I am downloaded daily I am part of a composite And I'm upgraded daily All my wires without traces **-"Machine", Regina Spektor** ---- **WARNING:** This story contains weird, confusing pronouns. And not the Tumblr kind. It also contains use of kitchen items and appliances that should not be imitated. By anyone. Ever. No matter how drunk you are. ---- Most people have filters. For objects, for events, but mostly, for other people Take Jane. If you're like her, you may be focused as you go into the grocery store. Focused on the groceries, focused on the podcast in your ear, focused on reaching the checkout ahead of — "Ma'am?" — ahead of the soccer mom— "Ma'am?" — angling for the same— Jane stopped, looked to her right. There was a woman there, in gold sunglasses, behind a table. The banner said SING Natural Honey. The smile on the woman's face was almost sincere, like she actually liked her job. Her job giving out samples. Weird. The smile, not the samples. Jane tapped her earbud, and the podcast stopped. "Hm?" "Ma'am, do you like honey?" "Not re-" "Good!" Slick International™ Natural Goodness™ Natural Organic Honey™ is organic and natural and good for you! Iit has a million uses! Use it in baking! Use it in coffee! Use it on your pancakes! Use it in a beauty mask!" Jane did not roll her eyes. Barely. "Does it do my taxes too?" "No, but our Natural Agave Nectar™ does." Despite herself, Jane showed weakness; she snorted. "Thanks, but no thanks." And then she walked away. The saleswoman's shoulders slumped. And then Jane came back. "Did you say 'organic'? As in, non-GMO?" A half second pause from the saleswoman. "I can assure you that absolutely none of the bees we used to make our honey are genetically modified." Jane reached down to the table and picked up the little hexagonal bottle. "And these samples are free?" The saleswoman's smile widened. "Limit two per customer." ----- Jane was not much of a cook, and therefore did not have much use for the kitchen. The most involved thing she made on a regular basis was coffee, which involved putting in a pod and pressing a button. She had tried instant coffee once. Luckily, her roommate came along before Jane caused enough damage to lose their deposit. But now, now Jane had an idea. Organic stuff was trending. And a savvy influencer could ride that wave. She could look socially responsible, increase her followers, maybe even- Her heart leapt in her chest as she unpacked her shopping. -*maybe* even get an endorsement deal! And then she'd get rid of the honey. It wasn't like she actually had to eat it. Just take a nice picture. Speaking of which; *Where did I leave my light ring?* When she walked to her room to start penetrating the crust of dirty clothes and beauty products, she left the honey sitting on the counter. Normally she wouldn't, but she figured she would only be gone for a few seconds. Not long enough for Susan to take advantage of the opportunity. Roughly three seconds after Jane's door closed, Susan's door opened, and Susan stepped out. Hair neatly arranged in an updo, makeup done, and garbed in a fetching - and more importantly trending - peasant blouse/high denim shorts/sneakers/calf socks combo. She confirmed a rideshare, stuffed her phone back into her purse, and headed for the front door. Which was, as it happened, right next to the kitchen. People, as previously mentioned, have filters. And those filters are especially alert to subtle changes in their environment. You never know if that shadow in the grass is a saber-toothed tiger, though it's slightly less likely these days. This particular filter can often allow humans to instantly perceive things like, say, a small jar filled with amber-gold liquid, sitting on the kitchen counter. Susan, unlike her roommate, actually liked honey. She paused with her hand on the doorknob. Unless there were some sort of honey fairies around, the jar had to belong to Jane. "I shouldn't," Susan said. She took her hand off the knob. "I *really* shouldn't," Susan said. She walked closer. "I *can't*," Susan said. She picked up the jar, held it up to the light. Opened it, sniffed it. Lowered her finger toward the surface. "It's just a taste," Susan said. "She won't notice." She touched the surface just enough to get a few grams on her finger. Licked it carefully. And then something quite remarkable happened. First off, her pupils dilated. Then her mouth fell open and she began to pant. Something electric rolled across the back of her neck, and she shivered. More. She reached for the jar. She needed more. This time she went in with two fingers, took maybe a quarter of the tiny jar. Held it above her mouth and waited for gravity to do its work. Her eye fell on the jar. *Maybe Jane wasn't paying too much atten—* And the honey surrendered to gravity, fell through the air, and hit Susan's tongue. This time it wasn't just a tingle. This time she didn't just shiver. This time she couldn't get her fingers into her mouth fast enough, couldn't suck the honey down hard enough. This time sparks danced across her shoulders, down her spine, took a shortcut through her belly, and, so to speak, turned her shorts into hot pants. As you might expect, the nature of the sensations coursing through Susan's body left her somewhat...preoccupied. She braced herself against the counter with her left hand, managed not to fall over. Barely. Just barely. *That was—* *It felt like—* *But it **couldn't** be!* *…Right?* What happened next was only partially her fault. Her head still spun. And the feverish heat in her chest - and other places - didn't make it easy to think straight. And she was not left handed. And that makes it easy to understand why her first concern could be politely called moisture leakage, and why she automatically reached down with her right hand. The one that still had the traces of honey on it. And when she reached into her shorts, it was perfectly natural for her to miss the outside of her panties and accidentally slide her hand on the inside instead, before she even realized what she was doing. She didn't find any wetness. Until the honey on her fingers came into contact. This time, the heat spread up, not down. And this particular fire burned hotter than before. Hot enough for Susan to jump, to stifle a curse, and for her finger to slip inside. All of a sudden she had absolutely no problem standing up. You could've used her spine for a flagpole. She immediately yanked her hand free. Which, in another unlucky accident, came into contact with a certain area at the upper part of her womanhood. It took for a minute or two of gasping to recover. She was also fairly certain, this time, that sensation *had* been what it felt like. But the burning feeling didn't go away. But Susan used her time productively. While she was gasping, she formulated a plan of action. Step one: wash off her right hand. Step two: wash off herself. Step three: head into her bedroom and change. Step four: go on her date. Step five: make a doctor's appointment. It was a good plan. A solid plan. And it didn't survive contact with the enemy. Namely, Susan. The first part went well. But when it came to the second part, Susan made an error. She unbuckled her shorts and pulled them down right there in the kitchen. And then she directed the nozzle from the sink's hose to her nether regions, heedless of what it would do to her clothing. Again, her cognitive faculties were still somewhat discombobulated. Even then Susan might have avoided disaster. If Jane, for example, had come in at that point. But Jane was busy responding to a Facebook message. If Susan's rideshare had arrived and sent her a notification. But it was still several minutes out, stuck behind a sustainable vegan artisan food truck. So there was nothing, nothing at all that would keep her from the moment when the water hit. The moment when she froze up, and lightning tingled through her limbs. And the slow but inevitable process of guiding the nozzle closer. Nothing, that is, besides the faint thoughts at the back of her head. *I really shouldn't.* Closer and closer. *I can't.* She panted, hard and fast. *I wo—* Contact. Pressure. Insertion. This was not as insane as it might appear, even up without the obvious concerns about the cleanliness of the sink. If applying the cool water to the outside provided unwanted stimuli which only worsened the problem, perhaps an internal application would do the trick. This was not a conscious thought, of course. In fact, it was not a thought at all. It was, perhaps, something instinctive. And, perhaps, she didn't want to put the fire out. Maybe the honey made her do it. She stood there for a long time (or it felt like a long time) swaying back and forth, head empty, crotch full. She might have stood there forever. Except for the voices. ---- Jane made herself drop the phone - on the pillow, of course - and stood up. "...Now, where did I put that light ring?" She looked around. At the mess. "Okay, maybe I *should've* cleaned up a little." ---- ("-ese ripped jeans are totally hashtag grunge! Great for a throwback night. And they're cheap t-") Susan blinked, and touched her ear. Her hand was sticky. Why was her hand sticky? *Oh, right, I-* Her brain refused to take the next step. *I...* Like a train wheel, spinning without traction on an icy track. *I-!* She couldn't look at herself. So she looked at the sink instead. Which meant she looked at the hose. Which meant she followed the hose to her- (-ere. That's the plaid overlay for my profile pic. Now everyone will know I suppo-) And why was she hearing voices? Was there some kind of radio around? Was something playing on her phone? No, no, that was in her bag, on the table, in the hall. ("-naise? In *coffee*? *Really*?") And another one! Where was it *coming* from? Did Jane have the sound turned up in her room? Again? *Well, at least it's not that weird Liveleak vi-* Susan blinked. *Why does my butt feel funny?* Back in high school, someone had once sent her shock pictures of a prolapse. After a few sleepless nights, she forgot about it. Funny how memories can come flooding back when you think there's something dangling from your- *Don't even think about it!* She tried to look over her shoulder, but ran up against the limits of human anatomy. She couldn't see it, but she could *feel* it. A hard round *thing* between her cheeks. Like the ones you find when you wipe and realize you haven't been getting *nearly* enough water and fiber. Except this one was more of the size of a golf ball. And soft and squishy. But not squishy like…*that*. Squishy like a Gummy Bear. Her throat closed to the approximate diameter of a straw with an eating disorder. ("Um, excuse me." Minor guilt for tearing the girl away from her phone. Irritation that we have to, that she didn't notice me coming. "I'd like to buy these jeans." Happiness at her admiration of our taste. Attraction to the crooked smile, the piercing in her nose. "That'll be 2.50." "I'll pay with my card." Interest in the fact that the store is empty. It's just the two of us. "Oh, and one other thing." "Mmm?" "I think I saw a leak." "What? Where?" "In the back, by the changing rooms." Trepidation that she might see through us. Relief at her sigh. "OK, show me. But if this is some kind of pervert thing...") *Oh, okay.* She started breathing faster. The hallucinations were getting worse. More detailed. Sound and feelings. Technicolor. And they were using plural pronouns, even though it was clearly an individual. *How do I know it's an individual?* She knew she should find a paper bag and breathe into it, but she couldn't quite remember which drawer they were in. So she settled for bending over, putting her hands on her knees, and trying not to scream. This may have been a tactical error. Because she could see the water and other stuff drip down the inside of her legs, to stain her socks. And that just made the panic worse. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to focus. On something. Anything. Such as, for instance, her purse. And her phone. Her eyes snapped open. There it was. Right in front of her, on the hall table. And on the other side of the wall- "*J-Jane? Jane, I need help!*" ---- Jane paused the cute puppy video. *Did I hear something?* Silence. She shrugged, looked down, and tapped her earbud again. ---- Susan grit her teeth, straightened up, and started walking. And stopped walking. *Oh, right.* She looked down, got a firm hold on the hose, pulled, and nearly fell over. It was already strange enough to have a running hose in her. But the feeling she got when she pulled on it was hard to describe. There was something that was not exactly a tingle, running through her arms and legs and up her spine and directly into the brain stem. Or so she assumed. As much as she was capable of assuming anything. As much as she was capable of doing anything besides grabbing on the counter for support and not falling to the floor. That was basically her entire agenda for the next few minutes. At some point, she managed to remove "gritting my teeth" and replace it with "gasping for air". Progress. ( Satisfaction over a job well-done and the look of my new avatar. Anticipation for the kudos I'll get when people know I'm on the right side. Anticipation for the arguments I'll get into with people on the wrong side, and how I'll smack them down with a few well-chosen cutting remarks. Curiousity about what I'll do next. Indecisiveness over choosing between Netflix, Hulu, Youtube, maybe Skillshare, or... Happy anticipation. Desire for the video I'm pulling up. Surprise when my phone rings.) She shook her head. It was like she kept disassociating. Or slipping into other people's lives. Like watching a vlog without the people pretending not to notice the camera. If a vlog could be filmed with eyeballs, make you feel the way someone else felt. Was this botulism? Was this how botulism worked? And why did the people keep using 'we'? Was it a royal 'we'? Were they royalty? The thing behind her kept growing and growing, and it didn't take a genius to link the sloshy feeling from the hose, the sloshy feeling in her insides, and the sloshy feeling behind her. So it wasn't long before she shook off the distraction, took the hose in her hands again, and pulled. It was just as bad as the first time. But — a big but – she could've sworn she felt the hose move. And the thing behind her kept growing. And she kept pulling, and shuddering, and pulling again, and a feeling the hose slide more and more out of her. One final pull- And the thing very reluctantly let go of the hose nozzle. Despite how sticky it was, Susan lost her grip on it. It swung out, sprayed all over the front of the cupboards in front of the sink and Susan's legs. She noticed, distantly, but most of her attention was focused on the thing coming out of her crotch. The first thing she noticed was the tip. Which was yellow. Followed by black. Followed by yellow. Followed by black. And that was as far as she got, because the *(cock)* thing wasn't very big. Maybe three fingers long. Susan reached down. And decided it was best not to touch it. Even if she had an excuse. She reached over and turned off the faucet, wondered why she hadn't done that in the first place. Looked over her shoulder. The tail-thing was roughly the size of her torso. Gold and black rings, just like the one in front. Looked like it had some kind of liquid, just like the one in front. *Focus, girl!* She stepped toward the hall. Right onto the mess of honey and water on the floor. Just when she had another- ("Speaking of coffee, could you bring me a cup? Just to finish up here and get me home. Without driving off the side of I-55, I mean." Minor irritation at the request. Dawning realization that it presents an opportunity. "Sure." Pleasure at the late-afternoon sun slanting through the windows as I walk to the coffemaker. Caution. Satisfaction when I see there's nobody else in the office. Relief and anticipation as I open my pants, flex the right muscle, release my ovipositor. Shivers as I add honey to the cup. More shivers as I zip up, lick my fingers clean. Impatience as I wait for the coffeemaker. Satisfaction as it fills her cup, and mine. Smug irony at the fact that I don't actually need caffeine. Satisfaction at the smile on her face as I put her cup down. "Thanks." "No problem." Impatience as I return to my desk, get back to work, and wait for her cup to cool. Satisfaction at the sound of the slurp. "Tastes different." Pleasure. "You like it?" "I...I think I do, yeah. What did you put in this?" Smug. "My secret ingredient.") When the vision or hallucination or whatever-it-was ended, Susan was already falling through the air. She had maybe a second to realize what happened and grab the counter. Maybe she wouldn't be able to stop the fall, but at least she'd be able to slow herself down. Unfortunately, that maybe-a-second was taken up with the now-usual disorientation, and she came down hard. And landed on her tail. Which pushed liquid into her crotch. Which promptly gained several inches and girth. And, perhaps most importantly, spurted honey all over the ceiling. Strangely enough, the abdomen didn't actually provide much cushioning. Given the location it was resting at, the impact with the ground pushed it up, much like someone hooking a finger in your cheek and pulling. Except stickier. Between the shock of the…stimulation, and the lesser shock of her impact on the ground, Susan was discombobulated for a few seconds. And then she looked up. And then she looked around. And then she looked down at her absolutely *ruined* blouse. "Jane's gonna *kill* me." She thought for a moment. "And so is the landlord." ---- Jane pulled her arm out from under her bed, and sat up with her light ring in hand. "Gotcha!" ---- "OK," Susan said, even though nothing about the situation was OK. "I can fix this." She thought for a second. "I can…*handle* this?" Yeah, that seemed more plausible. She managed to climb up, with the help of the counter, focused on her goal, grit her teeth, ignored the buzzing sound, and set out again. Just more carefully this ti- And the buzz got louder. *No!* Susan slammed her hands over her ears. Which wasn't exactly the best idea when the sound came from insi- (We slam the shopgirl's chest into the wall of the changing room. And she moans "Please..." We pin her left hand to the wall. Curl our fingers over her dark-painted nails. "Please, no–" We were in a small room together for an entire minute. Plenty of time to...work our pheromone charms. "Not—" We slide our right hand across her skirt, up her shirt, up her chest, under her bra. Her stomach is hot against our arm. She has her nipple pierced. We jiggle it a little. She arches her back like a cat. "–not with the front *door* unlocked!" We pause. Something we didn't consider. Something that makes us - makes the *situation* - even hotter. We let our right hand fall off her tit, trail it to her stomach. Swirl it around her belly button - it's pierced too - and she giggles, slides her hips left to right, right to left against our crotch. We go "You want this?" "I'm not screaming, am I?" She stops bracing her right arm against the wall, brings it down, reaches behind her. For the back of her cute little plaid skirt. "Help me with this?" Gladly. It takes us both hands to undo the button. And the zipper catches. And then - "Huh?" We look up, see her looking at us in the mirror. "What - your eyes–" And that's when we yank down her panties, and drive in - That distracts her pretty effectively. This probably isn't the messiest thing these changing rooms have seen. It doesn't take long to build up enough friction. For some of our honey to leak out. Not traditional lube, but it'll work. And she notices. "What? Already? Hold on, let me get a condom-" We don't listen. "No, seriously-" There's a moment when we - all of us, not just the one cell in the changing room - reach her. When she freezes, shakes. The brief, infinite moment of resistance. The surrender. And she becomes we. She connects. To all of us. As the joining makes our mouth open in a moan, as our body shakes under us. As we start dripping down our legs. As we fill us with spurt after spurt– It takes a while. We both lean against the wall for a few seconds. We reach down from behind, run a finger up our thighs, bring it to our lips. We suck it off our fingers, taste the sweat underneath. We whisper "*Think we found—*" And we finish, as a smile spreads over our face "*—that leak.*") "Stop," Susan whispered. (We recognize the name on our phone. But we haven't heard it or seen it in a while. Two jobs ago. "Hello?" "Hi! It's me!" "Wow, I haven't heard from you in a minute! How you been!" We make small talk until she gets to the point. "We have a little...thing coming up. At a coffee shop." "Very Enlightenment of you." "...Yes. Yes it is. We just want to meet up, and talk, and maybe-" Longing in the voice, barely disguised. "-maybe we could go someplace afterward?" "Are you asking me out on a date?" Embarrassed silence. "No, no, this is stupid, I'm stupid, never mind, I shouldn't've called-" "Wait, wait, I didn't say *no*! I just...wanted to be sure, that's all." "Oh." Beat. "Well, now I feel even stupider." "I'll come to the meeting. And from there...well, we'll see." "You will! Oh, great! I'll send you the deets! Bye!" *Boop!* Funny thing about these sorts of meetings. Very good for making connections, and meeting new people. Who we can have private chats with later. We get back to that video we were about to watch. Our free hand lets ourself out of our pants and underwear. A smile spreads across our face. It's nice to make new friends.) "Stop!" Susan said. ( The coffee doesn't make her more alert. Kind of the opposite. She blinks more and more, keeps shifting in her chair. Eventually starts looking at us. We pretend not to notice, until she calls our name. "Yeah?" "I'm not feeling too good." We get up, walk over. "What's wrong?" "I don't know. I just...feel hot. Everywhere." "Really?" We reach down, unzip our pants, let ourselves out. "How about now?" She doesn't lunge away. Even when we tangle our hand in her hair. She just looks confused. "What's that?" "What do you *think* it is?" She sways toward it, like she's falling asleep. Opens her mouth, closes it. "I...I shouldn't. I should leave, go home. Call someone?" She pushes down on the chair's armrests, leans forward. "Why do you need to call anyone?" "To...to handle the situation." We tilt our head. "Okay." We let go of her hair. She flinches, looks back at us. Like a puppy. Then she looks down. Bites her lip. Her nostrils flare. "I don't..." She squeezes her eyes shut. Tears leak from the corners. "I *want* to, but I *don't*..." We run our fingers through her hair again. She leans toward us, even though we didn't actually do anything. Her mouth drifts open again. Her nostrils flare. "Don't worry," we say. "We can handle that." ) *Stop!* Susan cried. And the buzzing stopped. It took a few seconds for her to realize. To look around, realize her hands were near her *(cock)* crotch. *Was I gonna rip it off?* Silence. She had even- She checked. -she had even stopped dripping. *It's over? I'm free?* A smile crept across her face. *I'm free!* Okay. She leant on the counter, waited for her heart to calm down. And enjoyed the silence. All she had to do was get to her phone. And call for help. And this time - *this* time - she was pretty sure she'd make it. Just a few steps away. After her first step she paused. Nothing. No traps, no tricks, no sting in the tail. Yeah, the stinger felt...funny, bouncing around back there, and do did its friend in front, but Susan had endured worse. She just couldn't remember where, exactly. Another step. Two more and she'd be at the doorway, and then she could reach out and grab her purse. Honey dripped down from the ceiling. She waited for it to hit the floor, stepped over the puddle. One more step to go. *And then what?* She paused. Whatever was happening to her, it was obviously very drastic. If she was just hallucinating from botulism or whatever, then she could just take some pills. But if she wasn't hallucinating- She looked down at her *(cock)* crotch. -if all this was *real*, then she could never go back to normal. She had never paid much attention in biology class, but she was pretty sure anyone whose back door connected directly to the front door clearly had their plumbing *seriously* rearranged. And then there was— She tapped it, and shivered. –the rewiring. Even if the doctors managed to fix her, they would never *fix* her, fix her. No matter what, she would always be strange. A freak. And part of her thought that might not be so bad. As long as she wasn't alone. All of a sudden, she realized what she had missed, while the other voices bounced around her head. The fact that there was something missing. All of them. All of the "we"s - she wasn't even sure who they were, what they looked like, even their gender - seemed *happy*. She stood there for a long time. Or at least it felt like a long time. Then she swallowed, took a deep breath, and softly said *Bring it...* She stopped, scrunched up her eyes and mouth for a moment. "Bring it back," she whispered. She reached for the jar. Dug in with three fingers, shoved the gooey mess directly into her mouth. *Please...I'm sorry?* Silence. She looked down. At her hand, at her *(say it)* at her cock. Flexed her sticky fingers. *Well, that's my nails ruined.* A faint smile. A giggle threatened to escape. She let it. She could've reached into the drawer, pulled out a kitchen knife, and done a little amateur surgery. Get her *127 Hours* on. But even messier. She imagined bringing the knife down, into the cock, watching the honey gush out. Maybe the abdomen would deflate too. Maybe the flow went both ways. Then she got on her knees, backed into the corner. Reached up, grabbed a potato masher off the counter. And a meat thermometer. The masher handle went into the drippy tip of her tail...stinger...thing. She used her legs to push it back into the corner. Let the natural springiness of the gold and black rings push her out. Shivered. Somewhere, some small part of her knew how to fix the problem. It knew she just had to flex the right muscle, or think the right thoughts. She shoved the thermometer into her cock. All the way down, until the dial hit her head. Waited a few moments, enjoyed the sensation. Squeezed, near the tip, until she could feel the hard shaft inside her shaft. She grasped the thermometer by the dial. Drew the long spike halfway out. Noted the contrast between the gold and black, and the silver, streaked with honey. Her dick felt like some kind of squishy gel toy. If she looked close, she could see the meat thermometer inside of her. Her breath quickened. As she shoved the thermometer in and pulled it out, she squeezed with her other hand, pushed her stinger against the wall with her legs, her bodyweight. And it *Yessss...* felt good. It felt *real* good. The hallway was right there. Jane could walk in at any time. And Susan couldn't quite make herself care. Not like a normal person. Yes, it would be embarrassing. It would be shameful. It would be degrading. And that's what made it *fun*. Anything to get back— There was a fly in the kitchen. Susan twitched her head. She couldn't *see* the fly, but she could hear the buzz– Oh. A smile spread across her honey-smeared lips. The buzz was a hivemind, a gigantic gestalt, a chatroom with one topic. Depending on which philosopher you asked, the biggest sentient organism on Earth. But as the buzz built and built, Susan could clearly see what she had missed earlier. The undertone. She didn't matter. None of them mattered. The buzz approved. She shifted her legs to get better leverage. She was close. As long as you joined, you didn't matter. (She gets off the hood. "I've never been this close to a supercar before!" We're busy checking the photos on our phone. "Really? Pretty model like you?" She nods. "What's the inside like?") It didn't really care about who you were, where you came from, or what you did. ("And even if you can't donate, you can still help #TeamBees. Just like and share this post!") Because you, as an individual, didn't matter. (She buckles in, runs a hand over the leather paneling in a suggestive way, and bats her eyes at me. "Is that...new car smell?" We shift into first, get a good grip on the wheel, and get ready to increase her breathing rate. And then increase other things. And to get the rental back before 4:30. "Yeah. Something like that.") As long as you *(built/grew/served)*. (We surprise the the janitor, and he surprises us. But not long enough for him to get away.) As long as you spread. ("The changing rooms are right over there, sir. Let me know if you need any...assistance.") And as Susan's muscles tensed one final time, and released her honey all over the kitchen - she realized that she was absolutely fine with that. ---- Jane left her room with her phone in one hand, her light ring in the other, and a sudden, concerning thought in her head. She had left her honey unsecured, in an apartment with a roommate who was rather prone to opening her eyes wide and going "oh, you left it on the *counter*, so I thought it was for *everyone*!" And so, she was not precisely surprised to find the little jar of honey open on the counter, and a significant portion missing. She swore anyway. Not only was the jar open, but some of it had slopped down the side. And onto the counter. And...on the floor? That...that was a *really* big puddle for a jar that *might* hold a golf ball. If the golf ball was six months into intermittent fasting. And cutting carbs. So where did the all that honey *come* from? And what was that *smell*? And why was the room so hot? Something creaked behind Jane. When Jane entered the kitchen, she had gone straight for her honey. She hadn't checked the other side of the room. Now she turned around, slowly, very slowly. And dropped her phone. Susan sat on the oven door. And *in* the oven. There was this big...yellow...black...*thing* coming out of her...her... Jane didn't *want* to know where it was coming out of. With the stove light on, Jane could see *into* the thing. It was transparent or translucent or whatever let you see the liquid sloshing inside of it, dripping out the far end, sizzling on the hot floor of the oven. And with the kitchen lights on, Jane saw her roommate's sneakers and socks and pulled-down pants among the oven racks. Saw her long legs- *Were they always that long?* - and the hand around something coming out of Susan's crotch. And the hand was covered in something that was coming out of the thing coming out of Susan's crotch. Something bitter rose up in Jane's throat. Susan's abs tensed and relaxed, tensed and relaxed. Her other hand clutched her bare right breast. Like the thing *the cock* in her crotch, it leaked amber between and over her fingers. Susan's eyes were half-closed, her mouth was open, her lips looked full and- *Don't.* -bee-stung, and when she licked her lips her tongue seemed glossy. Jane swallowed. Hard. Her head spun. Susan pumped her beedick, and squeezed her tit, and pumped her- Thorax? Abdomen? -stinger or whatever against the oven. An up-down motion. Plus the heat. That explained the creak. Susan's clothes were covered, stained with honey, especially over the chest, over the one boob that was still covered. The honey covered her abs, her face, her legs, the floor- Oh. On the floor, the phone buzzed. Jane looked down. A new comment on her last Tiktok. Jane looked up. And saw Susan looking up. They stared at each other. And Susan smiled. "Jane! *Hiii!*" And then the oven door snapped. The hinges gave up the ghost, and the handle hit the floor. The glass shattered under Susan. Jane nearly jumped clear through the ceiling. Susan looked down. "Whoops?" She giggled, looked around the room. "We're...*probably* not gonna get the deposit back." She levered herself up, pulled her bee-butt out of the oven, stood up. Reached back and turned the knob to OFF. The abdomen bounced as she stood, and so did her cock and boobs. *Her boobs are bigger, right?* Jane couldn't think of anything to say. But her mouth went "You ate my honey." Susan blinked. Something was *wrong* with her eyes. "Yes," she said. "Yes, we did." *We?* Jane looked around. They were all alone in the kitchen, in the apartment. And normally, that wouldn't be a concern. Susan took a step forward, and the thing behind her, in her *Don't think about it*. *in* her bobbed and bounced. The liquid sloshed around. Jane was pretty sure honey wasn't supposed to do that. But she wasn't sure how she even *knew* it was honey. A little honey dribbled out the end, into the air, fell to the floor. More exited the smaller one in front, dribbled down the underside. Susan took another step forward. Jane took a step back. Then another. Then another. And then nearly fell over. She reached out, her hand hit something hard, landed in something wet, steadied herself. The fall was precisely what you *didn't* want if you already felt dizzy. *What the-* She couldn't move her feet. They were...in the honey on the floor. She had knocked the jar of honey across the counter, and now her *hand* was in the honey too. And the honey held on tight. Something was close. She looked back. Susan loomed over Jane, now, blocked the flourescents on the ceiling. Stood in front of her roommate, less than an arm's length away. Her cock kept twitching. From this angle, this close, Jane could see the *honeycum* honey drip down the inside of Susan's thighs, smell her- Well, *her*. Those thighs were much thicker, curvier than they had been before. She really *was* taller. Her eyes! They were *compound*, like a bug, like a bee. Black middle, gold hexagons around it. And she smiled even wider. "Let us make it up to you." ENDFILE # #theBuzz 2021 Eulalie "Nequ" Quentin Creative Commons BY-SA-NC Fanart/stories welcome. Just let me know if you do. ---- ---- **Alternate titles:** "The Royal We", "Enjoy the Silence". **Alternate opening themes:** "We Belong" by Pat Benetar, "The Royal We" by Silversun Pickups, "Imma Be" by the Black Eyed Peas, and "Wonderwall" by Oasis. ---- You're probably thinking "Gee, Nequ, this story sure seems to be using the porn hivemind as a thinly-disguised metaphor for the Skinner-Boxing dopamine hit people get from social media, and as a subtle critique of toxic groupthink, parasocial relationships, and the pitfalls of subsuming your identity to a collective." And I'd have to say that you're...absolutely correct, and I'm about as subtle as a first year English major. Like *Black Mirror*, with less Charlie Brooker and more bee dickgirls. Unlike certain social media cliques, the buzz will never harass you if you have an opinion they don't like. Well, unless you count hundreds - maybe thousands - of people trying to convince you that you're wrong with a direct 24/7 connection to your brain. So, slightly less toxic than Twitter. This is actually my second shot at the idea. The first one was, frankly, terrible, even as a sketch. That was...two years ago, according to gDocs. I'm pretty sure I had the idea to use 'sink-hose inflation' for even longer, but I never found a good concept. Until now. ---- Considering how I dislike smutty stories that are just thinly disguised vehicles for the writer's personal politics (especially topical ones), this story may be a bit hypocritical. In my defense (from myself) I tried to write story that would be good even if you didn't get or agree with the metaphor. A lot of the stories I roll my eyes at forget to do that. It also seems a tad odd to complain about a story genre that's heavily self-indulgence, by definition. Well, yes, but if you're putting it out there, you're also writing for the readers. To be fair, those stories I complain about were probably just writing for readers *who aren't me*, people who like that sort of thing. And I tried to go with the universally-applicable core message of "giving up your self-identity to trends and group identities can be dangerous". Hopefully that'll still get through to readers when they find the story on some underground server that survived the apocalypse in the year 20XX. ---- Discarded cutaway ideas (because I lost the note until I was done): - Cute dog backflip video - Celebrity cancellation -Runner's High -Landscape selfie -Hipster Artisinal Condiment ---- I am possibly the first person on Earth to type "honeycum", and I will probably be the last. But I'm not willing to check.