Your Brain Slug Lover and You

Regardless of species of origin, high-end tools have increasingly precise manufacturing standards and tend to feature things like torque sensors and computer-assisted guidance. Everyday tools are much simpler. Most species understand a sharpened piece of metal represents a danger to the integrity of their outer integument or carapace, or that it can damage vulnerable external sensory organs. (A notable exception is Electrovores, who view blades as very convenient arcing surfaces for discharge.)
—Mallory Giger, Xenobiomechanics, Chapter 1

His pale hand rested on the swollen, dark dome of her distended abdomen. The simple gold band on his ring finger glinted against the almost black stretch marks, ragged against the baby bump. Her pale, cold, dark hand slid over his.

The bedroom was strange, unfamiliar. Pictures of a smiling, bearded man, a dark-skinned woman, a small baby on the wall. The four-poster bed looked like an antique, all carved hardwood, yellow linen sheets that matched the drapes on the window, the pale gold of the walls.

"Talk to Sinead," Lucie said. The voice was younger, and as he raised his eyes, over where the yellow skirt of the dress was hiked up over the bare belly, the soft swell of her breasts, it was as though he stared into Molly's face. Smoother, brighter, fresher, the dark eyes wet. "You know Seamus is fine with it. Molly loves you. We could raise them together—be a family—"

"I'll always care for you and Molly," he said. The voice deeper than Mel's own, the accent a little unfamiliar. "But we talked about this."

"Why?" Lucie said, pressing closer, until the bare bump pressed against his own shirt. "Why can't I be enough for you? You know I'd give you anything—my pussy, my mouth, my ass—"

His thumb traced one of the stretch marks. Something pressed against his. A knee, a foot, a hand.

"I'll always appreciate what we had," he said quietly. "What you're doing for us. But as much as I care for you, I love Sinead. And you love Seamus."

"Seamus can't give me what I need," Lucie said, and pressed her hands against his shirt. She pushed him backwards on the bed. Before he could stop her, she lifted the dress up and over her head. The swollen breasts rested on the gravid belly; so full they looked like they hurt, the dark nipples stiff. She climbed on top of him, straddled him.

There was something wrong with her eyes. Where they should have been were dark recesses. The crinkly hair shook out, and a red-purple cap unfolded from her skull to shade the upper half of her face. Too late, he tried to struggle, to throw her off, but the thin brown limbs pinned his arms down, and small, dark tentacles slid out between her legs and began to unzip his pants.

"Give me your babies," she said, but the voice wasn't just Lucie's. It was like half a dozen voices at once, and Mel could pick out Molly and Rachel's, and Jenny and Jordan's voice from their testimonies, and Amelia . . .

"Uh uh uh uh . . ."

Mel's eyes popped open. Rachel, eyes closed, mouth open, tongue hanging out, was straddling him, rubbing herself furiously against his cage. Jordan and Jenny gripped his arms on either side, and as Mel looked from left to right, Jordan held up one finger to her lips. He blinked and stared up at his girlfriend as she angled herself to grind her clit against the metal. Hands on his stomach, hips and ass moving on autopilot, nipples stiff as she mindlessly rubbed herself against him.

He could smell coffee. A glance over Rachel's shoulder showed that 'stasia was there, waiting patiently. Rache's primal grunts grew faster, higher-pitched, reaching toward a familiar crescendo. Then her whole body stiffened, and her thighs clamped tight on his hips, shuddering uncontrollably as she threw back her head and let out a noise that Mel normally associated with a squirrel that had misjudged the distance to the next tree branch and was emptying its lungs on the terminal plunge.

As she sat there panting atop him, her eyes fluttered open. The grip of the brain slug hosts eased. Rache blinked, sat up, and looked down at herself. Even in the darkness, he could tell she was blushing and embarrassed.

"Not again," she moaned, her voice both sleepy and satisfied.

"At least it's safe this time," Mel said, his aching meat straining tight in its cage toward the warm, wet, eager orifice only a few millimeters away. "Morning, by the way."

"Good morning," she whispered and leaned over to kiss him on the lips—then turned her head to kiss Jordan and Jenny too, before climbing off.

'stasia had clothes, coffee, and the look of an extremely patient voyeur.

"I thought it might be best to just let you finish," their neighbor-cum-sex-friend said. "Since you don't need to get to the library until later today. I need to get to the coffee shop, however. Kiss?"

Rachel accepted the coffee and leaned across the bed, lips puckered. 'stasia took the opportunity to grab her roommate's breasts with both hands and squeeze softly. That made Rache gasp; the dark-haired young woman planted a five-fold kiss on Rachel's forehead, cheeks, nose, and chin. Everywhere except the lips.

"Tonight," she said. "I want to hear everything about what happened yesterday."

"Okay," Rache agreed. She stared back at Mel, her eyes dropped to his cage, and she gave a soft sigh. When they came back up, she asked the question: "Walk?"

They dressed. On their way out, Mel noticed that Béibhinn's door was open, the room empty. He glanced at where her boots should have been, next to the bed, but they weren't there. She had already left.

On the sidewalk outside the apartment, a tree was beginning to bloom. Rache and Mel walked silently, hand in hand, enjoying the slight breeze. It was overcast, and smelled of the rain that might come at any time, but he thought if they were lucky they might make it to the park and back again.

As Mel walked, he took stock of himself. Parts of him were still sore from last night. Group sex, even at his age, took a toll that he was feeling in little bits of soreness and stiffness in his hips and lower back. A part of him wondered if he shouldn't limber up first, maybe do some cool-down stretches next time. Then he smiled to himself. It wasn't a problem a lot of men his age were likely to have . . .

"Hey," he said. "Are you feeling okay? After last night?"

Rache smiled at him.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," she said, as they entered the path into the park.

"A little sore, but I think I just need to stretch more before and after—" he said.

"I'm not talking about that," Rache said. "I mean, mentally, emotionally. How do you feel having . . . . maybe impregnated the woman who was pregnant with you?"

Mel chewed that one over.

"A little empty, I guess. I don't love her, I don't hate her. I barely know her. Every other time I've had sex, it's been with someone I've had a relationship with, or I was sucked off by an alien in a bathroom. When I have sex with you or Jordan or Jenny, I feel—I don't know how to describe it. Like . . ." he chewed the thought, searching for words. "I don't feel magically complete and bonded at a spiritual level or anything, but there's a satisfaction. Like when everything is done at the Cosmic Fill-Up, and nothing needs to be cleaned or restocked, and even if you know somebody is going to make a mess of it, for a moment there's just the sense that things are okay. That I've done a good job."

Rache snorted. "Romantic."

Mel rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry. I've never had girlfriends before. I feel like there are things I should know how to do for you, but all I know about relationships is what I've seen on television, and that's always more big romantic gestures. Expensive date nights. Gifts. The only thing I can really afford on a regular basis is licking your pussy."

She chuckled at that. "Don't knock it. There are a lot of guys who don't even do that, so I'm told. You do a lot of things for us, though, beyond sex."

"Like what?" Mel asked.

"You didn't kick up a fuss when I showed up on your doorstep, or when Jenny suddenly needed to move in. When Amelia needed help with her baby, you were there to help. You may not have money, Mel Arkwright, but you're generous with whatever you do have. Which, in the case of Lucie, was your sperm," she said. Then her voice dropped. "That whole thing was totally hot, by the way. The only thing we need to work on is your dirty talk. You're almost as quiet as Jenny and Jordan during sex."

"Sorry," Mel said, almost by reflex.

"Don't be sorry, be better," Rache said. "Remember that little presentation we gave the class? I still want to practice that with our clothes off. When it's my turn in the schedule."

"Schedule," Mel said, as they entered the darkest part of the woods. "Right. We still need to set that up. The whole thing with Lucie sort of threw me off. There's that Etherling thing next week . . . and I should check on Cara and Amelia . . . but you three come first."

"Yes, we do," Rache said, and it took Mel a moment to get the joke.

They returned home for showers and stretches. Jordan and Jenny joined Mel for the exercises, and he focused on butterfly stretches to help relax the pelvic muscles, rather than push-ups and sit-ups.

"Rache reminded me, we still need to set up a schedule, if you ladies want to come up with something," Mel said. "I need to go to the library and return that book, check my email. Maybe we can go to the co-op later, get some groceries?"

Jenny and Jordan gave Mel a thumb's up. Then stepped forward to kiss him goodbye. Jenny brought her lips to his, the tip of her tongue slipping through his lips, so that Mel opened his mouth to respond. Jordan circled around and kissed the back of his neck, and her felt her teeth as she sucked hard. Marking territory again after last night's sharing.

Rachel was waiting for Mel in the corridor; today she wore a light grey jacket he hadn't seen before, over a black button-up blouse, with black slacks and sneakers. With her blonde hair up in a bun, she looked very much like a librarian to Mel. All she needed was a pair of glasses. He said as much.

"If my eyes ever get bad enough, I hope my insurance just springs for cybereyes," Rache admitted. "Our grandmother had detached retinas and then got cataracts, and was almost blind by the time she died. That was before they had really standardized the implants, and the battery technology wasn't really there, but nowadays it's almost an outpatient procedure."

Mel chewed that over. He couldn't really picture what cybernetic vision would be like. It didn't seem possible that it would be the same as normal human vision, yet the closest he could think of would be like when wearing the augmented reality glasses—a kind of staring out at the world as if watching television. His thumb rubbed over her knuckle.

"Well, I hope it doesn't come to that," he said. "I like your eyes. They suit you."

Rache smiled at that.

They walked up the steps to the library together. Rache passed through the security check point first—and then Mel set off the metal detector. Again.

Cage. Right, Mel thought, embarrassed, as Lacey, the little blue-haired woman with the neural jacks, smiled and waved at him. He smiled back as the alarmed beeping stopped and he slid The Exodus: A History into the return slot, then turned to the public computers.

He had to wait ten minutes for one to be free. Then he sat down, logged in using his library card ID, and on into his webmail. There was the usual clutter of advertisements for pornography, sexual enhancement stimulants, and political ads—it occurred to Mel that he was now legally old enough to vote, and should probably register to do so—along with pay statements. Nothing new from Molly or anyone else.

Mel was about to stand up when Detective MacElroy sat down at the computer right next to his.

"Stay a moment," she said quietly. She was in full coat-and-turban getup today, with the dark wraparound shades that concealed her eyes, and a pair of latex gloves on her hands. "Look busy."

Mel stayed, not sure what he was supposed to be doing, so he opened up the library's search engine and idly typed in "alien sexual techniques." To his surprise, there were three hits. He noted down the call numbers to check out.

As he looked busy, Mel felt a sudden weight in his right hoodie pocket, the one closest to MacElroy. He hadn't seen her arm move, but he knew something had changed.

"Hold it so that the nozzle is pressed between the first two fingers of your hand; your thumb will settle on the button on top," the brain bat said. "In your apartment, I need you to take several readings. At least one in each room; more would be better. Discreetly, but you'll need to do it with the device exposed to the air, not in your pocket. Act normal and put it back in your pocket when you're done. I'll pick it up Tuesday when you're at work. Can you do that?"

"Yes," Mel said. Then, fighting the urge to just search for it, asked, "What's it do?"

"It checks the density and composition of trace biological samples in the air. Dead epidermis cells, mainly," MacElroy said. "Given that it's just you and your roommates, the primary components should be human, brain slug, and ghola. Possibly a few of mine, and maybe traces of other extraterrestrials you've come into contact with lately."

Mel processed that. "You want to know if the Changeling has been in my apartment lately?"

The blue turbaned head dipped, as if studying her keyboard as she typed.

"I want to know," she said. "If it's still there."

Then she logged out, stood up, and left.

Mel looked back at his screen, memorized the call numbers again, and followed suit.

Reproductive Habits of Extraterrestrials was a dry academic anthology that was designed for PhD students in medicine and xenobiology, at least as near as Mel could judge. It had several full-color photos, but he already knew what a K'lur'k pseudovaginal opening looked like up close, and he soon decided there was nothing useful in it.

Sexual Secrets of Slugfuckers was the exact opposite in tone: a jocular parody that was borderline pornographic and deliberately crude. Mel wasn't surprised to find that it was edited and published by the makers of Slug Fucker Monthly. He flipped through it, pausing at some of the more well-designed graphics of the "Brain Slug Kama Sutra," but frowned when he read about things like wiping sweet fruit juices on his dick or other erogenous zones to encourage brain slug host partners to lick there. Raunchy suggestions included tying a brain slug host down and blowing a load over her breasts, to see her frantically try to slurp up the semen, with the idea that the masturbator was supposed to obtain sexual satisfaction out of watching the helpless host writhe.

Mel put the book back on the shelf. The third call number was located in a very different part of the library, the self-help section. It was a thin, self-published pamphlet that the library had rebound in an institutional green hardback. Your Brain Slug Lover and You (Tokyo Hive, 2053) was only perhaps forty pages long, with a few computer-assisted drawings. The title page said this was the "First English edition," and gave the translator as Anaïs Nineveh. Mel read the first paragraph of the introduction:

Every brain slug host is unique, and every human must learn to love them uniquely. This is our shared experience in Tokyo: as each brain slug connects to the host in its own way, so does each combined entity have its own erogenous points and desires. This work will help guide you and your lover into discovering those points, and achieving a deeper level of sexual satisfaction and emotional connection.

Lacey didn't even blink when he checked it out.

"Two weeks, dearie," she said with a smile. "Happy reading!"

The day was warm enough that the skimply-clad brain slug cultists didn't seem in danger of hypothermia as Mel politely declined their offer of more fliers.

Jordan and Jenny were dressed and ready for the co-op. They didn't smile to see him. They never smiled. Yet he noticed he had their attention the moment he walked in the apartment, and Jordan clung to his arm and Jenny held his hand as they walked. Mel even remembered to bring his non-disposable bags this time.

The trio scrutinized the fresh veggies, the for-sale aisle, the flavors of ramen on bulk discount. Mel didn't wince as the money was debited from his account for his share of the groceries, though he was glad the small pay increase meant that he wasn't broke. As long as he didn't have to buy Rache many more morning-after pills.

For an evening, things were cozily domestic. Mel boiled his chicken ramen with fresh spinach leaves. Tofu sandwiches were made. On the fridge door, Mel noticed a list had been written in pen on the back of a receipt:

Mon: Jordan
Tues: Jenny
Wed: Rachel
Thurs: Cara / Maxine
Fri: Béibhinn / Anastasia
Sat: Mel's choice
Sun: Mel's choice
Other: Make appointment

"Okay," he said, and for what seemed like the first time in forever, though it had only been a few days, they settled down on the couch together to watch a documentary. Jenny had the controls and found one on a kind of African giant land snail that infested a small island off the coast of Florida. The town had been hit hard by the epidemic, and the snails had basically taken over. There were lots of long, lingering shots of snails 6-to-8 inches long crawling through abandoned houses, over the rusty shells of cars. The final, almost horrific sequence showed what had happened to the public library on the island, where salty, humid air and ravenous snails had turned the stacks of books into mouldering piles, some of which glistened with eggs.

After they washed up, Jordan tapped the sign. It was Sunday. She was asking who Mel wanted to have sex with.

Mel closed his eyes and thought about that for a long moment.

"I'm still a little out of it after yesterday," he said, offering an apologetic smile. He held up the new library book. "And I'd like to read for a little while before bed."

Jordan and Jenny gave him a thumb's up. Nor did they immediately get on the couch and spread their legs, ready for a tongue bath. Mel took that to mean that either they respected his choice, or they weren't in the mood either. As they brushed their teeth, Mel found himself studying their slugs, side by side. Nearly identical, though not completely. Jenny's still had the scar, a little raised ridge of tissue from the budding. Both were a pure, nearly translucent emerald green tonight.

It wasn't until Mel had stripped down and climbed between them, and heard the patter of the rain begin to finally fall outside, that he realized that he hadn't seen Béibhinn all day, and that she still wasn't back yet.