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.