Syncing

The hive mind is not careless. It rarely intends to hurt individuals. Yet it can, and does. It is too big, and they are too small. In its plans for the future good of the hive, the species, and the world, the dreams and feelings of a single human being are often overlooked and forgotten. It is a price that all of those who interact with brain slugs must be ready to pay.
—Anastasia Massimi, Slugnomicon: A Guide To Brain Slug Spirituality (unpublished draft)

Rachel's head hit the bottom of the table hard enough to make the cups rattle. Anastasia sipped her coffee. Sweat dripped down Mel's face as he gripped the edges of the table. Jordan reached over and wiped it away with a napkin. The waitress came and took away the empty plates and glasses. Handed Jenny several tall paper cups of orange juice.

Mel saw and heard all this. The voices from the kitchen, where the manager still hadn't returned. The silent brain slug hosts, who were carefully not looking at them. Yet Mel's world had narrowed down to what Rachel was doing to him beneath the table. It felt different than before. Not technique, exactly. Energy. Enthusiasm. Rachel's mouth was almost frantic. She was gripping his legs for support as she pushed her head onto him harder and faster than she ever had before. The top of her lip caught on his glans with every slurp.

He was spent from before. So what was it in his body that tingled inside as Rachel sought to raise the dead? That familiar sensation that he had almost grown to dread as the night had worn on, the inner reservoir filling as a hungry mouth forced the blood into exhausted tissues.

A part of him almost hoped he would fail to get hard. Hadn't he given them enough tonight? Did he really need to be squeezed of every last drop? Before, it had been for a good cause, a biological need, but this was . . . Mel wasn't sure what this was. All he knew was that his body was tense, and he'd instinctively moved to the very edge of his seat.

Yet a part of him seemed to recognize what was happening. Slowly, agonizingly, as his body digested breakfast and his brain cried out for sleep, his shaft thickened and swelled inside of Rachel's throat. Until, with a soft gasp, she pulled her mouth off, and the very tip of him touched the bottom of the table. Awkwardly, Rachel forced his jeans closed, buttoned, and zippered—but didn't try to fasten his belt.

The entire brain slug host contingent stood up at once. Mel and 'stasia a second later. Rachel climbed out from beneath his seat, and out of habit, Mel bent down and offered his hand to help her up, which she took gratefully. That was when he saw her face. She was sweating, flushed crimson from her neck to her ears, and her eyes were widely dilated. Rache gripped his arm like a drowning woman clings to a floating door in the freezing sea.

"Fuck, I've never been this horny," she whispered. Jordan and Jenny grabbed their free arms and helped move the pair of them toward the entrance. 'stasia moved ahead of them, opening doors, and the brain slug hosts parted to let them pass.

Feng was in his seat. He still had the neck shield on and seemed a little wary until 'stasia smiled at him and took the seat right behind his.

"So," she asked. "What kind of music do you like?"

The driver barely glanced at Mel and Rache as they made their way to the very back. No sooner than Mel's ass was in the seat, Rachel was pulling her pants down. She was sweating freely now, panting. Her panties were so wet they stuck to her, clearly outlining her butt and labia. Mel tore the condom open with his teeth and struggled to get it on his aching hard-on. A task made all the more difficult because Rachel kept trying to sit on his lap.

"Please," she whined. "I need it—I need it—"

He had to finally press his hand against her lower back and pin her against the seat in front of him with both hands as Jordan fixed the condom all the way down his length.

"EVERYBODY, SEATS PLEASE," Feng called out.

Rache sank down, the weight of her pinning Mel to the seat. The whole length of him slid into her at once, the hot, wet grip of her squeezed him in a way that blocked out everything else for a moment. It was like the times he had been with Jordan, but also somehow different. The heat inside Rachel was more intense, like she was running a fever. Jordan sat next to them, her knee against Mel's, her hand clasped onto her sister's naked thigh.

Mel, not sure where to put his hands, settled on hugging Rache from behind. Her lower body moved in slow, grinding circles or shifting back and forth. Every time the bus hit a bump, she went up a little and landed with a yeep. He could feel her drip down his balls, soaking his pants.

The bus's speakers crackled to life. Something Mel didn't recognize. Thrashing guitar. Blast beats. Heavy base. Someone growling in a language that wasn't English. He glanced toward the front of the buss, and over the row of heads with brain slugs on their neck, he saw Feng and 'stasia's heads moving in time with the frantic beat. Which would probably cover any sounds the two of them were making at the back of the bus.

They were almost out of the mountains when she began to whisper. Dirty, filthy language of a kind that Mel had never heard her say before. There had been unguarded moments during their brief acquaintance when Rache had used profanity or explicit sexual language, but this was a constant refrain of some fever dream of fantasy, her lips moving on their own, a never-repeating refrain of desire.

"...fuckingwantedyourdickfromthefirstscrapethebackofmywombmakemeprolapseandlickmycerviIwanttodrinkthesweatoffyourballsasyoufillmysistersmouthwithyourbabybatterjizzinmycuntandlethersuckitout..."

Staring at the bandage on the back of Rachel's neck, Mel wondered if maybe this wasn't Rachel using him. Maybe this was the blue pearl. Could the hive mind see and act through her? Was she acting like a radio, receiving all the pent-up lust of every brain slug host on the bus? His jaw clenched as a terrible determination filled him. That had to be what was happening. But if that was the case—was it even okay for him to be doing this? Was Rachel really consenting to this?

The terrible knot in his stomach grew tighter. He didn't think he could feel worse about having sex with his girlfriend, but if she didn't even want this.

Rachel fell back against him, her hands groping for her shirt, trying to unbutton it. Jordan reached over and grabbed her wrists. For a moment, the two women struggled as Rache's hips rose and fell, her ass slamming back down into Mel's crotch, her pussy squeezing tightly. Eventually, Rache calmed down enough that Jordan could pull her sister's shirt out of her dress pants, and tried to guide Mel's hands up inside, to grab Rachel's breasts.

Terrible reluctance filled him. It shouldn't have felt this bad to grope his girlfriend's boobs. But he resisted.

"Tell me what's going on," he hissed. "What's happening with her?"

Jordan blinked. She dug out Rachel's phone and began to type. Rachel's own hands grabbed at Mel, and her constant refrain turned into a begging, pleading, wheedling desire for him to maul her tits, twist her nipples, anything. Inside of her, Mel's shaft was a steel-hard rod of agony, the terrible need inside of him struggling with his misgivings, his exhaustion, and above all, the constant stimulation as his whole shaft was buried inside of Rache, jumping at every bump and jolt.

Finally, Jordan showed him the phone.

Her body is reacting to the blue pearl. She is syncing with us. We did not expect it to happen this fast. She needs your help. You give her something to focus on. What her body craves.

Mel felt a moment of doubt. He had no idea if what Jordan told him was the truth. He was certain it wasn't the whole truth. There was so much that they hadn't told him already. Yet if anything she said was true—if Rache really did need him—and what would she do if he said no? He shuddered, not wanting to imagine that. At least she knew and trusted him. At least, he hopes so.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to Rache as he slipped his hands up inside her shirt to grope her breasts. The nipples were hard and slipped between his fingers, and Rache couldn't bite back a little moan as her head lolled against his shoulder, her hips rising and falling. Her eyes rolled up in her head as her body moved on its own.

It was a couple of hours to Seacouver. Jenny handed one of the cups to Jordan every half-hour, so that Jordan could feed the straw into Mel or Rachel's mouth. Mel's climax, when it came, was a hot dribble of agony that made his whole body seize for a moment, his fingers digging into Rachel's breasts tighter than he had intended. Both of their shirts were soaked with sweat at that point.

As they rolled onto the city streets, Mel could feel that his erection was little more than a soft and spongy half-chub. Rachel's pussy and hips hadn't stopped squeezing and bucking. He dropped one hand down to find her clit. Jordan clapped a hand over her sister's mouth to gag the scream.

His fingers were slippery, and Rachel began to spray. A hot, wet gush that soaked both of their pants and formed a puddle under Mel's ass. Hot wet tears ran down her cheeks as her body shuddered and squeezed and shuddered again.

By the time the bus pulled up to their apartment building. Rachel had stopped humping him. His softening prick fell out of her, and Jordan deftly leaned over and pulled off the condom. Not his usual load, but then Mel was amazed he had anything left in the tank. A quick glance at his glans showed the urethra looked red and raw.

The brain slug hosts stood up and shuffled slowly. Buying enough time for Mel and Rachel to get somewhat presentable as they filed out, leaving a wet ass-print on the seat and a puddle on the floor. Mel felt a pang of guilt about that, and didn't meet Feng's eyes as he shuffled off the bus on legs that didn't want to work.

Dimly, Mel was aware that the second bus had pulled up behind them. She handed the condom to the brain slug host in the Immortals jacket as he stepped out. Caught a brief glimpse of the figure in the wheelchair, who no longer had their mask on. Head shaven, faced away from him. The brain slug pulsed on its neck.

"Goodbye, little guy," he whispered hoarsely, not sure if he would ever see it again.

Rachel grabbed his arm. He hoped she wasn't expecting anything else. Mel doubted he could manage cunnilingus without at least four hours of sleep.

Yet she seemed to be having trouble walking, and Mel ended up half-carrying her to the stairs. Her hand went to her midsection, teeth bared at every step.

"What's wrong?" Mel said, glad to see that at least the crimson flush about her face had gone down.

"I think . . . it's my period," she whispered, her face a primal mask of pain. "But it's a week early!"

Behind them, Jordan, Jenny, and 'stasia followed. The brain slug hosts' expression did not change, placid masks, utterly emotionless. Yet Anastasia, as she looked at her roommate's obvious discomfort, couldn't resist giving a little smile. To Mel, it looked . . . triumphant.

There were things Mel wanted. Shower. A piss. Brush his teeth. Sleep. Yet he got Rachel sorted into her bed in apartment 502 first, a hot water bottle on her midsection. He watched as Jordan and Jenny pulled her pants and panties, off, the latter smeared with a dark splotch of blood. Jordan didn't resist as they wiped her clean and brought her fresh panties with a pad.

"I'll need my journal back," 'stasia said. "I have to write this all up. It's fascinating."

Mel stared at her. Too exhausted to muster anger. His voice was bitter and accusatory, though.

"How much of that did you know would happen?" he said.

Her smile turned sad for a moment.

"I made promises, Mel. There are secrets that weren't mine to share, and some theories I had that I couldn't prove. Still can't prove. I'm still learning so much about brain slugs, how they operate, who they are, and who they're trying to be. And you're a part of that now, in a way I never can be," she went to touch his shoulder, then thought better of it and drew back. "You did exceptionally well, I think. They won't forget that."

Mel frowned. She hadn't answered his question. There were a thousand questions that he wanted to ask. Emotions he wanted to express. Hurt. Betrayal. Used. Hollowed out. Yet he was too tired, right then and there, to put any of it into words that didn't feel like a child yelling at an adult.

So he said nothing. Dirty clothes went into a bag. Hot water and soap washed off the sweat and smell of Rachel and who-knows-how-many brain slugs that clung to every inch of him. The toothbrush scoured the furry feeling from his teeth and tongue.

A part of him thought that tonight, he might shut the bedroom door and lock it. Or use the chair under the knob to keep the others out. Be alone with himself tonight.

Yet even that was denied him.

The queen-sized bed filled up most of the space in his room. Dimly, Mel realized that Jenny must have arranged this for when they were gone. Or maybe the hive mind itself. Either way, he stared at the huge bed, the sheets already on it, the three pillows. Jenny and Jordan lay naked on either side, leaving a gap for him.

For a moment, Mel thought about sleeping on the couch. Just to make a statement. Just to have his own space for a few hours. Except he was crashing on his feet, and he knew it. Naked and exhausted, he crawled in between the two women who wouldn't even let him sleep alone.