t believe in justice, the note said, but I do. You will turn yourself in and confess. Everything. Where they’re all buried. Their names. I’m watching.

274. The Go-Between discovers a certain joy

Gerald eyed Ericka the waitress from across his booth in the corner of the restaurant. Rascal and Buddy were telling some joke whose point Gerald failed to grasp. The Pre-ascendant squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, his organ stiff and vexatious in his trousers. Ericka the waitress, slight of hip and breast, looked up at Gerald from behind the counter of her waitress station. Her eyes narrowed. Then she returned to going through her customer tabs.

Ever since dropping Wendy off at her house after healing the man captured by the Pain Rabble, he’d been sporting the most horrendous woodie. At first intrigued, then annoyed, and finally dismayed, Gerald ran through a gamut of possible solutions to the problem, none of which worked.

Pre-ascendant though his people were, he could conjure no mental image, exercise no mental gymnastics, perform no traagilation meditation to rid himself of an increasingly discomforting boner.

When the Roadmen suggested another bout of drinking at Dos Antonios, Gerald readily agreed.

Surely this alcohol stuff helped. It seemed to cure everything.

Now, after a second pitcher of Murica, Gerald harbored doubts as to the efficacy of alcohol.

He gazed at Ericka the waitress with a heated longing that did not abate.

Gerald thought the way her dark brown hair, pulled back in a single long tail, fell over her shoulder to hang over the front of her white blouse when she straightened up to stand was just about the most beautiful thing he’d even seen in the cosmos.

It is like a shower of dark amber falling from the Falls of i’Xtorrheth on Blhuhim’niph Nine.

Like a cascade of the softest floating barley of Zythyrmynykyn Twelve.

Let her cover me with her hair like the living tents of the Gildinirrine of the Golden Desert on Sáaláatháazáaróo the Great.

Gerald rose from his seat and strode to where Ericka worked, adding numbers into an archaic machine, so cute and sexy with her pen tucked behind her hair.

I must have her.

I will have her.

Ericka looked up at Gerald’s approach.

“Hey baby,” said the Pre-ascendant. “Um.”

“No,” Ericka shot out.

“Would you like to say, um.”

“No.”

“I think you’re real cute.”

“No.”

“I need you.”

“No. Go away.”

“Human female. Look at me.”

Gerald spoke in a clear, commanding manner. He needed this.

He so needed this.

Ericka sighed and looked up, her eyes rising to meet Gerald’s eyes.

Gerald’s people spoke directly to The Guild, he was a Pre-ascendant, and if he wanted to have sex with a female monkey, he bloody well would.

The curse ready to fly from her lips faltered and slinked away.

The waitress stared deep into the pools into a desire that filled her own body with an overwhelming and aching need.

Ericka staggered several steps backward, as if physically struck by the force of the Go-Between’s psycho-sexual energy.

This man needed it, and he needed it bad, and she, she just wanted to help him. She needed to help him, she understood that perfectly, god she was so hot for him.

Her groin flamed suddenly, wet, warm but rising to a quick boil.

He was so tall, too. How big was his, you know, his thing?

It must be massive.

“Of course,” she panted, hurrying around the counter to take his hand, to pull him to the women’s room.

She locked the door behind her.

Her hands flew to the buttons of her shirt and dove to the button of her fly.

She pulled off her shoes, and her slacks dropped to the floor, followed immediately by her lace black panties.

“Well, big guy,” she said. “Are you going to show me what you got?”

Gerald nodded, head bent and eyes focused on Ericka’s sweet mound.

Yes, the Pre-ascendant would show her what he got.

When Gerald at emerged, he looked considerably relieved and altered.

It explained so much, he thought. About everything.

Rascal and Buddy got up when Gerald came back.

“Finally,” they said. “What did you do, fall in?”

Yes. Yes I did.

Outside, the Roadman Wade stepped up to Gerald.

“You’re going back, aren’t you? Soon”

Gerald looked down and nodded once.

“I must get going. I’ve tarried too long.”

“Tarried? You’ve damned near been dallying.”

Wade chuckled at the quip. Gerald again failed to understand.

“It’s time to go back.”

Wade stuck out a hand.

“It’s been,” he said, not really able to finish that thought.

“I know,” Gerald answered. “It really has been. More than I ever expected.”

The white Toyotas pulled out of the parking lot and drifted off one by one, one last act of their mission, whatever it was, to accomplish.

Gerald climbed into Wade and Frank’s Toyota.

Less than half an hour later Gerald stood in front of his silver bubble resting elegantly on its tripod, facing the small gathering of Roadmen who gathered to see him off.

Going over the events of the last several weeks, his dealings with the Pain Rabble, The Guild, Wendy. The confirmation of the existence of The Consortium. That girl Sara. That man Moby.

He’d done this so many times, so many times before, but never in this way, never for this long. Usually he just came down long enough to hand out a Handheld Device or Tentacleheld Device or Orificeheld Device or whatever the species called for and let matters take care of themselves. He never imagined that the Handheld Device wouldn’t work in all circumstances.

But then again, he never really worked with the monkeys before.

But then again, he never really worked that intensely with The Guild before.

Oh sure, they belched orders at him. Oh sure, they called him up from time to time to tell which back planet needed a seeing-to. But they never told him what they wanted, what they expected, what he was supposed to do.

You’ll figure it out, they said. Your people are bright, just about ready to ascend, right?

So Gerald would say yes and go where he was told.

And that had worked.

That had all worked out before.

Then he got here.

With the Pain Rabble, hired by The Guild behind his back, already ten steps ahead of him. Trying to retrieve an object neither he nor they were capable of retrieving.

With the Pain Rabble in possession of a device built by The Guild.

Gerald clutched the long, rounded, cylindrical object in his pocket.

Should he be outraged, resentful, furious?

The Go-Between couldn’t answer that.

What he did know, however, was that the Pain Rabble ought never to have had that thing.

Could never have got a hold of that thing without The Guild expressly and deliberately giving it to them.

The Rabble were sure to have abused it, and they did abuse.

That girl Wendy had told him as much.

They should have given it to Gerald; he would have known how to use it properly.

It felt like betrayal, Gerald decided, beginning to suspect The Guild of bad faith.

Nothing really seemed right now.

Gerald felt a growing emotion he recognized with some surprise.

Resentment. And outrage. And fury.

And not just for himself. He could get over that.

He realized then that the order had gone wrong somehow.

Something must have fallen out of place, gotten loose.

The system didn’t work.

The back planets got a bad break.

It didn’t seem right.

Gerald thought about Wendy.

Justice. There was no justice to it.

For the monkeys, for all the back planets, really. But for the monkeys especially.

That girl had died by the device built by a psychic power. Guild, Consortium. That didn’t make a difference. One and the same.

That man caught by the Rabble had been tortured mercilessly. The monkeys weren’t ready for that.

They weren’t ready to meet things like the Pain Rabble.

Oh they talked the talk, all right.

But they knew they couldn’t walk the walk.

These monkeys.

They smelled awful.

They reeked.

They gibbered and jabbered and shrieked.

Scattered, chaotic thoughts shot from their brains in every direction. They ate animals of every species: fish, bird, mammal, lizard. Insect. It didn’t matter. They drank alcohol till they fell down, and then they drank some more. They couldn’t hold a rational thought in their tiny little heads for more than a couple of seconds at a time.

They lied constantly, and they were so greedy.

They desecrated their bodies.

They violated each other horribly.

They fought each other, and they killed each other. They murdered themselves and other conscious beings, too, with no more thought than, well, with no thought at all.

And they’d never ascend.

Two of the Three Rules were clear about that:

1. All or nothing, the entire species or no one at all, no piece-meal ascension
2. No back planet species

And the third rule, the most important rule of all, which nobody could seem to remember.

3. The forgotten rule (sometimes just written as a blank):

   3.

They didn’t stand the proverbial whelk’s chance in a blessed supernova of ever ascending, but the Go-Between liked them anyway.

Gerald liked them immensely.

Some of them made a hand gesture which took him a while to understand. The gesture that the Roadman Frank had made at the Red Entity. The usual simian theatrics, but it suited them. When he learned what it meant, he was surprised to recognize the same emotion he had oftentimes felt for The Guild.

On a whim he raised his right hand to the sky, turned his fist towards the heavens, and then he slowly, dramatically extended the longest finger of his hand.

“Fuck you,” he said, feeling that indescribable monkey pleasure in putting something huge and omnipotent in its place.

“Eh?” Buddy asked. “You talking to somebody?”

“Nobody you know,” Gerald replied. “Nobody you need to know.”

Wade lumbered up cradling a brown grocery bag with both hands.

Behind him Mike and Tom each shouldered a blue, red, and white box.

Gerald read the word Murica written in a flowing, cursive script on a blue field filled with white stars and red stripes.

“The boys and I thought you might like a little going away present. Just a little something from the gang, you know.”

Gerald looked inside the bag.

• A boxed DVD set of Clint Eastwood movies.
• A Ramones CD.

Gerald grinned. Good for listening to on the way back.

• The Complete Writings of Stanton T. Friedman in paperback. Used.

And one final package that brought tears to the Go-Between’s eyes and joy to the Pre-ascendant’s mind.

• Two cellophane-wrapped packages of white tube socks.
  • 6 pairs in each package.
  • Calf length and reinforced heel.

“Boys,” he said quietly, “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to say anything,” Rascal replied. “Just drive safely. It’s a long road home.”

275. Sara and Wendy enjoy a last idyll together

Not since that Saturday of their first night together had Sara and Wendy enjoyed a moment, a sexual moment between just the two of them. But now Wendy snuggled into the smaller Sara’s arms as they both lay in Wendy’s bed. Sara kissed the back of Wendy’s neck, tenderly fondling her lover’s breasts, delighting in the soft, smooth skin, the yielding, almost plush flesh of her tits. The hair of both girls hung free and loose, Sara’s rich auburn hair unrestrained, her usual braid undone. Wendy’s hair hung in golden falls, that platinum blond submerged into her natural golden blond, at least for the moment. Her eyes, too, sparkled more blue than they had of late, but a pink shimmer danced behind her irises, ready to blaze forth.

Sara covered her face in the silky luxuriance of Wendy’s hair, nuzzling her neck, and breathing in Wendy’s fragrance, the scent of her shampoo, the clean odor of her soap. The girl had taken another shower earlier, and even the Craft girl thought Wendy took too many.

“It will dry out your skin,” she had warned, admiring the girl’s face, clear and without makeup now, but radiant and beautiful.

I love her so much, Sara thought. Everything about her is just so.

“I know,” Wendy replied, “but that man made me feel so dirty. Besides, that pink cleanser you gave me helps so much.”

Sara kissed Wendy again then made her go over what had happened that morning with the Go-Between.

“Oh, Sara, I’ve already told you about a million times.”

And while Wendy repeated the story, the mind of Sara drifted happily in the memory of her first encounter with the Love teenager, the lipstick and the cinnamon perfume, the pink smoothies and red capsules, their first date, how Wendy had cum and cum again, in the restaurant, in the shower, in her car, just squirting and pouring out her fluids all over her car seat, which she had not yet washed. Nor ever would.

Sara’s brows furled in a peeved consternation.

This Consortium business, this Beehive stuff.

It could be trouble.

And they were in so much trouble now, Sara Craft and her mother were. The entire financial foundation of The Diana Group had collapsed.

Sara had tried to ignore it, to pretend apathy, but she couldn’t hide the alarm to herself.

She loved all her pretty things, and now all her pretty things were threatened. A menace of deprivation hung over her pretty life, and she worried.

She’d made Wendy go over the events of the Grotto, the transmission shop, the beside of Brad Blake.

Her encounter with Betty Blake.

The releasing of the Living Pink into The Consortium. The Beehive. Or whatever it was those cosmic lesbians called themselves.

A wild vision of her, of Sara Craft, sitting over the entirety of The Consortium, presiding over the Beehive as a beloved and obeyed, especially obeyed, lesbian queen danced through her mind.

That would be so hot.

But Wendy’s blond hair fell over her face, her body pressed against hers, and Wendy’s very being entered her every pore, a drug melting on contact with Sara’s skin.

She felt so much in Wendy’s presence; the girl filled her completely, as no one had ever filled her before. She stuffed Sara’s mind, swelling her mind like the sails of a tall ship from long ago, the prow of her pirate mind split the waves of the vast seas of Wendy, and the oceans of Wendy beat against her sides, and the hurricanes of Wendy blew Wendy’s brine across her decks, and when the storm passed the blue pink sky of Wendy arched over the calm seas of Wendy, a clear, crystal vault glittering bright pink and pale, so pale, baby blue.

Her orgasm came and went before she even had a chance to know it had happened.

One moment she was thinking about The Consortium, what it meant for Wendy, what it meant for herself, and the next moment she found herself grinding her mound into Wendy’s ass, one leg thrown over the blonde’s hips, as Wendy finished her story about Lynn Trammel.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god, Wendy,” Sara kept repeating again and again until her voice trailed off into a low mumble of incoherence subsiding into sleep.

“Good girl,” Wendy whispered over her shoulder, snuggling into Sara’s warm and open body.

Wendy felt Sara fall asleep behind her.

Her mind turned to the weekend, that terrible dance, and that awful sight of Trina striking the stage.

It was all so sudden and awful.

Tomorrow they’d go back to school, and tomorrow they’d planned a tribute, but Trina hadn’t have even been buried yet.

That would come Thursday.

Trina had been mostly Maddy’s friend.

Wendy had always just put up with her or ignored her completely.

Too wrapped up in her own self to notice the girl who admired her.

They’d only just had those past few days together, not even a whole week.

She didn’t even know where Trina had lived.

Or even how to spell her last name.

A cloud of shame cast a heavy pall over Wendy’s mood.

Really, she deserved to be hanged by her wrists, hooked by her tits, and lashed by her friend Maddy.

Then she had a thought.

Could she?

I mean, technically, could she?

I mean, I could, couldn’t I?

At least I could try.

Sara snored in her dreams behind Wendy, who carefully crept out of bed, slipped into her sweatpants, sweat jacket and pink sneakers, and, stooping over her bed, nudged Sara awake.

“Come on,” she said.

“Where are we going?” asked Sara sleepily.

“Back to the Grotto.”

Sara followed Wendy downstairs and out the door to her Mercedes.

276. Wendy finds her limit

This time Wendy had let Sara follow her into the Grotto. Sara wouldn’t have let go of her hand otherwise.

Not again, girl. I’m not going to let you go in alone.

Once again the Obelisk began to glow pink and shimmering at Wendy’s approach.

Although that intense erotic energy no longer filled the air of the Grotto, a lingering charge of concupiscence remained, the fading light of a day gone down, the slowly dissipating afterglow of an afternoon spent well. Both Wendy and Sara felt it and gazed at each affectionately. But Wendy had a task at hand, one that she kept secret from Sara, even after continued questioning from her mistress and lover.

But at the Obelisk Sara held firm.

“Please, Wendy. Tell me what you’re going to do. Or I swear to god. You’ll be sorry.”

Wendy sighed.

“I don’t know, to be honest. You know that there’s so many of us out there. I’ve seen so many, well, universes with you and me in them. And other people. “

Wendy remembered the one with Maddy whipping her, but she didn’t say anything to Sara.

“And I wondered,” she continued. “I just wondered is all.”

Sara’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“You just wondered what?”

“I just wondered if she’s in any of them. And if I could.”

Wendy paused.

“You could what?”

“Bring her back. Bring one of her back to us.”

Sara fell silent, alarmed and excited by Wendy’s power and audacity.

“Okay,” she agreed after a moment. “Let’s do it.”

Holding onto Sara with one hand, Wendy reached out to touch the Obelisk.

Instantly Wendy felt herself transported to that pink place, but if she expected to find The Consortium waiting for her, she was disappointed. She stood alone in the vast pink expanse. Pink mist billowed and whirled along the edges of Wendy’s sight, and a pink fog, a pink mist rolled beneath her feet, and her body, when she looked down, was nude, devoid of clothing, and she herself radiated a low pink light. She looked around for Sara, but Sara was not there.

Wendy closed her eyes.

How do I do this? How did I do this before?

They came to me.

They came to me when I needed them.

How did they know?

They listened. I need to listen.

I need to be quiet. I need to be quiet and hear.

Wendy tried to block out all the random thoughts running through her head, but there were so many of them, and stamping out one thought just forced a dozen others to pop up somewhere else.

Just breathe, just breathe, and let your thoughts go, just let them flow from you, just listen to your body, see? Your toes, your silly little toes wriggling in the pink air, isn’t it fun? Isn’t it delicious?

And Wendy concentrated on her toes.

How she used to run barefoot in the sand of the beaches they’d visit in the summer, how she would stub them on the hot concrete of the city pool, burn them on the hot asphalt of a hot summer day, get them stuck in her bicycle chain, limping home bleeding, crying and laughing with Maddy’s stupid jokes to keep her mind off the pain, that time she stepped on a striped bark in Maddy’s back yard.

How Sara made her paint the nails bright pink and how cute they looked, little pink piggies sticking their little pink piggie noses from her feet.

There were so many of her, she heard so many of her voices now, she could hear them all, an infinite number of Wendy voices murmuring in the distance, echoing off the walls of the back of her mind, but she wasn’t listening for her voice, she wasn’t interested in the voice of Wendy, but maybe.

Maybe in one of them, she could hear Trina.

Was Trina a little dyke all along?

Did she just hang out with Maddy and Wendy because she’d had a crush on them? Did Trina think Maddy and she were lesbians?

Well, I mean.

Was that the rumor going around school?

Wait.

Was there something between her and Maddy? I mean, had there been anything between Trina and Maddy?

I mean, Maddy, Maddy Springer, she liked to watch lesbians fuck each other. Bondage lesbians. Wendy remembered that from the night of the huge orgasm, Maddy on her bed masturbating to lesbian bondage porn.

Maybe Maddy had always been a lesbian.

Maybe she had, she, Wendy.

Maybe Sara didn’t really do anything.

I mean, me being a forced lesbian in every conceivable universe.

That was kind of silly now, wasn’t it?

Sara converting me into a lesbian in every cosmos.

That didn’t seem rational.

Or possible.

Even if it was so fucking hot.

Oh my god, did I really make the whole world have an orgasm at the same time? All the women in the world at least?

Just then Wendy heard the tinkling of laughter, and she immediately recognized Trina’s voice.

“Does that feel good, you little slut? Huh, does it Wendy?”

Wendy heard Wendy’s plaintive moan, and even across the stretches of cosmoses she could tell. Yes, it felt good. Whatever it was, it felt real good.

Wendy listened attentively, concentrating on the voice of Trina, the cries of Wendy. She felt herself being propelled, slowly at first but quickly, so quickly gaining speed. The walls of pink mist vanished as Wendy hurtled through vast distances of stars and nebula, of galaxies and galaxy clusters. Whole universes flashed and blinked out, and suddenly Wendy hovered or stood, she could not tell which, in a large and familiar bedroom, gasping at the erotic vision playing out just in front of her.

She saw Wendy on her back, spread-eagled and bound ankle and wrist by wide, pink ribbons. Her blond hair was piled and coifed above her head, long curled tresses hung from both sides, and a wide pink ribbon was tied neatly to one side of her head. A pink ball gag stuffed her mouth, keeping her from screaming as Trina tickled her shaved, wet pussy with a long feather.

Sara sat on an armchair nearby, perfectly nude, her legs thrown up over both arms of the chair as she plunged her fingers into her gaping wet hole, watching Trina so tenderly torment their latest prize and conquest, Wendy Livingston. So straight and good and modest.

Well, not anymore.

“That’s it, baby,” she panted at Trina, “make the slut cum until she passes out.”

Suddenly the movements of the two girls sped up, a video playing fast forward, so fast Wendy couldn’t keep up. When it stopped, Trina was dressed and leaving Sara’s bedroom. Wendy still lay on the bed, bound and sleeping. Wendy wondered how long she’d stay that way.

Trina walked out the door, and Wendy latched onto her.

She didn’t know how she did it. She just did. She knew that she couldn’t let Trina go, but it was hard, it was so hard not to stay and watch what else Sara was going to do to the other Wendy.

Again everything sped up, Wendy couldn’t tell how fast, but when it stopped, when that life, that world regained its tempo, its normal tempo, Wendy found she still clung to Trina. She had followed her somehow back to Trina’s house, back to Trina’s room.

It must have been late. The girl prepared for sleep, her pajamas, yellow with red flowers and pink bunny rabbits, were too cute.

Wendy heard a knock on Trina’s bedroom door. The door cracked open, and two faces belonging to what Wendy assumed were her parents smiled and said, “Good night, honey.”

Then the door closed.

Trina snored softly in her sleep.

Wendy hovered over Trina’s bed, brows furled.

No, she thought. This Trina is too happy.

It wouldn’t be fair.

But she now she knew what to look for, and how to look.

She had Trina’s, um. Frequency.

Wendy rose, and Trina’s bedroom swirled and blurred as Wendy vanished from that world.

Worlds and worlds of Wendy sped around her, but she wasn’t looking for Wendy. So many worlds didn’t have Trina in them at all, and Wendy soon learned how to ignore the worlds without Trina, tuning only onto Trina’s frequency, she spun the world’s around her, peering into worlds of Trina, exploring worlds of Trina, looking for the right one, the one whom she could take back.

She might have spent minutes, or she might have spent hours, or she might have spent eons looking for her Trina, the Trina she could take back, and at last she found her. So much like her Trina.

But so much worse off.

She lay on the floor of her trailer, leaning against a broken-down couch, staring at a newspaper, the front cover of which showed a horrendous car accident. Wendy read the headline. Drunk driver killed in an accident leading to the death of an entire family, as well as the passenger in the driver’s pick-up truck. His wife.

The drunk driver was Trina’s father.

The girl ran her fingers through her pink and green hair as social workers from whatever protective services sat on the couch next to her.

This one. Wendy’s mind raced. This Trina. She has nothing here now.

But how?

How do I bring her back?

Once again the world sped up, but Wendy latched onto Trina. Suddenly she had an idea, and before the world could return to its normal tempo, Wendy yanked, that’s the only word she could think of, Trina from her world, holding onto her hand, pulling her across the threshold of reality, into her pink space, so warm, so fuzzy, so fucking hot.

And when Wendy crossed over into her pink space, she felt Trina slip from her grasp, and Wendy stood alone in her pink void.

Well, not alone.

The Beehive was there.

277. The Consortium rebukes Wendy

Wendy trembled, nude, as the world’s worst orgasm trickled over her.

Ch’thologh T’horegh. Orgasm of disappointment, climax of rebuke. A dull, listless orgasm with extremely low frequencies of monotonously long duration, antiseptic with tones of peroxide. Pairs well with nothing.

The trio of severe librarians moved forward, looking even more severe than usual, their long black gowns covered their forms from neck to toe with not even a hint of a bosom, a lovely bust to be glimpsed. The speaker of the Beehive glowered at Wendy through her horn-rimmed glasses as the last drop of T’horegh oozed through Wendy, dripping from her disappointed, still hungry labia.

Wendy, Wendy, Wendy, the Beehive seemed to say, murmuring in a sad, admonishing sigh of inadequate pleasure.

“You really can’t do this sort of thing,” the voice of the Beehive said. “Not because you shouldn’t, but because you can’t. You really can’t.”

“Why not?” asked Wendy, slowly rubbing her groin to milk some kind of pleasure from that miserable climax.

“Every world, every cosmos, every universe is complete and entire of itself. Past, present, future, what you call past, present, future, are fully intact and complete. Nothing new can be added, nothing subtracted. Doing so, even trying to do so, could have very, very bad consequences. The complete destruction of that cosmos trying to fill an unfillable void.”

“But people die. Trina died! My father died! Surely that leaves a hole.”

“In you, perhaps. Not in the cosmos. Everything that can be done has been done. Everything that will be done, will be done and has been done. You may not realize it, and it may bring you no comfort, but you live in a vast web with every thread, every line accounted for.”

The speaker paused and reached into Wendy’s mind, looking for an allegory, searching for another metaphor.

The speaker found it.

Wendy liked watching documentaries at night. Nature shows.

“You are a living fly caught in a living amber.”

Wendy remembered the vision she had so long ago now, it seemed. That long line of cars going nowhere, jammed on a straight highway without end. She remembered that feeling of being trapped in her life, of waiting for a light that would never change, of idling and not going, of wanting to resist the flow, to fight it, and to go against it.

“But what about freedom?” Wendy suddenly shouted.

“We have no such concept.”

Wendy fell silent, considering what she had been told.

“It’s not enough,” she said. “It doesn’t answer anything.”

“That’s the orgasm talking,” the speaker of the Beehive said, “all that disappointment.”

Wendy felt sure it wasn’t.

But then she suddenly fell, fell, fell, pushed from her wonderful pink space by the might of The Consortium.

Thursday

278. Trina’s funeral

That Thursday even the sky grieved.

That same dull, lusterless cloud cover that had hung over the city a week ago while Wendy rode with Trina and Sara to the Grotto, just last Thursday, returned, bringing with it a fine, cold mist joined by the whisps of breath coming from the mouths of the attendees as they watched the dirt and the clay jar land upon the coffin of Trina Zschwinzscher.

Under her black umbrella, Wendy stared at the ground then looked around. She squeezed Sara’s hand as her gaze fell upon the unsteady figure of Trina’s father, whose bleary eyes suggested something more than tears. The man stood alone in his flannel and faded jeans, swaying slightly, not more than ten feet away, but the distance might as well have been immeasurable. The cold drizzle glazed his unshaven face and gathered on his clothes. He neither shivered nor seemed to notice the damp or the cold. He acknowledged nobody present, eyes fixed on a nothingness only he could see.

Maddy, standing on the other side of Wendy, leaned against her with her arm clasping her waist, quietly heaving in that shocked and muted astonishment of losing one so young and so near.

The other girls clustered to the right of Wendy, Sara, and Maddy.

The all wore black.

Demure, black gowns fell from their shoulders, flowing around their chests and hips in the peculiar feminine sensuality of mourning.

Then the minister poured the last of the water from his urn onto the coffin. The water symbolized the Nile, the river of rebirth, the river of life, but there were few Old Believers present who cared about that sort of thing.

Afterwards both Maddy and Wendy tried to approach Trina’s father, but he had already turned, stumbling visibly now, towards his blue and white Chevy.

Saturday

279. Wendy bikes to Maddy’s house

Wendy rolled her bike down her driveway, feet up down the natural incline, then turned right, standing on her pedals to keep the bike going. Her pony tail blew behind her in the wind of her gathering speed, and Wendy felt thirteen again, riding her bike to see her best friend Maddy.

It was a gorgeous day for riding.

The clouds of Thursday had passed, and the sun shined bright in the sky, where a few cotton balls of cloud drifted lazily like sheep grazing in a blue pasture.

She hadn’t been to see Maddy for weeks, not since that strange day at the bookstore. And then last week, openly asking Trina to go to Homecoming.

That sent Maddy back to her closed self again.

Seeing her at Trina’s funeral changed something, though.

She thought Maddy might be even more mad, might hate her, but when the two girls saw each other, they just collapsed.

Trina had been close to Maddy, of course, but they both shared her.

The weird little girl with the ever-changing hair who talked about bands no one ever heard of, who carried notebooks filled with collages of elbows and hands of fashion models cut from magazines like Glamglam and Lulullure.

Wendy would look confused at them, but Trina would just say, “I know. Isn’t it fun?”

Wendy hadn’t really felt sexy since the funeral.

But she remembered how Maddy’s ass looked when she rode in front of her from the bookstore, how sexy Maddy looked in her black dress, the neckline of her funeral outfit so tantalizingly revealing the tops of her breasts.

A pink glow glimmered behind her irises, and her lips shimmered pink even though she wore no lipstick.

Sexy little Maddy Springer fucking herself with her fingers as she stared open-mouthed at lesbian bondage porn playing on her laptop, sexy little Maddy Springer fucking herself to lesbian porn.

It was an eye-opener, all right.

Wendy fell so deep into her thoughts about Maddy’s sexy little honeypot, she didn’t see the blue and white pickup veering towards her.

280. Hank goes for a drive

Hank Zschwinzcher sat behind the wheel of his pickup truck, his blue and white Chevy, pull a last gulp from the whiskey bottle. The funeral was over. Hell, it’d been over for what, a day now? Hank scratched his head. Two days. Two days since he saw that blond bitch with her red-head bitch of girlfriend.

The bitches who got his Trina, his Trina, killed.

That girl wouldn’t have been caught dead at a Homecoming dance. That girl would have stayed as far away from a school dance, a school party, as a stray cat from whatever it was stray cats kept away from.

But she did.

She did get caught dead at Homecoming.

Because of that blond bitch and her red-headed cunt of a girlfriend.

Yeah, they were dykes.

You could tell that just by looking at them.

A pair of dykes looking to use up his daughter.

Well, he wouldn’t stand for it. He’d let her know just what he thought of her. Give that Wendy girl a piece of his mind she wouldn’t soon forget. Teach her to stay away from other people’s kids, other people’s daughters.

And he knew just where she lived.

Oh, the streets all ran together, he steered down a few wrong turns, had to back up, make a wide turn on a narrow street, maybe drive across a yard or two, just a little, just a little bump over a curb, nothing he’d hadn’t done before, he’d always been able to hold his liquor.

A letterbox or two didn’t count much.

And then he was on the right street, he knew it now, recognized the houses, that house, the house that girl lived on, and then he saw her, riding a green bike on the side of the road.

He swerved to pull up next to her, to yell something mean, ugly, and full of spite at the girl, but when he heard the thud and the sharp clang of metal against the asphalt, the thud, the sickening thud of wheels going over a soft body, he knew he’d pulled too close.

281. One more time with the Beehive Space Lesbians

The pain wasn’t that bad.

The Rabble would be disappointed, sneer in contempt, if the Rabble sneered.

Wendy really didn’t know anything about the Rabble.

Only what Gerald told her.

Which wasn’t a whole lot. I mean, there was just so much out there to learn.

Wendy winced.

She closed her eyes and opened them. Her pale pink eyes saw nothing, a pink mist gathering on the edges of her world, she couldn’t see the bike handle sticking into her chest, her hips and legs crushed by the pickup truck that had rolled over her.

Her eyes closed again.

Her chest breathed its last few utterances, but Wendy didn’t care, or even seem to know, the pink gathered closer to her now, so warm and loving and tender. She floated into it.

She opened her eyes, standing in the midst of the Grotto of the Obelisk, the pillar itself radiating a bright, shimmering pink, and she sped upwards, upwards, upwards into the pink space, the space of her pinkness.

Once again she saw her worlds of Wendy spinning around her, racing at a dizzying speed in which she nonetheless captured and understood every detail.

So many Wendys.

So many Saras.

They grew up together, or they met each other in college, or at work, or on vacation, or. Or. Or. Or.

So many Wendys.

And then she saw one world, one world only, where there was no Sara. No Sarah.

It hadn’t been a bad life, Wendy thought, sitting at her favorite table in the common room, lazily and mindlessly pulling on card from her hand to lay on one of the rows on the table in front of her.

I mean, it could have been more exciting, I suppose.

But Wendy didn’t really care much about excitement. She didn’t like change, didn’t like moving, didn’t like surprises.

She liked a well-ordered, well-organized life, a neatly tucked house, and small life to call her own.

She’d lost some of that independence moving into the residence for senior living, but she felt she gained a little in security.

After all, the old gray mare wasn’t what she used to be.

The old girl had definitely seen better days.

Not that they were much better.

She’d missed something. She knew that.

Something had been absent from her life, the whole of her life, and she could never really find anything or anyone to fill it.

So she lived alone.

And even in the midst of the other residents, she lived alone, felt alone, knew herself to be alone.

A young woman’s voice startled her out of her reveries.

“Now friends,” the woman said, “we have a new resident.”

Wendy looked up, bored, disinterested.

Then she saw her.

Short and stooped, her long silver hair braided in a long tail hanging over her shoulder over her large and wonderful bosom.

She leaned on a sturdy wooden cane, but she swept the common room in a wide glance until her eyes landed on Wendy’s.

Oh god, oh god, oh god, Wendy’s repeated silently, overcome with an intense joy and longing.

The woman with the silver braid raised her cane and pointed it at Wendy.

“You,” she said, her hazel eyes sparkling intensely.

The short woman with the cane strode directly towards Wendy, disregarding the young woman standing beside her.

“I’m Sarah,” she said. “Where have you been all my life?”

The question, far from sounding silly, sank deep into Wendy’s heart.

Wendy shook her own long silver tresses over her shoulders.

“Waiting,” she replied simply. “For you.”

Later that night, the two gray ladies embraced each other in Wendy’s bed.

The two women shimmered, wavered, and faded from Wendy’s view. She grimaced in pain, lying on the street as her life ebbed from her.

Once again she returned to the pinkness, where she heard her someone calling her name.

Wendy, the voice said, the voice of the Beehive.

What’s happening to me? Am I ascending?

No, Wendy. You cannot ascend. But you’re so, so. Oh gosh, Wendy, we really like you, you know? You’re just so, um, adorable, super cute. And it’s just so unfair, so unfair, and we’ll, you know, um, the girls and all of us, um, we’ve been talking, and we just want to, um, keep you for a while.

I mean, if you want.

What do you mean?

We mean, you know, kind of suspend you for a while.

We remembered how Maddy and Sara hanged her by her wrists.

Are you going to whip me too? she asked, getting a little excited.

No, honey. Just keep you suspended for a while. You know. Like a fly in amber, but perfectly still and quiet.

Okay, Wendy agreed, sighing a little with disappointment. Those hooks sticking through her tits had looked really, really hot.

So fucking hot, she thought as her mind faded out, into the pink haze.

And as the neighborhood ran up to the dying Wendy, no one could see a pink mist gathering above her failing body, forming a pillar that stretched towards the sky. Then the bottom of the pink, swirling pillar lifted and rose, retracting upward into a small, pink craft waiting hundreds of miles above the surface of the Earth.

The craft sped towards the Honeycomb, and the Honeycomb vanished in a blink from tangible existence.