Quicksilver
by Chris Chris
*** 8 ***
The sun is baking the left side of my face when I wake up the next morning. It must be really late—my window faces west. I’ve drooled on the pillow. As I fumble for my clock, I find the cube, smooth and heavy, and a tingle runs through me as I remember the night before. I’ve got to hobble to get to the bathroom, my thighs are so sore. A cold shower helps some, and it feels good to run the soap over my body, cleaning off the sweat of the day spent in a hot bed.
There’s enough lettuce at the center of the head to make a salad, the rotting outer leaves going to my pet garbage disposal. My plans for tonight are to rest, lay low, and then test the cube at one. Waiting is hard. I can’t keep my mind from wandering, and replaying those mind-blowing orgasms from the night before. Males would be in trouble if every woman was equipped like Beta, that’s for sure.
There’s a movie theater down the block, and that kills a couple of hours, but at midnight I’ve got lots of nervous energy and nothing to do. Leno gives way to Conan, and I’ve picked up the cube like it was the TV’s remote, turning it over in my hand, feeling it’s smooth black faces. Finally, the TV gets too trite and I turn it off, and alternately watch the cube and my digital clock.
I’ve got my jeans on this time, my camera around my neck and a tape recorder, food, and a small gun in my backpack. You can’t be too prepared. At 12:59, I’m really juiced, gripping the cube in like a talisman before me, it’s edges cutting lines into my hand. I’m counting seconds now, and when I reach fifty nine, I hold my breath. But the clock changes to 1:00, the red numbers glowing evilly, and I deflate. Damn. What’s wrong with the cube? Maybe it only works on some -
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaoough. The world is black for a second. I’m being turned inside out, up and down have lost meaning, and then down reasserts itself with a vengeance as I flop onto a cold, white floor. I’m in a room, but that’s generous. It’s more of a stall, with two longer white walls, a short back wall, and a front that’s clear, apparently made of glass, but there’s nothing to see on the other side—just more white. I can’t even tell where the light is coming from. Maybe it’s radiating off the walls, which are completely unadorned. Except for the glass, which has some cuneiforms on it, as well as a blocky ‘3’, or possibly the letter E if you saw it from the other side.
No sooner have I taken this in than a silver tube extends from the ceiling, the same silver metal I’d seen in the lab, but now flowing with a will of it’s own. It’s headed for me, too fast, and all I can do is cower and throw my arms across my face to protect myself. I expected the worst, but after a second, nothing has happened. I open my eyes and there it is, hovering an inch above my hand, which is still gripping the cube. There’s some fluid coming out of the tube, yellow and viscous like honey, and before I can react it’s dripped onto my hand.
The feeling is like a first kiss, the tingle you get when you first touch someone you’ve desired from afar, the electric spark you feel when you brush against his arm in passing. But this feeling isn’t fading, it’s growing, and more of the goo is flowing onto my hand. I reach over with my other hand to touch it and get the same jolt, and start rubbing the stuff on like lotion. It feels like hot and heavy petting, and I’m feeling an urgency in my loins.
My thoughts flash back to last night, with Beta, where I was overcome with passion, but this is different. Where last night, my fantasy drove me to action, here it was more basic, a deep seated animal reaction to some chemical stimulus, triggering an ancient state of mind. Blind with lust, I rip off my clothes as the tube continues to pump it’s honey, now collecting in a pile on the floor.
I scoop it up and smear it on my breasts, the incredible tingling penetrating deep inside. My nipples are like almonds, and I pull them forward and let them slide back through my gooey fingers, trembling. My hands are moving by themselves now, and I slide them down my stomach, painting a trail of tingling ochre. I fall to my knees, then to my back on the floor, and rub the honey between my splayed legs, grabbing up more to push inside my pussy. I’m fucking myself with two coated hands, the second barely waiting for the first to withdraw before forcing itself deep into my juicy hole. I reach for the silver tube and feed it inside me, humping it like a dildo while it fills me with the thick ooze.
My insides are bursting with the stuff when my first orgasm hits, and as my vagina squeezes the goo is forced out, mingled with my copious juices. I have become a creature of base instinct, and my hands move on their own to scoop up the stuff and feed it to my mouth. The taste is ambrosia, and I suck it down, one hand furiously pumping the tube into my pussy and the other shoveling the overflowing nectar to my face. But now I am hungry, hungry for more of the stuff and I pull out the tube and bring it to my mouth. I hold it there with my lips, barely able to swallow fast enough to keep up with the flow.
As more and more of it enters my system, my vision is softening, the world taking on the halo of a vaseline lens. I can feel my hands working furiously at my clit and inside of my pussy, but they’re not under my command, my mind floating into the clouds as I suckle the tube, and finally I am conscious no more.
When I wake up, I’m back in my living room, naked, sticky and lying on the sharp cube. I look at the clock, and two hours have passed. I can only assume I’ve spent most of those hours lying on this cube, because it’s left a terrible ache in my back. I feel disgusting. Bloated. That goo had made me cum, yes, but it was a dispassionate, bereft of any sexual fantasy or reality bar the chemical act of orgasm.
This must be how a drug addict feels—used, empty, exhausted from a high that was good at the time but valueless in retrospect. Yet at the same time, I know I would do it again, without hesitation. Somehow, though, I had to go back and force myself to avoid the temptation, to give myself time to leave the stall and explore. And this time, I’d make sure my clock was set more accurately.
*** 9 ***
I stagger to the bedroom and sleep through most of the next day. In what I’ll call the morning, I get up and fix myself a sandwich, but I’m just not hungry so I put it in the fridge. In the shower, I clean off the remnants of sticky goo from myself and my body hair comes with it, leaving my skin even smoother than the time I’d had a professional waxing job. I rub my fingers over the lips of my smooth pussy, my newly exposed skin tender and sensitive.
The soap tingles on my flesh. I aim the stinging shower at it to wash it off, the new sensations leaving me gasping. Compared to last night, this kind of arousal is a comfortable old friend and I want to take my time. I get out of the shower, wrap a towel around my wet hair, and lie on my bed, KY Jelly at one hand and my small collection of toys at the other.
I lubricate my favorite toy first, my smallest but most powerful dildo. I slide it into my rear blissfully, the two ‘D’ cell batteries in a case attached to the back end which protrudes like a bobtail behind me. In some ways this is awkward, but every time I bump it it sends the pressure deep inside me. I turn it on, and the humming fills my core, the bass of the three piece rock band I’m going to unleash on myself.
The drums are clothespins I attach to my nipples and flick when I can’t feel them any more, and the guitar, the electric guitar, is an eight inch long vibrator, gleaming chrome. It doesn’t take much KY to get it moving smoothly into my now denuded pussy, the six inches I can take buzzing in counterpoint to the throb in my rear.
With each stroke I try to fantasize about a man, first my old boyfriend and then Daniel, but my mind insists on remembering the orgasmic haze of last night, driving me to pump the dildo faster. But I like it slow, and I keep it slow, steady smooth strokes with an unchanging tempo as my body rocks to a crescendo. This is how I like to come, a soft shudder that lasts for ten, twenty seconds and then leaves me relaxed and sated, save the aftershocks when I remove my assistants from my body. I get up and dress, take another pointless pass at the sandwich, and head out to do some shopping. I have plans for tonight.
*** 10 ***
My backpack full with some provisions, a camera, and the gun my father gave me years ago, I watch my now precise clock tick by the seconds to one am. This time, I brace myself for the sickening teleport and I am actually able to land on my feet in the white cell.
The tube extrudes from the ceiling and I jump out of it’s way. It follows my movements but is clearly heading for the cube in my hand so I throw it to the floor and stand back. Indeed, it moves and begins to extrude the golden fluid, dripping it in globs onto the cube. I have to force my eyes off of the stuff, knowing full well what pleasure it could bring me.
Investigating the walls turns up a white disk, barely detectable against the identically colored white walls. I press it and a person-sized door in the one glass wall opens, the glass bending like rubber where the hinge should be. I step out into a white hall with six of these stalls along the wall. It looks like a bathroom in heaven.
The other stalls are vacant save one. The cell next to the door has a woman in it, and she must see me as soon as I see her. I pull my gun, but her eyes aren’t looking at me, although they are so far open it makes my own eyes water in sympathy. She is statuesque, wearing a very stylish sundress and chunky-heeled sandals, long brown hair framing a Mediterranean face. The tube in this cell is out as well, and it has parasitically attached to the top of her head. She is standing very still, and I can only imagine what she must feel having that erotic honey pumped directly, somehow, into her brain.
She can only be the other Recruiter . I admire her perfect body, hard nipples pressing the fabric of her already bulging dress. But I fear the power of those vacant eyes, should she wake up, so I hurry out of the room, and into a corridor of an identical white.
I follow the narrow hall around a bend, and breaking the blank white walls is a dot of black. It looks like a window, but the view is completely empty. It’s a black so deep I feel like I’m falling into it, black because there is nothing for miles to reflect light into my straining eyes. I take a step back, fighting vertigo, and move on.
After another short bend, the hall intersects another larger passage in a round chamber. The exits are marked, with large, complicated glyphs that look like Pollack paintings, and appear to be metal inset into the plasticky material that makes up the walls. Underneath the spaghetti writing, someone has written labels in English, crudely but neatly with permanent marker. Other people must be on the ship. I don’t know whether to feel lucky or scared.
I have come from “Remote Feeding”. I’d as much as guessed that. The big passage has “Power” in one direction, “Breeding”, “Lab”, and “Quarters” in the other, and the small passage continues straight ahead but there is no translation of it’s sign. My choice is easy. I should go where the action is, and probably where the people are. But I rationalize that visiting “Power” will be quicker and I’ll learn background for what looks to be the main area. My main reason for the decision is fear.
The hall bends left, ending my view about a hundred feet away. When I turn the corner, the hall opens through a portal into a large, long room. And then I see an alien, or the strangest octopus I’ve ever seen. My heart leaps to my throat and I jump back, panicked. I quickly get a grip on myself—it’s behind a thick glass wall on the left side of the long room, on display as if in an aquarium. The glass walls continue, enough for maybe forty more chambers like this one. I can’t see into them from my vantage point here in the corridor, but I can see this first one.
The alien does look rather like an octopus, floating suspended in a room-size tank of water. It’s outer surface is matte black and crinkled like drying lava, the complexity of the surface shifting from smooth to fractal as it moves. It has six tentacles, thicker but no longer than my arms, which split for a few inches at the ends. No, five tentacles, the sixth on closer inspection a thick black cable running from the creature’s body to a wall of the tank.
It’s not doing much. I take a couple of photos, happy for the bright lighting. To get a closer look, I need to step into the long room, and right in front of it. If the thing has eyes, it must have seen me by now, I decide, and step through the portal.
There’s no gravity. My last step pushes me off the floor and I float uncontrollably, my stomach ringing all five alarms. I flail and catch the floor with my toe, a major mistake which sets the world to spinning in earnest. I bang painfully off the alien’s tank and eventually wedge myself in the corner where the opposite wall meets the ceiling, my head looking up at the floor that used to be down. I fight the nausea. Stories of floating balls of zero-g vomit flash through my mind, and the more I try not to think about it, the worse it gets. I can’t hold it in, and retch into the air. Luckily I haven’t been hungry since my orgy with the yellow goo, so nothing comes out, but I lose my grip on the ceiling and drift down the long room. Panting, I force myself to relax.
As the adrenaline wears off, my mind frees itself for other chemical messengers. I’ve hurt my left elbow, and I’m horny as hell. The elbow, I think, will be badly bruised but it works fine. The arousal I don’t understand so much as feel, the same primal hunger worked on my system by the goo last night. I can’t give in to it, but it takes huge effort to fight the urge to jam my hands between my legs and pump. The pain in my elbow helps, gives me something concrete to focus on. I’m tempted to bang my other elbow too.
I can see into the second tank. It’s got another of the aliens, this one going berserk, thrashing and beating itself with it’s arms. The tube connecting it to the wall is glowing green. The liquid in it’s tank is clear, with no air bubbles. It might not be water. If the activity is because the alien has noticed me, there’s not much I can do other than float by quietly and hope.
I think I will be able to reach the glass wall of tanks in about forty feet, unless I can change my course by blowing, or something. I’ve got my nausea under control now, but sending myself spinning isn’t worth the risk. My throbbing arousal is not as well controlled, my panties soaking with my juices and my nipples nearly punching through my bra. If Daniel were here, I’d rip his clothes off and—think about the pain in my elbow. It’s all I can do to block it out.
The third tank has another alien, the only difference in the three being the large silver icons on the walls of each room, looking like more of the paint splatter writing. I hit the glass at the edge of the fourth tank, and suck in my breath. The tank has no liquid and no alien. Two women are floating in it, in a silent sixty-nine, each one with her head pressed between the other’s gently spread legs. I can see some of the head of one, the bottom half of her mouth visible, her ruby lips gaping open to cover the other’s pussy. Her crown is hairless, dipped in a glossy black skullcap. Each is umbilically connected to the wall, black tubes floating across the air and melding smoothly with the latex domes of their heads.
The two women are motionless, their penetration of each other invisible but implicit from my vantage point. But they begin to shudder, and soon are shaking violently with powerful orgasms, each gripping the other tightly and forcing their face deeper into the other’s pussy. The two tubes begin to glow, like the alien’s tube only less intensely, and after a few moments the glow dies and the women relax, returning to the routine of their mindless sex.
I must fight my thoughts, thoughts of Beta with her five inch tongue inside of me. These women are like her, I am sure, eternally thrusting into each other, each lost in the world of the other’s taste and smell. I know in my gut that if captured I will serve this sentence too, life imprisonment between another’s legs, locked within the walls of an unending series of orgasms. I do not want this, but my body’s chemical cocktail screams yes, yes, you do! For the moment only, my mind is winning.
A kick against the glass sends me sailing further into the room, faster but more controlled now. Tanks pass by, tens of them, each with a symbiotic pair of pale women. They have been matched, roughly, by height, but not much else distinguishes them, some scandinavian, some asian, some with african features but still bleached to an inhuman alabaster whiteness. I can see little of their faces, and their black dipped heads give them an eerie, fetishistic look, but I see a glimmer of familiarity in the eyes of one of them.
It is Janet. I guess I had, morbidly, been seeking her among the rows of unnatural lovers, and her deep green eyes are unmistakable, even framed with black latex and the smooth globes of another woman’s ass. In fact her partner is hardly a woman, no older than seventeen. As short as Janet, but nearly a skeleton by comparison, thin and underdeveloped where Janet is full and fleshy. They are, as all the others, oblivious to my presence.
The shock of seeing my friend temporarily drives back my overpowering lust. I must get her out. The clear material of the tank is solid and thick, so thick the gun makes little sound when I pound it’s barrel against the glass and send myself flying to the other wall. There is no door on her prison, or even a marking that might allow access. Afraid to shoot the gun and bring a horde of guards upon me with the noise, I return it to my pack. I’m going to have to leave her. I study the icon on her cell, bang the wall again once in frustration, swearing to release her later.
The next room is empty, the icon on the wall looking for all the world like a letter N painted by a child with glue and glitter. I am nearing the end of the room, and all the tanks are empty here. The portal at this end is a mirror image of the other end, but now I can see another long room on the other side. I desperately need to leave this room, the pulses of uncontrollable arousal washing over me, my pain and nausea ebbing and flowing in counterpoint, but ahead looks like more of the same.
I hold out hope until the portal arrives, and smack, I bounce, chest first, off an invisible field that prevents me from passing. My nipples throb and I can no longer contain myself, giving in with despair to the driving lust. One hand pinching my hugely distended nipple, I tear open the buttons of my jeans with the other. My legs kick off the jeans, my foot smacking painfully into the force field and sending me spinning back down the length of the room.
But nausea is overwhelmed by a wave of pleasure as I attack my clitoris, smearing a glop of my own cream onto my hand. I immediately rub as hard and fast as I can, coming almost instantly, and then I can only think of more, more, and more. Squeezing my nipple so hard it hurts, I quickly bring myself to the plateau again. I slide my middle two fingers into my searing hot pussy and work them frantically in and out, pounding my clit with my palm on every stroke. An alien in it’s tank flashes before my eyes as my orgasm hits, and then everything goes black.
I come around in an uncomfortable pile on the floor in the hallway, just outside the portal. I must have drifted through and knocked myself out falling to the floor on this side. The demanding arousal is gone here, but my body is a mass of aches, and the nausea of disorientation has been replaced with the nausea of a blow to the head. I must not have been out very long, because my legs are still soaked with my own warm lubricant.
I can see my jeans and shoes, floating unreachable at the other end of the room. I dare not go back in there now. Luckily, my pack has stayed on my back. I dig up some aspirin from the back pocket—not something I packed intentionally but I’m ecstatic to find it. I wash them down with a deep drink of water, something I did bring on purpose. After a minute, I stagger to my bare feet and press back down the hall.