Re: Flotsam

At this point I don’t even know why Halley-Prime even bothered with this whole clone insurance... jeez.


Re: Flotsam

Chapter 16: The Circle of the Sleeping God

I am aboard a hover skiff piloted into the Junk Desert by a bunch of transformed cultists.

The hover skiff itself is pretty crappy, little more than a rusty steel platform that flies. Slowly. The whole shuddering, shoddy vehicle is about the size of a small sail boat and is mostly made of flaking steel beams and grated metal platforms which are open to the Junk Desert below. There is a battered cowling at the bow to cut the wind, a simple pipe railing bolted to the perimeter, and a large cargo cage filled with supplies for the cultists. Attached to the bottom of the skiff is a futuristic module that provides antigravity, but it’s clearly old and chugs like an antique tugboat. The very tall giraffeish cultist with the elongated neck and penis tail, Sister Hippolyta, pilots the skiff with analogue controls, her goggle clad head sticking out above like a mast. Sister Equestria and Sister Quardra stand together at the rail bent together in conversation, occasionally looking at me and yes I know you are both talking about me. Another cultist plays with her Keyband: a massive mountain of woman, tall and hugely fat and muscular but with the head of a much more petite woman. A cute little head that alarmingly comes to the point of a penis glans like a rubbery pink touque. I’m told her name is Sister Girth. Sister Superior Teuthida sits calmly on the steel plate floor near the bow. Her cross-legged posture stretches her labial skirt wide, giving an obscene view into her enormous vagina. As far as a futuristic cruise into the exotic alien Junk Desert goes, it’s a little disappointing.

I’m standing alone at the rear rail of the skiff, wrapped in a space blanket, watching Flotsam City recede into the distance. From his perspective the improvised city is beautiful, all of the rust and shitty welds smoothed away by distance, giving the entire Mesa a romantic quality like an antique cliffside town. Except instead of a sparkling blue Mediterranean Sea, Flotsam City overhangs a scraggly mass of broken steel and polymer that stretches out in every direction. Hovering out into the Junk like this, the sheer desolation and enormity of the Junk Desert strikes me. Not that I’ve ever been to sea, but I imagine this feeling of vast emptiness is what first time sailors must feel when land disappears over the horizon. I shiver and pull my borrowed foil blanket tighter. For all it’s seeming size and complexity, Flotsam City is a just a dot, a speck on a vast graveyard planet of trash that sapients somehow made their home. Looking back at the city, I feel like I’m sailing away from an oasis. Except it’s an Oasis filled with romantic fuckery and angsty bullshit. I spit like a sailor over the rail. Can I outrun my problems on a world with only a single city? I guess I’m going to find out.

“Halley!” Sister Teuthida calls out from the bow, “We’re almost there! Come see!”

I stumble to the bow and climb onto a locker to peek over the cowling. Teuthida pulls herself up next to me, her hair tentacles brushing my shoulders and her bare face trying to smile. Halley-14 glances at me out the corner of her eyes, “Sometimes it’s better to look forward, than to stare at what’s behind you.” Ahead of us is a big derelict spacecraft nestled in the surrounding space trash. It’s the size of a small cathedral and oval shaped, with a domed roof peaking in some sort of antenna topped with a blinking amber light. The remnant of a massive thruster is attached to one side of the craft while the other thruster lays detached and in pieces. The derelict has a matte grey hull and looks surprisingly intact, like maybe it was abandoned on Flotsam recently instead of being an ancient wreck crashed from space. As we continue to get closer I see obvious signs of scavenging: the hull is missing segments, wires and conduits leak out of opened compartments, and the thrusters appear to have been completely gutted. I wince as a bright spark blooms and I see a figure welding what looks like a bubble skylight made of stained glass onto the domed roof of the derelict. The figure sees us and stands, waving her various left arms in greeting while holding the still lit torch in her right. The woman has too many pairs of arms: two normal ones plus two extra full length arms which split at the elbow into duplicate forearms plus two stubby toddler sized arms. Her tight neon green onesie is stretched by eight large breasts and is stained darkly at the nipples by some sort of liquid. I wince as I realize she is probably lactating. “Home sweet home,” Teuthida’s electronic voice modulates wistfully.

The skiff jerkily approaches a somewhat level surface made by dumping smashed stone and small chunks of trash onto the Junk Desert scrap. Hippolyta moues in concentration, long arms pumping levers and the skiff drops heavily onto the pad with a bang of its rigid landing gear. Quadra and Equestria unhook a section of railing and slide out a gangway while Sister Girth unlatches the cargo cage. With a girlish squeak of effort Sister Girth lifts a massive steel crate and tromps off the Skiff. Teuthida wraps my hand in tentacles and gives it a squeeze, “Don’t be nervous,” she says with a wink. The Sister Superior guides me down the gangway and across the rubble surface of the landing pad toward a ramp into the derelict Spacecraft. “Welcome to the Convent of the Circle of the Sleeping God,” she buzzes.

A tall, muscular, and very naked cultist strides out of the Convent and down the ramp towards us. She is decidedly elephantine: seven feet tall and muscular, but with a firm layer of fat under her red-tan hide that smooths her out and makes her solid instead of ripped. She has large teardrop breasts and a pachyderm sized ass with a little ropey tail. The most striking difference is her face, which has large fan shaped ears hung with piercings, short tusks, and an arm length trunk instead of a nose. A trunk that is also clearly a penis. I notice the wide glans of which has two nostril-like dickholes and that the trunk-cock foreskin moves like it would be able to grasp something. I’m horrified but also a little fascinated. A rogue part of me wonders what it would be like to be fucked by such an appendage. This cultist is also sporting huge testicles and a gargantuan cock sheath on her crotch. Having seen the kind of male equipment elephants have in a nature documentary, I can only imagine the huge, pulsating, flailing monster cock that might emerge on this woman. I shudder. Teuthida walks right up to her and is wrapped in an embrace of arms and trunk that lifts her off her tentacle feet. “I’ve missed you,” the elephant-cultist says robustly.

“I’ve missed you as well, Sister Hannibelle” Teuthida replies, pressing her anus-like mouth to Hannibelle’s cheek in a kiss.

Hannibelle sets Teuthida down and notices me. A sly and tusky smile peeks out from behind her trunk. “Ahhh a Halley,” she says, “The High Priestess will be delighted!”

Teuthida gives her a gentle lash with her arm tentacles, “Sister, don’t you have supplies to unpack.”

“Of course!” The elephant-cultist blows a trumpet blast through her cock-trunk, “Initiates! Get your cute behinds down here and get to work! This skiff won’t unload itself!” Two relatively normal nude women come scurrying down the ramp after her. One is dark and thin, baseline human except for a grotesquely enlarged fist sized clitoris and two more normal proportioned clits sprouting from her navel and forehead. The other woman is very pale and freckled, curvy, and has a big engorged penis instead of a nose. Hannibelle winks at us, “Gotta get the fresh meat into shape!” She guffaws deeply and strides off.

“The Priestess will be delighted?” I ask.

Sister Teuthida looks abashed, or as much as someone with a sphincter for a mouth can. “Pay no mind to Hanna, she just knows the whole Halley-deal and that the High Priestess is always excited to help someone in need...” Okay....

Sister Teuthida leads me up the rickety entrance ramp and into the Convent. We pass through a small chamber with perforated walls that must be an airlock and enter a corridor that curves off in either direction. Instead of following this, Teuthida steers me through a hatchway and into a huge central chamber with a vaulted domed ceiling, probably what was once the main cargo bay. There is a slightly raised pulpit at one end of the room in front of a screened off enclosure with a decorative archway artfully woven from twisted polished brass pipe and cable. In front of this altar is a large empty space strewn with brightly coloured yoga mats. A cultist with arms instead of legs and huge, swaying labia that stretch navel to spine does a unique stretching routine on a turquoise mat. In one corner of the room are crude steel tables and benches near a long open window into a galley. Sister Girth is unpacking food from a heavy crate while another cultist looks it over and makes notes on a hologram. This kitchen cultist’s lower body is backwards, ass in the front and crotch behind, and has a long, leg-sized and perfectly rigid cock that sticks out behind her like a dinosaur tail. She picks up a wilted head of lettuce-analogue and frowns, scratching her reversed bird-like feet on the ground in annoyance. Across from this dining area is a space filled with beanbag chairs and cushions wrapped in the same brightly coloured spandex the cultists wear. Quadra and Equestria are naked in these cushions, kissing hungrily, Quadra gently stroking Equestria’s penis-horn, making the Cockicorn snort and nicker. I grimace and look up at the ceiling. The steel roof is marred by holes which have been patched over by stained glass skylights, allowing beams of brightly coloured light to stream into the space, giving everything a spiritual and slightly psychedelic vibe. A trail of glowing metal sparks fall gracefully down from the skylight where the multi-armed welder is working. Homemade looking lightbulbs hang on wires from the ceiling and weakly incandesce like temple lanterns. Incense, or at least something like it, fills the air with a cloying botanical scent. Everywhere there are signs of construction. Mismatched steel scraps lay in piles around the periphery and the loud banging of metal on metal fills the room. I see a cultist hammering out a piece of steel. Sweat beads on her bare back and on the round, squishy,  and weirdly wrinkled expanse of her stomach. She frowns in concentration and the pair of erect cocks she has instead of nipples jiggle wildly as she swings her hammer and jostles her large breasts. Near her another pair of cultists are working on a section of wall. One cultist is very short, maybe three and half feet tall, but bearing truly enormous breasts nearly as large as her small torso with aureolas that split open into large wet cunts. This busty little cultist sings a beautiful wordless song and feeds electrical cable to a relatively normal looking woman whose only transformation as far as I can see is that her ass is now a pair of breasts. As the cultist bends over into an open section of wall her ass tits jiggle prominently, a decidedly bizarre case of plumbers butt. “It’s no Sagrada Familia,” Teuthida says, “but it is a work in progress.”

I smirk politely at the joke, but I can feel a growing sense of unease. What am I doing here?

“Let’s get you sorted out with a cell,” Sister Superior Teuthida says pleasantly, gesturing back to the corridor.

“Cell?” I ask, feeling a burp of panic.

Teuthida laughs electronically, “Ha ha ha. Sorry. I mean cell like a private room for a nun, not y’know the scary kind. I assumed you’d rather have some privacy rather than share the common cloisters with the Sisters. Most of us sleep together and things can be a little... free...” I glance at Quadra and Equestria who are now tangled on the ground, Equestria kneeling and Quadra awkwardly trying to hook a pair of her legs over the erect Cockicorn’s shoulders, exposing her central pussy. I look away and shiver.

“Privacy sounds good.”

“Ha ha ha.”

Sister Teuthida leads me back into the corridor, takes a left, and walks through an open hatch into a small room. Cell is a good descriptor: it’s a bare steel room with a metal and spandex cot, a small metal locker that doubles as a night stand, and a mound of broken electronic components. There is a plastic jug of water on the floor and a steel pan that I assume is the en suite toilet. It was, and I guess still is, probably a storeroom, but it’s private and a place to sleep tonight, which is certainly better than nothing. I’d give it one and a half stars. Maybe two stars if they have a shower or an actual bathroom nearby.

“Salutations,” says a pretty voice with a weird internal harmony, “I’m Sister Mitosa.” A nude cultist stands at the threshold awkwardly carrying a large bundle of bedding. “I brought blankets,” she sings in stereo and ambles into the room. She has three legs, three ass cheeks, two vaginas and, as she sets down her bundle and begins assembling the bed, I can see she also has three pert little breasts. Sister Mitosa looks up at me with her three eyes, two-tipped nose, and extra wide mouth and smiles. “What’s brought you here?” she asks musically. I can see she has two parallel throats and I wonder if she has two voiceboxes.

“I ah, my living situation is in flux? I need a place to sleep tonight.”

Mitosa smiles pleasantly and nods. “So which Halley are you?”

I guess I should introduce myself. “I’m the twenty-fourth.”

“Wow!” she stereos, “so many already!” She shakes her head, “And still no word about what happened to Halley Prime?”

I shake my head no.

“You know,” she harmonizes, “you should Consult the Oracle about this before you leave. The Sleeping God Sees all kinds of things in His Dreams.”

I frown. I am curious about what happened to my original and I do want to know why the fuck I’m here in this ridiculous situation. Could it really be as simple as just asking the alien god of these cultists? And if it is, why hasn’t anyone asked already? I glance at Sister Superior Teuthida, Halley-14, who is watching us patiently. “Haven’t you asked where Halley Prime went?”

“No,” She shakes her head. “I have a strict BC/AD rule in my life. If it’s “Before Conversion” I leave it alone and try to focus on now, “After Dream”. I know it’s lame and I sound like our therapist, but I’ve decided the past is the past and that the best thing for me is to focus on my future. And the Church.” Teuthida shrugs her many tentacles, “you are welcome to ask about it though.”

“And you should!” Sings Mitosa as she fluffs a pillow and plops it onto the completed bed.

“Maybe...” I say cautiously. It would be really nice to get some answers... “I guess? What could it hurt?”

“That’s the spirit!” Mitosa harmonizes with a very wide smile containing far too many teeth.

Teuthida also seems pleased. She glides over to the steel locker in my cell and opens it, pulling out a towel-thing and a scarlet spandex belt. “We will be gathering for a meal soon, and you are welcome to join us. The Priestess will be there.” She holds up the towel-thing, which I recognize is a fancy futuristic one like Clementine used, “you can use this to cleanse yourself from your travels.” She hands me the towel-thing and the spandex belt. “I’m afraid we don’t have any Earth-style clothing, but if you want to change, the belt will grow into a set of our vestments. Sorry, but it’s the best we can do.” Teuthida ushers Mitosa out of the room and glances back at me, smiling with her eyes and sphincter mouth pulsing, “I’ll come back and gather you in a few minutes when the food is ready.” The sister cultists leave the cell and a the cell door grinds shut behind them leaving me alone.

I sit on my cot holding the towel and collapsed red onesie. This is getting uncomfortably weird, but what exactly did I expect? Everyone is being friendly enough, maybe I should just steer into it, go with the flow? And then catch the first skiff home and call it an ‘interesting’ experience. I look at the clothing I’m wearing, Clem’s stolen shirts, and see they are coated by a fine layer of rusty dust. Taking a sniff, I still smell like dude and sex and also faintly of body odor and the Junk Desert. I’m filthy. Maybe a wash and change of clothes are in order? I look dubiously at the red spandex thing. I grimace, skintight onesies are not my style. But then, when in Rome I guess?

I strip off my soiled clothing and toss it into a dirty pile. Hesitantly I press the space towel to my skin, yelping as it comes to life with a feeling between being licked by the roughest tongue and touching something sticky. It reminds me of when I poked a sea anemone in a tidal pool as a kid. The towel has that same feeling of delicate organic grippy-ness as the anemone fronds did before protectively curling away. I drag the towel along my arm, leaving it squeaky clean and feeling deliciously exfoliated. It only takes a few moments and I’ve had the best spongebath of my life. My hair is still grimey, but I wrap the towel up around it hoping it might help. I pick up the spandex belt and step into it, lifting it flaccidly around my waist, holding it around myself like a limp hoolahoop. I turn the belt around and until I find a little bump toggle and push it, and the belt snaps tight around my waist. Hesitantly I poke the toggle again and the spandex rapidly expands, blossoming into a scarlet red unitard with built in booties. I look myself over critically. Despite feeling like I’m wearing part of a slutty devil Halloween costume, I decide the spandex is actually kind of flattering. Kind of like full body spanx. I unwrap my dark hair and find it cleaner than it was and I brush it with my fingers into some kind of order. I guess this will do. One sexy devil girl ready to have dinner with some freaky nuns.

I hear a polite knock on my cell door followed by a thunk and the door grinding open. A naked Sister Teuthida beckons me, “come.” As I follow, she looks me over, eyes tracing my body in its skintight outfit. I blush and look away, try to ignore the smell of my cultist clone’s enormous cunt-skirt or the heft of her large, perfectly shaped breasts. I might be jealous of her bust, if not for the fact that her nipples are stretched and wriggling, two more tiny tentacles. I shiver and hug my arms over my much smaller chest.

It is fortunately a short walk back and we are soon entering the converted cargobay. I see the long tables are heaped with food, party buffet style, but notice that the Sisters are not yet eating. Instead the cultists are quietly seated on their yoga mats in a semi-circle around the altar. They are all naked, displaying their strange bodies, and watching me intently.  Tentacles wind over my shoulders and I feel a nudge as Teuthida urges me to walk toward them. I blush and feel anxiety rising inside me. Sister Equestria, holding hands with Quadra and Hippolyta, smiles a wide and horsey smile at me and nods. I nod back, not sure what’s going on. I try to hesitate, and Teuthida gently but firmly pushes me forward. “It’s okay,” croons Teuthida in an electronic whisper, “you’re doing great.” I take a deep breath and the incense in the air makes me feel light headed, makes my heart beat a little faster. It has a familiar floral scent... I shake my head, trying to clear it. “And you did it,” Teuthida whispers with pride. We are standing in the middle of the semi-circle, surrounded by cultists, right in front of the pulpit.

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” Asks a familiar voice loudly. I hear the click of high heels and see a new cultist strut through the brass archway on the pulpit, out from behind the smoked glass screen. I gasp in shock, startled by the new cultist’s altered body. She is wearing theatrical stiletto pumps and has long beautifully toned legs. These lead to a torso absolutely covered in huge breasts: front, back, and sides. She has no arms, or even shoulders, just a couple dozen sagging, sliding, bouncing tits. Instead of nipples, each breast sports a coyly smiling mouth with plump lips and shining white teeth. The cultist has no head, just a wide, glistening vulva and a vagina where her neck should be. And the most jarring part, judging by her voice, this cultist is me.

“Another prodigal Halley come to join our Light?” asks a mouth-nipple. Nipple-lips. Lipples.

“No Priestess,” says Teuthida holding me still with her strong tentacles, “Halley-24 has come to us for Sanctuary in a time of need.”

“I see,” says a different lipple. “She is of course welcome Among Us.”

“She does wish to Consult the Oracle,” Teuthida continues, “to ask our Slumbering Lord for Guidance and the Whereabouts of Halley-Prime.”

The Priestess smiles with many lips. “Then let us not waste any time! Come Pilgrim-Halley, let us Shed our Illumination upon this mystery.” The Priestess opens a mouth wide, unfurling a tongue that extends from her tit like an arm and beckons me.

“I-I don’t want to be a bother,” I stammer hastily, fear building in my chest. Maybe this isn’t a great idea...

“Nonsense!” Exclaim several tits at once. “Step this way! The Oracle Awaits!” The priestess turns, struts through the brass archway, hidden hips and many breasts swaying, back behind the screen.

I feel Teuthida push me forward, I try and resist. “It’s okay,” Teuthida soothes, her tentacles clutching me, holding me close. Her sphincter breath, I notice, smells faintly of shit. “Don’t you want answers? To finally solve the mystery? To know why all of this is happening?” And I do, I do want answers to what happened to the original me, to why I am here on this stupid planet, and to why a bunch of versions of me are in a bizarre shapist sex cult. “I know this is strange and scary,” whispers Teuthida’s voicebox, “but, you are strong enough to do this. I believe in you.”

My heart hammers in my chest, I should run away.

But... there are no answers that way, and really where would I go? I’m in a compound in the middle of an alien desert. Even if this is all weird religious bullshit, it’s probably easier to just go with it, get it over with, and leave the first chance I get. I take a deep, deep breath. As my therapist would say, sometimes you just have to go through it. Endure.

I take a step after the Priestess.

And another.

And another.

Teuthida releases me and I take another big step on my own, up onto the dais.

I stop. Last chance to back out. I look back, see the cultists all watching me, some are smiling encouragingly. My fists ball and relaxe. I take one more deep, panic suppressing breath and quickly walk through the brass archway before I change my mind.

I step into a dark, shadowy chamber. The air is humid and the smell of cloying floral incense is stronger here making my eyes water. I breath deeply and feel my heart beat faster and an intimate warmth in my belly. The smoked glass screen wraps all around the room and bolts of spandex cloth are draped overhead to form a tent-like ceiling. Dozens of weakly glowing Edison-bulb lanterns hang all around providing ambience instead of light. The effect is deeply claustrophobic. My skin prickles as I feel like someone is watching me. I blink my eyes and they slowly adjust to the gloom. I am confronted by a large mass that resolves into a heaping pile of flesh, like a pyramid made of tits and genitals. It is constructed mostly of stacked breasts, huge and small, and mortared with dripping cunts and sprouting hornlike erect cocks. The many vulva glisten wetly in the weak light, drooling while a random cock ejaculates. Beneath the heady incense I smell semen and cunt. Growing root-like from the base of this immobile pile of flesh are long, penis gland tipped tentacles which slowly track across the floor, blindly groping. “Wh-what?” I ask, stunned.

“Behold the Oracle!” The Priestess says merrily, standing next to the horrible flesh, tongue tentacles stroking and licking the creature.

“I am the Attendant,” says another cultist, gliding out from behind the Oracle creature. Her chocolate brown-skinned body from below her oddly tubular breasts is a giant slugs foot made from enormous glowing vulva. She regards me from atop eyestalks and slithers forward holding the end of one of the Oracles tentacle cocks reverently in her bioluminescently freckled hands. The cock flails around, rooting for a hole to fill. I take an involuntary step backward, my flight response kicking in. And stop suddenly as I bump into something solid and warm behind me. A pair of large meaty hands are placed on my shoulders. Sister Girth emits a squeaky little grunt and pushes me forward and down, forcing me to my knees. 

The Priestess struts over to me, bends close, hanging breasts brushing against me. A lipple dangles against my ear and says “Prepare yourself to Commune with the Sleeping God.” A tongue-tentacle licks my cheek while another prods the toggle of my onesie, causing it retract down to a belt leaving me naked, kneeling on the floor. A dozen mouths smile at once, “Now open wide!”

A meaty hands forces my mouth open and the Attendant reverently slips the Oracle cock-tentacle into my mouth. I gag and taste salty flesh, feel it push itself past my lips, deeper into my mouth, down into my throat. And then...


I take a deep breath and blow as hard as I can, watching the candles dance for a moment in my wind and then extinguish one by one.

I look up and laugh and all around me my trailer park friends smile and clap. Clem wraps me in a hug, “What did you wish for?”

I giggle, “I’ll never tell!” But secretly I know it’s this: to be here in this place with Clem, surrounded by my friends and neighbours.

I look up from my cake and smile at them all. Old Moon resplendent in an emerald caftan, smoking righteous weed and smiling. Pretty Maureen still fresh from work in her slutty Topaz stripper getup, laughing and taking a hit of Moon’s proffered joint. Snakeguy with his dirty old black T-shirt, neckbeard, and greasy ponytail, giving me a thumbs up with an albino rat snake draped across his shoulders. Mr. and Mrs. Burroughs, our elderly neighbours with the adorable herd of cats, smiling patiently. Marcel, the obese transvestite who relentlessly flirts with Clem, cinched into a saucy red dress and winking at me. Chantelle, the young single mother of twins, looking exhausted but happy at having a night out.  Kevin the fortyish autistic man that I sometimes play chess with, giving me the gift of a rehearsed smile and more eye contact than he finds comfortable. And of course Clem, my love, resting his supportive hands on my shoulders. I feel so full of love I could burst.

But also hungry.

So hungry. Fuck.

“Go ahead,” Clem says, “Dig in.” I reach down and scoop up a handful of cake and squish it into my mouth, swallowing it whole without chewing. It tastes amazing and makes me feel really good. I grab and swallow another handful and another, forcing cake into my mouth and down my throat. The feeling of eating cake is too good it’s almost sexual. I would moan in pleasure, except my mouth is full. I shovel more and more cake into my mouth, and then I actually do come, bucking in my seat and gasping around a mouthful, orgasming right here in front of my friends. They laugh and clap like I just blew out my candles again. “Don’t stop,” Clem tells me massaging my shoulders, “There’s plenty more.” I see our scratched trash table is covered with a trailer park feast: cupcakes, cookies, wilted crudités, and little cheap appetizers. I grab them all, shovelling them into my mouth, gobbling food between moans. Each mouthful feels orgasmic, I come and come again. This just makes my audience happier, my friends are giddy with joy and egg me on. And still I eat, my face slick with food and saliva. A new person is here now too, an indistinct man in shadows who claps along with all the rest. I’m panting and I push a last morsel of food into my mouth, and then my fingers, and then my whole hand until I am fisting my face. My mouth stretches horribly but pleasurably, engulfing my wrist, wet and hot, and all at once I experience a mind exploding orgasm and suddenly...


... I am floating in a warm black void.


I feel like I’m being scrutinized and taste a sense of amusement. Who’s there?


The Sleeping God? The Oracle! You’re real?


And you’re really a god?


Then why claim godhood? Allow them to believe that?


A chill passes through my bodiless form. Why do you want worship and obedience?


I become aware of a new sensation in the blackness, a crushing icy cold lasting eons. The very concept of glacial.


I perceive now distantly a light, the very faintest twinkle of the farthest star. In the crushing, frigid blackness I reach for it, strain for it, yearn for it.



The little star blazes brighter, becoming a star. It warms me, gives me a sense of hope. I can feel myself thawing, stirring multifactorial. But then it shrinks, constrained back down to a flickering pinprick.




I feel naked hunger and desire. I shiver despite having no muscles or skin.




A distant memory or dream

Crushing, frigid blackness and time

Patiently frantic I break off shards of myself, shed spores, disperse seeds into the cosmos

Eons pass

And pass

Cold and Dark and Alone

And then....


I’m sitting cross-legged in my tent studying the artifact in my lap. It is smooth and hard and a black that seems to drink light, like volcanic glass painted vantablack. I turn it in my hands, it is vaguely mango sized and shaped, the Ataulfo kind that is tapered and thinner on one end and wider at the stem. It is warm, somehow reminding me of the heat from curling up spoon-style with a lover. Intimate warmth. I shiver a little and set the artifact down gently on a travel bag where it feels like it’s watching me.

What the fuck are you?

“Well, whatever you are, you better be worth some serious Orbitals.” I sigh, doing some rough math to figure out how much currency I need to cover this expedition and to resupply for another trip to the Far Outlands. Estimate: a lot. “Halley, you gotta find yourself a cheaper fucking hobby...”

I unzip my sleeping bag and crawl into it, exhausted. Today had been a long fucking trek and tomorrow promises to be even longer, with a route through a pretty hairy strip of badlands filled with toxic shit and bandits. I close my eyes and fall asleep.

I dream, I’m not sure of what, but something formless and cold and dark. Something that wordlessly burns with an intense desire for me, for my devotion, for my flesh. An intense and alien lust. I somehow find it intensely arousing, a feverish sex dream.

I wake to find myself sweating and gasping, fingers buried in my snatch. I’m so fucking horny.

I feel like I’m still dreaming. Maybe I am? Am I still asleep?

The artifact calls to me, somehow visible in the total darkness. I crawl out of my sleeping bag moving like a sleep walker. What am I doing?

I pick up and Artifact and it’s hot, pulsing like a cock. Dream logic: I know what to do.

I ruck up my long nightshirt and flop onto my back, wiggle my underwear down to my knees. I take the hot Artifact and press it against my cunt, narrow end pushed between my labia. I rub it back and forth, so wet. I moan, yesssss. It lodges for a moment, inserting a little, stretching my vaginal canal. I gasp. This! This is what I need to do! I push the Artifact in further, groaning at the shocking girth of it, knowing it can’t possibly all fit into me, but somehow, inch by mind-blowing inch I push the Artifact completely inside myself. I squeal and come, stretched, so stretched, by the fist sized bulge of the artifact. I’m gasping, barely able to draw a breath, and I feel the Artifact inside, drawn rhythmically deeper, press against my cervix, flow through it, somehow enter my womb. I scream in pleasure, a great burning heat in my belly. I’m melting in ecstasy! What have I done!? Why does this feel so good!? I feel the heat spread through me, rooting itself and growing, orgasm after orgasm washing through my body and mind. I writhe and babble like a holy woman, like an Oracle.

Distantly I feel my flesh bloat and flow. Change.




I’m flying our small scout flier in a wide circle around what looks like an abandoned campsite. I’m wary it’s a trap, and I keep checking the lidar for signs of movement. “I don’t like this,” I grunt.

“Halley, what if it’s someone in trouble?” Largo says earnestly. I want to scowl at my wife for this, but her too big heart is a big part of why I married her. I sigh dramatically and swing our flier around for an approach, slowing its quadcopter rotors for a landing. Largo smiles widely at me, her white freckled chocolate brown face deploying high intensity dimples. God she’s adorable. I grin back despite myself.

Our flier settles onto its frame, awkwardly tilted on a heap of debris. Largo hops down nimbly and starts cautiously climbing her way to the tent, her long white frizzy hair whipping in the draft of the spinning down rotors. Warily I pick up our small blaster pistol and hurry after her, surveying the surrounding junk for sign of ambush. Largo has knelt to examine the tent, a smart-canvas survival dome that shows signs of having been here for a while. Next to it, slightly buried in scrap, is an intact looking hover bike, long since grounded by a flat battery. I relax a little, no ambusher would put this much effort into making their trap look so long abandoned. Giving up on opening the tent door, Largo applies her tiny plasma torch to the shelter to cut her way in. “Ancestors preserve us,” she gasps after slipping through the still smoking entry gash.

Panic bubbles up, Largo does not invoke her Ancestors lightly. I push into the tent, blaster leading and see Largo crouching near an odd pile of... breasts? In the dark tent Largo’s hair and freckles bioluminesce, casting the tent with an eerie greenish light. In it I can see the shape is indeed a pile of improbably large tits with cunts and cocks peaking out of cleavage. The pile moves like it’s breathing and I am struck by the strong smell of sex: cunts and semen. It’s alive. “What the fuck is it?”

Largo looks at me seriously, her biolumenscent lips a grim line. “It’s you.”

And that’s when I see the face. My face. It is paralyzed in a rictus of pleasure, a never ending frozen O-face. I recoil in horror. “Fuck!” And then because that doesnt seem enough: “Motherfuck!” I reach to grab my wife, “We have to get out of here! Away from this thing...”

Largo shrugs me off, shakes her head. “We can’t just leave her here...”

“Why the fuck not?”

She touches my arm, looks up at me, “Because if this happened to my Halley, I’d expect someone to rescue her.”

I sigh, that’s my wife. “I guess rescue it is then.”

“Who do you think she is?” Largo asks as we watch a cock on the transformed Halley idly spurt. “Which one?”

I shake my head, trying not to gag. I’m Halley-10 and not every Halley clone before me is currently accounted for, so it could be a few of us. Hank, Halley-2, is known to frequent the Junk Desert but works with a big Salvager Team and besides, is a dude. So it’s probably not him. Halley-6 and Halley-7 are both missing and no one I know has heard from Halley-3 in ages. Halley-8 is allegedly dead. Sapients I trust have seen the body, but on Flotsam, who knows? But I really don’t keep close tabs on any of my clone sisters, and we seem to have a penchant for getting into trouble... “I don’t know,” I say.

“What if it’s Her?” Largo says pointedly, glowing eyebrow quirked. I choke on a gasp. Her. As in Halley-Prime. The idea that the Original, the Halley that crashed here and caused all of this, caused me to exist, just became a demented sex object thing is too horrible to consider. Prime’s story can’t end in such a grim and fucked up way! This just can’t be her! Can it? I can feel an old fashioned Halley of Earth panic attack brewing and start to hyperventilate. No no no no.

Largo takes my hand, squeezes it hard enough to hurt a little. “Halley dear, stay with me. Whoever she is isn’t important right now, I’m sorry I asked. We need to come up with a plan for getting her out of here.”

I snap back to myself and take a deep living in the moment breath. “Okay.” Therapy mode: compartmentalize, break the big problem down into manageable parts. I look at the Halley-thing for as long as I can stand, and decide she looks heavy, more than Largo and I could probably lift. We have an antigravity jack on the flier for shifting debris, so we could probably use that to move... her. She’s big too, so we’d have to cut the tent open, more than we already have, although it’s probably easiest to just take the whole thing apart. Solved and solved. But then there is the matter of getting her back to Flotsam City. We were out surveying, and our scout flier isn’t rated to haul heavy cargo and can barely carry Largo and me. Plus, how does a living pile of tits straddle what is basically a motorcycle-helicopter? “No way we can bring her back on the scout...”

Largo nods, as usual way ahead of me, “Which is why you’ll go back and get a utility rig, while I stay here with her.”

“No!” I say forcefully, unleashing my best trademark Halley-scowl. “It’s not safe!”

Largo shakes her head giving me her mulish immovable object look in return. “One: I can look after myself, especially when you leave me the blaster.” She ticks off on her fingers, “Two, Halley here seems harmless and if she were somehow contagious or something, it would probably be too late for us anyway. Staying here a bit longer until you get back shouldn’t make a difference. And three: she’s been alone so long, we can’t just abandon her.”

“She doesn’t even seem conscious!”

Largo shakes her head once, with finality. “You don’t know that. I’m staying.”

“I’ll stay.” I say, trying not to squirm.

“You can hardly even look at her! How could you spend the whole night with her?”

“Fine!” Part of being married is knowing when you’ve lost an argument. “I guess I better hurry back then.”

“Good girl.”

My memory speeds up to a fast forward blur, kissing my wife goodbye, giving her our weapon and camping supplies, and then hauling ass back to Flotsam City. A whole day spent worried-puking-sick while goading the scout flier faster than it was ever meant to go. Frantic Keyband calls to friends, associates, whomever, calling in favours and bargaining for the fastest fucking cargo hauler I can afford to lease. Inhaling stimfog and climbing into the borrowed flatbed yute and allnightering back across the Junk to my wife’s beacon. Almost crashing the yute in my haste to land it at the campsite and then rushing to the tent while still shaky from stimulants. All in a queasy eyeblink.

And now slowed back down to real subjective time, parting the flaps of the tent and peaking in to see Largo, naked and on her knees, sucking one of the cocks growing from the Halley-thing. Screaming in shock and watching the cock ejaculate into my wife’s mouth, watching her suck the come down greedily. Seeing her calmly look up at me and smoothly stand, semen dripping from her bioluminescent lips. Looking her over and seeing her altered sex: her now golfball sized clitoris growing where her navel was, the heavy glowing flaps of labia that split her belly to ass. “You’re back,” she says warmly, smiling and embracing me.

I’m too stunned to move, to hug her back. “What the fuck?” says a distant voice that is me talking.

“I’ve found something glorious,” Largo says with real joy in her voice, stepping back and holding my hands. “This Halley, she’s become some sort of conduit to... an entity. A god!”

Dread fills me, whatever happened to this Halley-thing is contagious and has gotten into my wife. Maybe into me. I need to get us both away from here, away from this thing. I never should have left her alone here. “Love, we need to go.”

Largo stamps her foot and shakes her head, eyes flashing. “No! Not until you’ve heard me out. This... god. This... Sleeping God reached out to me, through Halley. At first vaguely in my dream and then directly, intensely when I... touched her. Was with her.” Largo blushes, making her freckles glow brighter. “The God, He showed me my True Self, my Stricture. Revealed to me how I am a nurturer, a lover, a mother and gave me a Path to fulfill that. To Attend.” Largo smiles, tears in her eyes, “it was beautiful, Halley, life changing. And I want you to have this experience too.”

I shake my head, “Largo, something is wrong here.”

“Don’t make me choose between you and this,” Largo says, tragedy in her voice. “I’ve followed you everywhere, on all your searches for the truth about your abduction, all your quests to find Halley-Prime. I haven’t asked for anything but your love and companionship. But I am asking for this now, asking for you to Commune with the Sleeping God too, to find your own truth.”

“And if I do this thing, we can go, together?”

Largo nods, “If you still want to.”

Largo steers me to a cock growing out of the Halley-tit-pile and strokes it. It pulses rigidly in her hand, veiny and dripping precum. My heart is hammering in my chest. I lick my lips, revolted but willing to do this for my wife. I feel a buzz in my mind as I close my eyes and bob forward, sucking the cock into my mouth and then....

I am back in Saint Ursula’s Orphanage standing before Sister Superior Gertrude, standing next to a trembling Samantha O’Connor, being lectured about our filthy bodies and sinful minds. I want to scream at the nun, defend our feelings, whatever they are. Tell her there is nothing wrong with us, it’s just innocent exploration and puppy love between lonely girls. But I am too scared to say anything...

Except this time I am actually saying these things, out loud, to Sister Gertrude, who looks back at me dumbstruck, nodding her head. At first I think it’s because she’s stunned by my rebellion, but then I realize it’s because she’s responding to my words, agreeing with the authority in my voice. I tell her what to think, and what to do, and she does it, disrobing and kneeling at our feet, begging forgiveness. And suddenly I am the Sister, the nun with the power. I use my words to save Samantha, elevate her to my new nun-hood. Then together, openly hand-in-hand, we free all our orphan Sisters, take over the orphanage. All of with this with the new power of my voice. Voices, actually. For I have become a heavenly avenging choir with the power to control destiny, to finally set things right.

And suddenly there is a shadowy man there amongst my arrayed nun army.



Holy fuck! The Oracle is Halley!


Fuck! Is it Halley-Prime!?







Where is Halley-Prime? What happened to her?


I was told you could help me...



Why? I was just some broken girl in a fucking trailer park





Distantly I become aware of my body, feel it kneeling with the Oracle’s cock tentacle down my throat. My body feels strange and feverish, waves of pleasure rippling from my mouth to my pussy.

You are changing me.




I can sense the Sisters of the Circle of the Sleeping God all around me, fucking wildly in holy orgy. In the Oracle Chamber the Priestess lays wrapped in the vulva of the Attendent, her many tongues licking the bioluminescent insides of her wife’s hugely distended pussy-foot. Beyond the altar the other sisters hump and lick and suck in a tangled knot. Teuthida has Hannibelle snared in her tentacles, and is straining to pull her lover’s cock-trunk deeper into her body, all while Hannibelle’s huge elephant cock flails heavily and free. Quadra is laying on her back, legs splayed open like a flower while Hippolyta eats out her snatch with a long, deeply purple tongue while being fucked from behind by Equestria’s equine cock. My Cockicorn clone whinnies in ecstasy and her penis-horn ejaculates, showering the trio with jizz. I feel the energy of their collective fucking, perceive their devotion as a light, a beacon through space and time.




I sense a crash!

The largest skylight explodes inward, dropping broken stained glass and a silver sphere large enough to hold a person. The sphere arrests just above the floor and hovers, sprouting softball sized drone offspring which bleb off and fill the air, zipping wildly around the Sisters, who cry out in alarm and try to untangle themselves. The lights go out, dropping the Convent into partial darkness, and the blitzing spheres snap on blinding highbeams or strobe wildly.

The large sphere dissolves to disembark Halley-11, the Destroyer, who strides forward in her white porcelain robot body. Sister Girth stomps to block her path, but Halley-11 idly swats her away, knocking the mountainous cultist clear across the room. Hannibelle trumpets a challenge and charges The Destroyer, who stops her cold one-handed and then throws her at an approaching Equestria and Hippolyta, knocking the cultists into a groaning pile. The multi-armed welder has some sort of rifle, aims and fires a beam of searing green light, but Halley-11 has moved impossibly fast, slamming into the cultist near instantaneously. She casually disarms her and effortlessly snaps the gun in half. It occurs to me that Halley-11’s white robot body isn’t a delicate luxury model, but a machine too cheatcode advanced for the Arena.

A grey drone smashes through the barrier into the Oracle Chamber and a hologram of HAL-E looks down at me in shock and worry. “She’s in here!” she broadcasts. Halley-11 nods, and charges, scattering cultists and smashing cartoon-like into the chamber. The Destroyer lifts me, pulling the Oracle’s tentacle-cock out of my mouth, which feels weird and floppy, swollen and boneless. I’m just me again, limited to my terribly sore body.  I moan, a weird sound deep in my throat, and my face is soaked with slick drool. I feel strange and want to say something, but my mouth doesn’t want to move right. Halley-11 swiftly carries me damsel-style back to her entry point, while HAL-E fills the room with holograms of us fleeing in every direction to obscure our escape.

Halley-11 leaps into the air and the entire flock of small Grey drones coalesce around us to form a large silver bubble and carry us out of the Cloister.

Halley-11’s scarred face stares at me with grim concern.

Blessedly I pass out.


(This is the end of Act 1 of Flotsam. Thanks for coming along this far. Hopefully at least some of you are still enjoying it? The next two instalments will be interlude chapters which will hopefully be a nice fun break before we return to main storyline. See y’all then and stay safe!)


Re: Flotsam

...Well then.

49 (edited by Torasque 2020-05-02 03:26)

Re: Flotsam

Wait I though She was Haley-24, she was thinking about finding 23 and hanging out with her (the stripper of 6), then says she is 23 to the cultists.  Numbering issue?

Ok she said 24, Teuthida said Haley-23.  Was still confusing.  Sorry I have had a long hard week to top off a horrible month (wonder why lol)

“Another prodigal Halley come to join our Light?” asks a mouth-nipple. Nipple-lips. Lipples.

“No Priestess,” says Teuthida holding me still with her strong tentacles, “Halley-23 has come to us for Sanctuary in a time of need.”


Re: Flotsam

@Torasque: ugh, haha. Yeah it was a numbering issue, which has been fixed. Thanks for the heads up.

Spoilers for chapter 16, but for those keeping score:

Hayley 1: The Prime, missing in action
Hayley 2: Hank, dude with a bar
Hayley 3: ?
Hayley 4: ?
Hayley 5: ?
Hayley 6: The Oracle of the Sleeping God, spiritual genitals
Hayley 7: Curator of the Grey Artists Gallery, giant cock with legs
Hayley 8: Deceased, now HAL-E, uploaded Grey AI ghost
Hayley 9: ?
Hayley 10: The Priestess of the Sleeping God, many holy voices (and breasts)
Hayley 11: The Destroyer, cyborg gladiator head
Hayley 12: ?
Hayley 13: ?
Hayley 14: Sister Superior Teuthida, Sleeping God cultist, many tentacles
Hayley 15: ?
Hayley 16: ?
Hayley 17: ?
Hayley 18: ?
Hayley 19: ?
Hayley 20: ?
Halley 21: Sister Equestria, Sleeping God cultist, cockicorn zealot
Halley 22: Sylvannic Funganoid host, nymphomaniac hippy Dryad
Halley 23: Multi-breasted, multi-armed like, Stripper
Halley 24: The protagonist

Pussy: ?


Re: Flotsam

The communion reminds of the Board from Control. Is that were you got the slash dialogue from? There's probably an earlier example but that's the only one I know of.


Re: Flotsam

Interlude 1: Pandemonium

Pantor Quigly is having a bad solar. Really, a bad lunar or perhaps even a bad orbital. If one were uncharitable one might conclude he was having a bad life. Although Quigly would quibble with that, since he considered his childhood to be a fairly happy one. His recent career move to Flotsam, he would grudgingly concede, has been an unmitigated disaster.

This solar is a particularly bad solar.

For, on this very solar, Quigly had impulsively quit his job, tarnished his permanent employment record, and was summarily evicted from his lodgings.

Quigly stops on the narrow footpath and is immediately barged into by the floating cargo drone carrying his meagre belongings. How did it come to this?

Quigly was nothing if not a methodical thinker, well trained in the Bureaucratic Method, so to him it seems his recent misfortune is an indirect consequence of his happy childhood. Baby Pantor was the son of Sanitation workers, a lower-middle manager mother in the Bureau of Refuse Disposal Logistics (Non-Hazardous Division) and a father who specialized in sewer unclogging. As a Quigly on the planet of Administradt he was expected, almost required really, to join the Sanitation Guild himself and carry on the proud family legacy of disposing of the unwanted and the unmentionable. But Quigly was loved as a child, some would say coddled even, and was raised to pursue his passions and to believe that he could do anything he wanted when he grew up. This belief festered as he aged, became a flaw in his character, a revolutionary idea that would normally have been stamped out by cold reality before his induction into a Guild. But alas, Pantor Quigly was gifted, scoring exceptionally high on his Standard Aptitude Tests for Memory, Organization, Strategic Thinking, and Paperwork and was therefore granted a Promotionary Admission to the Central Management Academy. Thus Quigly was given a chance to indulge his mad dream a little longer, the option to, perhaps, do whatever it was he wanted.

Now, Quigly had no problem with working in Sanitation, in principle. He loved and respected his parents and knew from growing up in a Sanitation Family how important Waste Management Logistics were to Society. As his father was wont of saying, ‘No Citizen wants to think about shit until it’s flowing down the street.’ But he also felt that he was destined for something more, that he could contribute better to the Plan from closer to the top, maybe help guide Policy to beef up core infrastructure. Queegly wanted, more than anything, to get onto the Upper Management Track to join the Administrata. With his admission to the Central Management Academy by his misguided reckoning he had a legitimate chance.

Sometimes young Pantor would fret that his choice to avoid Sanitation would hurt his parents, whom he loved, but they overall seemed quite sanguine about his choice. They ultimately wanted their son to be happy and were very proud of his scholastic achievements. On another level they could envision the benefits of having a Quigly in the Adminstrata, see infrastructure budgets swell enough to stop playing catch-up and start much needed upgrades to the system. But Quigly’s parents also knew, but didn’t say, that their son faced a significant uphill climb through entrenched power structures and nepotism. That unless he was very brilliant and very good at politics, he would eventually end up back in the family business.

“Please Mooooove! This one requires through!”

Quigly blinks himself back into the present and realizes he is blocking traffic. A very odd looking Blue is waiting impatiently, hands on very wide hips, a strange glandular mass on their crotch thrust forward. Was that an udder? And did they have breasts? Four of them? On a Blue? The alien snorts at him and pushes by, their hoofed feet clacking on the steel shod ground and their ropey tail whipping at him as they pass. Much, Quigly thought, like cattle dispatching a fly.

Quigly sighs deeply. He is making his way down the Flotsam City Mesa, toward the rough and no doubt cheaper districts near the edges. He had previously enjoyed a modest apartment in one of the lowest terraces, official lodging in the Administradt Consulate. Since he no longer worked for the Administradt Government, had in effect revoked his Employee-Citizenship, he was now homeless. Quigly was scrupulous about maintaining savings according to the Best Practices of Financial Security (Subsection Working Abroad), but those would only cover two Lunars unless he was thrifty. So it is off downslope to find a bargain apartment, likely in a slum.

He could always leave, couldn’t he? Buy a steerage ticket back to Administradt, return to his parents a complete failure. His father could probably get him instated in Sewage, he was always short on uncloggers and there was always another fatberg. It wasn’t as though Quigly even liked Flotsam very much. He gazed out over the Junk Desert, the heaps of space detritus that lay in random, disorganised piles as far as the eye could see, and shuddered. Absolute chaos. As the child of Sanitation administrators, the unregulated dumping ground was almost a personal insult. As a cultural bureaucrat, the city wasn’t much better: anarchy, organized crime, a lack of building codes, zoning, or inspections. It was downright barbaric. How could he have been so naive to think coming here was a good idea?

It was about career advancement, and if Quigly was being honest with himself, about a girl.

Quigly had gone to the Central Management Academy brimming with enthusiasm. Here was his chance to work amongst his peers, the best and brightest Administradt had to offer, and to distinguish himself as one of their number. He threw himself into his studies, a challenging curriculum designed to educate the next generation of top tier bureaucrats and administrators. It was endlessly fascinating to Quigly and he had a genuine aptitude for the work, and in fact quickly rose to the top of many of his classes. All of them, really, except for those with an element of networking and peer evaluation. Quigly, it must be said, was deeply unpopular with his fellow students.

Quigly always suspected he was disliked due to a kind of genetic character flaw. Quigly’s father was a wide and boisterous man, charming and fond of more than his allotment of drink rations. But he was also a very clever man, capable of ingenious solutions to even the most stubborn sewer obstruction and was thus widely respected by his peers. Quigly’s mother was small and tidy, a woman with exquisite organizational skills and the quiet tenacity to wear down any obstacle. She might not have been the most creative thinker, but she possessed the valuable ability to hold an entire system in her mind, and was therefore an ideal coordinatrix and bureaucrat. Quigly often felt that he had inherited his fathers creative spark and his mother’s administrative flair, but that their charisma and patience had completely skipped a generation. Which made Quigly come off, in hindsight, like an overtly earnest know-it-all prig.

Quigly did have one unlikely friend, Elisxa Blurgthistle, the eldest daughter of the Vice Chancellor of Reimbursements. She was, well, very beautiful, poised, and connected, ideally positioned really, to have an inside track to high office in the Administrata. Which made it so very peculiar when she singled out Quigly for a mutually beneficial association. Elisxa was deeply ambitious but also self-reflective enough to understand her strengths, that she was blonde and elegant and attractive and fundamentally good at people, but also her weaknesses, which tended toward the more technical side of Bureaucratic Theory. Since Quigly was at the top of every single class Elisxa struggled in, she had proposed a friendship wherein he would tutor her in the Bureaucratic Method and she, in turn, would teach him how to network and function within the highly transactional world of Upper Management. Somehow this strictly professional arrangement grew into a genuine friendship, and one night, while discussing liaisons as a form of career building, Elisxa seduced Quigly, and so began what was either a wonderful affair or a formal sexual alliance between an unpopular genius and a beautiful aristocratic shark. It was the first great romantic misadventure of Quigly’s monkish life and he quickly understood that he was deeply, problematically, in love with her. But while Elisxa was inexplicably fond of him and seemed to genuinely enjoy the sex, this was transparently mostly a networking tryst for her. Quigly, being rather bright, understood all of this intellectually, but deep inside he did not like it in the least.

Whenever Elisxa left his company dressed in her flirtiest, fanciest frocks to go for a night of ‘wetworking upward’, Quigly would silently seethe in the dark. He knew he shouldn’t take it personally, in fact that he should be grateful that such a beautiful woman and worthwhile professional contact had decided to spend any amount of her time with him, but he wanted more. It was provincial of him, a mark perhaps of growing up in a Guild family, but deep down he wished for the kind of mostly monogamous love pact his parents shared. He knew that would never happen with Elisxa, liaisons were too central to Administrata politics, but he could be in a Power Couple with her, her primary public partner and lover. Quigly might only be the son of Sanitation bureaucrats, but he was brilliant, among the smartest at the Academy. If he could leverage this into a good Internship, and from there a strong position in the Administrata maybe he could be worthy of Elisxa’s true affection. In the dark loneliness of his domicile, Quigly resolved that he would make himself worthy of her.

Of course, that isn’t at all how things worked out.

Quigly snaps back to attention as he happens upon one of the seemingly random funiculars of The Flotsam Mesa. This example was not much more than a large industrial platform mounted on a rail that zigged and zagged around buildings and stone spurs like a slow motion rollercoaster. But the contraption was heading downslope and Quigly was rather tired of trudging through the maze of buildings and refuse and besides, his rented cargo pod was billing him by the hour, so even a paid shortcut was probably worth it. Even if it was via inexpertly planned ad hoc transit. Quigly taps his Keyband against the paystile and climbs aboard, his cargo pod obediently hovering into an empty space next to him. The funicular shudders worryingly into motion and makes its way downslope, grinding around a booster rocket apartment. Quigly studies his fellow riders: one a giant furry creature with huge red globular eyes and the other a truly beautiful if unorthodox woman. Quigly tries not to stare, but rather obviously is, looking at her angular face and silvery hair, seeing her ram horns with their dangling hoop earrings, eyes arresting on the way her three large breasts tented the tight indigo fabric of her simple long jersey dress. The woman coughs pointedly, and Quigly glances guiltily away, blushing. The woman smirks and rolls her eyes, and then clambers off the funicular at an intermediate stop, her hooved feet clicking on the steel platform. Quigly watches her walk away, her long sinuous tail waving out behind her shapely ass, the dress clinging to her swaying hips. Quigly sighs, there was certainly nobody like that on Administradt. Maybe Flotsam wasn’t all bad?

A few juddering minutes later, including a couple stomach twisting drops, and the funicular platform grinds to a halt at its lowest station. Quigly disembarks, laboriously checks his still unfamiliar Keyband for directions, and sets off still further downslope toward his future flop apartment home. His cargo pod barks an electronic chime signifying another fare increase, and follows him obediently down the gangway.

As Quigly walks down a winding, but surprisingly well paved road, his mind drifts back to Administradt and his path to Flotsam. One of the most important stages in the Central Management Academy curriculum was the Internship. Students competed for posts in Departments throughout the Bureaucracy, with the best students generally landing coveted internships in Administrata offices, surefire entry points to the Inside Track of Senior Leadership. Quigly had thought he and Elisxa would have no trouble landing excellent internship positions: Quigly was obviously one of the brightest students in his class and Elisxa, after his tutoring, was no slouch herself and besides had the Blargthistle bureaucratic dynasty cache. For Elisxa this proved entirely true: she had her pick of several lucrative Adminstrata posts and chose an internship in the Bureau of Political Grievances and Appointments that would allow her to network across Departments and begin amassing a stockpile of favours. Quigly, conversely, was shitfuck out of luck. It seemed that despite his aptitude that no Administrata or Administrata-adjacent office would seriously consider hiring him. He remembered how interviewers’ eyes would glaze over as he mentioned his background, the limp handshakes, and the warm back-clapping hugs and excitement when the inevitable gormless failson of a senior bureaucrat would show up for the next interview slot. It was apparent who the preferred candidates were. As more and more posts were filled by inferior students from powerful families, it became clear to Quigly that he couldn’t defeat the forces of institutional nepotism.

Quigly was infuriated about this in his quiet way: wasn’t he the best student at the academy? Hadn’t he proven himself, won the competition? To lose out on post after post was simply an injustice. And if he couldn’t land an excellent position, how would he ever win over Elisxa? He had to do something...

Quigly realized that he had to play the nepotism game himself, that he needed some sort of sponsor with clout. And so Quigly set a meeting with the Dean of Theoretical Bureaucracy, a very respected senior academic and an emeritus member of the Administrata Senior Committee on Policy. The wizened old man, all flowing white hair and beard, eyes made huge by antique glass spectacles, listened patiently as Quigly made his case, asked for a personal recommendation to the Department of Records or the Bureau of Paperwork, even the Internal Revenue Agency, anything really. The Dean rubbed the bridge of his nose, hummed in thought, and then, with exquisite sympathy in his voice, told Quigly no. Not because Quigly didn’t deserve a good internship, because he clearly did on merit, and not because Queegly was from Sanitation, since the Dean understood better than most the importance of infrastructure. He told Quigly no because, in his estimation, Pantor Quigly was dangerous to the System. Quigly was confused, he knew the System very well, was a full Citizen of the Plan. The System of Administradt was designed for a single purpose: to create a job for every citizen. The System was Revolutionary, a response to the hypercapitalism of what was once called Markitplasse and the forces of automation that made virtually everyone redundant to the economy. Except of course, as units of consumption. As wealth inequality grew exponentially between the owners of robotic manufacturing and furloughed workers, the Markitplasse economy essentially broke. Eventually the Robber Trillionaires conceded to a Basic Income for every citizen to drive economic demand, but this didn’t remove the shame and futility of a life spent unemployed. And so the System was implemented in a bloody coup, technology was rolled back, and labour was reorganized around the Bureaucracy and the Guilds and the promise of Work For All. The Dean shook his head and told Quigly that he was unhappy with his Natural Place in the System, that he was a Dreamer, an Innovator, and that he would use any power he had to Improve the System, which would invariably lead to Creative Destruction and the Displacement of Workers. The System was all about Stability, and Quigly was, well, unstable. The Dean could not recommend Quigly enter the Administrata. The Dean took Quigly’s stunned hand in his and shook it, looked him in the eye and told him that he would make a fantastic Senior Administrator of Sanitation one day, and bid him good luck.

That night Elisxa came to see Quigly one last time. For once she came in her full Bureaucratrix costume instead of the student loungewear or cute pajamas of their usual sessions. She took Quigly’s hand and marched him straight to his domicile, kissed him hungrily, and pushed him onto his narrow bed. Off came her impeccable structured jacket, crisp blouse, pencil skirt, and panties, all tossed into a calculated reckless pile on the floor. She stood above him, aroused and strangely wistful, wearing only her black lacy brassiere, garterbelt, stockings, and her stiletto pumps with the blood red soles. Elisxa reached up and unclipped her hair from its efficient updo, a deceptively effortless looking hairstyle that Quigly knew took her ages to compose, and shook it out, letting her hair cascade down her bare shoulders in a honey coloured wave. Quigly’s heart hammered in his chest, he was finally getting to see Elisxa Blargthistle at her weaponized seductive best.

Elisxa fucked Quigly hungrily, with an energy and enthusiasm that she seldom mustered. And then she made love to him slowly, tenderly, laying in his arms afterward in a way that was wasteful of time. She brushed his hair from his face and smiled at him sadly, told Pantor how much she cared for him, how much she enjoyed their time together when she could just be herself and relax. And then she broke Quigly’s heart, told him she couldn’t see him anymore, that with her new internship she had to focus full time on her career, and that she had to take lovers strategically. As she dressed to leave Elisxa explained that now wasn’t the time for romance, it was a time to build networking connections and begin to amass the favours she would need to climb the bureaucratic ladder. She hoped Pantor could understand. She stepped back into her heels, kissed a stunned Pantor on the cheek, and told him to call her in the future when he needed to requisition a new fleet of garbage trucks. And then she walked out of his life.

Quigly was frantic, there had to be a way to win Elisxa back! He just needed, just needed to climb the bureaucratic org chart high enough to earn her esteem! Then he would be desirable professionally and personally! But without sponsorship or family connections, how was he to do it? It wasn’t as if he was the first outsider to pursue prestige in the Adminstrata, and some of the others had managed quite successfully. What did they do? The Vice-Minister of Propaganda came from non-management origins and had also tested into the Central Management Academy. Although, she was raised in the Media Guilds, a much less humble origin than Sanitation, and was herself a perfect storm of ruthlessness, beauty, intelligence, and the ability to sound utterly convincing when reciting even the most implausible of platitudes. In hindsight, it was a wonder she wasn’t a Chancellor. Another outsider, ‘The Engineer’, gained a sort of power and infamy by seducing a top Party Secretary and then brilliantly engineering a series of personnel moves and jurisdictional rule changes that briefly made him one of the most powerful men on Administradt. His plan eventually crumbled around a misfiled reimbursement form and he was now serving a lifetime of exile in the Iron Colonies. Another powerful outsider was Mr. Lottery, the Inspector General of Pomp and Morale, who arose from an obscure life as an ordinary machinist after traveling to the junkyard planet Flotsam and discovering a wondrous mechanical clock that somehow perpetually tells the time without an apparent power source or advanced technology. The Miracle Clock has since become a living metaphor for the System, a machine kept forever active by the collective action of a trillion tiny gears, and Mr. Lottery, for his contribution, was elevated to High Office. Maybe something like that was the ticket? To leave Administradt and achieve something incredible, get back on the Career Track by Special Merit...

Something about Flotsam stuck in Quigly’s head. And then he remembered! Frantically he dug out the Book of Internships (Vol. 355.7.95, Updated) and leafed through the still open positions. There!  There was still an internship available in the Bureau of Technological Acquisitions with a posting in the Adminstradt Consulate on Flotsam. It was a remote posting, far from the networking and power building on the homeworld, but it was still technically an Administrata position. A position that Quigly, as a top student, was profoundly overqualified for, so much so that they would have to hire him lest he file a Grievance with the Court of Human Resources. Quigly knew that a trip to Flotsam was a gamble, that he really had no hope of finding another Miracle Clock, but it was still theoretically a management track position and maybe, free from all of the power games on Adminstradt, on Flotsam his competence would finally get him noticed. If he played his cards right, maybe he could leverage time on Flotsam into a toehold in the Ministry of Technnology or the Department of Extrasolar Affairs. It was either this or returning to Sanitation.

Quigly thought again of Elisxa, straddling him, her slick stockinged thighs clutching at him, her long hair free and wild, moaning as they fucked.

Quigly took out an application booklet and began to file the paperwork: Flotsam was the only choice.

Quigly stumbles as he takes a stair awkwardly, almost falling down a whole flight. This is a particularly uneven set, even for Flotsam, and is wedged into the gap between two solidly constructed concrete buildings, a rarity for the planet. Pantor puts out a hand to stabilize himself, grateful for the rough solidity of familiar brutalist construction. He never thought about it really, but he misses the orderly uniformity of heroic concrete architecture. It reminds him of home. Quigly navigates his way down the stairs and glances back, seeing that the buildings are some sort of kiln or furnace business, that the concrete structures exist to contain industrial ovens. Quigly sighs, somehow disappointed by this.

Quigly follows a path around one of the furnace buildings, trying to find a more formal road or maybe another funicular or gondola and instead encounters a shock of greenery. He stops and stares, agog. There, behind a row of strange seamless silver plinths, is a park, of sorts. There is a wide meadow of grass and behind it, stretching upslope was a thicket of dense trees and shrubs growing haphazardly out of derelict Flotsam rubbish buildings. Pantor clicks his tongue, offended a little at the lack of planning. Of course a Flotsam park was just a randomly planted, untamed forest. Parks on Administradt were serious bureaucratic business, either highly formal and landmark adjacent or opti-standardized for efficient sports, recreation, and childhood play. This is far more like the wilderness from a pre-civilization documentary. But well... it is the first bit of greenspace that Pantor has seen on Flotsam and he is having a particularly shitty day. Quietly shrugs his shoulders and makes up his mind.

Quigly walks between the silver plinths, feeling a kind of static charge pass through him, and walks into the middle of the meadow, his luggage drone bobbing behind him. He takes off his synthetic tweed jacket, lays it on the grass, and sits on it, knees tucked under his shirt sleeved arms. He looks around at the tall, slightly odd looking grass which is dotted with white flowers that have a slightly intoxicating smell. He feels himself relax just a little for the first time in what has felt like lunars. This is nice. He reaches over and plucks a blade of the strange grass and looks at it closely. Up close he can see it is serrated along the edge and is made up of a repeating pattern of tiny shapes. Pantor smiles, delighted by the fractal organization apparent in the plant, a greater whole built precisely of regular units arranged by some sort of biological algorithm. Despite the organic disorder apparent in the park, Quigly can sense the underlying principles of growth patterns and sunlight maximization that governed every plant and made the entire system work. In it’s own deceptive way, he figures, this park was probably the single most organized thing on Flotsam. Pastor lays on his back and laughs, maybe bureaucratic reasoning could thrive here after all.

Nepotism certainly could.

Quigly thought about his time working at the Administradt Consulate on Flotsam and frowns. He had had such high hopes when he first arrived on the planet and walked into the narrow stone building nestled high on the Mesa terraces. Between the use of verboten Disruptive Technology and the largely local staff, the Consulate had a transgressive, progressive air. The local Director of Adminstradt Affairs, an older woman partial to very large hair and enormous shoulder padded pantsuits, who Quigly privately called, not unfondly, The Flagship, was an open-minded administrator who could adhere to the strict guidelines of their position from Flotsam while simultaneously showing a degree of practical discretion about actually living on an alien world. She was very smart, far too qualified for her office, and quite content to be away from Administradt and whatever thumb she had previously been under. Most importantly, she was sympathetic to Pantor’s position, as foolhardy as she found it, and seemed to give him a fair chance at advancement, even if she, not unfondly, called him Lottery Boy.

Working as a Technological Acquisitions Agent in the Administradt Consulate was not without challenges. The theoretical role of the Adminstradt offices was to acquire novel alien technology from the scrap heaps and orbiting derelicts of Flotsam. In reality this was substantially complicated by the laws limiting technological advancement on Administradt: most of the treasures on offer from Flotsam Scavengers were too disruptive to be imported and were often beyond the industrial capacity of Administradt to produce regardless. So the trick was to find technological improvements that could be made by a largely analogue society that also wouldn’t cost more jobs than it produced. Given the overall Flotsam technology market was driven by a race for the best, the economic incentives just weren’t there for Scavengers to even look for Administradt compliant materials. Quigly was genuinely stumped.

The other great challenge of the Adminstradt Consulate offices was Terwry Chudswallow, the doughy third son of a senior bureaucrat on the Council of Foreign Guidelines and Recommendations. Terwry was very stupid and very entitled and clearly had been gifted his posting through the connections of his father. He was also working in the same internship as Quigly, making Terwry his extremely lazy de facto partner in Acquisitions.

For several weeks the pair had gotten nowhere finding a single viable technology. Quigly made trips to the Junk Markets, contacted Scavenger crews, bribed Salvagers, and generally tried to learn everything he could about how the Flotsam technology economy worked. He found lots of incredible, valuable items, but nothing that fit the extremely narrow parameters of his brief. Fucking Terwry found a desk, sampled the local drug flavour during business hours, and asked Quigly if he was making progress as if he were his boss. Quigly loathed Terwry and hated it whenever the younger man called him ‘son’. Quigly took solace that he would one day use his Administrata power to destroy him.

Eventually Quigly figured out an ingenious solution to the Flotsam technology problem. He had visited a Breakyard as part of his fact finding mission, one of those miserable work houses where the Flotsam poor disassemble bulky space machinery in exchange for meals and a place to sleep. Coming from a planet where everyone has a job and a degree of social safety, Pantor found these places abhorrent and made him thank the genius of the System. Quigly realized, however, that these horrid Breakyards were just what he needed: while intact alien machinery was often too advanced, some of the more mundane components could be exactly what Adminstradt needed, incorporating them into existing supply chains and fabrication processes. Quigly could recruit Breakyard workers, explain to them what he was looking for, and since these sapients were generally pretty desperate, they would be incentivized to bring him anything that fit the description. Pantor could even morally rationalize the scheme since Administradt would pay a fair price for whatever they imported, which could help lift a few sapients out of poverty. It was a win-win scalable system of discovery.

A few conversations with some of the sharper Breakers at two of the least repellent Breakyards and Quigly was soon holding an ingenious gasketted flange assembly that was perfect. Adminstradt could easily produce it, it took more labour to produce than what it was replacing, and would decrease leaks and wastage. (Quigly was delighted that the component could appreciably improve Sanitation.) It was a perfect technological acquisition that, combined with his innovative breakyard scheme, should be enough to get Quigly promoted and sent to a better, more permanent position on Administradt. He submitted the prototype flange and the various paperwork for item description, official provenance, Flotsam export, Adminsitradt import, patent application, material transfer, intellectual property licensing, and expenses and reimbursement all to The Flagship, and then anxiously awaited approval from the Committee for Technological Imports and Licensing.

Quigly was overjoyed when The Flagship called him into his office precisely six to eight solarclusters later to tell him the flange had received pending initial approval. His scheme had worked! He was sure this was it, the big moment for some well deserved cudos and a summons back to Administradt for promotion. Except, The Flagship didn’t look happy, and in fact looked more stern than usual. Maybe even sad. She stated with true regret in her voice that the flange was approved for import to Administradt but that Terwry would be getting credit for the acquisition and the resulting promotion. Before Quigly could scream, she continued brusquely: she knew it was rank bullshit, but getting Terwry promoted was a necessary evil, a favour that guaranteed that the Flotsam Consulate would continue to exist independently. The needs of her office and staff superseded Quigly’s career advancement. Quigly was speechless, felt like he was suffocating, all his hard work to advance a fatuous asshole. The Flagship grimaced but continued on, told Quigly that she was doing him a favour, that someone like him would just keep hitting barriers like this if he tried to climb the Administrata. It would be better for him to take a permanent position on Flotsam, help her do the necessary work of acquiring the advanced technology that kept their interstellar capabilities afloat, to keep finding new technology that could improve the lives of the Administered. That she thought he would be happier here, free to do good work and live a life free from the toxic advancement culture of the homeworld. The Flagship smiled and told Quigly that she could envision him taking over for her as the Flotsam Director of Administradt Affairs one day.

Quigly screamed then, and taking great panting breaths, told The Flagship that he was tendering his resignation, effective as soon as he could fill out the pages of paperwork to make it official.

The Director shook her head sadly, told Quigly to take his time filing the paperwork, see if he might change his mind. Told him that even if it might not seem like it, that she valued him and his work. She archly reminded him that his residence would end as soon as he formally quit, so that at the very least he should take time to make arrangements. Quigly nodded mutely and left her office, inside a fractured mess of anger, sadness, and confusion.

And then he bumped into Terwry.

“Queegly, old boy, did you hear the fantastic news! Our scheme worked, and I’m off to the home offices! Onwards and Upwards and all that!”

Quigly gasped, face going red, hands clenching into fists. True awesome hatred flowed through his veins.

Terwry had stuck out his hand for a handshake, “No hard feelings, son.”

Quigly has no memory of what happened next, just a flash of red and a rushing keening sound in his ears. He’s been told that it took three functionaries, a lawyer, and the cutest receptionist to drag him off Terwry, who had a broken nose, fractured orbital, and was missing somewhere between three and five teeth. The Flagship told him she had no choice but to accept his verbal resignation and that effective immediately he was evicted from the Consulate. He was also forbidden from contacting Administradt staff on Flotsam until Terwry was safely off planet, but (in a quieter voice) that should he wish to resume his position afterward, he should contact her. Finally she told him she was sorry, gave him a crisp hug, head pat, and told him good luck. And then she threw him and his belongings out into an uncaring junkyard world.

Quigly, for his part, mostly felt a sense of relief. That and a significant amount of pain from his bruised hands.

And so he searched the Networks for a cheap place to live, at least until he got back on his feet, and started walking down the Mesa slope toward the parts of the city which blended into the surrounding scrap.

Presently, Quigly lays on the grass, pillows his head on his hands, and looks up at the sky. It is very clear and very blue, so unlike the constant cloud cover and grey smog of Administradt. He breathes deeply of the grassy and floral air of the meadow. He feels himself unclench a little more. This is nice. He wonders if he could find a cheap apartment close to this park.

“Hi there!”

Quietly squawks in surprise, sits up, and is confronted by a smiling green face. “Errr.... um... hello?”

The green face is attached to a green woman, with wide green hips and large, ponderous green breasts who is nude except for strands of brightly coloured bead necklaces and bracelets. Her long dark green hair is filled with vines and has white flowers growing from it. She smells like plants and flowers and the tangy musk of arousal.  “I’m Halley,” she says while looking at him quite intently.

“Uh,” Quigly replies, blushing and feeling stupid.

“Do you want to have sex?”


“Sex. Y’know, the horizontal mambo? The beast with two backs? Doing the nasty?”

“Mombo? Beast?”

Halley the green woman nods, “Fucking.”

It dawns on Pantor that the woman is soliciting him for sex. He blushes even darker and his heart starts to beat faster. It has been a long time since Elixsa... “You want to have sex? With me?”

The woman bites her lower lip, smiles, and nods. Her nostrils flare and Quigly notices her dark green nipples are painfully hard. The air is heavy with the scent of pussy and flowers. Quigly can feel his cock getting hard. “How much will it cost?”

“Cost?” Halley looks surprised.

“What is the nature of the transaction? What do you want from me? Favours? Considerations? How do I pay you back?” Quigly feels like he is saying something wrong.

Halley smiles implishly and touches her necklaces. “I am partial to beads...” she giggles, “which is totally Girls Gone Wild of me.”

“Girls? Gone wild?”

“But I don’t want anything from you. Well, except for that cock of yours. In me, preferably.” Halley licks her lips and studies Pantor’s straining erection. Pantor moans a little, feels his hands start to shake. Halley drops to her knees and leans forward, green breasts hanging hugely. She smiles hungrily at Pantor, stares into his eyes “Sex is it’s own reward.”

And suddenly Pantor is kissing her, propelled by some sort of internal force that skips past analytical thought. Her lips are warm and taste faintly of honey. Halley makes a pleased sound in the back of her throat, nips his lips almost painfully and then pushes him over, rides him to the ground, straddles him. She leans over and kisses him again, hungrily, a too long and serpentine tongue pushing into his mouth. Her viney hair falls around their faces and smells alive like a jungle in bloom. She pulls his face against her breasts and pushes her naked crotch against Pantor’s and he can feel the hot cleft of her vulva grind against his cock through his trousers. She tilts her head back and moans, a single drawn out sounds of pleasure and frustration. Pantor can feel her wetness soaking into his pants. He has never wanted to be inside someone so desperately in his life.

“Clothes” he gasps. She nods, scooting back and pawing at the hooks of his shirt, untying the dark band of his neck closure while he reaches down and fights with his belt, the buttons of his trousers. She playfully rubs her cunt on his hands, soaking his idiot fingers with her hot juices, making them slippery and clumsy. He can feel how wet she is, smell an almost putridly sweet scent spicy with the fragrance of cunt. With a growl Pantor rips his pants open, tearing off buttons, freeing his cock. Halley moans in appreciation, helping him wiggle his pants and underwear down to his knees before pressing herself against him, sliding him slowly into her, into the slick, wet, boiling embrace of her pussy. “Yesssssss,” she hisses and Pantor can only groan in agreement. And then she is leaning forward again, pressing her weight down onto him, her wide green hips and soft green ass and huge green tits, his cock buried inside. He can feel the red hot knuckle of her clit between them, pulsing. Halley kisses him like this, just once, with a surprising tenderness like a benediction. And then she is consumed by frenzy, hips rocking on his, bouncing on his cock, breasts flapping, kissing him and biting hungrily, fucking him with a wild desperation. Her bead necklaces rattle and click as they sway wildly, a colourful hazard. Pantor hangs on as best he can, kissing back and gasping, cupping her ass and hips, trying to hold them together. The green woman comes, back arched and mouth open, groaning from somewhere deep inside. Pantor tries to hold onto himself, hold back, but as he feels her cunt muscles bare down, massage his length inhumanly, he comes too, erupting inside of her and grunting.

They flop bonelessly together, panting happily. Halley pushes herself up, rucks her flowering hair up out of her green face and smiles at him delighted. He smiles back. He feels giddy and feverish and somehow... different. He rubs his face, his pupils tickle. Halley stares into his eyes, her face becoming concerned. “Oh fuck!’

And then Pantor Quigly faints.


Pantor is dreaming, or at least he thinks he is. In his minds eye he is beset by images, flashes, sensations, mostly of green women fucking him but with a disjointed, fantastical quality.

A memory briefly of a whole group of green women gathered around him, prodding him, looking him over with concern and lust. The green woman with the beads that he fucked, Halley, crying and being consoled by other green women, who then collapse together into a sexual knot of cunnilingus and scissoring.

A flash of himself buried balls deep inside Halley again, fucking her roughly from behind while growling like an animal, his own green-tinted hands clutching her soft ass.

Another green woman, this one with an emerald penis of her own pressed up against his stomach as she straddles his lap with his cock in her ass. He howls and erupts inside of her, and she clutches him as her own cock sprays all over his chest, her semen reeking of potpourri.

Looking down and seeing two green faces, plush green lips and long vine-like tongues kissing and caressing his cock, green now and larger and harder than ever before. 

Being held down, thrashing, pinned under the weight of six or eight green women while one by one they suck him off, sing him lullabies, and beg him to sleep so they can rest too.

Feverish, burning flashes, orgasm after orgasm, a cascade of ejaculation.


And then suddenly he is lucid in a familiar bedroom: his domicile on Adminstradt.

He blinks his eyes, confused. Elisxa is there, dressed in her sexiest, most networkiest bra and stockings, the red soled high heels. She unclips her updo, let’s her long hair fall around her shoulders. It has a greenish tint and a white flower growing out of it. “You came back magnificent,” she purrs, “like I just knew you would.”

She takes his hands, which he sees are long and green, pointed like claws. She guides him to the bed, biting her lip and ogling him. His hardened feet click and scrabble on the cheap linoleum floor. His cock is painfully erect. Elisxa stares into his eyes, kisses him hungrily, moans. He notices that her eyes are vividly green. She pushes him down onto the bed, crawls over him, kisses his cock, which is somehow green and much too long and thick. Her mouth strains to encompass his emerald girth and she gags as she tries to contain him. She rakes her fingers through the moss-like fur covering his legs, comes up for air. “So big,” she gasps. She straddles his lap, presses her cunt against his cock while running her fingers over his green abs and muscular chest, playing with the newly thick hair growing there. Elisxa smiles, her lips painted with a dark green lipstick. She grasps his huge cock, and grimacing a little, works it slowly into her wet vagina. He feels her part and stretch around his cock, but it’s still so tight. “Ahhhhhhhhh,” she gasps. She begins to ride him, reaching up to grab his branch-like antlers firmly, using them for leverage. He cups her ass, effortlessly helping her thrust with a newfound strength. “Ah, ah, ah, ah,” she groans, eyes lidded, green mouth open. He sees her skin change colour, go from palest cream to the lightest green. “Fffffffffuck!” She gasps, and then tightens and arches, clutches herself to him as she orgasms. Her hair is fully green now and her breasts seem bigger. Something about this drives him wildly over the edge, and suddenly he is coming too, pumping a torrent of cum inside of her. With each surge, her skin becomes a darker green, her hair more vine-like, her body more spectacularly curvy. She collapses against him, panting. Her neck is now roped in beaded necklaces and she is a green Elisxa but also Halley, the woman from the meadow. She looks up at him with a lazy, satisfied smile, her eyes now a dark, even green. She licks green lips with a prehensile green tongue.

“Come back to me my King, and this could all be yours.”


Pantor wakes with a start. Sits up partially, blinks his eyes. His heart is racing and his cock is hard. “Wh-what?”

“You’re awake!” A green woman’s face, “and speaking!”

Pantor rubs his face and notices his hands are green like the woman, with long pointed fingers like claws or branches. He turns them over and sees strands of mossy dark green fur growing on their backs. Just like in his dream. He wonders if he is still asleep.

“He’s still alive!?” A second green woman appears, familiar and wearing beads. Halley. “Oh thank Jesus!” She says, obvious relief on her emerald face.

“This is unexpected,” says a third green woman, one with vines instead of hair and skin that looks sort of waxy, like a succulent plant. “Unprecedented.”

Pantor sits up fully from where he is laying on a moss covered stone slab and regards the green women. His eyes trace over Halley, her bountiful green body, his gaze drawn to her wet slit, arresting. He feels his erect cock tense as he thinks about what it feels like to be inside her. He drags his gaze away and looks at the first woman, green and curvy, with huge teardrop breasts and, nestled between generous thighs, a proudly hard cock and perfectly smooth testicles. She smiles at him hungrily from a tangle of green hair. She looks familiar, like someone he fucked in his dreams. The third woman is more alien: still a beautiful green woman with an hourglass figure, but with something just a little off about her posture and the way she moves, as if her anatomy is lacking the usual muscles and tendons. Her eyes, which look at him with naked lust, are an even, dark green lacking pupils. Pantor can smell female arousal thick in the air like pollen and feels a burning, almost maniacal need to fuck them all. His heart hammers in his chest and his cock aches. “What’s going on?” He asks in a voice too deep and raw to be his own.

“That’s a really good question,” replies the third woman, stroking her chin with elongated fingers that don’t quite move properly. “I’d better consult the Heartwood.” The green woman jogs off and Pantor watches her run, her breasts bobbling and her ass rippling with every step. Pantor bites his lip and finds himself growling, fights down a sudden urge to chase after her, to tackle her to the ground and fuck her. The green woman runs headlong into a large tree and disappears, seems to melt into it like a diver slipping into water.  He shakes his head in disbelief.

“You’re been infected with the Sylvannic Funganoid,” Halley says to him, “from having sex with me.” She bites her lip and looks at him with sexual hunger. “Sorry,” she adds.

“Sylvannic Funganoid?” It was so hard for him to focus. His cock was so hard and all he wanted to do was fuck.

The first green woman, the one with the cock, leans over Pantor and grasps his enormous cock, which he sees is green: lighter green along the shaft but darker on the glans and veins. Pantor gasps and the woman runs her vine-like tongue along his length and then wraps her lips around his glans. He gasps at how sensitive he is, the soft wet warmth of her mouth. The green woman starts to bob her head and suck on his cock, her hands working at his shaft and his mossy-furry massive balls. He pants but strangely finds the oral sex focussing. 

“The Sylvannic Funganoid,” Halley explains, “is some sort of plant-like alien parasite that infects humans and transforms them. In human females, the Funganoid causes Dryad Disease where we become green curvy nymphomaniacs. To spread the virus, since it’s sex-ual-ly transmitted. The infection slowly replaces all the human cells in our body with Funganoid cells, which turns us into plants and makes us part of The Grove, which is itself entirely made of funganoid units. Our minds are written into the Heartwood of the Grove, since this entire place is a kind of organic computer. We are all functionally immortal, but also forever bound to this place.”

“And human males?” Pantor pants.

Halley chews her lip and breaks eye contact, “It causes Satyr Syndrome. Males become green too, grow mossy fur and antlers, and grow just spectacular cocks.” She looks at his cock as it is being orally worshipped by the other green woman and licks her lips. “It also drives them mad, makes them into wild sexual beasts designed to fuck and spread the Funganoid. Unlike females, their minds aren’t uploaded into the grove and worse, after a few weeks of wild fucking the infected males burn out... and die.”

As Halley looks sadly at Pantor it dawns on him the predicament he is in. He has been infected by a deadly parasite and has been transformed into a green sexual monster that is about to die. He is also getting a blow job, which is very nice. Which... “If the Funganoid turns males into Satyrs and...” kills them... “the rest of it. Why is she a Dryad? She has a penis...”

The green woman sucking his cock pops her mouth free of his shaft, annoyance flashing on her face, “Fuck you! Just because I have a cock doesn’t mean I’m male.”

“Rylnx was on hormone modifying drugs when she got infected and we think the Satyr disease works because of testosterone levels.” Halley shrugs.

“Oh,” Pantor says, “sorry.” Rylnx straddles him, her back to him, and rubs his cock against her anus, getting his precum all over her butthole and his glans. She firmly but slowly inserts him into her rectum, his cock stretching the tight ring of her spinchter and pushing into the too hot depths of her bowls. She makes a kind of groaning, mewling sound as she bottoms out, taking his entire inhumanly large cock inside her body reverse cowgirl. “I forgive you,” she gasps stroking her own impressively hard cock.

“The crazy thing about your situation, well, crazier thing, is that your mind came back. You went into the Satyr frenzy and we green sisters have been fucking you continuously for weeks to keep you happy and distracted and away from unchanged humans. Most humans on Flotsam are immune to the Funganoid, but it’s best not to take chances and y’know not everyone appreciates being tackled by a ravenous sexy man beast....”

“Ohhhhh... I appreciate it....” Rylnx moans as she rolls her hips and paws her huge tits, still impaled on his cock. Pantor gasps, he can’t believe how good it feels to be buried in her ass.

“Anyway,” Halley continues, watching them fuck with a kind of trance like intensity, one hand idly touching her own slick vulva, “You were doing the whole Satyr thing, fucking and growling, eating and fucking, until after a pretty memorable orgy you fell asleep and didn’t wake up. For several days. Which, you’re my first Satyr, but I’ve been told this is usually how it goes... at the end. That you would sleep until your body weakened and failed and that would be that.” Halley shook her head sadly, “I’ve been keeping vigil over you, since well, I feel responsible for infecting you...” Halley twists her bead necklaces with one hand while her other is fingering her cunt.

“But.... ahhhh... then you woke up,” Rylnx gasps. She reaches behind herself, wordlessly directs Pantor up to his knees while keeping his cock in her ass. Pantor looks down, as he hunches behind her, sees his muscular green body, the thick mossy green fur on his legs. Instinctually he growls, clutches Rylnx’s breasts tightly, making her squirm. Pantor savors this unfamiliar feeling of power while she wriggles around his cock buried so far inside her. She pushes back against him with her hips, “Ffffffuck me,” she pleads.

“Yes... you woke up,” Halley says, panting and bent forward masturbating, one hand madly stroking her clit, the other with its fingers buried in her snatch. “This.... this has never...ahhhh... happened be-before. Mmmmm. Which is why My-mythrie went into the Heartwood to consult The Alder.” Halley tips her head back, eyes slitted and lips parted, and tenses. “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

At the same time Pantor is fucking Rylnx from behind who moans and humps back against him, her breasts swaying. She mewls in joyful discomfort with every thrust,  buffeted by his strength and girth. His huge balls slap against her smaller ones. She reaches back, pulls his hands off her hips and drags one to her breasts and pushes the other against her hard cock. He starts to stroke it, making her groan, as he keeps fucking her, now entirely focused on the moment, on the heady floral smell of her body, the burning tight heat around his cock. Rylnx gasps, and he feels her cock tense and jump, pulse as it sprays come with a powerful potpourri reek. Something about the smell or the sight of the two green women coming drives Pantor mad and he howls, crushing Rylnx against his strong body and comes himself, feeling his balls constrict powerfully, his cock erupt into a torrent of semen, pumping into Rlynx’s ass. Rylnx moans happily at the sensation and collapses below him, letting them fall together into a tangle of bodies.

Pantor gasps for breath and feels a calm and euphoria that he’s never consciously experienced before. He pulls himself off of Rylnx, surprised at how long it takes his softening member to slide out of her. He kneels and she looks back up at him, peeking out of a tangle of green hair. “Was it good for you?” She asks hesitantly, somehow shy now. All Pantor can do is nod his head, smile between gasps. She smiles back, radiant in her bliss.

Motion catches Pantor’s eyes and he sees a green shoot wriggle free of the ground. It unfurls, budding leaves like a timelapse of a tree sprouting. Pantor shakes his head in disbelief, watches it grow into a sapling and then rapidly expand into a tree that is as wide as a person, but short, only a dozen feet tall. The front of the new tree splits open and out wiggles the third green woman, Mythrie, who sniffs the air and looks at his glistening, softening dick, the disheveled and happy state of Rylnx, and smiles coyly. She pulls Halley into a hug and gives her a hungry little kiss. The gash in the new tree widens and fills in with the head, neck, and armless torso of another green skinned woman, still embedded in the trunk. This dryad is even more plantlike than her sisters, her skin marked like bark, her huge breasts and cunt appearing almost like knots in the tree, leaking a richly scented sap. Pantor feels his cock stirring already, feels drawn to fuck this new tree woman. The dryad licks her lips, fucks Pantor back with her eyes. “So it’s true then. You’re conscious.”

“Yes,” Pantor says, somehow uncomfortable under the Alder’s wise gaze.

“What does it mean, Alder?” Halley asks, fingers nervously gripping her colourful necklaces.

“I think,” the Alder says, “That our Grove has finally born fruit. In the deepest rings of the Heartwood there is... an impression of Satyrs who live on. Of men with deep connections to far away places, who are infected with the Sylvannic Funganoid, but retain their faculties and live. Driven to return home and establish a new Funganoid Grove and become Forest Kings.”

“Does this mean he’ll live?” Halley asks, hope in her eyes.

The Alder smiles at her, “Nothing is certain, but I believe so.”

Halley squeals, breaks feee of Mythrie’s arms, tackles Pantor in a hug, mashing her breasts against his strong chest, buries her face in his neck. “Oh thank Jesus,” she says. Pantor breaths deeply of her scent, smells her botanical skin, the bouquet of her arousal. His heart beats faster and his cock is erect again.

“What does this mean for me?” he asks, trying to ignore his building sexual fires.

The Alder frowns, “it means you will live on in your current form for the rest of your expanded lifespan. You are infected with the Sylvannic Funganoid, and contagious. You will always feel a great urge for sex, a drive to spread the Funganoid to new hosts. I also suspect, if I am interpreting the root code correctly, that you have a sudden urge to return to your homeworld.” Pantor’s mind flashes on his vision of Elisxa fucking him, turning green. His hard cock oozes an enormous bead of floral smelling precum. He nods. “You cannot be allowed to leave this Grove. Sapients you encounter here will likely be immune, since the humans of Flotsam are patched against the Funganoid, and you may fuck them safely. If they allow it. But on a naive planet you could wreak untold havoc. We cannot allow this.”

“It’s not like leaving here is even an option,” Halley says glumly. “Those silver plinths on the border of the Grove were put there by the Grey to contain us. If you were to cross that barrier...” She makes a bursting gesture with her hands, “Poof! Incinerated.”

The Alder nods, “Yes. So this Grove is now your home. I’d suggest you get used to the idea and try to make the best of it.”

Rylnx pushes herself up, rubs his hard cock with the cleft of her butt crack. “We’ll do our best to make it fun for you.”

Pantor’s mind whirls with emotion. He has been transformed by an alien plant-parasite-thing into a muscular, hyper-endowed plant-animal creature. He has somehow survived a deadly disease, but is still infected. Infectious. And is now quarantined in this strange forest park with a tribe of green women who all seem very eager to fuck him. For the rest of his life, however long that may be. He can never return to Adminstradt, never climb the bureaucracy, never win Elisxa back. Never see his parents again. Part of him is filled with despair, recoiling at the unfairness. But, well, it wasn’t as if we was ever going to make it to the Administrata was it? Is a life spent fucking beautiful nymphomaniacs really worse than his probable future as a grey bureaucrat of rubbish transportation optimization? The warmth of Rlynx’s ass, which nudges and rubs his cock, is certainly lovely. A lifetime trapped here, amongst these beautiful sex maniacs does seem like a solid consolation. Doesn’t it?

And suddenly he is grabbed by his branch like antlers and kissing a soft pair of lips that taste of salt and tree sap. He is rolled off of Rylnx, guided to his back, and suddenly straddled by warm thighs and a wetness that leaves a hot moist streak on his hairy stomach. Large breasts with hard nipples and beaded necklaces touch his chest. Pantor moans, and the green woman, Halley, bites his lip. “My turn she purrs,” stilll gripping his antlers like handlebars and sliding his long, hard cock into her cunt. She hisses in pleasurable discomfort, and grinds herself against him. “What’s your name,” she gasps, rolling her hips and making her necklaces rattle.

“Quigly, Pantor Quigly.”

She giggles “Pan-tor. Pan. Tor. HaaAhhhhhh... that’s, that’s too perfect.”

Pantor grunts, “why?”

Halley moans and then kisses him hard on mouth. “I’ll tell you later, “ she gasps, “just fuck me, Pantor.”

Pantor grabs a handful of her soft ass and thrusts.

“Ohhh Pantor, yessss”


(Hopefully y’all are still enjoying this thing, it is turning into a lot. This interlude chapter came from a convo with FA user randomdryad, who (I’m pretty sure) is rlynx here (and who writes some *Intense* CTF stuff!). I have another similar interlude chapter planned next before we get back to Halley-24’s story. If there is a Flotsam thing you would like to see revisited in a future interlude chapter, no promises, but I’ll try to take requests under consideration when I do the next bunch.)

(@Torasque: thanks for the editorial help! These things are awful to revise and my system of Halley accounting sometimes gets away from me....)

(@Flicker: I’ve never played Control, but I have definitely seen the idea/concept/thought construction before in more than one place. Off the top of my head I can think of it being used really well in the Knauf/Acuna Eternals comic from (oh demons!) a decade ago when the Celestials would communicate. So that’s probably my most direct influence? I feel like Hickman’s done a similar thing in at least one of his various comics too.)


Re: Flotsam

Interlude 2: Shroud

She awoke in the darkness of her sleep shroud. She yawned and rubbed her naked face and the smooth expanse of her bald scalp, savoring the sensation of her uncovered skin. There was a special intimacy in these times of near total privacy, like a kind of gestation before being born into the day. But as much as she might have liked to snuggle in her womblike nest, it was her turn to perform the Morning Ritual and everyone else’s breakfast was waiting on her to complete the duty.

Groaning the sign for frustration, she sat up and carefully exchanged her gloves and pulled on her home mask, settling it by feel to align eye holes and the opening for her mouth. She reached up and rummaged through her hanging wardrobe bags, drew out underwear and a houserobe, and then dressed in total darkness. Properly obscured, at least enough for immediate family, she untied the drawstrings of the heavily quilted canopy of her shroud and pushed it open, mindful of the weight and rigidity of the wire brocaded into the outer surface. She winced against the bright morning light and swung her feet out of her shroud, slipping them into prepared slippers that were cold compared to the warmth of her nest. She grimaced, oh how she hated the Morning Ritual!

She performed a quick visual inspection of the sleeping chamber, quietly walking around the three other sleeping shrouds belonging to her mother, father, and sister. Not seeing anything amiss, she opened the wire brocaded curtain and door and slipped out into the surrounding household, a hall of open plan rooms surrounding the central sleeping chamber. She silently padded over to the ritual lockbox and began inspecting its various secret tattletales for signs of tampering, and finding none, she began the labour of opening the mechanical combination locks. From the open box she withdrew the Morning Ritual logbook and a small wire cage containing an electronic listening device and signal sweeper. She opened the cage and turned on the sweeper and bug, confirmed that the sweeper was working, and then began the Morning Ritual. Moving methodically, she walked the perimeter of the household and carefully inspected the heavily padded outer walls of their home, looking for snags or breaks or alterations in the beautifully woven patterns of bright copper wire stitched into the midnight blue quilted fabric. As she went she swept the wall with the sweeper, searching for electronic signals leaking through their wire cage or more insidious signs of active electronics planted within their home. After confirming no breaks in their outer signal barrier, she did a cursory sweep of the interior, checking for passive electronic bugs that might have been clandestinely planted. She found no signals and while she couldn’t rule out purely mechanical surveillance devices, she saw nothing amiss in their austere home. She returned the sweeper and test bug to their cage, made a coded note in the logbook in scrupulously indistinguishable handwriting, and played the daily all clear code on the ritual chimes. As her family crawled out of their shrouds and began their morning ablutions, she returned everything to the lockbox, relocked it, and began resetting the various tampering tattletales for the next Morning Ritual.

By the time she had finished resetting the Ritual her family was gathered around their meal table. She took her randomly assigned place and served herself some tea, surveying her family. She always enjoyed these moments of intimacy where she could see some of her family’s features through their homemasks: her mother’s smile wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, her fathers grim mouth and scarred chin, her sister’s playful red lip-paint which her father hated even if no one outside the house would ever see it. She wondered what they saw exposed on her face when they looked at her. They ate their breakfast of flatbreads with jam and fruit in companionable silence, their hands too occupied to sign. Meal finished, their mother cleared the table and their father, speaking in the secret family sign, admonished his daughters to not be lax and adhere to Protocol. She nodded, outwardly obedient, while her sister rolled her eyes and smirked with her painted lips.

After relieving herself and washing in the darkness of the toilet, she returned to the dark privacy of her sleep shroud to dress in her Public Disguise. She carefully removed her houserobe, stashing it back in its bag before she slipped off her homemask and gloves, returning them to their hooks. Next she pulled on her armlength public gloves, being careful not to touch their outer surface with her bare hands. Once gloved, she quickly wiggled into her tights and high necked undershirt before enshrouding herself in the billowing tent of her public robes. Finally she donned her public mask, pulling the tight apparently seamless fabric over her head and face. Opening the sleepshroud she stepped out and into a pair of plain but wonderfully constructed workboots her sister had made. She straightened her heavy robes, arranging the folds and pleats of the garment to disguise her figure and lifted its hood over her masked head. She walked to the vestibule exit of their home and was met by her sister, also wearing her Public Disguise. It was now their duty to inspect one another, to ensure that both were properly obscured and wearing their robes properly. Her sister’s masked face was a smooth blank surface in red cloth, a featureless oval that hid her eyes and the contours of her face. Her bright red robes draped loosely over her body, covering her from the hood on her head to her feet, the hem just brushing the ground. Her sister’s hands were clothed in tight red gloves that covered her arms until they disappeared into her robes at the elbows and a quick inspection showed any potential exposed skin was covered by her underclothes. She indicted her sister should lift her robe hem, and there on her sister’s feet were beautifully crafted stack heeled boots in black leather worked with silver filigree, a deliberate act of Individualism. She knew that such footwear could be used to identify and track her sister, but knew that her sister didn’t care about such things and that these shoes were a small act of rebellion and an advertisement for her cobbler business. Feeling complicit she gave her sister the code gesture for all clear, granting her formal permission to exit the safety of their home. Her sister returned the gesture, guaranteeing that she was also properly disguised. They were, as Protocol dictated, anonymous figures in red cloth.

She and her sister exited their home, a second floor apartment in a large rectangular building clad in steel and polymer, and walked down steel stairs and into the very narrow street where they joined a flow of other anonymous red robed figures also leaving during this assigned Scatter Period. They moved with the crowd and followed the narrow alley into the central square, a collection point for the entire enclave. Here all of the Robed would gather and disperse, allowing individuals to blend and mix in the crowd to make visual tracking far more difficult. At first she could track her sister, by her proximity and the loud click of her boot heels on the acrylic cobbled square, but after a few twists, turns, and diversions she lost in her in the crowd, just another red figure walking with an identical, practiced gait. She wouldn’t be able to recognize her sister again until they either returned home or gave each other a sign in their secret sibling handcode. She completed her ritual evasive maneuvers and picked a random exit from the square, mindfully choosing a new route to her destination.

This day she is to mind her sister’s shoe store while her sister visited a potential supplier for authentic animal leather, a luxury on Flotsam. Like many of the Robed, her sister became an artisan of analogue items, part of their Community’s movement away from digital technology with embedded surveillance. This devotion to handmade materials built to exacting, pre-mass production standards has given the Robed a reputation as master makers and for a time before the Purges their goods had been quite valuable on their homeworld. Fortunately, the demand for superb handcrafted footwear is interstellar, and her sister had been able to establish a profitable business as a cobbler following her apprenticeship. While her sister still makes expensive handmade boots and shoes for wealthy patrons, her designs had proven quite popular, so, with special permission from the Community, she also retailed cheaper printed footwear made from her designs. Which is really mostly what she herself does: watching the store, running the printers and refilling feedstock, and helping keep the retail business thriving however she can. She knows it isn’t her vocation, really, but she also knows it helps her sister and for now that is enough.

Although, she often wondered how much her sister took her help for granted. Like on this particular day, her sister was supposedly meeting with suppliers, trying to secure real bovine leather to make a hideously expensive pair of thigh high boots for the favored escort of a local ambassador. She suspected that her sister had already secured the leather, possibly through the ambassador himself, since he was an official from a planet rich with agribusiness, and that her sister was instead off having illicit fun. While she has never been able to prove it, she suspected her sister sheds her robes, dresses in a wig and regular clothing, and spends time undisguised in the mainstream Flotsam world. Doing what, she could never be sure. Does she just walk around anonymously without the stigma of her disguise? Or does she party with her Outsider designer friends? Does her sister, perhaps, have an Outsider lover? She would have shaken her head and made the sign for incredulity if such an act wasn’t a violation of Protocol on a public street.

Her sister would not be atypical if she was shirking Protocol. Her generation of Robed seemed less interested in adhering to the strict practices of those who had fled the homeworld. For her parents, her father in particular, whose parents had been executed and who had himself been tortured in the Purges, living by Protocol was a survival mechanism and the core of their identity. They had fought, suffered, and sometimes died to preserve their precious privacy and right to anonymity. But to many Diaspora children it seemed unnecessarily fussy, a relic of living in a malignant panopticon. Without the external pressure of the State’s mutated counterinsurgency and advertising surveillance apparatus looming over them, they wanted the freedom to express themselves or mix socially with Outsiders. Her sister, she knew, found the entire act of Protocol a boring hassle. For her own part she didn’t mind the tradition and rituals, even enjoyed the freedom of anonymity that being Robed granted her. But even she would concede that Protocol, built as it was to protect against a certain collection of AI augmented optical, audio, and digital tracking was likely futile in the face of advanced surveillance by the Grey and other technophilic sapients. She glanced up and saw a melon sized silver drone floating, which seemed to track her for a moment, returning her attention. She wondered just how much of her it could sense, her appearance or even thoughts. Her secrets.

Entering another narrow street, this one located in one of the other six Robed Encalves on Flotsam, she reached the shoe shop. She inspected the closed metal shutters, checking for signs of forced entry and the state of various tattletales her sister set when closing. Seeing nothing amiss she unlocked the mechanical combination locks, opened the shutter, and entered the small store. The store was considered public, but nevertheless she performed a brief Ritual of Inspection, looking for anything amiss or signs of surveillance. Finding everything in order she unloaded the freshly printed shoes and placed them in cartons for drone delivery, checked the levels of feedstock and started the next printing job, and then activated the shops neon signage opening the store. She then sat behind the small plastic sale counter and began to update their catalogue using the stripped down and airgapped workstation. Working with such limited technology was time consuming, but was a necessary compromise between the young entrepreneurial Robed and the more conservative members of the Community. Besides, she didn’t mind the work, finding the coding and formatting to be another calming daily ritual.

It wasn’t long before the shop door tinkled open as a customer entered. She quickly put her workstation into privacy mode and stood, patiently waiting. The customer, she saw, was one of her sister’s regulars: a beautiful woman with six arms and six enormous, gravity defying breasts. She didn’t know the customers name, by custom the Robed never asked, but she did know the woman was an erotic dancer who stripped off her clothing in front of a crowd of horny sentients. Dressed as she was in a multi-cleavage baring frontlaced halter top and tight miniskirt, she could almost picture the woman nude. She felt her face flush inside her mask and felt a titillating shame at picturing the customer naked and revealed. Even though she had seen this customer many times, she still had trouble understanding how someone could bare themselves to strangers, to make their most private identity public, even for money. It was the ultimate taboo, completely against Protocol. But it was also powerful in a way, to take ones nakedness and harness it, to reveal herself on her own terms in her own artistic way. It was also in a deeply secret way very sexy to her. She knew she could never do it, but in a way she envied the customer her freedom.

The customer was browsing the most expensive handmade shoes on display with a look akin to hunger. Her sister always said that some of their customers were shoe addicts and the dancer was, in her estimation, one of the worst cases. She herself had sold the woman dozens of shoes, usually some of the more fearless designs with heels that ranged from daring to dangerous. Indeed, the woman was wearing a pair of slingback stiletto’s with four inch heels while out shopping on the treacherous streets of Flotsam. The dancer would always browse the handmade shoes, the customs and the prototypes, before finally, with a look of defeat, settling on a pair of far more economical printed shoes. Quantity, her sister, herself an avid collector of footwear, would say, has a quality of its own. She watched the woman touch and lift and almost caress the shoes with her many hands and fingers.

Eventually the Ritual of Browsing ended and the customer made her way to the counter notably without picking out a prototype to print. She smiled a friendly smile, her entire face reconfiguring in happiness. “Like, Hi! I’m like, just, like, here to pick up some shoes today? Like, custom ones!”

She did not let her surprise show, custom shoes made by her sister were very expensive and precious. Instead she made the public sign for servile agreement and went to find the custom shoes in the back room. A quick survey of the workshop revealed a pair of tangerine coloured leather shoes with sturdy soles and chunky two inch wedge heels. Strikingly the shoes had a t-shaped strap that connected from the toe of each shoe to a horizontal band at ankle height, which would secure the shoe and create two open windows showing the wearer’s feet. She thought the shoes were rather practical for a cute design but also not at all her sister’s style. She placed the shoes in a box and presented them to the customer.

The customer opened the box and squealed, obviously delighted by the shoes. “Ohmygawd they are like, totally perfect! She is like, gonna love them!” The customer was holding the shoes in two pairs of hands inspecting them, the extra arms awkwardly in excess. “I’m so excited!”

She signed her happiness and the customer looked at her, head tilted. ‘You aren’t like, her, are you? The like, maker or whatever, I mean? You’re the other one.”

Protocol dictated that she should neither confirm nor deny, but she was curious about what had given her away. She was very strict at following the proscribed forms, as was her sister when in the shop. “How could you tell?” She signed publicly.

The customer giggled and clapped a pair of hands, “I knew it!” She bit her lip thoughtfully, “The maker gives off this, like, totally intense vibe when I look at her shoes and like, totally preens when I like her shoes. You’re, like, quieter? More patient or whatever.” The many breasted woman winked, “I’m way more, like, observant than people give me, like, credit for.” She giggled again and went back to scrutinizing her shoes.

“These shoes my sister made,” she signed, “I have never seen any like them before.”

The customer smiled, “On Earth we call them character shoes. They are like, for dancers and actresses to like, wear on stage.” She balanced each shoe in a hand and fanned her other hands around them as staging. “I bought them for my like, girlfriend? She grew up on like, spaceships and would go totally barefoot everywhere. And like, she is an acrobat? So she still likes bare feet or like, functional shoes or whatever.” The customer sighed, “When we like, go out, she always wears these totally vile rubber soled shoes with individual toes. Like totally ick!” She shook her head and giggled, “But whatcanyado? I love her, right? So I thought I would like, buy her some totally cute shoes and thought she would be able to walk in these and like, dig the whole shoes for Earthling performers thing...”

“It is a very thoughtful gift,” she signed.

The customer beamed, “Yeah! And they turned out so great! Tell the maker, like, your sister, that I totally love them!” She giggled, “my only complaint is I totally want a pair too!”

The customer brandished a very gaudy keyband and paid the store’s reader, transferring the funds to the anonymized banking system the Robed used, a liability compared to material currency, but a necessary tradeoff on Flotsam. The woman spared one last covetous look at the inventory and skipped out of the store, no doubt off to deliver her present to her lover. She watched her go, charmed and a little jealous of the customer’s freedom.

With the customer gone she finished updating the stock and then, after double checking there were no customers waiting, she carefully locked the store door and posted the sign explaining she was working in the back and could be summoned. This sign was meant for her sister when cobbling, but it also served her current purposes. She made her way into the workshop, securing that door as well, before carefully examining the door to her private room. Finding everything as she left it, she unlocked the door with a combination she alone knew and entered her secret place. The room wasn’t large, likely a closet or storeroom before her sister gave it to her in return for help running the store. The walls were hung with ugly industrial moving blankets and lined with inexpensive metal fencing to make a signal barrier. She activated the single bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling and closed the door to her room, barring and locking it behind her before draping it with a wire lined blanket. As always her heart was beating in her chest. She closed her eyes and counted to ten, reminded herself that only her sister knew she had this room and that even she didn’t know what was done in it. She knew that trusting her sister was dangerous, but also understood her sister valued privacy and freedom and was delighted that she needed a secret place to do something naughty. She opened her eyes and got to work; she could only be in her room for a short time and had much she wanted to accomplish.

She went to the single object inside her room: a locked metal chest. She performed her own Ritual of Inspection and then unlocked the combination locks on the chest. Disciplining her anxious hands she reached into the chest and drew out her two ring lights, the folding metal frame of her easel, a tiny blank canvas, her paints, and her most secret object. She set her paints and palette on the closed chest, assembled her easel, and set her two lights up in their optimal positions. She put the canvas in position and mixed her paints from memory, not perfectly, but approximately what she thought she would need. Then she double checked the door was locked. The act of painting, creating a visual record of the world around herself, surveilling, was bad enough, but what she was about to do was far more shameful.

Confident that the door was secure, she took off her boots and set them aside. Then, in a practiced motion, she wiggled out of her leggings, baring her pale legs. She looked down at her naked feet, giddy, aware that such a sight was a violation of Protocol. Then, heart racing, she drew her robes up and back, tied them behind her back like she was taught for emergencies, baring her naked body from the waist down. Then she did her secret, forbidden ritual: she slipped her verboten mirror out of its black bag and placed it on the floor and stepped over it, straddled it, so that it reflected her perfectly lit vulva. She shivered at the secret illicit thrill and just looked at herself for a time, inspecting, no surveilling, the pink blossom of her cunt, now growing moist and engorged with her excitement. Inside her mask she wet her lips. She took up her paints and on the lower right corner of her tiny canvas she wrote the numeral for 96, denoting this paintings place in her series of vaginal self portraits. And then she began to paint herself.

She worked quickly, almost mechanically, laying in the foundations of her painting, the familiar shape of her vulva, the nearly perfected base colours. As she did this part of the artwork, she mused about why she found painting her sex so artistically fulfilling. Was it just the thrill of breaking rules? To observe herself and to make a record of it, a way, perhaps, for some state agent to follow the mole on her innermost thigh or the relative prominence of her clitoris back to her? Why not paint her face? That too would break a great many rules, and be far more dangerous. She thought maybe the sexual nature of painting her vagina was part of the frisson, the thrill of her art  But that thought was too tawdry and simple to be the whole truth. Faces were public. She had seen many faces, could identify some acquaintances and even strangers by their features. Her face, then, would be just another face among many, comparable to this customer in the nose, but more like a favored barista in the lips, or a passing stranger in the chin. It would be intellectually interesting, but it wouldn’t be uniquely hers. Her vagina though, that was truly private. Her own vagina was never meant to be seen by herself; touched certainly, but only in the darkness and total privacy of the sleep shroud. If she took a Robed lover, they would never see her vagina either, as their lovemaking would happen within a darkened shroud; a public conjugal nest if it was casual or courting, or within one of their home sleep shrouds if they were wed. Even Outsiders considered their genitals private as all but the bravest or most perverse hid their genitals in public. These paintings of her vagina, her endless series of self portraits, were her revealing her most private aspects to herself, a rebellious artistic exploration of self identity. And then she reached the finer details of her painting, the parts she still hadn’t gotten quite right, and so she lived in the moment of brushstrokes and mixing pigments.

When she stopped, her work was still unfinished, but it needed to dry and she knew she had already tarried too long. The shop was waiting, and who could say when her sister would return or another Robed might venture by? She carefully put away her materials, set the work in progress carefully atop the stack of finished paintings to dry. She checked her small room, reset and relocked everything, and prepared to return to work and Protocol.  As she composed herself she granted herself one last giddy rebellious thought: what would it be like to one day show her paintings to the world?

She swept the workshop quickly for bugs or anything amiss and then unlocked the door to the front, stepped through, and audibly gasped. Floating in the shop was a silver sphere the size of her mask. A Grey drone! Here in her sister’s shop! “Wh-what do you want?” She asks with shaking hands.

A familiar woman appears, a ghostly projection of the dancer customer but with only two arms and breasts. “Don’t be alarmed,” she says, smiling the same friendly smile as the customer, “I’m just here to deliver an invitation.”

“What are you? Why do you look like...” she doesn’t know how to explain the customer without a name.

The holographic drone woman looks impish, “Like your last customer? Well, we’re sisters sort of. I’m her clone, or well, she’s my clone, except not really? We’re both clones of the same woman, except I’m really the artificial intelligence emulation of a dead clone and... y’know what? It’s not really important.” The projection laughs ruefully, “Let’s start over.” The hologram winks out and reappears a few steps away. “Hi, I’m HAL-E, and I’m here representing a fellow artist who wishes to introduce you to their gallery.”

“Introduce? Why me?”

“The Artist and his Curator are both fans of your paintings. Sorry, I know your art is meant to be private, but we Grey AI see a lot of everything and well... If it were up to me I would have left you to your secret enterprise, but I’m just an interlocutor here and I don’t really have a choice.” HAL-E shrugs, “For what it’s worth, I think your artwork is very brave and quite good. I can see why The Artist and Curator are interested in you. Anyway! You are hereby invited to come to the Grey Citadel and view the Gallery.”

She was shocked, “The Citadel? The Artist is a Grey?”


Her hands spasmed in the sign of amazement. A Grey artist was a fan of her work!? She was awash in a confusion of emotion. She was upset that she had been spied on despite all her precautions and frightened that she had been caught so easily. But she was also elated that her artwork has been appreciated, and maybe thrilled at the transgression of being caught. And she was curious too, just who is this Grey Artist and why would such an enigmatic alien seek her out for her vaginal self portraits? She clenched and opened her hands, a sign language stutter, unsure of what exactly to say. Should she send the spy drone away, forbid it from bothering her again? Could she go to the Citadel and meet this artist? Was it safe? Could she go back to this life afterward? In the end though, she knew this might be her only chance to share her art with another sapient. “I will go,” she signed, “but I will need a moment.”

She hastily closed the shop, locking all the doors and shutters but not bothering with tattletales or signs. Then she picked out one of the largest cartons in the shop, dumped out an order of printed shoes, and brought it into her secret room. Carefully she placed all of her paintings including the 96th incomplete one into the carton. She carefully relocked her locker and the small room and returned to the holographic woman. “I am ready,” she signed.

HAL-E nodded. “Okay, now stand still. This next bit might tickle.”

The silver sphere expanded from the size of a human head to a bubble slightly larger than her body. It drifted forward and enveloped her, intangibly flowed around or maybe through her, until she was standing in the now hollow and very solid bubble. She felt the bubble, and herself, lift off the ground and move upward, like an elevator, and a tingly charge passed through her body before suddenly the drone was moving very quickly. The walls of the bubble became translucent and she could see she was flying over the city, ascending towards the summit of the Mesa. Had she just passed through the shop roof? She shivered. Startlingly quickly the drone had lifted her to the same height as the Grey Citadel, that huge perfect silver sphere, like a silver bead on a table. She hung in the air for a moment, wondered if this was a wise choice, and then the Grey drone surged forward, flinging her at a worrying speed at the mirrored silver surface of the Citadel. She could see her reflection just before impact, a red robed and masked figure clutching a large carton to herself. And then the drone flowed seamlessly into the citadel wall, depositing her gently in a smooth round tunnel. She gasped for breath and steadied herself, took a step forward...


...And then comes back to herself in a different place. She feels strange, disembodied, convinced time has elapsed although she has no real memories of it. How has she gotten here? She thinks hard, head fuzzy, sensing the ghost of something perhaps. Impressions? The faded marks of data saved improperly or perhaps just redacted imperfectly. A mental palimpsest. She knows she must have travelled somehow to reach this place, wherever it is. Strangely this notion doesn’t really trouble her, although she feels that it might or should.

She takes a step forward and something feels... off... Her clothing is lighter, less cumbersome and restrictive in a way that feels important somehow. Her robes! Heart hammering she glances down at her hands and is relieved to find them gloved, albeit in a tight seamless silver fabric, like the skin of a Grey drone. She inspected herself and sees she is robed in this silvery material, great cascading waves of it, very light and slightly fluid, like she is a stone edifice in a mercury waterfall. She reaches up to touch her head and face, finds the familiar contours of a smooth mask, silver she suspects like the rest of her outfit. A part of her is offended that her clothing has been replaced without her consent or memory, but she rationalizes that the Grey could clearly see through her disguise anyway and acknowledges that her new garments are at least a gesture of respect to her cultural practices. She adjusts her new robes and takes another step forward.

She is standing at the threshold of a cavernous space, like the great courthouses of the homeworld or the cargo bay of a Diaspora freighter. The room is shrouded in shadow except for beams of light that fall atmospherically from the vaulted ceiling and the floor has a strange curvaceous shape that slowly undulates as she watches. There is a perfectly smooth path amongst the waves and she somehow knows it is where she is meant to walk. With a rustle or robes and the click of boots, she walks into this alien space.

<Welcome to our Gallery.>

She stops, startled, and looks for the source of the voice. She cannot see anyone, only shadow, and now that she thinks about it she isn’t sure what she perceived had actually been sound. Unsure of where to look she signs in the direction of the smooth path. Her hands dance, “Who’s there? What’s going on?”

<I am the Curator, and yes, I am communicating with you telepathically. Do not worry, We mean you no harm. We are aware of your artwork, and are very much enamoured with your vision. We feel that We may be, in a way, kindred spirits or perhaps fellow travellers. And so We invited you here, to share our Art with you, as your Art has been so inspirationally shared with us.> She feels a sense of soothing welcome and joy wash over her. <Do not fret for your paintings, they have been entrusted to us and will be returned to you after you view our Gallery. Please, step this way to our first Artwork.> She feels a mental tug, a newfound sense of where to go, and the smooth path grows an offshoot into a darkened alcove. She follows it because she knows she should.

She finds herself overlooking a shadowed chamber. As she watches light drifts down slowly from the cieling, like a curtain being withdrawn to reveal a pair of strange figures floating in a large pool of milk. She is suddenly bombarded by memories of twin princesses from a far off technomonarchy. She feels their anguish at being betrothed to sworn enemies and unsuitable suitors, their deep fear of being separated from one another. She experiences their desperate flight to Flotsam and the dashing of their attempts to find humble freedom. With perfect clarity she understands the bargain they made with the Artist: they would sacrifice their humanity and become artwork if only to remain together forever. Inside her mask she smiles while blinking away tears. The two sisters, now enormous breasts with human areola faces and trickling milk hair, are beautiful. They smile back at her and say something in a secret language only they understand. “It’s wonderful,” she signs after a time of thoughtful silence.

<Thank you. Please proceed to the second artwork.>

Again she feels compelled to walk to another part of the gallery, and letting her body carry her, soon arrives at another shadowed chamber with a hidden dais at its centre. Light oozes into the room, illuminating a sleep shroud sized mass of wrinkled flesh. She frowns, uncertain at what she is looking at, until she recognizes it as something she has only seen in a textbook: an enormous scrotum. Memories wash over her, this time of two agents, trained from birth and then Shaped and reShaped into new identities and sent forth to complete dangerous covert missions. She feels one identity flash into another and another, a chain of people impersonated and a lifetime of violence. She feels the disconnection, the fraying of identity, the cost of such a vocation. And then she learns of how the agents were pitted against one another, sent on opposing sides of the same mission that brought them here to Flotsam. She feels their rage at the betrayal of their psychic handler, Control, the one sapient who could surveil them through their disguise and observe their hidden selves. She empathizes with them as they choose revenge, killing Control, and irrevocably destroying their lives. She understands too the bargain they struck with the Artist for safety and the freedom to explore their newfound love and connection. Bright backlights surge and she sees the silhouettes of two people locked in coitus within the giant scrotum, two beings enclosed in a world of their making. Under her mask she smiles. “Remarkable,” she signs.

<Now please proceed to the final artwork. Myself.>

Suddenly she knows to walk to the raised platform at the heart of this great hall. Despite the surrounding lights this dais was shrouded in shadow, like a thick fog made of something intangible. As she stops at the appointed spot, the shadows dissolve, fading rather than dispersing, revealing a shining silver figure with long feminine legs and hips but a gigantic penis and scrotum for an upper body body. This creature, the Curator, starts to gracefully walk, strutting and turning her body, letting the light flash from her mirror bright skin. She studies the Currator from her elegantly arched feet, along the long sweep of her legs, to the orbit of her hips and the toned breadth of her ass. From the waist down she is a very beautiful woman. Above the hips her body blends smoothly into an enormous cock and balls, with huge testicles that hang in her lap and a long, rigid torso sized shaft culminating in a glans larger than a human head. She is a living cock fashioned from a woman. It is an incongruous sight, but still elegant if obscene. “You are beautiful,” she signs feeling herself flush under her mask. <Thank you.> unfolds in her mind mingled with the sense of a giddy blush.

And then the memories come, the story of this Curator. She experiences life as an orphan on the nearly mythical world of Earth. She marvels at the defunct technology and senseless strife of the planet, the myopic view of a world that thinks it’s alone in the universe. She lives through the trials of the Curators life: the orphanage, her failures at college, the exile to the impoverished trailer park, and then suddenly, her abduction to this alien planet of Flotsam. She learns of the Curator waking to find her lover hugely altered and worse, that she herself is just a copy, a clone of the original Earthling orphan girl. She feels the anger, sadness, and confusion of this new entity with her years of subjective experience. She also feels her resolve to find the original copy, and through this, to justify her existence. She experiences the Curator’s hunt, the search throughout Flotsam looking for clues, and eventually the moment that changes everything: her invitation into the Grey Citadel to meet the Artist. She feels a kind of mirror recognition in this moment, or maybe a portent, as the memories of the Curator meeting the Artist unfold. She learns of the beginning, the difficult journey toward communication, and through it, the development of an aesthetic, an artistic vision with humanitarian goals. And then she experiences the instant of absolute truth when the Curator is remade into her phallic form, the raw power of her body, the orgasmic explosion of her first enormous male orgasm. She finds herself trembling, her pussy wet underneath her strange silver robes, the sensations of ejaculation echoing through her psyche. “Astonishing!” she manages to sign with palsied fingers.

This whole place, the Curator especially, resonates with her, with her drive for uniqueness and with a certain kink for self expression. She finds that she understands it, is moved by it. That she wants to, perhaps needs to, partake of it. She shivers in a kind of anticipation. “I must meet the Artist,” she demands with certain hands.

<Of course.> The thought hits her and she suddenly notices the Artist has been present this entire time, seated or perhaps welded into an ellipsoid throne. She sees he is a Grey, but one that is marked by some sort of unfathomable trauma, one eye cloudy and blind, body broken open by deep scars that glow with an unnatural aura. She can almost sense the alien’s constant pain like a miasma. Despite this strangeness she knows what she must do. She draws a deep breath and looks into the Artists one good eye and encounters....


Waves of intellect crash over her, buffet her, threaten to drown her in a fathomless chasm. In the physical world her silver robes flap wildly in an unseen wind. And yet, she persists. She clings, pushes helplessly against the relentless pressure. Bends forward bodily as if bracing herself against a gale. She does not break eye contact.

The force grows, and she feels herself become hot, feverish. Her robes smoke, and begin to dribble, melting off her body. Skin is exposed that has never been bare. And still she stares into that depthless inky black eye.

Mentally she feels herself probed, invaded, read. Stripped bare. Surveilled. The antithesis of the entire Protocol. And still she stares into that infinite chasm.

Naked now, soul revealed, she persists.

She reaches deep within herself and pushes her artwork to the forefront of her mind. Her paintings of herself, her vulva. The not quite right colors, the imperfect brushstrokes, her quest to reveal something hidden about herself. She feels herself slipping, crushed, screaming. Desperately she clutches onto the truth, the reflection of her vagina, her vulva and clitoris, the picture she keeps trying to and can’t quite capture.

And then she feels it.

Infinity understands.

The Artist blinks.

She stands panting, sweating, and naked. She feels something trickle from her nose and wipes it, looks down and sees unfamiliar pale skinned hands smeared with blood. She is smiling, a nakedly visible smile. A public triumph.

<Yes.> The Curator tells her. <We will collaborate.>

She laughs out loud for the first time in her life and feels elation.

Instructions flow into her mind and she follows them with a giddy thrill. She feels as if she should run, rush, dance to her destination, but also feels the gravity of the moment, the dignity. And so she walks, mindful of the feel of her naked body, it’s weight and tenor, savoring these final moments. Thanking her body for it’s quiet service. And then she is standing in a newly grown alcove, a space just for her, for her display. She feels giddy at that thought: herself revealed for display. It is madness! Verboten!

She stands in the center and takes a moment to mentally settle herself, draws a deep breath, savors this instant of liminality. She spares a thought for her sister and her parents, her Community, and the life she will never go back to. She mourns it, momentarily, but knows that this is what she was always meant for. She steels herself and signs that she is ready.

Light descends from above, liquid and organic, making her bare skin tingle as it flows over her, enfolding her body like her discarded robes, like a womb.

She once again feels the probing chasm of the Artists mind, the sheer gravity of it pressing down on her. Except this time there is quicksilver too, a lens guiding and shielding. The Curator lending an interface. She knows suddenly that she is an active participant in this process, and so she gathers her idealized self-portrait again, the familiar shape of her vagina and projects it with every iota of her being, desperately hoping her intention is received. She sense something akin to recognition and then she is undone...


...until she is remade anew.

She stands, if that is the word for what she does, uncertainly. Her body feels... different. Heavier, maybe. She moves her head and feels unfamiliar parts of herself shift in response. She doesn’t breathe, but feels a strong pulse somewhere within herself. <What have I become?>

<Allow me to show you> responds the Curator with a burst of pride. She senses, for she does not think it is sight, the silver phallus of the Curator standing elegantly at the threshold of her alcove gallery. The silver skin of the Curator sprouts a blister, which blebs off, becoming a fist sized bubble of quicksilver which drifts to her, expanding into a floating mirror. The mirror flies past her, too quick but for a glimpse of a red-pink reflection, and multiplies, becoming many mirrors that fan out and orbit her. She regards them with her senses and is revealed to herself in her perfect glory.

She has changed, becoming a perfect expression of her secret self. Her body, glimpsed from a distance, is a robed red figure with a smooth masked face, a caricature of her former self. But she does not wear clothes, for she is beautifully, blessedly naked. Instead her apparent red robes are made entirely of voluminous labia, her entire body comprised of lobes of cuntflesh which hang off her every surface and spill to the floor mimicking the garments she once wore. She does not have legs, instead her lower body forms something like a skirted snails foot, a slick lubricated pedestal on which she can glide. Her hands have become blunt and mitten-like, growths of animate vulva at the end of boneless arms that emerge from within her vulvic mantle. Her back is a smooth expanse, an unbroken muscular structure from which her ruffled, complex front can hang. She is split open along her torso from what would have been her crotch to what was once her throat forming a slit, an opening to a cavity that, despite her apparently slender body, she knows is large enough to encompass the Curators mighty phallic length, which she knows she will do, and soon. Her face is gone, replaced by a mask-like smooth expanse of a clitoris the size of her former head, erectly peaking out from a labial hood. She has become her self-portrait, her idealized vaginal painting merged with her life as a red robed woman. <I’m perfect!> she projects laden with joy.

She turns a deliberate, slow moving circuit of her alcove, regarding the orbiting mirrors, and above them, in a counter rotation, her ninety-six vaginal self-portrait paintings, permanent elements of her gallery, and feels pleased and giddy. She is on display, truly and completely naked. And she has a first viewer here to see her. To admire her. Slowly she turns to face the Curator, drawing herself up and adjusting the folds of her vulva like a garment. <How do I look?>

<Beautiful!> sends the Curator, her long cock body rigid, the visible blood vessels on her shaft dilated and pulsing, a dollop of precum beading at her urethral slit.

She feels herself blush at this naked display of arousal, a strange sensation that inflames her clitoris face and body, making it grow shiny and slick with secretions. She gathers her knowledge of her inner cavity, the reality warping vagina within her, and projects it to the Curator. <Come to me. Show me how beautiful I am.>

<Oh Jesus...> moans the Curator, stepping forward on unsteady legs.

She feels herself engorge, growing larger, feels herself open, revealing her final truth. <Perfection...> She thinks.

And then they are together and the time for thought ends.


(The next chapter we return to our main storyline and Halley-24! See you then.)


Re: Flotsam

Chapter 17: Aftermouth

I am lying in an alien’s bed staring at the ceiling. I sigh and feel the still unfamiliar contours of my face move and a puff of air on my ears. I feel a burble of panic, but resist the urge to take a therapist approved deep breath, knowing that the sensation won’t be calming.

My face is a pussy.

That terrible entity, The Sleeping God, reached out across unfathomable distances and changed me. He took my mouth, my nose, my voice and replaced it all with the vertical slit of a pussy. I blink back tears and turn my head to stare at the wall instead. Hardly an improvement.

When I regained consciousness after my awful communion, I found myself in Bluebell’s infirmary surrounded by concerned faces. Bluebell’s huge black eyes regarded me with professionally distanced worry while the Blue cowgirl did doctor things. HAL-E flickered around the room in a holographic pacing, anxiety projected on her face. Halley-11 The Destroyer leaned against a wall, her albataser prosthetic arms crossed and looking angry. And worst of all, Clementine sat on a stool next to my bed, her beautiful features knotted in a look of defeat. I tried to say something and all that came out was a kind of grunt. My face felt funny and I reached up to touch it, encountering something delicate and fleshy and so, so sensitive. My eyes went wide and I made a strangled grunt. “She’s awake,” The Destroyer said calmly from the wall. Clem and Bluebell loomed over me.

Bluebell mooed soothingly, “You are safe and in no medical danger. But there has been an incident and your body has been changed. Would you like to see?”

I nodded and tried to say give it to me straight doc. “Grunt grunt grunt.”

Bluebell gestured and conjured up a holographic mirror and I saw my new face for the first time. Bisecting my face from between my violet eyes to my chin was the slit of a vagina complete with all the works. The bridge of my nose seemed to blossom into the prepuce folds of a clitoral hood and where the tip of my nose was the prominent glans of a large clit. My cheeks flowed and pinched to form the ridges of labia majoris which rested in my cheekbones like hips and ran to the fleshy part of my chin. Within the valley of my facial mound were pink, fleshy labia minora that splay out obscenely like vertical swollen lips. Carefully I touched these lips, gently parted them, and made a kind of moaning sound at the incredibly pleasurable sensation. I could see that within the pink vestibule was the dark, wavy outline of a vaginal opening where my mouth once was. I was stunned, it was stunning, I didn’t know how to react. I felt like screaming, but knew I couldn’t, that I lacked the necessary mouth parts to form the noise. But I also couldn’t help feel the pleasure of this strange organ on my face. Even my cursory inspection made my new lips tingle and grow warm as they engorged with blood and grew shiny with secretions. I watched in the mirror in a kind of horny horror as my facial cunt blossomed obscenely. Tears stung my eyes, I was a freak.

“This is not the whole extent of it,” Bluebell said, dragging me back to attention. The holographic display zoomed out, becoming a 3D image of me standing like the Vitruvian Woman. I can see the model has my new cunt face but that she also has very different proportions. I had always been described as a slight woman, thin with smallish breasts and narrow boyish hips, but the animated figure had large, gravity defying breasts, a narrow waspish waist, and hips that were almost wider than her shoulders. The model was like an hourglass. I sat up a little in my bed, letting the spacey blanket slide off my chest, revealing that the flesh and blood me was also sporting huge honkers. I guess I was busty now. I also noticed that the genitals between the holographic me’s legs were different. Instead of the trim little vulva of my vagina, the model was sporting a huge cunt with prominent, plump vaginal lips and a clit that looked more like a cock glans than a love button. I thrust my hand under my blanket to confirm that I was the proud owner of a bigger cunt and gasped at the spike of pleasure from even the slightest touch. I was bigger and so much more sensitive. The holographic model started to rotate and I saw that I now had a much plumper bubble butt to match my widened hips instead of my previously flat derrière. Bluebell mooed for attention, “There has also been a change to your anus. It is still anatomically a spinchter, but it has also developed a clitoris with a glans at the apex and internal clitoral aspects that ring the opening.” I resisted poking that opening and shivered, the Sleeping God certainly had a weird fucking divine plan for me.

I had flopped onto my back on the examination bed and stared mutely at the ceiling. It was too much! My face was gone! I was a curvaceous sexpot with a hideously and improbably deformed face. I was a fucking freak! And I was horny, so horny. I could feel my three buzzing clits, pulsing and eager. It made me think of The Sleeping God, of my unholy dream of fucking my face with food, of the waves of pleasure that swept over me as distantly my body was changed. I might not be a cultist, but I could still feel the entity’s presence in my life, like a small seed lodged in my soul, stirring my desires. I shivered and tears stung my eyes. How was I going to live like this? How would I communicate or eat or face other sapients? Could anything be done to fix me...

I opened my eyes and looked at Clementine, hope surging inside me. My boyfriend, ex-girlfriend, whatever, was the most powerful Shaper on the planet! A supernatural prodigy! Surely she could fix my face, remold me back to how I was supposed to be. She looked back at me sadly, her eyes haggard and her pointy ears droopy. She shook her head, “Halley, I’m so sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.” She frowns prettily, “Whatever was done to you wasn’t Shaping, or at least not as I know it. I can sense your altered flesh, but when I try to manipulate it my will just... slides off. Like it’s greasy or...” corrupted I finish for her in my head. “I think you’re stuck with your... changes.”

The news hits me like a punch all over again and I make a kind of hooting sorrow noise with my facial cunt. This is my life now.

Clem gently takes my hand, her elegant fingers squeezing mine. “I did what I could for you though. I can’t seem to reverse any changes, but there is nothing stopping me from adding more.” She smiles a grim little smile, “I didn’t want to get too creative without your permission, so I focused on some quality of life adjustments.” She gives my hand another squeeze, “The biggest thing I did was give you a kind of gizzard. The lowest part of your esophagus has teeth now, so you should be able to chew any food that you can insert through your... orifice.” She smiles apologetically and blushes. “I rerouted your airway a bit so you have nostrils behind your ears so you can breath if your... mouth is full. I also sprinkled in some tastebuds and scent receptors in places that won’t be overwhelmed by your mouth stuff.” Clem licks her lips, “I couldn’t find an easy way to give you back your voice, but I’ll think about it. When you’re feeling up for it, please come and visit me. Any Shaping you want, I’m at your disposal.” I nodded at Clem, grateful for the gesture.

HAL-E cleared her throat quietly, “I hate to interrupt, but, in the interest of full disclosure, I alerted my ‘bosses’ about the Sleeping God. An entity that can Shape people from off planet is definitely the kind of weird shit the Grey need to know about.” The hologram smiled fiercely and hissed “And those cultists are also completely on my personal shit list.” The infrastructure was angry. Good.

“That is well” Bluebell said sagely, “but now this one must ask you all to depart. Halley requires rest and privacy to absorb her situation. This one will mind her and nurse her in her recovery.” The alien doctor mooed firmly and stamped a hoof.  The Destroyer nodded at me and silently departed and HAL-E flashed a feel better graphic before winking out. Clementine gave my hand another squeeze, kissed my forehead, and reluctantly trotted away with her tail sagging behind her. Then Bluebell tucked me into my blanket, effortlessly lifted me to her large milky bosom, and hefted me up to her second storey bedroom where she deposited me in her large Holstein patterned bed where I have been lying ever since.

I roll over onto my stomach, conscious of the pillowy masses of my enlarged breasts, and press my cunty face into a pillow.

What the fuck am I going to do now?



Re: Flotsam

I’ve never been that much of a fan of forced transformations and most of those still didn’t feel this... alien, for lack of a better term. Probably because the emphasis is on the wrongness rather than the sexiness.

I don’t entirely begrudge the Sleeping God for wanting to be free but I wonder if there’s a reason it’s... not. No like seriously I really feel bad for Halley-24 now. Ouch.


Re: Flotsam

Chapter 18: https://indigocarminefiction.blogspot.c … er-18.html


Chapter 18: The Sadness Montage

I am sitting in an alien’s bed propped against alien pillows and an alien headboard. I’m studying the Holstein print bedspread, trying to imagine shapes in the black blotches, like a game of Rorschach cloud watching. Other than a cluster of cowprints that look like a jack-o-lantern face and another splotch that maybe resembles a dick, the activity is a total bust. Maybe I should try counting the 49 black spots on the blanket again? Ugh, I’m so bored! At least on Earth I could put on M*A*S*H reruns while I hid from the world.

But I am so not ready to face other people.

I hear hooves on metal and see Bluebell barging into the bedroom like she owns the place. Which, yeah, I guess she does.  I look away from her, which I know is shitty and rude, but I don’t want her staring at the pussy on my face. “Your arm please,” she says using her doctor voice. I raise my left arm straight up, hand hanging limply, while still pointedly looking away. She unhooks the limp band thing around my bicep and removes it, mooing critically before attaching a chubby blood-pressure cuff sized replacement. Breakfast is served.  “You cannot subsist on nutrient infusions indefinitely,” Bluebell says, not for the first time. “And indeed, that is this one’s medical opinion.”

I lower my arm and the big blue alien sighs. “You really must get out of bed. I know you are sad, but remaining here indefinitely is not healthy for you. Isolation is not healthy for you. It is perhaps easy for this one to aver, but you must confront your trauma and learn to endure it.”

I turn and look at her, giving her my best eyes-only glare, before quickly hiding my face again. Fuck you, doc.

Bluebell moos and shakes her head. “You cannot remain in bed forever.”

Just fucking watch me, I think at her back as she trots out of the bedroom. I am amazing at hiding from problems. The best!

I just wish it wasn’t so fucking boring.

One black spot, two black spots, three black spots...


I can hear the sounds of Flotsam through the loft window that Bluebell opened to torture me.

Bluebell’s A-frame clinic-slash-home might be hidden in a secluded courtyard, but it still manages to pick up an annoying amount of city noise. I can hear the hum of drone traffic zipping through the air carrying deliveries and the occasional sonic boom of spacecraft returning from orbit. I can hear the chirping of local cricket analogues and the weird hissing trills of the feral flying lizard population, which seem to roost on a neighboring building. There are sounds of people laughing and cooking and loving and being alive spilling from open windows and the rusty balconies of nearby apartments. I can hear sapients chatter and laugh at a cafe patio perched just up slope. I can hear people in our courtyard, young humans joking and flirting, maybe on a date. From the repurposed spacraft next door I can hear a woman moan and performatively squeal as she fucks someone. My eyes water with tears. It isn’t fucking fair!

I’m sure Bluebell meant for these noises to be comforting, probably thought it was a way to connect me to the outside world, but instead it’s just reminding me of all the things I’ll never do again. I’ll never be able to visit a cafe again without putting on a vulgar display. I can’t even eat without it being a sex act! I’ll never share a shy smile on a first date with a cute boy or girl. I can’t laugh or sing or embarrass my neighbors by screaming during sex. I can’t stick my head out the window and wave to a friend without letting them see my cunt. I’ll never be able to give someone a friendly chaste kiss or makeout with a stranger without it being oral sex. I’ll never be able to lick salt off my lips again, touch the tip of my nose with my tongue, make it a little taco. I can’t pick my nose or do a line of coke. I can’t even smile, not really. My face is just gone, and with it my whole public fucking life.

It’s almost enough to make me want to get out of bed and close the window.

Instead I bury my head underneath my borrowed pillows and cry.

It’s the middle of the night and I’m weeping.

It’s the whole body, shuddering kind of crying, accompanied by a horrendous guggling sound which is what my face makes now. I gasp and snot seeps out of the nostrils behind my ears. I just want my face back. It isn’t fair! It isn’t fair! It isn’t fair!

I hear hooves on the floor and through red aching eyes I see the tear blurred vision of Bluebell walking to the bed. I wail-glug and try to hide my face in the pillows. Leave me alone!

Wordlessly Bluebell climbs into bed with me, slips herself under the covers, and holds me like a little spoon, her warm udder and breasts pressed against my back. And there she stays until my weeping becomes crying becomes sleep.


I hear footsteps and the door to the bedroom swishes open. The Destroyer walks into the room and I roll over, showing her my back.

“Oh please,” she says, “I’ve already seen it.” When I pointedly keep looking away she sighs, “I didn’t walk all the way here for you to ignore me.”

I turn and give her my leave-me-the-fuck-alone glare. Halley-11 having fought other sapients to the death is unfazed. “Better,” she says, a slight quirk to her scarred lips.

“I think I have some idea what you’re going through,” she says with surprising gentleness. I regard her battered, harsh face with its patina of scars; study the place where her amputated head meets her white prosthetic body. “I remember laying in a bed just like this when I first had my arm ripped off, staring at the stump of what was left. I was marked, broken, disfigured. I never wanted to get up and face the world. I could feel the dark place calling, knew how easy it would be to just let go and wallow in it.” She takes a deep controlled breath, appearing to find strength from it despite her lack of lungs. “But I picked myself up, Halley. I found the thing I wanted and kept moving. I remade myself. I became a Champion.”

“I’m proud of myself and what I’ve done, but there’s been a price. As my body was broken in the crucible of the Arena, as I was whittled down to just my head and my mind and my will... there were times I almost broke.” The Destroyer looks at me with a confessional intensity, “I do miss my body. My protesthetic is incredible, a super perfect replacement, but it’s not me, not like my flesh and blood body was. There are times I look in the mirror and see only what I’ve lost.” She shakes her head, “But I keep going, keep my eye on the prize, keep fighting. You have to fight. Have to.”

She smiles at me, “This is a tough break, Rookie, I’m not going to lie to you, but I know you have the steel to get through this. We’ve already been through so much. This is all... just one more thing.”

I blink my eyes. My ultimate badass clone just made herself vulnerable for me, which I can tell is no small thing. I know I should be grateful, and on one level I’m touched, but I’m mostly just annoyed. What gives her the right to come here and lecture me for being sad? She chose this! Did it to herself! She could have stopped when she got her arm chopped off, had Clem replace it, found a gentler line of work. Instead she *decided* to become an inhumane cyborg murder freak. My hands ball into fists and I’m taking deep, angry breaths that make my facial vulva flex. I didn’t choose this! I don’t want a cunt face! Fuck you head-girl!

I raise my fist and flip her off.

“Whatever,” The Detroyer says, “Figure it out. I didn’t kick the shit out of a bunch of cultists so you could waste your life away in a cowgirl’s bedroom.”


I am staring at the ceiling again, which I’ve decided has lost it’s charm. Fucking ceiling.

I hear a knock on the door and Bluebell clops into the room. Why can’t she just leave me alone? I turn and glare at her, my face vulva flaring as blood rushes to my face.

The large Blue cowgirl is brandishing a flat screened device that looks like an iPad. “This one thought you might like to communicate.”

No, I want you to fuck off and leave me alone! She blinks her big black eyes at me and her nostrils dilate, smelling the anger I’m putting out.

The alien cowgirl falters, licks her lips with her wide tongue, presses on. “This one had HAL-E send her your English Earthling lexicon and this one uploaded it to this simple interface device. This way you and this one might converse and better address your needs.” Bluebell steps carefully forward and places the tablet on my lap. I look down at the screen, which displays a jaunty ‘Hello smile’ in borderline comic sans and I feel enraged! I don’t want to type out my thoughts! I want to fucking talk! I want my voice back and my face back! Not some stupid app for fucking children! I cunt-growl and chuck the tablet at the wall as hard as I can. Fuck!

Bluebell moos in alarmed surprise and takes a step back before annoyance flashes across her usually placid face. She claws at the ground with her hooves and almost lowers her short horns at me, but instead she snorts, turns, and stomps out of the room, her hooves cracking loudly on the steel floor. The doorway seals shut behind her.

...and I realize that I’m an enormous cunt.

Fuck, she was just trying to help! And is letting me sleep in her bed while she plays nursemaid to me. I am such an ungrateful piece of shit...

The least I could have done is typed ‘thank you’.


I wake up in bed and find that my two and half pussies are furiously horny.

I’d been having a sex dream. The details are fuzzy, but I remember sitting in a movie theatre and watching Marlene Dietrich in her iconic top hat and tuxedo, an early bisexual fixation. Dietrich was slowly applying lipstick, shot as if from the perspective of a mirror. She was taking her time with it, dragging it out, making it sexy. As she coated and recoated and recoated her lips with makeup her mouth swelled and changed, flowering into vulva and becoming vertical. Became a pussy face just like mine. Sitting in the theatre, I watched with rapt attention, scarfing popcorn, which had felt somehow sexual. On the screen Dietrich realized what had happened and started to finger her face, eyes lidded in pleasure. She gasped and closed her eyes, fingers furiously stroking and penetrating her new cunt, and as she approached what promised to be a shattering orgasm...

... I woke up in a puddle of my own pussy juices, three points of hot arousal pulsing, orifices begging to be filled.

Jesus Fucking Christ I’m horny! Vaginal drool flows from my face and my pillow is damp against my cheek, fragrant with cunt. My thighs are wet and slick, and my ass feels damp too. I grunt-moan and the feeling that causes in my face makes me wetly gasp.

I start to reach for my cunts and then stop myself.

I hate this feeling! This sick need! I want to get off so badly, but this isn’t me! This is the Sleeping God and His fucking perversion! I refuse to give in to this hunger, succumb to my changes!

I roll onto my back and clutch the sheets with clawed hands, take deep breaths, try to ignore how good even breathing feels.


I hear a heavy knock on the bedroom door and look up to see Steadfast Freya boldly enter, effortlessly carrying three large bags in her four muscular arms. “Hail 24th! How fare you in thine recovery?”

I sit up in bed and lift my blanket to hide my face pussy. What is Freya doing here? Does she know that I fucked Hank? My heart hammers in my chest. Is she angry? Furious? Is she here to yell at me? Beat me? Jesus, even if this doesn’t prove violent it’s going to be soooo awkward.

“I know that you have fornicated with Hank,” Freya says, taking a characteristically direct approach, “He confessed his misdeeds when news reached us of your misadventure. I judged it unlikely that you would be returning to us, and decided that you might yearn for your belongings.” She brandishes the three large bags as if they weighed nothing, which is probably depressingly close to the truth. I really have so little.

I blink my eyes, Freya doesn’t sound mad and this seems more like a kindness than an eviction. I must look confused because Freya says, “Of course I am not mad at you, 24th. I do not stake sole claim to Hank’s sex life. I do not believe in monogamy, neither for myself nor my lovers.” The Nordic woman sets my bags down in a corner of the room and then sits on the bed, making the mattress dip under her weight. “You came to Hank in a moment of weakness and need, and like a cur he took advantage of that. It was dishonorable of him, but your actions are above reproach. Mostly.” Freya sighs, “I mightily love Hank, but he can be such a weak man. I fear he feels he has something to prove and acts the scoundrel to validate his masculinity. It only makes him seem small. But love is steadfast and must tolerate weakness and nurture growth.” Freya looks at me with her clear blue eyes, her generous mouth in a serious line, “I just wish his weakness did not hurt my friend.”

The huge woman leans forward and crushes me into a four armed hug, squishing me and my bustier chest against her four large breasts. “I am sorry, I regret I was not there for you Halley.”

I’m shocked and sit up, letting the blanket fall away exposing my tits and cunty face. Freya looks startled for a moment, then intrigued. She smiles at me, “The next time you are in crisis, seek out me. And the next time you need a lover...” Freya grabs me firmly by the shoulders and head and pulls me into a hard kiss, her lips exploring my face cunt. “Find me instead of Hank.”

The tall woman stands and leaves the room, her short tunic dress showing off the backs of her muscular legs. My face drools and tingles and aches for more.


I know I can’t stay in bed forever.

Sooner or later I’ll have to face up to my... face. I’ll have to figure out how to eat real food and drink through my face pussy. I’ll need to learn what taking a shit with a clit in my ass feels like. I’ll have to figure out a new way to communicate now that I’m mute. I’ll probably have to get an awful synthetic voice like Sister Teuthida or maybe learn sign language like those Robed people. I’ll even have to brave the world again, learn to live with people staring at my disfigurement. Maybe I could start wearing a veil or something? I wonder if the Robed accept applications. I sigh, it’s going to suck so fucking much. But what choice do I have? If stay here too much longer I might just die of boredom.

Besides, Bluebell has to be tired of this asshole patient and is probably just about ready to kick me out. Frankly, I’m astonished it hasn’t happened yet.

What can I do though? Where can I go? I’m certainly not going to move back in with Hank, not after all that. Which ha ha also means I’m unemployed. Although a pussy-faced mute waitress probably isn’t on brand for the Hideaway anyway. I’m sure Clem would take me in, but that’s a whole tangle of unresolved feelings that I don’t need right now. Plus the whole catgirl sexpet clone roommate thing. Too many pussies there already. So what’s left? Where can I live? What job can I even do now? Maybe I’m going to end up in one of those awful Breakyards.

The one place on Flotsam I’m probably welcome is The Circle of The Sleeping God. Given how much they obviously pamper their current roster of Halleys, I’m sure they’d be overjoyed to have me. I could be a favourite, one of the popular special people. And my weird sex face? Well, everyone in the cult is a sex mutant freak, so I’d fit right in. And Hell, with Teuthida around, I wouldn’t even be the woman with the weirdest mouth. I could avoid being a disfigured outsider, just go with the flow, buy into the cultist lifestyle, be a Very Important Pussy-face...

Who the fuck am I kidding? There is absolutely no fucking way I’m ever going back to that place! The Sleeping God is a fucking monster and I hope he rots in his prison for eternity! Fucking fake deity asshole!

Which means I’ll have to deal with the reality of my situation.

I sigh and lay back in bed. Just not quite yet.


I wake up to find a baseball sized silver sphere floating in the bedroom.

“Good you’re awake” HAL-E’s disembodied voice says. I sit up, not bothering to disguise my pussy face. What’s the point when the city’s surveillance system comes for a visit?

“Uh, hi,” HAL-E says awkwardly as her hologram appears in the room. “I was wondering if this is a good time to talk?”

As good a time as any. I giving her a get on with it hand waggle.

She imitates blowing out a breath, “I wanted to start by saying I’m sorry. I promised to look out for you, and I totally dropped the ball; I never should have let you leave the city with those cultist fuckers. I’m a horrible digital guardian angel,” she looks at me, regret contorting her projected features. “The truth is, I lost track of you. I felt like devoting an entire shard of myself to closely monitor you would be deeply creepy, and since your Keyband was at Hank’s the whole time, I thought you were safe there... if maybe making a sex mistake.” She shakes her head, “By the time I realized anything was amiss, you’d already left the city and were long gone. It was straightforward to review the surveillance data and determine who you left with and when, but by the time I recruited Halley-11 and affected a rescue mission, well, the damage had already been done.” The hologram makes a sad little smile, “I’m sorry I failed you.”

It’s not your fault I’m a dumbass who voluntarily went with a bunch of freaky cultists to a second location. I’m grateful help came when it did, otherwise who knows how much more of me would be cunt right now. All of which I want to tell her, but I can’t unless she speaks glugh. Fuck this being mute thing! I can’t even offer an encouraging smile! And so I stare at her dumbly, hoping she somehow gets the message from my eyes alone.

HAL-E must have seen something in the windows to my soul because she startles. “Oh right! That reminds me! I was thinking about your situation and how frustrating it must be not to speak. And I think I’ve come up with a solution. Would you like it?”

I nod my head vigorously. Fuck yes I would!

The hologram smiles and the little silver drone floats closer and sprouts a blister which coalesces into a golf ball sized sphere. The new sphere drifts over to me lazily, like a soap bubble on the wind, until it touches my neck and flows around it, becoming a seamless silver metal choker. I reach up and touch it, feel warm pliable metal fused to my skin. “What?” I say aloud.

I gasp, both audibly and physically. “Did I just? I did! Oh my god!” I can fucking talk! And it sounds like it’s coming from my still very much a pussy mouth. Fuck yeah!

HAL-E beams at me, “It’s a holographic sound projector, the same technology that let’s me sound like I’m talking from my hologram...” HAL-E’s voice suddenly jumps across the room and affects being muffled  “Or from over here in this confounded suitcase!” She grins “I modelled it on our voice and set it up to generate sounds that seem to originate from your mouth, so you should just be able to speak normally again.”

Tears sting my eyes. I can talk again! I have my voice back! “Thank you! You have no idea how much this means to me!”

The hologram blushes and smiles, “It’s nothing, the least I can do....”

“Fuck that! This is amazing!”

Maybe I’m not so completely ruined after all.

I hear a knock on the bedroom door and Bluebell clops in carrying a new nutrient infuser armband. Time for my next meal. “Breakfast time already?” I ask.

Bluebell moos in surprise, almost drops the armband to the floor. “You can speak!?”

“Yep!” I say happily. I point out the band of silver metal around my neck. “A gift from HAL-E.”

“That is a most exciting development!” Bluebell says, a wide smile breaking out on her bovinified alien face. “This one is so pleased for you!”

“I’m pretty stoked too,” I say. “....and now that I have my voice back, Bluebell, I just wanted to say thank you for everything. You’ve been so kind and patient with me, you’ve given me a place to live and taken care of me, and I’ve been such a miserable cunt... I’m sorry, Bluebell.”

Bluebell shakes her big head slowly, “Trauma seldom brings out the best in sapients, and healing is a gradual process. This one is glad she could help.” The cowgirl lays her large hand upon my shoulder, squeezes gently. “You are welcome to stay here as long as you might need.”

Tears tickle my eyes, “Thank you. But I really need to get out of this bed....”

“And bathe,” Bluebell says playfully, “Even for a human you stink.”

I laugh, my prosthetic voice perfectly imitating my giggle while my face vulva tingle pleasantly as blood rushes to them. “But maybe not just quite yet...”



Re: Flotsam

Flotsam Chapter 19: https://indigocarminefiction.blogspot.c … er-19.html


Chapter 19: Facing

I really need to get out of this room.

I am once again, still, in Bluebell’s bed with its Holstein-print blankets. I know I can’t stay here forever, that I need to get on with my pussy-faced life, but there are still so many things to figure out. I can live here with Bluebell, at least for a while, but I still have to figure out some sort of job. I’ve been way too big a mooch. I need to figure out something to wear over my face. I need some sort of meal plan and to buy like, a space blender. Most of all, I need to figure out how to stomach going out in public again. Problems problems problems...

And distracting me from relaunching my life is the least urgent and somehow the most pressing of my issues: I am so fucking horny!

“Jesus Christ! Enough already!”

My traitor body ignores me, three pulsing points of sensitive heat refusing to quiet. I wipe my chin, arm coming off shiny with my special drool. The entire room smells like cunt, like sex. I shift in bed trying to get comfortable, aware of the pressure of my thighs pressing against my altered cunt, the caress of sheets rubbing against the hard, sensitive nipples on my enlarged breasts. I moan, a sound somehow sexier in my prosthetic voice. Fuck I want to come so badly!

Instead I clench my fists and take a deep, sexually stimulating breath. I don’t want to give in to my body, my weird transformed body. To submit to my desires and Jill-off would be a betrayal to myself, right?  A surrender to whatever fucked up Dream the Sleeping God envisioned for me. Or would it? For better or worse this cunt-faced curvaceous body is my body and these desires are my desires. My body might be different, but ultimately it’s still inescapably me. The only person I’m punishing by denying myself an orgasm is myself. Maybe I should just go for it?

At least then I could clear my mind for a bit...

I work my jaw as if I were going to bite my lower lip, instead feeling my facial labia move and press against each other. I groan, allowing my hands to experimentally cup my expanded breasts, feeling their weight, touching my hard nipples, gasping at the shocking sensitivity of them. Ahhh my body feels so good. “Fuck it.”

I let my left hand trail down the smooth, flat expanse of my belly, feeling my guts grow tight with expectation. Hesitantly I rub my hand over the soft skin of my now permanently hairless mound, split my fingers, let them slide so that they are nestled in the groove between my widened thighs and vulva, like a frame for my vagina. I shiver, just the thought of those fingers so close to my cunt, the anticipation of it, is making me dizzy. I groan as blood courses to my cunt, and I can feel the heat of it in my fingers, smell its fragrance fill the room. I grab my right tit, pull it aside, and look down at my crotch, watch as my clit swells and swells and swells, a bright pink knuckle pulsing with my heartbeat. I want to lick my lips, but I can’t. I feel my facial cunt swell too, become just as hot, its clit as hard. I leave my left hand cupping my swollen cunt and hesitantly bring my right hand down, stop, almost but not quite touching. I moan, feeling the clit in my ass swell too, a third burning point of urgency. Vaginal fluids drool down my chin, drip onto my tits.  Gently I touch my clit and gasp! Jerk my hand back! I feel like I’ve been shocked! My clit is so sensitive! “Holy fuck!”

Bracing myself and panting through the airways behind my ears, I reach down and touch my clit again. I squirm at the raw sensation of it. “Yesssssss...” I keep my hand on my clit and slowly start to stroke it, groaning at the painfully pleasurable feeling. I try to clench what is left of my jaw, only managing to grind my face-cunt together, adding to the too-strong sensation. Fuck this is so good! I freeze my right hand, keeping it pressed against the pulsing, urgent knob of my clit, and let my left hand finally touch my labia, surprised by how thick and wide and hot and wet they are. My pussy is huge! I slide my fingers along my swollen cleft and shiver, turning my head and arching my back. “Ffffffffuuuuckkk....” I part my lips, let two fingers slide inside myself, just a little, feel the soaking heat of myself. I push in further, with three, no four fingers, and stretch myself open. I make a hook with the fingers inside me, point them skyward, drag them over the hard internal ridge of my clitoris, pushing the glans of it against my other hand. I gasp and writhe, squeeze my thick, soft thighs against my hands, hold myself in place as a wave of pleasure washes over me. “Fucking Jesus!” It’s too much! It’s too sensitive, too hungry! I’m almost weeping!

But I need this, I need to come, and I know there is no stopping now.

I prop myself up, halfway sitting, and take the deepest, steadiest breath I can, blow it out slowly, feel cunt-drool dribble off my chin. I start to stroke my clit again, back and forth, trying to find a rhythm. I pull my other hand out of myself, and let it glide along my opening, fingertips just barely dipping in. I tilt my head back and pant, try to immerse myself in the raw electric wire sensitivity of my cunt, the building pressure of an approaching orgasm. “Ohhhhhhh....” The feelings just build and build, beyond anything I’ve felt before, an en masse mass, an ocean of sensation and physical hunger. I start to lose myself, untether from the room, fall into a trance of pleasure. My hands keep moving automatically, playing the familiar rhythm on a spectacular new instrument. Distantly I hear myself moan and curse and the wet rasp of breath exploding out of my pussy mouth. The noisy squelch of my fingers pushing into my cunt. Ahhhhh fuck I am so close! Ah! Oh my god! Oh fuck! Fuckkkkkk....

“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!’ A nova explodes behind my eyes, a white perfect moment of bliss. I scream in a spray of pussy-drool and arch my back like I’ve been electrocuted. Oh fuck yes!

I flop back bonelessly, wet hands still on my cunt. Oh my god that was incredible! Fuck!

But it’s not enough, I’m still so fucking horny! My face pussy pulses and drips, demands it’s own attention.

I’m panting, my facial labia flexing with my breath. I lift shaking, tingling fingers to my face and stop. Do I really want to do this? Am I ready?

I try to take a deep, calming, therapeutic breath and it has the exact opposite effect. “Ffffffuuuckk...”

I run a finger along my face, starting at my clit ‘nose’ and down the wet, slick cleft of my vagina ‘mouth’. I shiver, oh Jesus it’s just as sensitive! I push two fingers inside my mouth-cunt, and reach with my other hand to rub my face-clit. My eyes roll back and I arch my spine, knees bent, as I finger fuck my face. My prosthetic voices moans and whines as incredible feelings of pleasure radiate from such an alien part of my body. It’s too fucking weird, but I don’t want to, can’t even, stop myself.

And yet...

I want more. Need more. I want to stuff my face, feel it filled, stretched. Penetrated. “Fuck....”

I wish I had a dildo... Does Bluebell have sextoys? Would she share? Where would I even get a dildo? Could I print one? I moan. No! I need it right now!

“HAL-E...” I gasp.

“You rang?” my own voice sings out as HAL-E’s svelte hologram manifests in the room. She looks bemused and I would be mad if I wasn’t so fucking horny. “Finally trying out the new equipment?”


“Ohhhh, I was wondering why you invoked me. Yeah just a second.” I feel a tingle in the weird Grey alien metal band that is fused to my neck and see a pea sized sphere of quicksilver float away from it, expanding and elongating, lovingly molding itself into an organic looking silver penis. I look at it and feel something like hunger in my mouth-cunt, a sudden flush of pussy juice saliva. The cock lands in my hands; it’s warm and soft and feels surprisingly lifelike. HAL-E gives me a big wink and a weirdly proud smile. “Have fun. I’ll sever my connections to it and leave you to your fun.”

I look at the cock and back at HAL-E. She tilts her head, smiles uncertainly. I don’t know why I’m saying this but... “Stay. Please.” I swallow, making my face-cunt spasm. “Fuck me.”

HAL-E the hologram blinks out of sight and the silver cock in my hand twitches, floats free. “Brace yourself,” HAL-E tells me, voice suddenly husky. I sit up in bed, put pillows behind my head, steady myself on my elbows. HAL-E’s cock executes a loop and I watch it aim itself at my face; it would be threatening if I didn’t want it so bad. I’m panting and drooling, watching the flying cock slowly, so slowly float toward my face, my cunt. I almost go cross-eyed watching, until I feel the cock press against my mouth-cunt, hot and assertive. The cock propels itself forward, slow but relentless, and I feel my ‘mouth’ stretch and part, yield to the cock as it pushes itself inside me. I close my eyes and gasp, “Oh fuck yesssss.....” the cock bottoms out with it’s silver balls resting on my chin. I feel it all inside me, a hot thick cylinder of penis that stretches my mouth and fills me all the way back into my throat. Breath hisses through my hidden nostrils, and a small panicked part of me thinks I must be choking or about to gag. Instead it’s the best feeling of my life, a glorious stretching that sends waves of pleasure through my body. HAL-E’s cock starts to pull itself out of me now, and I feel my cunt-mouth pull at it greedily, instinctively sucking it back in. With a final, vulva parting tug, the cock is free, hanging just past my pussy lips, almost touching. “Ohhhhhhhh.....”

“Do you like it?” HAL-E asks, voice thick. “Do you want more?”

Instead of answering I lunge my face forward, try to impale myself on its length. HAL-E grunts as I manage to snag her glans in my lips and then grunts again as she thrusts the cock into my face. I gasp and see stars. “Yes! Fuck me!” HAL-E doesn’t waste time, pistonning the cock in my face smoothly but slowly, gradually fucking me. And oh my Jesus Fucking Christ it feels amazing. “More!” I plead, “ahhh-Faster!” She obliges, cock thrusting faster, pushing into my mouth-cunt with more force. “Ffffffuuck!” The silver cock slams into me again and again, the force pushing me back against the pillows, making my head knock against the headboard. And oh god I feel it coming, a great monstrous swelling, like my mind is a balloon filling and stretching and about to... “Ohhhhhhh Ffffffuuucckkk! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

I orgasm, tsunamis of pleasure bursting in unfamiliar nerves in my face. My cunt spasms, grips the cock in my face, tries to inhale it. Distantly I hear HAL-E grunt like a dude, feel the silver drone cock in my mouth twitch and dance, feel something hot and wet and metallic flood my cunt-mouth. And then the world goes away for a few moments, and I am awash in a bubble of pleasure, delirious and satisfied. And oh my god I needed that so much!


But still it isn’t enough.

I come back to myself and feel that my body wants, needs more. The pleasant tingling glow of my face-cunt is downed out by the blaring hunger of my original pussy and the clitoris in my ass. I almost giggle, my other cunts are jealous! “I need more.”

“Oh?” HAL-E says, a thrill in her voice. Her silver cock drone floats in the air, erect.

“All of me,” I gasp, “Fuck all of me...”

“Your wish is my command-line.”

I roll onto my hands and knees, conscious of the heavy weight of my hanging breasts, the trickle of quicksilver fluid seeping out of mouth-cunt, evaporating before it hits the bedspread.  I’m panting and still so ready to be filled. The hovering silver cock seems to fluctuate and HAL-E moans as it splits itself into three identical metallic cocks. I look at them hungrily, feel myself drool from several places. The cocks break formation, begin to orbit me, reprofiling as they fly: one cock growing improbably long and thick, another sprouting bumps and ridges, and the last becoming a short vibrating hourglass. It’s like a conveyor display of sexy treats. “Yesss..” I gasp, making a web of cunt-drool spill off my chin.

The squadron of cock drones veer into position around me. I glance back over my wide, round ass and see the huge cock, almost the size of my arm aimed at my sopping original cunt while the small buzzing buttplug jockies for access to my ass. I look forward and see the cock with the complex, bumpy topography holding position for another run at my face-cunt. Oh this is going to be fucking awesome! “You ready?” HAL-E asks.

“Fuck. Yes.”

The enormous cock behind me pushes against my hot, wet cunt; parts me and slowly penetrates me, filling me inch after inch after inch. “Ahhh-hhhhh.” It’s so big! Longer and wider than anything I’ve every had inside me before. I feel like I’ve been gloriously impaled, stretched like a tight fitting glove around HAL-E’s huge silver cock. “Ffffffffuckkk.” HAL-E doesn’t pull out, leaves me bisected and gasping. I open my eyes just in time to see the knobby cock float forward, push itself into my facial cunt. I hiss through my nostrils, making my hair blow. Pleasure radiates through my face as I feel the cock stuff my mouth-cunt, experience every knob, bump, and ridge of the penis with the sensitive walls of my vagina-mouth. I’m moaning, impaled from both ends, juices trickling out of my mouth and cunt. And then I feel something prod my butthole, squeeze itself into the tight little aperture of my anus and start to vibrate. I shriek! It feels like fireworks are going off in my ass! I make a kind of mewling noise. I’m being triple penetrated by silver flying cocks like the focal point of a weird alien porno and I’m loving it! It feels unbelievable! I wonder if I can lay here like this forever, just filled to incredible feverish bursting...

And then the cocks start to move.

It starts slowly at first, steady partial withdrawals and smooth thrusts forward. I moan as my mouth-cunt sucks on the whorls and ridges of the slow moving cock inside. I could succumb to this forever but it seems HAL-E is impatient, insistant, and the rhythm of the cocks quickly speeds up. I moan and gasp and pant, awash with pleasure as the tempo and force increases. HAL-E projects her own pleasure, her moans and grunts filling the room. Oh fuck this is good! The enormous cock in my original snatch slams into me harder and faster, rocks me on my knees, threatens to knock me over, forces me onto the cock in my mouth, makes my big tits sway. I squeal in pleasure, fight to keep myself upright, to thrust back against it. The cock-plug in my ass buzzes faster and slowly starts to expand, stretching my anus in new and amazing ways. The sensations build and build, wash over me, subsume me. I’m once again in a trance of pleasure, but somehow still aware of two Halley’s screaming and panting in stereo, the wet sounds of fucking, the almost combative jostling of bodies, and the staccato of pleasure as three cocks ream me at once. My two and a half cunts are an orchestra of sex and I’m the Symphony of ecstacy! “OhyesohyesohfuckohfuckohFUCK...” I am buiding to a crescendo, a single explosive peak... and then I hear myself scream! My every muscle snaps taught as my entire body orgasms at once. Deep inside myself I feel three cocks spasm and come, filling me with their quicksilver semen.

I collapse, exhausted and relaxed for the first time in weeks.

Time oozes past.

My arms and legs are numb, my fingers tingle,  and all my cunts ache in the best possible way. I blink my eyes, pull sex damp hair from my face and see HAL-E standing there smiling. Not the demure, modest HAL-E with her svelte angelic hologram body, but a prono version, taller with huge gravity defying breasts and erect nipples, wide hips, and hovering at her crotch as if were connected to her, the largest silver penis, still semi-erect.

“Hi,” I say, blushing a little, trying to roll into a more artful position than collapsed akimbo.

“Hi yourself.” A smile plays at her lips and pixels dance artfully across her face. She walks over, her holographic sex body making a show of it, and sits on the edge of my borrowed bed. Well, simulates it at least, since she’s still intangible. She looks at me sidelong, bites her lip a little, pruriently surveying her handiwork with maybe a little concern thrown into the mix.

“That was really...” fucking mindblowing. “....nice.” I say, while wiping pussy-slime and dissolving silver cum from my face. I blush, cheeks glowing and face-cunt puffing up a little as blood rushes to my face. “I really needed that. Thank you.”

HAL-E grins, “I’m glad!” She frowns thoughtfully, “Y’know...” The silver cock detaches itself from her holographic crotch and floats in the air. I hope she isn’t expecting another round, although some part of me prays she is. Instead of flying into attack position the silver penis drone melts into itself, condenses back down into a marble of silver metal. The marble starts to rotate and reshapes itself into a featureless silver ring which drifts over and lands in the palm of my hand.

“What’s this?”

“A cockring!” HAL-E giggles, ‘Well not literally, but it’ll turn back into a penis when you want it to. Just let me know next time you want to play.”

I slip the silver cockring onto my finger, inspect it. “A ring, a voice, multiple orgasms... you really know how to spoil a girl.”

“It’s how I get the them to put out,” HAL-E grins. She simulates running her fingers through her artfully tussled and blown out porno hairdo. “So what’s next?”

“I get out of this fucking bedroom.”

Bluebell moos is in surprise as I slink into her small kitchen area.

Bluebell is sitting at her dining room table, poking at a floating holographic workscreen while a milking machine empties her four large breasts and udder with a rhythmic chugging noise. The small plastic table bears a platter of small cakes and a tall glass of sweet tea filling the room with the inviting aroma of real, actual food. Light streams in through the windows overlooking the tiny rear garden, highlighting the Blue cowgirl.  Recognition crosses Bluebell’s large dark eyes and a huge smile blossoms on her bovinified alien face.  “You are on the ground floor!”

I grip the hem of my t-shirt dress in its unfitted mode, hold it down over my wide hips and ass, fidget uncertainly “Yeah, I figure it’s finally time.”

Bluebell laughs, “Fantastic! This one is overjoyed!”

I blush, “Thanks...”

Bluebell’s nostrils flare, “Why do you reek of sex?”



Re: Flotsam

Y'know, I'd still think that Bluebell would still understand the concept of masturbation. Or is she just not familiar with it enough for her to immediately think of it?


Re: Flotsam

I originally assumed this Halley would be the last Halley there ever was. She was going to meet the past Halleys and see how they became what they are, and it was going to give her a path to maintain her original self in this future that changed everyone else. But she’s already changed too much to be that Halley anymore. There is going to be another Halley, and that Halley is going to look at this one as just another altered freak, and it is going to fucking BREAK this Halley.


Re: Flotsam

minstrelofmoria wrote:

I originally assumed this Halley would be the last Halley there ever was. She was going to meet the past Halleys and see how they became what they are, and it was going to give her a path to maintain her original self in this future that changed everyone else. But she’s already changed too much to be that Halley anymore. There is going to be another Halley, and that Halley is going to look at this one as just another altered freak, and it is going to fucking BREAK this Halley.

...Huh you’re probably right. Ouch.