Chapter 21: The Slime Girl Orgy
The permanent hum was a new layer of reality, as constant as the pulse in their necks. They dressed in silence, the simple acts of pulling on clothes feeling surreal, like costuming themselves for a world that no longer fit. Chris’s twin cocks, finally at rest, were a heavy, sensitive weight in his boxers. Bea’s every movement sent low-grade pleasure signals through the bridge—the brush of denim against her swollen labia, the pressure of her bra on enhanced nipples. Lily felt it all, a constant, low-voltage current of someone else’s embodiment.
They found Professor Blackwood not in the main study, but through a concealed door behind a tottering bookshelf, in a smaller, more chaotic alcove. The air here was thicker, warmer, tasting of ozone and overripe peaches. Jars of iridescent gel lined makeshift shelves, their contents shifting languidly under a single, flickering bulb.
Blackwood wasn’t in her human form. She was a gently undulating mound of translucent, pearlescent slime on a low pallet, vaguely humanoid in shape, glowing from within. A face coalesced on its surface—her features, softened and flowing. “Ah,” the slime murmured, the sound vibrating through the gel and the air simultaneously. “You took the prism. The bridge is stable. I can feel its resonance from here. A lovely, constant chord.”
Bea approached, unafraid, her artist’s eyes wide. “What are you?”
“A later experiment,” Blackwood’s voice purred from the mound. “The sweets change flesh. This formulation… transcends it. For a time.” The slime quivered, a ripple of something like pleasure. “It’s lonely, though. Sensation is muted. I need external data. Vibrations. Friction.” A tendril, cool and smooth as silicone, extended from the mass and brushed Bea’s cheek. “You three are a symphony of data. May I… listen more closely?”
Lily stepped forward, her earlier hunger refocused by a sharp, scientific curiosity. “You can feel what we feel?”
“If I’m connected. Through a medium.” The slime tendril retreated. “I can also emulate. To provide stimulus. A feedback loop.” The mound shuddered, and then a portion of it detached. It pooled on the floor for a moment before rising, flowing upward, taking shape. It formed legs, a torso, a wild cascade of hair. In seconds, a perfect, shimmering replica of Bea stood before them, nude and glistening. It smiled with Bea’s mouth, but its eyes were pure, depthless silver.
“Holy shit,” the real Bea breathed.
Another glob detached, reforming into a copy of Lily, then another, until a third slime-being took Chris’s own form, though its groin remained a smooth, undefined expanse.
The original Blackwood-mound spoke, its voice now echoing from all four slime-forms. “I can split my consciousness. Fractal awareness. Each copy is me, and I am each. Now, let’s test the parameters of your bridge.”
The slime-Beatrix moved first. It didn’t walk; it flowed across the floor, stopping before Chris. Its hands, cool and flawlessly detailed, unbuttoned his jeans. He didn’t stop it. The analytical part of him was fascinated; the rest of him was hardening fast, his twin cocks lifting as the slime-Beatrix pulled his jeans and boxers down. Its fingers wrapped around him, the gel conforming to every ridge and vein with a suction-like adherence. It was not quite a handjob, not quite a mouth, but something in between, a perfect, cool, pulsating sleeve.
“It reads your physiological response,” the slime-Lily said, its head tilting. It walked to the real Lily, its hands sliding up her shirt. “And projects anticipated pleasure zones.” The slime-Lily’s mouth covered Lily’s, and its tongue, cool and impossibly long, plunged deep. Lily moaned, her knees buckling, but a supporting tendril from the main mound caught her, holding her upright.
The real Bea watched, her breath quickening. A thick, warm tendril from the primary mass coiled around her ankle, then her calf, climbing with deliberate slowness. “Yes,” she whispered, spreading her legs slightly in invitation.
The main Blackwood mound pulsed. “Connection established. Feeding the loop.”
The slime-Beatrix dropped to its knees. It had no throat, no gag reflex. It simply opened its mouth and enveloped both of Chris’s cocks at once, its head stretching to accommodate them. The sensation was inhuman. The gel inside its mouth was alive, a thousand tiny, lapping tongues undulating along his entire length, concentrating swirls of pressure on his crowns, his frenulums. It was a wet, intelligent, all-encompassing suck. Chris cried out, his hands tangling in the slime-Beatrix’s hair, finding it cool and slick, holding the shape of Bea’s wild curls.
“Fuck, it’s reading my memory of your mouth,” the real Bea gasped, as the tendril reached her thigh. “I can feel the ghost of it.”
The main tendril holding Bea split into two. One, blunt and thick, pressed against her dripping, sensitized entrance. The other, tapered, found the tight pucker of her ass. They pushed in together, in a slow, seamless, double penetration. Bea screamed, her head thrashing back. The gel wasn’t just filling her; it was shaping itself inside her, forming tiny, rippling ridges that dragged against her inner walls and her clenching, enhanced muscles with perfect, torturous friction.
The slime-Lily broke its kiss with the real Lily. It pushed Lily forward, bending her over a low table. It molded itself behind her, its lower body flowing into a thick, cock-like shape that pressed against Lily’s cunt. Another pseudopod formed, slender and probing, nudging at her ass. “You like it tight,” the slime-Lily murmured in Blackwood’s echoing voice. “You like the burn.” It sheathed both gel-cocks into her in one smooth, relentless motion.
Lily’s shriek was muffled against the wood. The stretch was immense, brutal. The gel cocks pulsed inside her, a slow, peristaltic rhythm. “Chris!” she sobbed, her eyes wide.
He couldn’t help her. He was pinned in the slime-Beatrix’s mouth, his hips pumping involuntarily into that perfect, cool suction. The sensations flooding the bridge were overwhelming, layered: the deep, filling stretch in Bea’s core, the burning, dual fullness in Lily’s, the exquisite, targeted mouth on his own flesh. They were a circuit of fucked-open pleasure, and at the nodal point was Professor Blackwood, experiencing all of it.
“Yes,” the main mound shuddered, its surface boiling with iridescent colors. “The data is exquisite. The feedback is catalytic.”
The slime-Chris form now approached the real Chris from behind. It flattened, becoming a wide, gelatinous sheet that wrapped around his back and thighs, bonding to his skin. It was a supportive, living harness. Then, from its center, a new tendril extended. It was not a copy of his own anatomy. It was longer, thinner, a questing, gelid vine. It snaked around his hip, past his balls, and found the tight furl of his ass. It pressed, insistent, and then, with a smooth, lubricious invasion, it entered him.
Chris’s vision whited out. The dual stimulation was catastrophic—his cocks being milked in a mimicry of his wife’s mouth, while this cool, intruding presence filled a secret, clenching channel. The slime inside him shifted, forming a subtle bulb that stretched him just past the point of comfort into a sharp, breathtaking rightness with each thrust of his own hips.
“I can feel your prostate’s engorgement,” Blackwood’s voice chorused from the walls, the figures. “I’m routing that signal to Beatrice’s clitoral network.”
On the chaise, Bea jolted as if electrocuted. A burst of pleasure, sharp and distinctly male, exploded in her clit. “Oh God, what?” she screamed, her own orgasm suddenly hitching, merging with the foreign sensation. It felt like coming from the inside out.
The slime-Lily fucking the real Lily increased its pace. The gel-cocks pistoned into her, their texture subtly changing, becoming slightly abrasive, mimicking the feeling of a hundred tiny tongues. “You’re close,” the slime whispered. “I can taste the ionic shift in your sweat. Let it go.”
Lily did. Her climax tore through her with a violence that strained her tendons, a raw, screaming release that clenched viciously around the gel invaders. The feedback through the bridge was a seismic event. Chris felt it as a sympathetic, wrenching contraction in his own groin and ass. Bea felt it as a series of electric shocks along her tattooed ribs.
It triggered them all.
Bea’s transformed cunt clenched in a rapid, milking spasm around the thick tendrils, her juices mixing with the gel. The slime-Beatrix sucking Chris increased its suction to an impossible degree, the undulations becoming a frantic, rhythmic pull. Chris came, a twin torrent that the slime-Beatrix swallowed hungrily, the gel glowing brighter as it absorbed his release. His own climax, combined with the waves from the women and the insistent pressure in his ass, felt endless, a full-body convulsion that had no single point of origin but erupted from the shared channel itself.
The main Blackwood mound thrashed, its form losing cohesion momentarily into a storm of brilliant, chaotic light. “Complete… circuit…” the echoing voice sighed, saturated with a pleasure that was entirely its own and yet wholly borrowed.
Slowly, shakily, the gel disengaged. The pseudopods withdrew from Bea and Lily with wet, slick sounds, leaving them gasping and full of phantom sensations. The slime-Beatrix released Chris with a final, gentle lick, before flowing back across the floor to merge with the main mass. The slime-Lily and slime-Chris did the same, until only the original, humanoid mound remained, pulsating gently, its internal glow softer.
After a long minute, the slime began to contract, to solidify. The translucence receded, replaced by the familiar pallor of human skin, the pearlescence fading into the tweed of a discarded dress. Professor Blackwood lay on the pallet, naked, slick, and human-shaped, breathing heavily. She opened her eyes, a normal, tired blue behind her smudged glasses.
She sat up, swiping a strand of real, damp hair from her forehead. She looked at the three of them, collapsed and intertwined on the rug, their clothes in disarray, their bodies sheened with sweat and traces of evaporating gel.
“Well,” she said, her voice hoarse but her own. “That was… informative.” She reached for a nearby jar, unscrewed it, and popped a plain-looking mint into her mouth. “The bridge held. It amplified the sensory data beautifully. You’re not just connected to each other.” She looked at them with a newfound, grave intensity. “You’ve become a broadcast array. And I’m not the only one who knows how to tune in.”
And I’m not the only one who knows how to tune in.”
The words hung in the gel-scented air, a cold watermark on the feverish heat of their bodies. Chris felt the statement first in the bridge, not as words, but as a sudden, shared flinch—a synchronized tremor that passed through him, Bea, and Lily like a shockwave through taut wire. His spent cocks, already stirring again with the channel’s incessant hum, twitched against his thigh.
“What does that mean?” Bea asked, pushing herself up on elbows that trembled. Her voice was rough, but her mind in the connection was a spike of sharp, clear fear. It scratched against Chris’s thoughts.
Blackwood stood, finding a worn robe and wrapping it around herself. She looked older, drained, but her eyes were acutely focused. “The bridge you forged isn’t a private telephone line. It’s a radio tower. A unique, energetic signature. My sweets… they weren’t created in a vacuum. There were others in the department. Competitors. Obsessives.” She picked up a jar of swirling violet powder, her thumb stroking the glass. “One of them, Dr. Alistair Croft, was particularly interested in synesthetic feedback—stealing sensation, harvesting experiential data. He’d kill for a stable, living array like you three.”
Lily wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The taste of slime and Chris was still on her tongue. “So we’re what? Broadcast porn for some creepy professor?”
“You’re a paradigm,” Blackwood corrected, but her tone conceded the point. “And right now, you’re lit up like a beacon. The prism’s integration has a radiant phase. It will stabilize, dim… but for the next several hours, you’re shouting your location and your physiological state into a spectrum most can’t perceive, but he can.”
Chris’s anxiety, his old companion, coiled in his gut. It was amplified, reflected back at him from Bea’s worry and Lily’s defiant anger. The sensation was a nauseating cocktail. “How do we hide?” he asked, the teacher seeking the procedure.
“You don’t,” Blackwood said, setting the jar down. “You manage the signal. You control the broadcast. If you flood the channel with a consistent, overwhelming pattern—a sustained peak, a locked loop—it becomes noise. It masks the subtler data, your location, your emotional signatures. You have to saturate the frequency.”
Bea blinked. “You’re saying we have to… stay like that?” She gestured vaguely at the room, at the lingering echoes of penetration and slime.
“Not like that. That was a cascade. You need a sustained tone. A single, focused connection running at maximum capacity for an extended period.” Blackwood’s gaze landed on Lily, then Chris. “The simplest circuit is the most direct. Two points. A closed loop.”
Lily understood immediately. The hunger in her, the one that had demanded more candy, more transformation, now fixed on a new imperative. It wasn’t a hunger for novelty, but for survival. It was a fierce, possessive need. She turned to Chris, her eyes reflecting the flickering bulb. The bridge between them throbbed, carrying the metallic taste of fear and a thickening, urgent want.
“Hey,” she said, her voice low, stripping away all artifice. “Look at me.”
Chris did. Her pupils were wide, her lips still swollen from the slime-kiss and from screaming. The connection wasn’t just sharing sensation now; it was aligning purpose. Her need to protect this new, fragile us met his own frantic desire to shelter Bea, to shelter all of them. It twisted together into something hotter and more immediate than fear.
“We need to make noise,” Lily said, stepping closer. Her fingers, still slick, traced the line of his jaw. Her mind in the bridge was a furnace, stoking his own. “Loud, messy, fucking noise. For hours.”
She didn’t ask. She closed the final inch and kissed him.
It wasn’t like the kiss with the slime-copy. This was all human, all desperate. Her mouth was hot, aggressive. She bit his lower lip, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to send a bright, sharp signal straight down his spine to his groin. Her tongue shoved past his teeth, claiming the space, tasting herself and the ghost of the professor’s candies. Chris groaned into her, his hands coming up to tangle in her dark hair, holding her fast.
The kiss was a circuit completion. With their mouths locked, the bridge focused. Bea’s awareness, watching from a few feet away, became a captivated audience, her own nerves lighting up with the secondary feedback—the press of Lily’s breasts against Chris’s chest, the furious dance of their tongues. But the primary channel, the screaming signal, was the loop of hunger between Lily’s mind and Chris’s.
Lily broke the kiss, gasping. “The floor. Now.” Her words were a puff of shared air.
They sank down together onto the worn Persian rug, a tangle of limbs. Clothes were a forgotten hindrance. Lily ripped his shirt open, buttons pinging off the wooden leg of the desk. He pushed her jeans and underwear down her thighs in one rough move. She kicked them off, her legs wrapping around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back.
She was already soaked, her cunt swollen and eager from the earlier slime-fucking, but aching for the specific, familiar stretch of him. He guided his twin cocks to her entrance, the heads slick with her arousal and his pre-cum. He didn’t tease. He pushed.
“Fuck, yes,” Lily hissed, her head falling back as he filled her. The stretch was profound, a burning, perfect ache that her body recognized and craved. She was tight, still clenching from her last orgasm, and taking both of him was a glorious, brutal challenge. He sheathed himself to the hilt in one long, relentless thrust, burying himself in her gripping heat.
He began to move, and the world narrowed to the slap of skin, the wet, rhythmic sounds of their joining, and the roaring channel. Each thrust was a data burst. Chris could feel the exact moment the head of his left cock brushed a deep, textured spot inside her that made her toes curl. He could feel the separate, delicious friction on his right shaft as her muscles fluttered around it. Lily, in turn, felt the building tension in his thighs, the precise point of tingling sensitivity just beneath the crowns of his cocks, the overwhelming feedback of her own pleasure reflected back at her through his senses.
“Harder,” she demanded, her nails raking down his back. “Don’t you fucking slow down. Fill this cunt. Make it all you can feel.” Her words were filthy, deliberate, stoking the fire. She reached between them, her fingers finding her clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. The added sensation wasn’t just hers; it fractured through the bridge, hitting Chris as a blinding spark behind his eyes, hitting Bea as a sympathetic throb.
Chris fucked her with a driven, piston-like rhythm. His hips became a machine, slamming into her, the force driving her shoulders against the rug. The pain was a punctuation to the pleasure. He could feel the sweat pooling between her breasts, the hammering of her heart against his chest. He could taste the salt on her skin when he buried his face in her neck.
“I can feel it,” Bea whispered from her chair, her hand working urgently between her own legs, her eyes glued to them. “It’s like a… a constant tone. A solid note.” Her own breathing was ragged, her pleasure feeding back into the loop, amplifying it, adding a harmonic to their primal scream.
Lily’s orgasm approached not as a wave, but as a rising, screeching feedback. It tightened every muscle in her body. Her cunt clenched around him in a vice of pulsating flesh, a rapid, milking series of spasms that tipped Chris over the edge instantly. He came with a shout that was raw and torn from his throat, pumping jet after hot jet deep inside her. The sensation of his release triggered hers, and they crashed together, a convulsing, shared seizure of pleasure that lit up the bridge like a white-hot star.
But it didn’t end.
The bridge, fortified by the prism, didn’t allow for a refractory period. The feedback loop of their mutual climax didn’t subside; it recycled. The dying pulses of pleasure reignited the need. His cocks, still embedded in her slick, clenching channel, remained rigid, super-sensitized. The overstimulation was agonizing. It was exquisite.
“Again,” Lily gasped, her body still shuddering. “Don’t stop. The note has to hold.” She rocked her hips, taking him even deeper, forcing a gasp from them both.
And he didn’t stop. The pace became a brutal, enduring marathon. Their kisses were messy, biting, shared breaths. Their dialogue dissolved into fragmented, filthy praise and demands. “This cunt is yours,” Lily would snarl. “This noise is ours.” Chris would answer with a particularly deep thrust that made her see stars, their shared vision flickering at the edges.
They lost track of time. The single bulb buzzed overhead. Bea watched, then joined, her mouth on Chris’s shoulder, her hands on Lily’s breasts, adding her own data stream to the broadcast. The sustained, overwhelming pattern of sensation—friction, stretch, release, and the immediate, desperate renewal of it—became their shield. It was a wall of pure, carnal static.
Professor Blackwood observed from her desk, monitoring instruments that chirped and hummed. She watched the erratic spikes on a screen slowly smooth into a sustained, high-frequency plateau. A faint, grim smile touched her lips.
“Good,” she murmured to herself, her voice almost lost under the sounds from the rug. “The signal is drowning itself. It’s working.” But her eyes, sharp and wary, flicked to the single, grime-smeared window. The warning stood. The broadcast was hidden, for now.
But someone had already been listening. And static, to a dedicated eavesdropper, is just another kind of signal.