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Page history last edited by PBworks 13 years, 8 months ago

It's Always Time

by Oblimo

Act One: Boy Meets Goo


We Could See What Was Underneath


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Grey pre-dawn light filtered through the green batter caked on the bedroom window. "I think," Dee panted, and rolled over, making the green lake around him slosh. Lying on his back on the floor, the green stuff was deep enough to gurgle around his ears. The citrus-and-sex smell was so pervasive it was part of his olfactory background now. "I think," he tried again. "I think I'm finally done. Maybe."


"Oh God, oh God," said Galatea, lying next to him.


Dee goosed the head of his flagging dick, and got that Don’t-Touch-Me! afterglow sensation he always got after orgasm. Well, used to always get. "Yeah, I'm spent. Sorry."


Galatea, glazed eyes lost to the heavens, was apparently still in communion with a higher power. "Oh God, oh God," she said.


The waterlogged, empty box of lime Jell-O floated by.


"Hey," said Dee, reaching out to caress her shoulder. Overestimating how much resistance her weakened surface tension now provided, his hand slipped right through her shoulder and deep into her breast, making her gyrate and mewl and chew her lip. "Oh, shit, sorry," Dee said, withdrawing. A huge gob of nectar gummed his hand. He scraped it off over her chest, making sure every dribble seeped back into her. "Hey," he tried again, "you okay?"


"So much," Galatea gulped, "you came—I came—you made me cum—so much, so much…"


"What about the nanomek?" Dee asked, imagining a fifty foot Galatea rampaging through midtown—and promptly filing the image under his mental Things-To-Do list. "What are they going to do with all of my, well, you know…"


Her laugh was weary. "Cum, Dee," she said, "all your cum. Why can't you say 'cum'?"


Dee felt his face flush.


"Dee," she said, exasperated, "you just spent the past four hours fucking me to death, non-fucking-stop. Don't you dare to pretend you're feeling modest…and lose the shit-eating grin, too."


"Okay, okay," Dee groused. "Cum. My cum. There. So what's the nanomek going to do with all my cum?"


Galatea inhaled, and there was an inrush of fluid around Dee as she siphoned some of the lake around them. She shimmied, trying to hold it in, but she hiccupped and it rushed back out. "Still too weak," she sighed. "Look around you Dee. That's cum. My cum. Don't worry about the nanomek. I was burning nanomek like crazy just to keep up with you. Didn't you notice? You didn't just make me wet, you made me boil."


"Alright," said Dee, laughing. "You made your point. No more false modesty."




"So are you going to be okay?" Dee interrupted. "Do you need more gelatin, water, semen, or something?"


Galatea rubbed a hand over her pubis mons. The weak surface tension of her gel could not keep the two parts of her body separate, her hand becoming nothing more than a hand-shaped ripple running over her sex. "The nanomek always holds a little energy and some of your cum—maybe a milliliter or two—in reserve, out of instinct or something like that, to keep me…cohesive, I guess is the best word. I can feel them replicating now." The hand-ripple moved faster. "Mm, I love that feeling; all those little nanogasms."


"Nano-gasms? You mean nanoscopic orgasm?"


"Mmm, thousands of 'em." Galatea purred for a moment, and then gasped, "Now millions. You’re a computer nerd, Dee, work it out: One sperm makes one nanomek replication. One replication gives me one nanogasm and produces two more nanomek—at least two, more if you really get 'em turned on—which combined with three more sperm gives me three more nanogasms and produces six more nanomek, which gives me nine more nanogasms and…well, after a few minutes of that I'll be back in shape, and hot and horny as Hell. Literally. And that's been going on inside me all the time since we started screwing, thanks to you and your insane sperm count, over 110 million per, I'd say. And climbing."


Dee stared at the ceiling. It was stained green. "Nanogasms," he repeated.


"Yeah," said Galatea, "I just made that up. Isn't it cute? It's probably already on the Internet, though. Everything else is."


"Technobabble takes the romance and mystery out of everything," Dee grumbled.


Galatea flicked a finger and a ping pong ball sized dollop of tart green honey hit him squarely on the nose. "Honestly, Dee," Galatea sighed as he spluttered and sneezed and sniffled, "don't get jealous of your own sperm."


Dee rolled his eyes to the ceiling, reached for a pillow floating nearby, and plopped it over his head. It splattered green Galatean cum all over him. "Lord all-mighty," he sighed.


After a few minutes of post-coital silence, Dee felt a steady current of fluid flowing past him and into Galatea. He pushed the soggy pillow off his face. "You were right," he said, smiling. "That was pretty fast."


"Told ya I was always thirsty after sex," Galatea said with a wink, her form slowly filling out and focusing. "As long as I keep refueling with the three Ds—especially yours—I'll be fine. I would like more collagen, though, to give the nanomek more to work with; to make me more versatile."


Galatea watched Dee smile for a while. "Dee," she said, "what are you thinking?"


"I'm trying to imagine you being 'more versatile'."


Galatea started watching something else. "Well, whatever you're imagining, keeping doing it," she said, eyes wide. "Mine's getting hard again."


"What?" Dee sat up in a lurch. The pillow slid off the top of his head and splashed to the floor. "Oh, Lord, no. Galatea, I'm sorry, but I haven't slept in almost seventy-two hours—being knocked unconscious from sex doesn't count. I don't know what's happening to me, but even if I don't need sleep, I sure as shit want some."


He dropped back down to the floor, glaring at his slowly swelling cock. "Traitor," he accused.


Galatea rose up like a pillar of green marble to stand astride his chest, the remaining fluid inrushing to feed her growth. A lot of her had burned up or evaporated overnight and she stood a little over

five feet tall, but from Dee's vantage point on the floor, the view of her ribcage was spectacular.


"Enjoying the scenery are you?" Galatea said, hands on her hips.


"Yes," Dee confessed. Galatea crossed her arms in an impatient gesture and Dee added, "Wow, that's even better."


"How observant," Galatea huffed. "Remember, Dee, when you told me that you were paying attention, despite my tricks?"




"Well, you couldn't've paying that much attention," Galatea said, leaning over to give Dee an even better view, "because you fell for my dumbest trick."


"Which was?" Dee asked.


The curved X over Galatea's left breast zippered shut. She bent impossibly backward and down until the her back pressed flat against her ass. Her hands finger-walked out between her legs. Her head followed, poking out between her thighs, her Cheshire Cat grin a mouth full of swords. Her legs flipped up and back and suddenly she lay prone on top of him, trapping his legs tight, hands wrapped around his dick, lips poised to strike. "I don't have a heart," she said, her wicked grin stretched wider than her face.


She held her triumphant pose for a moment before her face fell. "What are you smiling about?" she said.


"It's about time," Dee said. "You were starting to worry me."


Galatea's face crinkled in confusion. "You were expecting this?"


"Expecting?" laughed Dee. "God damn, woman, I thought you had me all figured out. I wanted this. I love this. We just need to come up with a safe-word or something and—"


She goggled at him. "You mean I've been holding back all this time," she cried, the X unzipping, "when we could've been having some real fun?!"


That shut him up. "You were holding back?" he squeaked.


"Dee?" she hissed. The word echoed—Dee-Dee-Dee-Dee—as four hollow, coke-bottle duplicates peeled away from her, trailing filaments of slime, rolling into predatory crouches.


"You have exactly fifteen seconds," the solid Galatea said, her hair writhing into questing tendrils, the filaments connecting her to her twins fattening into a thick gluey net as they moved to encircle him, "to come up with a safe-word, or get out that door. Either way…"


"…You're fucked," all five Galateas chorused.


"The safe word is 'Pygmalion'," he smirked, eating up three of his fifteen seconds. After another ten seconds he had the solid Gatalea flat on her back and melting with anticipation. "But I'm going for the door anyway!" he said, leaping and running, as the countdown hit zero.


He was fast, but they were much faster.





The man in the black T-shirt listened to the noises above: a quick series of muffled thumps, followed by yelp, a heavy thud accompanying a shower of plaster dust, and then a slow, rhythmic squeak of something heavy being dragged back across a floor in a series of long, strong jerks. "Christ, now what?" he said, making his way across the floor, careful not to slip in the lumps of wet plaster, tiptoeing around the minefield of half-full bowls, pots, pans, and cups.


Blinking and bleary, he yanked up the shade and threw open the window to greet the rosy fingers of dawn. "Does the bastard ever sleep?" he muttered, grabbing the broom propped up against the windowsill.


He had broken off the head of the broom hours ago; damn thing was useless against wet plaster anyway. The grey sphere of a web camera about the size of a child's fist surmounted the broom handle, held fast with a complex weaving of silver duct-tape. The camera's black, cyclopean eye made the whole contraption look like a robotic eyestalk from an alien invasion saddled by a shoestring budget. He fed the USB extension computer cable into the back of the web camera and hoisted it out the window, alternating between glaring at the shaky images being sent to the computer screen and reconnoitering with his head out in the open air. It was getting harder and harder to find a good, clear spot in the second-story window directly above his. "There we go," he grunted, manhandling the eyestalk into position and lashing it to the window frame with strips of duct-tape torn from the roll with his teeth.


He hustled back to his computer, knocking over a coffee mug on the floor in the process. "Fuck!" said the man in the black T-shirt, watching green water zigzag out of the mug. "No, no!" The citrine stuff dribbled up the wall like a candle melting in reverse. "Don't go back to him!" It ran to the middle of the ceiling and disappeared up the jagged crack of ruined plaster. "Don't go back to him you bitch!"


But there was nothing he could do, as usual. He had even tried freezing the stuff, only to be awoken at one o'clock in the morning by the clatter of ice cubes smashing themselves against the front door of the apartment, trying to get out, trying to get back to him.


The man in the black T-shirt's bedroom filled with clanks and splashes as the metal and ceramic containers on the floor began, once again, filling up with green raindrops leaking through the crumbling ceiling of his first-floor apartment. There was nothing he could do, except sit at the computer, adjust the web camera's settings to get a good live video feed, open a tube of hand lotion, unzip his fly, and bang away like mad on his dick. He had been reduced to an electronic peeping Tom, watching his upstairs neighbor get screwed six ways to Sunday in the middle of an all-goo-girl orgy.


"I fucking hate you, Dee," said Bee.



I wanted to see how it would feel

To be that sleek

And instead I find this hunger's

Made me weak

I believe right now if I could

I would swallow you whole

I would leave only bones and teeth

We could see what was underneath

And you would be free then


—Susan Vega, Undertow





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