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“Rubberwerks” is my all-time favorite rubber transformation/mind-control story.

What if something you touched started consuming you and filling your body with insatable pleasure? What if it changed you and compelled you to share the “infection”? Such a nice, desirable, needful “infection”... 😉

I assure you, you will not forget this story!

An example of the “infected”:
Let's paste the story here, just in case...
By Lyka Bloom

Part One

Christine was in the lead, which was a surprise to no one. Clay, wiping sweat from the back of his neck with a bandana he’d purchased in the nearby village in southern Chiapas, watched his girlfriend duck under the foliage on the seldom-used trail. Her blonde hair had been pulled back into a ponytail that was beginning to stick to her neck from the day’s heat, a dark patch spread between the shoulders of the yellow tank top she’d fished from her bag this morning. Her legs were long and tan, mostly visible thanks to the brevity of the khaki shorts she wore. It was perhaps not the most efficient hiking gear he could imagine, but it was an ode to Christine’s athletic body.

Clay looked behind him, smiling to himself as Nareen and Stephen argued quietly with one another. Nareen, far out of Stephen’s league with her exotic Indian features and wealthy background, was ticking off her points finger-by-finger in what was sure to be an all-day battle, if the history of the trip so far were any judge.

“You coming?” he called behind him.

Stephen, dark-haired and pale, a handful of pounds overweight thanks to his desk job, waved back at Clay to go on. His eyes, when he met Clay’s, begged for support. He had worn jeans for the hike, and the way the pits of his shirt were drenched, he imagined Stephen must be miserable, nagging girlfriend or no.

“Stephen’s too busy checking the map every five minutes for us to keep up,” Nareen said, looking at Stephen as she spoke. As if in karmic response, a branch Stephen pushed back from the trail snapped back and swatted Nareen’s cheek, leaving an angry red line across her face.

“Stephen!” she called out, cupping the wound on her cheek.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled, pushing forward and up the trail, trading one scene of thickly overgrown vegetation for another.

“Everybody with us?” Christine asked, perched atop a rock, taking a long pull from the water bottle hooked onto the backpack she wore.

“Just waiting for the last two,” Clay said and dropped her a wink. Christine responded by sticking her tongue out, a childish gesture that nonetheless made him laugh.

“We’re here!” Maggie called, the pixie-like neon red bob appearing through the leaves before the rest of her. Maggie had been the last to agree to go on the trip, for no other reason than a Maggie at rest tended to remain at rest. When Justine had announced she would go to Mexico with the group, regardless of Maggie’s decision, Maggie had relented. She swatted a bug, smacking her calf hard. Her skin was very fair, but had started to take on a lobster-like hue that was going to hurt at some point. A tattoo of a snake’s tail disappeared up her denim cut-offs, and Clay wondered where that snake rested its head. Thin and tall, Clay had always found Maggie attractive, and had even registered disappointment when she had announced her preference for women, though, after meeting her partner Justine, he understood.

“Just keep moving, Mags,” Justine said from behind Maggie, playfully swatting her ass.

“We could have done a resort. I’m just saying,” Maggie replied, but the smile on her face told the real story. She was in love with Justine, with her long brown hair, her penchant for girl-next-door fashion, chubby cheeks and a flat tone to her voice that always sounded bemused. It didn’t hurt that Justine had a body hidden beneath her sweaters and skirts that rivaled Christine’s ample curves. For the day’s activities, Justine had found a tank top and biking shorts that hid nothing, a reminder that she was the most voluptuous of the group.

“How much farther?” Stephen asked, finally cresting the swell of earth where Clay stood.

“About half a mile, according to the map,” Christine said, refolding a laminated map she’d been consulting since they started out early in the morning. “We should be there before long. We’ll want to find a place to camp, too. I don’t think we’re getting out of here before dark.”

“Oh, great,” Nareen whispered to Stephen, loud enough for Clay to hear. “Another night in some cave. This is so relaxing. Way better than going to Cancun.”

Clay watched them go past, then shared a grin with Maggie and Justine who were rolling their eyes and making a show of choking themselves, respectively, as they walked past.

“All here, babe,” Clay called up to Christine, who tucked her water bottle away and pointed around a bend of the trail only she could see.

“You can almost see it from here, you guys,” she said, and the excitement in her voice was palpable.

It had been Christine’s idea, a trip into the Mexican wilds to camp at the foot of a pyramid, as well as to drink copious amounts of the local tequila. In the inhalation of life that followed college and preceded gainful employment, Christine wanted one last time to be irresponsible and Clay could refuse her nothing. Not only was Christine Dawes the single most beautiful girl he had ever seen, she was also kind and loving, a combination he had seen precious little of.

Clay followed behind Maggie and Justine, happy to let Christine forge ahead and fulfill her vision of being the daring explorer while he made sure their generally ill-prepared friends didn’t wander into the jungle.

He was watching the trail wind beneath his feet when he ran squarely into Justine’s back, nearly toppling her and giving Maggie a healthy shove in the process.

“Whoa there, cowboy,” Justine laughed.

“Holy shit,” Maggie said under her breath, an involuntary reaction she registered only after she said it. “Sorry, hon.”

“It fits,” Justine said.

Clay followed their eyes to the boxy shape cloaked by shadow ahead of them. He stepped past them, peering into the jungle.

“What is that?” he asked.

Nareen and Stephen joined them, and Stephen took a tentative step off the path and into the jungle proper, something Christine had advised them all against.

“It’s a building,” Stephen said in answer, adjusting his glasses and wiping sweat from the lenses. “Not ancient. Forty, maybe fifty years old.”

“What are you guys looking at?” Christine called back to them and stopped, seeing the group huddled at a bend in the path, staring into the vines and shadows cast by the high canopy. She started back down the path towards them, bending to get a glimpse of what had enthralled the group when she caught sight of it. The building was barely visible through the foliage, but it cast a darker shadow than the rest of the jungle’s backdrop.

“Holy shit,” she muttered.

“Right?” Maggie added, inviting a nudge from Justine.

“What do you think, Chris?” Clay asked, looking around the others, enjoying the look of amazement on his girlfriend’s face. “Is it on the map?”

Christine slung the backpack off a shoulder, digging inside for the laminated map. She unfolded it, following their progress with her nail and shook her head.

“Whatever it is, it’s not on the map.” She rifled through the backpack again and found a marker, uncapping it with her mouth and making a thick X on the slick surface.

“What are you doing?” Nareen asked, standing on her tiptoes to look over Christine’s shoulder.

“I’m marking our place,” she said, re-capping the pen and depositing both pen and map in the backpack. “We’re going to check it out.” Clay circled around the backs of Nareen and Stephen and took Christine by the elbow, pulling her away from the others.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? What about all that stuff about never leaving the trail?” Clay spoke soft and evenly, not wanting to be characterized as an argumentative couple the way he’d filed Nareen and Stephen in that category.

“It’s fine, babe,” she said, her smile warming him in a way that nearly hurt. “We can see the trail from there. Don’t you want to see what it is?”

“Sure, I just don’t want it to be the last thing I ever see, you know? It could be filled with snakes or something.”

“Snakes?” she laughed. “Hon, you have probably stepped over more snakes on the way here than you’re going to find in that building. Come on, let’s go exploring. Please? Please please please?”

“Fine, but should we take some kind of precautions or leave bread crumbs or something?”

“Just bring that sweet ass,” she grinned and gave his right cheek a lewd squeeze as she passed by to join Stephen at the edge of the deep vegetation.

“Looks like a pretty straight line from here to there. You guys ready?”

Everyone murmured their assent and followed Christine into the jungle.

Surprisingly, the walk was shorter than they had expected. The dark silhouette of the building grew as they pushed through the jungle, sometimes wickedly slow due to the ropey vines, and even Maggie had a turn at swinging Clay’s machete to carve their way through the net-like labyrinth.

Nareen had ceased most of her complaints after the world had grown dark under the canopy, the sun slipping to an odd angle. Though the building was growing close, night was falling quickly and Clay worried they would find themselves in impenetrable blackness before they reached their destination.

Christine, nimble as she was, wove in and out of the criss-crossing vines, staying a solid ten yards or more ahead of the rest of the group. Clay was careful to keep an eye out and ensure she did not vanish in the gloom that was quickly swallowing them all.

“Hey,” Christine said, looking over her shoulder to draw their attention. “I think I found stairs.”

The discovery energized the procession and they made faster time through the jungle until they caught up with Christine, standing with one foot on a cement step almost hidden by the roots and detritus that had been deposited there. The steps led up to the entrance of a non-descript structure that looked like plane factories Clay had seen in World War Two photos. Large square windows composed of three even horizontal and vertical rows of smaller windows lined the highest floor of the building, which must have been four stories at least. The exterior was all cement, white against the green of the flora that sought to reclaim the land for itself. Behind the face of the building, Clay could make out two crumbling smoke stacks.

“What the hell is it?” Justine asked, her hand on Maggie’s shoulder. Maggie covered Justine’s with her own.

“Does it look like a factory to anyone else?”

“Yeah,” Stephen said, looking at Maggie. “It looks exactly like a factory. But what’s it doing out here?”

“Only one way to find out!” Christine climbed the steps towards the double doors which stood ten feet high, dwarfing her as she approached.

The rest followed until they gathered again at the doorway. A look of vague unease passed between them before Clay placed his hand on the doors and pushed. A horror movie squeal of rusty hinges echoed in the jungle, accompanied by the flap of wings as nervous birds took flight.

“Comforting,” Nareen said, hugging Stephen’s arm and leaning her head on his shoulder.

They stepped into the factory and an immediate wave of cool air passed over them. There were sighs of relief from several of the group as the heat of the day was replaced by dry, cool air.

They were greeted by what appeared to be a reception area, made up of decaying wood paneling, more utilitarian than luxurious. An old typewriter and loose papers, some still tucked inside manila envelopes, were scattered about. A coffee cup sat beside the typewriter, dusty and stained inside by black rings.

“I wonder how long it’s been since someone’s been in here,” Justine whispered, the darkness and chill air creating a sense of quietude among them.

Clay lifted the coffee mug from the desk and rubbed it with his thumb, revealing an off-kilter X.

“What is that?” Christine said, sidling up to Clay and examining the mug.

Another rub, wider circles, and the image came clear – a swastika.

“Holy shit,” Maggie repeated.

Nareen backed away from the group, hands held before her in warding. “We should get out of here. That’s some seriously evil mojo.”

Clay returned the mug to the desk and rubbed his fingers together to brush away the dust.

“Hold on,” Christine said, taking a step towards Nareen. “It’s almost dark outside and getting lost in the jungle at night is a bad idea, no matter how you slice it. Besides, whatever this place was, it’s abandoned now.”

“Chris is right,” Clay said, moving to her side. “This could even be… I don’t know, important maybe.”

Stephen slipped his backpack to the ground beside him. “I think they’re right, Nareen. Wherever we are right now, I think it’s best to stay until morning.”

“I think you’re all crazy. You saw what was on that coffee mug.” Nareen looked to Stephen, then past him to Justine and Maggie, eager to see some sign of support. “Fine,” she said, finding no sign of solidarity, “but I’m staying right here in this room until the sun comes up and we can get out of here.”

“Suit yourself,” Stephen said. “I plan to take a little tour. They might have made planes here or something. That would be pretty awesome.”

“In Mexico?” Maggie’s disbelief drew Stephen’s attention. “Maybe this wasn’t even World War Two. Didn’t they make a movie or something about Nazis doing secret experiments after the war? This could be one of those things. Some evil plot to take over the world, hidden away in the jungle.”

Justine wrapped her arms around Maggie’s waist, kissing her neck and smiling. “I love it when you get all conspiracy theory on me.”

Nareen scowled at the couple, and, not for the first time, Clay found himself wishing they’d come without Stephen’s new flame. Despite her outward tolerance, Clay believed Nareen’s dirty glances at Maggie and Justine were indicative of a thinly-veiled homophobia.

“I’m all for exploring,” Christine added, “but nobody goes alone. I don’t expect us to find any Nazis crawling around this place, but there’s plenty of wildlife that might be calling this home. So go in pairs, at least. Nobody goes anywhere alone.”

They had made a rough camp in the wide lobby of the building, a lantern in the center of the various bedrolls and sleeping bags. The interior had remained a steady cool temperature, and, after they had eaten from their foil-sealed and plastic-wrapped provisions, talk had, of course, turned to the raison d’etre for the facility’s location.

The theories ranged from a staging platform for an invasion of the United States to zombie soldiers, but none had yet ventured into the bowels of the building. Access to the deeper interior could be gained from iron stairs leading up on both the left and right and hallways on their level that extended past the reception area and into darkness.

Christine pushed herself up from Clay’s lap and found her backpack in the pile of supplies. Clay let his hands slide down her legs as she left him, admiring her once more as she faded to gray in the soft glow of the lantern.

“What are you doing?”

“Since I am not ready to sleep yet and all we’ve seen of this place is this room, I thought I might take a peek down the hallway.” She clicked a flashlight on and placed it beneath her chin, illuminating her face. “See if there are any g-g-g-ghosts around. Anyone else?”

Clay stood, brushing the back of his jeans off. “I’m in, sure.”

“I’m staying here,” Nareen repeated. Stephen sighed, a bit louder than he intended.

“Me and Maggie will come,” Justine volunteered, pulling Maggie to her feet. “Dibs on any beds we find.”

“Oh, really?” Maggie laughed.

“Not for that,” Justine said, taking Maggie’s hand, “I just want to sleep on something soft and cushiony and preferably with a whole bed full of pillows.”

“You really know how to rough it.” Maggie gave Justine’s hand a squeeze and pulled her towards Clay and Christine.

“I don’t want to stay just because she’s a chicken,” Stephen protested, eliciting a smack on his shoulder with the back of Nareen’s hand.

“Fine, go. God forbid you should want to stay and keep me company.”

“I’ll stay,” Christine volunteered. “You don’t have to be alone here.”

“No, it’s fine,” Nareen said with a wave of her hand, her demeanor softer. “I’ll wait here for everyone.”

Stephen hesitated, rethinking his plans to join the rest of the group, but kept quiet. A few minutes away from Nareen’s nagging sounded like a recipe for happiness, even if that happiness was fleeting.

“You’re sure?” Christine said, clipping a short-range walkie-talkie to her belt. The range on the radio wasn’t extravagant, but it would connect her to anyone inside the building, she thought. “Here, take this,” she said, pushing a similar radio into Clay’s hand.

“I’m not coming with you?”

“Nope. You’re going with Stephen. Maggie and Justine are coming with me.” She leaned up and kissed Clay, closing her eyes and enjoying the scruff of his skin, unshaven since the day before. “Call me if you need me to come rescue you. Channel fifteen, okay?”

As they climbed the iron steps along the left wall, Clay watched the light from Christine’s flashlight swell and recede as she led Maggie and Justine into the interior of the building. Stephen was quiet behind him, the only sound the echo of ringing metal as their footfalls kicked dust from the stairs.

Stephen looked back at Nareen, beautiful and quiet, alone by the lantern below him. Her dark hair was down, spilling over her shoulders, her caramel skin made darker by the soft light of the lantern. There was no denying her beauty, those smoky gray eyes and swollen lips, she was an ideal of exotic appeal. The only problem with Nareen’s beauty was her awareness of it, and she was not above using a bit of seduction to get what she wanted. Stephen had found her coy manner exciting at first, often maddeningly arousing, but months down the road and he saw the manipulation of it more than the appeal of her enticements.

Clay pushed open a door at the top of the stairs and shone his own flashlight down the hallway, lined on either side by dusty glass and wooden doors, each with a placard that indicated the owner of the office. The names on the placards were certainly German, but the little thrill of fear he had felt upon opening the door had faded, replaced by the sense that he was standing in what was merely very old office space. He swung the flashlight to his right, finding a connecting hallway that would most certainly link this side of the building with the offices on the other side, up the other set of stairs from the reception area.

“Looks like we’re the raiders of the lost accounting office,” Stephen said behind him, chuckling to himself.

“Not exactly the super-soldier lab we were hoping for, huh?”

“Come on,” Stephen said, pushing past Clay and opening the second door on his left, the name HAUPTMANN stenciled on the door.

Clay followed, lighting the room as Stephen led the way. A desk sat at the rear of the room, centered with a high-backed leather chair behind it and two wooden chairs before it. Much like the receptionist’s desk downstairs, papers were scattered over the surface of the desk, a metal lamp arched over the side by its flexible neck. Stephen wasted no time circling the desk, rifling through the papers there.

“You know any German?” Stephen asked, not looking up from the files.

“Nope. But isn’t English basically just a lot of German?”

“That’s not how it looks when you see it all together like this,” Stephen replied, and they both laughed. “Whoa!”

“What is it?”

Clay joined Stephen at the desk, shining the light onto the opened documents. Stephen had removed a photograph from one, a black and white study of a nude woman standing in an examination room. She was gorgeous, Clay noted, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, staring at the camera with a strangely knowing smile on her face. Heavy breasts hung from her thin frame, and Clay was embarrassed by his attraction to a woman’s picture, a woman who was most certainly dead by now.

“Hot, huh?”

“Yeah. I wonder why the old Nazi war machine was taking dirty pictures.”

Clay closed the file, the black and white still protruding from the document, offering them a peek at the unidentified woman’s smoothly shaven sex. On the cover, two words had been stamped in red stencil: PHASE EINS: PUPAE.

“So,” Maggie said, breaking the silence, “Clay.”

Christine responded with an automatic smile and a girlish tilt of her head.

“That good, huh?”

“It’s been eight months,” Christine said, “and I have to stay that it’s better all the time. He’s an honest-to-goodness great guy.”

“I like him,” Justine interrupted. “He seems really open-minded.”

“Because he hasn’t made a big deal about us?” Maggie asked, swinging her arm as they walked hand in hand. “He just thinks you have big boobs. Which is understandable, because you do.”

“Just because you’re obsessed doesn’t mean he is.”

“He definitely is!” Maggie continued, grinning. “I caught him checking you out when we were hiking here.”

“Clay was checking her out?” Christine asked, feigning hurt.

“Not like he checks you out, babe,” Maggie reassured her. “He is smitten, Chris. Have no fear.”

They continued down the hall, their voices lower as they passed by metal doors with viewing slots pulled shut. Christine resisted the urge to pull back the slide to peek inside one of the rooms, afraid of what she might find, but the curiosity nagged at her. Between the doors, only the gray painted cinderblock walls stood. No decorations, no signs, except for a faint arrow pointing them forward painted onto the floor tiles.

“Bed!” Justine exclaimed and disappeared inside the dark of a room like the others, only this door was open.

Christine followed Justine with her flashlight, seeing only Maggie’s back as she was pulled inside with her. Christine stepped to the open doorway and found herself peering into a cell-like room, the walls padded with white fabric, cushioned beneath. A single-size bed was pressed against the far wall, opposite a standing sink and toilet.

“It’s a prison cell or something,” Christine said, splashing the light off of each wall for some indication of the room’s use and finding only the dirty white fabric.

“All I know,” Justine said, bouncing on the bed, “is that this is comfy and I don’t have to sleep on the floor tonight.

“You sure there aren’t bugs or something?” Maggie asked, wrinkling her nose. Still, she joined Justin on the edge of the bed and placed her hands flat on the sheets behind her. “Oooh, this is comfy.”

“See?” Justine said and pressed her lips to Maggie’s.

Maggie leaned into the kiss, hand raised to cup her lover’s cheek.

“You want me to leave you two alone for a minute?” Christine asked from the doorway, feeling suddenly awkward.

“No,” Justine said, breaking the kiss. “Sorry, just not a lot of alone time this trip.”

“Seriously, you two sit tight. I’m going to follow the hallway down and see where it goes. Just shut the door or something in case you two get frisky.”

“You don’t mind?” Maggie asked, but she was aeady standing, hand on the door, prepared to shut it behind Christine.

“Not at all. Be back in a few. Here,” she said, unclipping the radio from her belt and handing it to Maggie. “If you get stuck or something, just use channel fifteen to call Clay.”

Maggie gave her a military salute and mouthed the words ‘Thank you’ before pushing the door closed, but not shut.

Christine, relatively isolated in the hall, pointed the flashlight into the unexplored darkness, following again the arrows fading on the floor. Her hiking boots’ rubber soles squeaked on the tiles, the only other sound besides her breath.

She reached the end of the hall, met with double doors that appeared locked, a primitive-looking keypad to the right of the handle. She reached out to touch it and depressed one of the buttons, surprised when the entire door moved. Pressing her palm against it, she pushed harder, the door opening with a soft whooshing sound as if the atmosphere around her were equalizing.

She stepped into the large chamber beyond the door and was greeted with a cavernous room, extending upwards to the building’s full height, the glass domes at the apex overrun by vegetation, choking out any light. Large pipes ran along the walls and ceiling and Christine could hear the staccato sound of random drops of fluid dripping onto the cement floor. Immediately in front of her, three small steps led to a platform and bank of panels, some television monitors and knobs and dials, cold and silent. Beyond the control panel, eight metal cylinders stood, some of the narrower pipes descending to meet the cone-shaped tops. A valve protruded from the floor at the base of each of the cylinders, the containers themselves windowless and mysterious.

She whistled in appreciation, the sound echoing back to her. She heard a click and spun to find the doors closed behind her. She pulled at the handle and found it still opened, and her moment of panic subsided.

Moving closer, Christine examined the cylinder to her left, searching for any sign of the contents. There were no labels, no signs, only the polished metal. She placed her hand against it, jerking it back quickly as she sensed a strange thrumming within. She looked down, finding that she walked on a grated elevation, the floor beneath covered by a thick black liquid. Leaning down, she shone the light inches away from the surface of the fluid, but it seemed to swallow the light rather than reflect it.

Continuing on, she rapped her knuckled on the next tank, hearing a deep sound in response that told her this cylinder was full, too. She turned again, the light preceding her sight, gasping at the sound that had whispered close by. Something that sounded wet and bubbling, but the sound was gone. Then, another noise, the sound of heavy machinery waking, its creaky metallic bones turning once more despite rusty protestations. A coughing, thick sound came from all around her, then the rattle of pipes as something moved through them. To her right, the valve at the nearest cylinder shook, sputtered, then spat a viscous black liquid through the grates to the pool below. She took an involuntary step back, then saw another begin to deposit its own stream of the substance, then another behind her. It was molasses-thick, but impenetrably black. Walking backwards, back to the control panel, her flashlight moved between the three valves. She coughed as an odor accompanied the release of the fluid, synthetic and musky, making her eyes tear with its intensity. Bumping into the control panel, she found herself tumbling backwards to the floor, looking beneath the grated walkways at the large pool of the black ooze that spread beneath.

She felt a warm tingle on the fingertips of her right hand and realized that she had come down too close to the stuff, and her middle, index and ring fingers were submerged in the black goo. Christine yanked her hand free, crab-walking backwards away from the pool of sticky fluid. Holding her fingers before her, she shone on the flashlight on them and saw that the black fluid was translucent under the light, accompanied by a tingling where it covered her fingers like they had fallen asleep.

She brushed her fingers on her khaki shorts and found that her fingers were no less coated by the substance, and now her shorts were whitening where her fingers had touched them. She pointed the flashlight at the spot on her shorts, seeing tiny holes appear before meeting and joining, becoming a large tear in her shorts, displaying several inches of her upper thigh.

Meanwhile, the ooze trailed down her fingers, covering two of them completely now, spreading that tingling sensation as it slid. She attempted to wipe the ooze on the floor, but it clung to her fingers, lubricating the contact with the floor and causing her fingers to glide along the surface. She breathed in sharply as she felt the same tingling at hole in her shorts and she saw that the material still retreated from the point of contact, dissolving more of her shorts at a slow but steady rate. Worse, the goo had found its way to the skin of her thigh and the pins-and-needles sensation burned there, too. Growing desperate, she tried to wipe the slick substance away and came away with the tips of her fingers tingling too, having done nothing more than increase the spot on her thigh where the tingling murmured up her spine. She shook her hands away from her, attempting to use inertia to free her hands of the stuff, but the ooze continued to expand at a faster rate. As she watched, the goo seemed to climb down her hand, sending tendrils ahead of it, tiny streams of it that grew to a river as it moved down, and always bringing with it the maddening tingles.

She started for the door, staggering as she walked and nearly collapsing again as the tingling in both hands drove out any other thought. She whimpered helplessly, feeling the insistent prickling flowing over her thigh, its area now more than the size of her hand. A quick look revealed that the right leg of her shorts was little more than tatters and her plain white panties were peeking through.

When the tingling began to move up her thigh, defying gravity itself, true panic struck Christine. She pushed at the door, but found her arms weak, her hands spasming wildly, fingers contracting and releasing.

“Somebody?” she called out to the empty room. “Please help me…”

Then, the ooze reached the inside of her thigh, exploring upwards until she could feel her panties dampen and disappear as the goo found and dissolved her underwear. Her eyes jerked open as she felt the tingling effect multiply as it crept around her mons. Her breath came rapidly, almost a pant as the sensation entered her, the viscous tendrils reaching inside her and spreading. Christine slumped against the wall and slid to the floor as the substance coated most of her right leg, up her arms, faster and faster, lighting her body with the strangely pleasant prickly feeling.

Inside her, she could feel the tingling abate some as it morphed into a new sensation, something softer, like liquid silk swirling over her clitoris and invading her more deeply, coating her inner walls with the same slick substance. The whimper of fear ceased as her eyes rolled up, a sense of pure pleasure radiating from her clitoris and fanning out with the most comforting warmth she had ever felt, a desperate and satisfying heat that came from within. Unconsciously, her hands raised to her neck, the spasming subsided as a new imperative guided them. They touched and rubbed, caressing and coating her neck. Her legs rubbed slickly together as the caress inside her became a pulse, and each wave brought a new level of pure ecstasy.

The ooze spread over her, the slippery goo climbing her neck to her chin and when it reached her lips, Christine’s tongue was there to greet it and welcome it into her. Her fingers worked to rip away the chambray top and simply placing her hands over the cups of her bra, she felt the material dissolve under her touch, the scream of her body’s pleasure as her hands painted her breasts with the ooze. It flowed around her, enveloped her, the disparate patches of the goo finding the next and creating a seal over Christine’s body.

Her hand wandered between her breasts and down her belly until she found her nether lips, spreading them with two fingers as a third slid inside her and pressed against the hard button of her clitoris, which rewarded her touch with another wave of bliss that drove away all other thought save for preserving this pleasure.

Christine was vaguely aware of the fluid finally meeting at the crown of her head and sliding between and around her toes, and a final, satisfying tingle as the goo invaded her rectum. To an outside observer, Christine’s nude form would appear to shimmer with a wet gloss.

A second finger found its way inside her, and Christine’s hips bucked while meeting her hand, hooking her fingers to curl deeper into her canal, her thumb now preoccupied with pressing rhythmically against her clit. She moaned, a low and almost animal sound as tension twisted in her belly, announcing a flood of pleasure in mere moments. She used the wall to brace herself, lifting her hips higher as her fingers plunged in and out, her other hand kneading her breast, squeezing flesh between her fingers.

“Yesss…” she whispered as the orgasm grew within her, reaching dizzying heights before crashing down on Christine, subsuming her with pure carnality. She cried out long and loud, her fingers frozen inside her, back arched, nipple between her fingers, pinching it tight. She held the pose for a long moment as her mind blanked, her thoughts only in service of the physical joy she experienced.

Eventually, her body relaxed, the tension fading. Her breath grew slower and more even as she laid her hands on her slick stomach. She tried to remember what had alarmed her so much when she had first touched the delicious ooze, but could only revel in the feel of her fingers against her body. It was if a veil had been lifted and her body could experience pleasure in a way she had never imagined, every touch a spark that was tied to her sex, which rewarded her with another wave of intoxicating arousal. She had no urge to move just yet, allowing her hand to drift over her breast, now a fleshy pillow of delight. She giggled to herself at the joy of her body, the way every inch had found a union of pleasure that swallowed her whole.

In time, Christine stood and ran her fingers up her face and through her hair. She picked a few loose strands from her oily touch as she examined the glossy fingers, but found no need to worry. Whatever happened, she would adapt so long as this feeling remained. She could not imagine a life lived without it. In this moment of appreciation, a new thought occurred to her. She had to share it. The others with her, they would adore these feelings, she knew, just as she had.

She stood, her feet making bare wet sounds as she walked, but she left no trace of the substance that covered her behind. She pushed the doors open and entered the dark hallway, retracing her steps, her hips swaying seductively in the darkness.

She paused at the almost-closed door where she was greeted by the sounds of Justine and Maggie’s lovemaking. She listened a moment, stroking her slick vulva, before pulling the door silently shut and throwing the bar, locking them safely within. She would return for them and she would join in their pleasure, as they joined her, in a passionate and wet tumble of flesh. For now, she knew another, alone, that would want to experience Christine’s gift.

Her wet feet smacking the tile of the pitch hallway, Christine made her way to Nareen.

Author’s Note: All characters and events are fictional and involve characters of legal age.

Thoughts or comments, email
By Lyka Bloom

Rubberwerks: Chrysalis

Clay flipped through the files in a nearby cabinet, searching for some clue that would illuminate the purpose of the mysterious factory buried deep in the Mexican jungle. Stephen was still rifling through the desk, but neither seemed to make more progress beyond the file they’d discovered beneath a layer of decades-old dust.

“I don’t know,” Stephen said, breaking the silence. “Maybe it’s just some random thing. I mean, who knows what these people were into. You have seen German porn, right? No accounting for peoples’ kinks.”

Clay considered it and shook his head. “No, there’s something to it. I don’t think you have pictures of naked test subjects or whatever without a reason.”

“I want to look in some of the other rooms. Maybe see if the girls found anything downstairs.”

“Mind if I hang here another minute?” Clay asked, examining the contents of another folder before returning it to the file cabinet.

“Nah, do your thing. I think I’ll check on Nareen, too. She may be a pain in the ass sometimes, but I feel bad about leaving her alone down there. She had elephantiasis of the creeps, so I should probably do the boyfriend thing and make sure she’s okay.”

“You okay with no flashlight?”

“Yeah,” Stephen said, waving Clay off, “just to the right and down the stairs. I’ll scream if I run into a Nazi ghost.”

“Seriously,” Clay said, more somber than Stephen’s light tone. “Be careful. We really have no idea what these freaks were up to. Don’t be reckless.”

“When have I ever been reckless,” Stephen replied, turning the corner into the hall. His foot caught on the frame and sent him onto his belly, stirring dust as he hit the floor. He hopped up, bouncing on his toes. “I’m fine!” he called and Clay laughed as his friend disappeared into the gloom.

Clay opened another drawer, this one mostly empty. The flashlight ran across the Germanic labels as he thumbed through the folders’ tabs, pausing as a word caught his eye.

‘Chrysalis,’ it read.

Stephen hummed to himself as he descended the stairs, jogging down the steps. Their exploration may not have yielded much in the way of information, but he’d be a liar to say it wasn’t exciting. There was something forbidden about the pace. Verboten, he corrected himself and chuckled.

He could see Nareen around the glow of the lantern at the far end of the entranceway, as close to being outside the building as she could while still resting on this side of the door. Stephen silently promised himself to be better for her, to not let his own childish impulses cause such friction between them. She wasn’t blameless, but Stephen had the nasty habit of wanting retaliation for every perceived slight delivered unto him by the dark beauty.

He found the floor of the building and started towards Nareen, her back to him. He took a second to admire the glowing halo her hair formed, reminding himself he was damn lucky to have a beautiful woman like Nareen in his life at all.

He had started for her when he heard something from behind, something coming from the dark hall the girls had disappeared into. He leaned into the darkness, unable to make out anything past a few feet in the gloom of the hallway.

“Hello?” he called softly, his voice echoing back to him. He turned back to Nareen, who stayed still, too far away to hear his voice or still too angry to respond.

With a tilt of his head, Stephen could hear something like mud striking stone, wet and thick-sounding. He took a step towards the sound in the darkness.

“Chris? Maggie?”


The voice was feminine, but Stephen couldn’t make out the speaker. There was something ragged about it, but not frightened or alarmed. If anything, the voice registered a sort of pleasant surprise.

“Who is that?”

“Stephen,” it said again. “Come here. You have to see. It’s wonderful.”

“Chris?” he repeated, taking another step towards the voice.

“Come here, Stephen,” the voice said, more insistent. It sounded like Christine, but there was something thick and wet about the sound of her voice, a tenor that sent a cold chill down his spine.

“Why don’t you come out here,” he replied and there was a pause, silence loud in the mouth of the hallway.

Then, a giggle, a staccato and murky sound that further unnerved him. The wet slapping sounds returned, growing close, and he could make out a silhouette in the darkness, a gray amidst the black, coming close. The wet sounds he heard were footfalls, and the narrow shape and long legs marching towards him told him it was Christine, after all.

“Chris? Are you okay?”

She grew more visible, her body glimmering in the distant light of the lantern, a slick, mucousy sheen coating her from her head to toe. She was nude, he could see, and he couldn’t resist the urge to drink in the sight of the tall blonde, her hair matted wetly to her skull, her hips shifting seductively as she moved slowly towards him.

“Christine,” he said dumbly, unable to make his brain recognize the strangeness of her shiny appearance, her nudity, the ecstatic smile she wore. “What happened to your clothes?” She tittered at that, moving closer, no more than five or six yards ahead and closing on him fast. He took a half step backwards, reeling.

“I have to show you something, Stephen. It’s glorious.”

He was trying to form his next thought when her hand found his cheek, and a warm tingle accompanied the sticky feel of her touch. He tried to pull away, but her other hand held the back of his head, pulling his face to hers, her mouth open, reflecting the light from the entrance.

The cry of alarm that grew in his throat and threatened to tumble out was stolen by her mouth, sealing against his. He pushed against her shoulders, finding only that same, tingling ooze coating his hands. He could feel it creeping around the back of his head, over his cheek where she had first touched him, invading his mouth with her slippery tongue.

Christine released him as he fell back against the wall, writhing as the ooze spread over him, dissolving his clothes as it swept over his form. Stephen gasped, sucking in deep lungfuls of air, his eyes rolling back into his head. His hands, slick with the ooze that consumed him, ran over his newly-exposed flesh, spreading the corruptive goo.

Christine watched, a bemused look on her face, as Stephen’s body writhed in its new-found nudity, the pools of goo that covered him meeting, merging. His cock grew erect as the slick substance covered him, and the sight of it delighted Christine. What pleasure it would bring her, she knew, and she fell upon him. He gasped, the slick coating of her walls sliding frictionlessly over his cock as she swallowed him up, his hips rocking automatically within her, igniting a sensation that was indescribable to any unlike them.

It was her entire body screaming at once, calling out a universal ‘YES!’ and reinforcing her knowledge that her body was something more than human, now, an embodiment of pleasure, christened by the roiling goo. She could feel Stephen’s hands on her hips as she rode him, and the way that his need for her drove him deeper inside made her shudder.

‘Yes!’ she heard the voice repeat, only it was not hers any longer. It was Stephen, his consciousness calling out to hers, and she reached out to it, imagining her slippery hand grasp his and entwine fingers, until their hands were as one.

‘I hear you,’ he said wordlessly and their connection to one another elevated their passion as they moved together. When Stephen came, Christine joined him in his elation, and she found that his presence in her mind stoked the blistering orgasm higher until all other thought was crowded out in their shared euphoria.

She leaned and kissed him, their slick tongues sliding against one another in passion and recognition of the other. When she rose, his member slipping wetly from her, still erect, still awaiting another opportunity to give and receive more pleasure, Stephen stood with her, their hands clasped together as they stood and regarded one another in the gray light.

‘It’s beautiful,’ he said wordlessly.

‘Yes. They have to know,’ she replied, their eyes locked together.

She turned to Nareen, huddled by the light near the door, and then turned back to Stephen, who nodded. Speech was only necessary for those who had not been baptized in their decadence. Soon, they would be as one.

Maggie slid her shorts on, raising her ass off the cot, which had been more comfortable than she had expected. It helped that Justine’s head had been between her legs, her hands supporting Maggie, during their respite. Then again, Justine made everything just a little bit better.

She watched her lover tie her long brown hair into a knot behind her head, wrapping it into a loose bun. The way the loose strands trickled down the base of her neck, giving her just enough of a look of a beautiful mess to make Maggie’s heart break with love for her. They hadn’t said the words, yet, but Maggie knew they would, just as she had known the first time they kissed that it would be one of many.

“I feel so dirty,” Justine grinned, turning to Maggie. She’d slipped on the semi-sheer panties, the outline of her dark pubic hair visible beneath, but had left the rest of her clothes jumbled with Maggie’s by the cot. Her D-cup breasts were firm, and the nipples were hardened into pointed nubs. Maggie aeady missed the feel of them under her hands. Where she was thin and all angles, Justine was soft and inviting. She had often joked that Justine’s body had been based on old fertility goddess statues. While Justine took it as a bit of an insult, some indication that she was overweight, Maggie adored her body and its curves.

“We haven’t had five minutes alone since we got here. And I don’t mean here-here, I mean Mexico, and I can only go so long before I start having withdrawals.”

Justine grinned and returned to the cot, resting on one knee. She kissed Maggie, holding the tip of her chin by two fingers, savoring the warmth of their lips as they met.

“We should get back. I’m sure all your friends are talking about the lesbian romp happening under their noses.”

Maggie grinned. “They’re really not like that.”

“They seem nice, but you know as well as I do that it doesn’t matter how you’re different, as long as you are different, people are going to talk.”

Maggie retrieved her top from the floor, stretching it over her arms and tugging it down into place. Her apple-rounded breasts poked at the cotton of her shirt as she stood, lazily dressing. She wanted to pull Justine back to the old cot and lose herself again. She believed she could live in her arms forever.

“We should find Christine. I feel kinda bad about leaving her alone.”

Maggie watched as Justine finished dressing, more than a little disappointed that her body was hidden away.

“She’s a little… bouncy.”

“You have a prejudice against blondes.”

“I do not!” Justine said, tossing Maggie’s hiking boot at her in protest.

“You totally do. I get a pass because of the dark hair and tats. If I bleached my hair, you would leave me in a second.”

Justine laughed, pushing against Maggie to lay her back on the cot. “It’s true. I wouldn’t be able to stand the sight of you.”

They kissed again, each smiling.

“You’d be disgusted.”

Another kiss, this one longer, slower.

“Disgusted,” Justine agreed, punctuating it with a final lick, broken only by the sound of footfalls outside the door.

“What was that?” Maggie asked, looking at the closed door. “Didn’t we leave that open?”

Justine rose, leaving Maggie behind on the cot.

“We did.” She tried the door and pressed her shoulder against it, pushing. “It’s locked.”

“Let me try,” Maggie said, joining Justine at the door as they pressed hard against it. “Okay, so it’s locked.”

“I could almost swear I said that.”

“Don’t worry. I know just how to handle this.”

Justine took a step back from the door and waved Maggie toward it in invitation.

“Help! We’re locked in! Let us out!” Maggie’s voice called out from behind the steel door, echoing down the dark hallway as her hammering fist sounded a drumbeat of alarm.

Clay held the flashlight over the open file, flipping from the unintelligible German notation to the series of photos, taken at different angles, of the same object. It looked like a sac of some kind, bands of dark material affixing the man-sized blob to the corner of a room. There were close-ups of the strips of unidentifiable material that secured it to the ceiling and floor, as well as the semi-reflective surface of the amorphous, bag-like sac itself. It appeared much like a garbage bag that had no opening and glistened, even in the frozen flash of the ancient camera.

All the photos were studies of this object save one, which showed a hand extended from within the sac, the arm up to mid-forearm exposed. The black-and-white photography made it difficult to determine what color the hand and arm were, but the coloration was not that of any person Clay had ever seen.

He turned back to the notes, his finger scanning over the unfamiliar Teutonic conjugations, hunting for something that might explain the bizarre images.

‘Verwandlung’ and ‘gummi’ were repeated often, and he struggled to find some meaning in them, besides the obvious association with gummi bears. He was certain this experiment had little to do with candy. His finger paused on one word that translated directly—virus.

“What the hell is this place?”

Nareen followed the glowing orbs with her thumb, tapping her phone, watching the pixelated balloons explode with her touch. It was a stupid game, but it was better than staring at the cement walls of the drab building. The candy-coated music tinnily playing on the phone hid the wet footsteps behind her, the light playing off the oily skin of the form approaching from behind.

When one of the animated balloons reached the top of the phone’s screen and exploded, ending the game, she turned the display off with a sigh and tossed the thin phone onto her sleeping bag. She stretched, hearing her neck pop satisfyingly, then froze, arms still outstretched, head at an angle.

It was a footstep, but load and organic, the sound of flesh meeting stone, but with some other quality that chilled her. When it came again, she understood it was the damp sound of it that disturbed her.

She seized the handle of the lantern and held it in front of her as she spun.

“Who’s there?”

“Nareen,” he said, marching slowly and steadily towards her.


His body glimmered in the light of the lantern, rippling with reflection as he moved steadily towards her. His face was beatific, head angled slightly to give his bliss an almost curious quality.

“Nareen,” he repeated.

She stepped backwards until her back struck the wall. His frozen smile, his unwavering gait, the slick oil that seemed to cover every inch of him—they all terrified her, heightened by his nudity and the rock-hard erection he sported.

“Stay back,” she whispered, brandishing the lantern before her like a weapon.

He paused, his smile widening. “It’s wonderful, Nareen. You don’t have to be afraid. We can be together. And it won’t be like before. No arguing. No misunderstandings. Only pleasure…”

His eyes rolled back in his head as he spoke the word. His cock twitched and spurted oily seed onto the ground ahead of him. She held her breath as she saw the deposit on the ground quiver and roll back to merge with the goo that covered his skin.

“What happened to you?” she whispered, crawling along the wall to the door. The jungle frightened her, especially at night, but the mysteries of the unfamiliar world outside were far more appealing than remaining indoors with this mockery of her boyfriend.

He had recovered from his orgasm, his eyes settling again on Nareen with that terrifyingly orgasmic smile, closing the distance. She grabbed the door handle and twisted it, pulling. A sliver of the night beyond filtered in through the cracked door, the sounds of the fauna spilling inside. Her panic was giving way to preparation for flight, her mind calculating her steps back to the trail, back to the small village they’d begun their hike in, back to the plane, to home.

His hand fell on hers, pushing the door firmly shut.

“You’ll be so happy,” he said as the ooze from his hand coated the back of hers, warm tingles spreading, penetrating her skin.

She jerked away from him, pushing back into the interior of the entrance room, cradling her tainted hand against her chest. She whimpered as she felt it eating away at the loose cotton top, through the cream-colored bra, flowing over her skin and caressing it with its heated embrace.

Stephen paused, watching, as Nareen stumbled backwards, falling to the ground as the viscous fluid expanded from her breast, covering her chest to her neck, up her arm until it met at her shoulder and spread further, leaving behind bare, oily flesh.

At the first gasp of pleasure, elicited by the sealing of her bare and perfect breasts within the comfort of the goo, Stephen lowered himself to her, corrupting her as his skin pressed against hers. He could feel the need in her, now, and her hands found his back, pulling him to her.

When his cock slid inside her, invading her with his member and the joy of its corruption, her pussy flooded for him, her lubrication blending with the slick coating of his member. Her legs wrapped around, hooking behind his legs as her hips drove him deeper inside, pumping mindlessly.

When the ooze drifted over her lips, into her mouth, covering her eyes with the sticky film, up and around until it sealed her within, she dug her nails into Stephen’s back. She felt him erupt within her, his semen absorbed between them as she joined in his bliss.

They moved together on the floor, nude and entangled, their bodies drifting together, thin tendrils of the lubricating ooze tying them together as they found a new rhythm, steady and penetrating.

Nareen understood, now, how wrong her criticisms of Stephen had been, how willfully she had hurt him, and now he had given her ecstasy. She knew of no way to thank him other than with her body, squeezing his shaft within her to milk more of the semen from him, bringing her mouth to his and coaxing his tongue into hers, silently offering every corner of her soul to him. And still, he gave her more.

She felt him in her head… except that wasn’t precisely right. She felt their minds meet somewhere beyond themselves, twirling together and spinning until they wound into one. And there was another.

‘Christine,’ Stephen’s mind whispered to her, and she breathed in the other, too, like sweet, sustaining air. She mourned Christine’s physical absence as she and Stephen moved together on the floor, eager to taste Christine on her tongue, but she was assured by the others there would be world enough and time.

Content with the knowledge of her togetherness, she screamed out an orgasm, her voice thick and wet through the delicious goo that surrounded them both.

Maggie’s hammering had slowed from its previous insistence to a steady, albeit lazy, knock. Christine passed by the door, slowing a half-step as she fought the urge to open the door and welcome them both to her. The image of the three of them squirming together on the floor sent a jolt through her eager pussy, and groans of ‘yes, yes, more…’ from Stephen and Nareen, whose voices now called out as one.

Instead, she followed a fainter whisper call to her from the door where she had been reborn, into the dripping and dank room where three containers hummed with life. It was only when she was near them that she could hear the voices locked away inside them.

‘Welcome,’ they said as one, and Christine heard the pleasure and need in them, recognized them as kindred minds, yet somehow different. ‘Free us,’ they said.

Christine stood before the control panel, running her hand over the dark console. Her thumb pressed against a silver toggle switch, shivering in delight at the way the indention it carved in her flesh made her whole body twitch, and pressed it forward.

Slender lights flickered and sparked to life above the tanks, the panel lighting in red, white and green. She saw three of the lights blinking with green urgency.

‘Yes,’ the voices called to her again, ‘these. Set us free.’

Before she could react, she was assaulted by a steep pain in her belly, rising up her throat. She staggered backwards, bending and holding her folded arms to her slick stomach.

‘Christine,’ Stephen/Nareen said, but she could not answer. He mind was ablaze with the pain, draining her of strength until she collapsed to the floor. She crawled towards the door, hoping to escape the stabbing sensations as she escaped the room, but another swell of agony spun her to her back, her legs curling.

“Please,” she said aloud, and susurrous voices filled her head again.

‘Soon,’ they said, ‘Don’t be afraid. You are loved. You will always be loved.’

She tried to believe them, feeling betrayed by this sudden pain after so much pleasure as she clawed her way to the door, her throat full, threatening to spill out.

She opened her mouth to vomit, her stomach roiling, burning her from within. Her hands found the wall, pulling herself up, the door beside her. As she reached for it, she felt the pressure in her throat swell and a stream of black goo burst from her, adhering to the wall. Her hands found the thick, rubbery cord in an attempt to dislodge it but found themselves were instead trapped against its surface as another strand whipped from her. Then another, and another, a fan of them clinging to the wall, some above her, some to the crease of the floor.

Something inside contracted, reeling her closer to the wall like a slippery fish, until she was flush against the stone, her elbows bent across her breasts. She struggled against the bindings that issued from her and found herself only more entangled.

Panic flooded her senses, cutting her off from Stephen/Nareen, who whispered a last call to her before growing silent. She was isolated, afraid. While her tongue explored the bands of dark rubber issuing from her mouth, something new rose inside her—more of the rubber, but fluid, spilling over her lips and down her slippery body, applying a new layer to her flesh. As before, it defied gravity, spreading outward from her mouth until she was formless, a bubble of semi-reflective rubber attached to the wall by sticky strands.

Within the cocoon, the tendrils snapped, leaving her mouth free to close again. She floated within it, the pain receding. Her ears were filled with a fluid, murmuring sound lulling her into a dazed calm. The embryonic rubber warmed her, fed her, invading her every orifice. The lust she had felt before was replaced by a peace she had never realized was possible.

‘Soon,’ the unfamiliar voices repeated. ‘You are first,’ they said. ‘You are Queen.’
Rubberwerks Part Three
By Lyka Bloom


Clay bundled the files together, unease building in his gut. What had begun as curiosity became genuine fear the more he’d pored over the documents that described some kind of experimentation that had been abruptly concluded. The last notes in the files had been hastily scribbled, contrasting starkly with the neatly-typed sheets that preceded them. The only thing Clay knew for sure was that, whatever this place had been, there was something dangerous lurking here.

As soon as he passed through the door to the stairs, he could hear the moans drifting to him through the cool air of the entranceway. He squinted his eyes looking across the vast and empty room where he could vaguely make out human forms moving together, their lovemaking apparent and wanton. His descent slowed as he tried to form the shapes into those of his friends, and only when he saw the dark skin of Nareen did he understand that it was Stephen and his girlfriend. Something about the way the lantern-light glistened reflectively on their bodies was wrong, not just the sheen of sweat but something slick and artificial covering them.

Clay’s fear became real panic, the black-and-white images of the glistening women in the files flashing before his eyes as he crept down the steps, careful not to draw their attention.

When he reached the bottom of the steps, he backed away from them, his back to the hallway Christine and Maggie and Justine had explored. He stepped back into the deeper shadows as Stephen and Nareen paused, both of them looking towards him in unison. He held his breath, so loud in his ears, as was the pump-pump of his heartbeat. After a moment, Nareen’s hands pulled Stephen back down to her, her legs wrapped around his waist, and his attention returned to her.

Closing his eyes and exhaling in a slow, measured release, Clay turned away from them and followed the left wall into the gloom.

Maggie sat on the cot, legs crossed, watching while Justine scoured the door for some secret release, or simply a fingerhold to attempt to pry the cell open. Neither were speaking following a brief but tense argument, where Maggie maintained their best bet was to wait for rescue while Justine found herself unable to sit still, the need to do something, anything, overwhelmed her.

“Please come sit,” Maggie said, her voice low and soothing. “I’m cold.”

They had dressed following their stolen moments of passion, but the chill air of the nighttime jungle had crept under doors and lent a bite to the air circulating in the abandoned factory.

Justine remained silent, and Maggie could hear rather than see her hand sweeping over the door. “Please,” Maggie tried again. “Please come sit.”

She heard silence, then the sound of Justine’s feet coming close. She could feel her warmth as Justine sat and Maggie leaned her head on her soft shoulder.

“I’m sorry I’m such a pain in the ass,” she whispered.

“It’s okay. I’m sorry I get so... focused.”

“Even if we’re stuck in some stupid cell, I’m glad you made me come.”

“Me, too.”

She felt Justine’s body turn and she found her lover’s lips, pressing against them, surrendering to them. When Justine leaned away from her again, Maggie wrapped her arms around her soft body.

“I love you,” she whispered, barely above the sound of her breath.

“I love you, too, Maggie,” Justine replied in the darkness.

Christine knew she was changing, could feel the amniotic embrace of the liquid around her, filling her every orifice and pulsing. At first, she had struggled against the cocoon of her own making, but as it stitched her into something else, she understood. It was necessary for her to ascend, to shed the humanity that clung to her. She had been given a great honor, and she would lead as she had been asked.

The voices were dormant, now, just as she had instructed. They had called to her, reassured her, until she could accept their message. She was to be their queen, and no denial would change that. When she emerged, she would take her new form, one that would separate her from the others.

She could feel Nareen and Stephen distantly, and the pleasure they gave one another soothed her. They would have new instructions in time, but until her making was complete, she would allow them their desire. There were others she could sense, too, the two girls, and the one she had taken to her bed when she had been a lesser thing. Once she was completed, she would take him for her own, the girls free to serve with the other drones.

To that end, she would need to free the drones in the tanks, the three that had survived for years, waiting. Waiting, they said, for her.

Christine felt a tremor of orgasmic pleasure, her nether lips reshaped by the fluid around her. Her whole body felt odd to her, but she would grow used to it. Her drones would attend her, serve her, and she would mold them as needed. And she would become the queen they deserved.

The rubbery cocoon shook, as if flinching away from the walls. With a sound like a rubbery flower releasing its spores, the cocoon split, spilling the black goo onto the floor, a wide swath of it spreading across the stone until it dripped into the grates near the tanks.

Christine felt her feet touch the slick floor of the cocoon as the rupture widened, opening to her touch. A bare foot rose and settled on the wet floor, free of the black skin. She pushed the rest of the way out, the cool air pleasant against the dew covering her. She stood and stretched, the viscous goo dripping from her arms and traveling in thick rivulets down her chest and legs.

She padded to the tanks, wrinkling her nose at the open spaces in the grates where her newly-formed flesh sank. She was tender, still, but that sensitivity nursed her desire, and she knew very well what a power her lust would be. Not only her own wants, but the desire for her, as she would be the focus of much worship. It was both duty and privilege.

She gripped the faucets periodically belching the overspill of the tanks, twisting them open and draining the tanks where voices had whispered to her. From within, she could hear hands find the sides and push, tapping to let their queen know they were alive, that they were ready to serve.

When the flood of liquid slowed to a trickle, Christine heard a metallic boom echo through the room as the tanks decompressed and hissed. The metal groaned and shuddered before opening, swinging open on hinges that split the tank effectively in half. All three opened in quick succession, spilling their contents on the floor.

The drones rose to their feet, and Christine smiled at the sight of them, her first look at the final evolution of the drones. They were black, wet and shimmering, their toes molded together and smooth, their skin pure and glorious rubber. The drones were identical, with narrow waists and wide hips, breasts that were little more than rounded protrusions, rising with a slightly tilting angle to suggest nipples. Where their genitals had been, now only a constantly-lubricating seam in their rubber bodies remained. Faces were replaced by smooth hoods, a seam similar to the one between their legs breaking the otherwise featureless hoods.

They gathered around Christine, kneeling before her, gazing up with blank, black faces. She ran her fingers over their smooth heads, and heard their ecstasy as she touched them. When she turned and walked towards the door, they stood and followed, marching in time with her. Christine could not resist the smile of approval as they fell into step, and wordlessly assured them that soon, very soon, she would give them their instructions.

Clay could hear the voices in the dark hallway and he followed them to their source. And there was something else, something coming from the end of the hallway, a wet and sticky sound that filled him with terror. He stared into the deeper darkness as he leaned against the locked door. He tapped-tapped on the metal, whispering against it.


The voices within came, loud and excited. “Clay? The door’s locked, you have to get us out of here!”

“Quiet!” he whisper-shouted, the volume covering the wet and sticky sound for a moment. He could make out Maggie’s voice inside and, most likely, Justine. He slid the bar free, turning the handle and cracking the door.

Inside, Maggie and Justine stood just inside the doorway, their hands entwined.

“I could kiss you,” Maggie grinned. Her expression soured as she saw the way Clay’s face darted between them and the hallway beyond. “What is it?”

“Come on. I think someone’s coming.”

“It’s probably Christine,” Justine offered, stepping into the hallway. “She wanted to explore a little farther.”

“And you let her go alone?” The question emerged sharper than he intended and he winced, swallowing the acidic taste of adrenaline in his mouth.

Justine took a step away from him, and his eyes followed her. It was then he saw the shaped emerging from the darkness, somehow blacker against the dark.

“Come here,” he whispered to her, gesturing Justine back to him.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she asked, then turned to follow his gaze.

Christine stood in front of the others, though she was clearly changed from the Christine they had last seen. Her skin was a light gray, darkened in the creases of her arms and legs, and at the corners of her eyes. Her lips were puffy, a darker gray that seemed almost blue. Similarly, her stiff nipples were black against the gray of her skin, and the hairless folds between her legs were likewise dark, and Justine could see a dark fluid drip from the perpetually wet slit.

“Chris?” she managed as Christine strode toward her, flanked by exaggerated latex forms behind her, marching in unison as they came within mere feet.

“Get away from her!” Clay called, stepping back, Maggie behind him.

Christine turned to her lover, the bemused expression widening into a real smile as she found him, her liquid black eyes swirling and hypnotic.

“Clay,” she said and spread her arms.

“Come on!” Clay cried, waving Justine toward him, who still stood, transfixed, as Christine and her train of rubbery minions approached. He had to restrain Maggie from rushing to Justine, pulling her backwards down the hallway as they called her name again.

She barely moved as one of the doll-like minions placed rubbery hands on either side of Justine’s face. Clay could see the spread of a glistening membrane-like goo, first covering her face, then descending, dissolving her clothing as it traveled down her chest and arms.

She fell to her knees, looking back at Maggie, her hand, now slick with the infectious ooze, pressing against her sex and driving her fingers into her. Her expression of wonder twisted into pure ecstasy as her fingers pumped in and out, the last bits of cloth swallowed by the slick goo that covered her. The rubber doll that had first infected her lowered to her, and Maggie watched in shock as her lover’s legs wrapped around the latex thing, its fingers replacing Justine’s in her eager and dew-covered slit.

“Clay,” Christine repeated, walking with her arms outstretched, beckoning him into her embrace.

“We have to go!” Clay called, pulling Maggie free from her paralysis and guiding her down the hall, away from the perversions of their former lovers.

“We have to get her. We have to help her,” Maggie whispered, rocking back and forth, her arms wrapped around her legs as she sat with her back to the wall. Clay peeked through the windows of the office, the documents he’d found still spread across the desk, the file he’d collected discarded in their flight from the rubbery deformations in the downstairs hall.

“Whatever happened to her, we can’t help her right now, Maggie. It’s like an infection. When that thing touched her, it spread the virus, or whatever. This place, it’s dangerous. We have to get out of here, find someone.”

“What about Christine?” Maggie asked, looking up to meet Clay’s eyes.

Clay sighed, sagging. “I don’t know. I know that I can’t help her. I don’t even know what’s wrong exactly. The only thing I could tell from all this crap is that it was some kind of experiment.”

“Maybe there’s a cure, then.” Maggie brightened, standing. She moved to the desk, rifling through the papers. “We just have to find it. What are you doing? Come on and help me!”

Before Clay could reply, the voice called from the entrance below them.

“Clay? Maggie? Come here.” It was Christine’s voice, but deeper, and somehow as wet as her skin appeared. “You have to see. You have to understand.”

“They’re coming. We have to get out of here, Maggie. Now.”

“What about Stephen and Nareen?”

“I didn’t see them. Maybe they’ve aeady gone. Or they’ve aeady been infected.”

“This is crazy,” she whispered and barked a humorless laugh.

Clay pulled her to her feet and held her eyes with his own. He nodded and lifted his eyebrows in question. Maggie took a breath and returned his nod. Clay pressed a finger to his lips and bent low, making his way to the door, pulling Maggie behind him.

Outside the door, Clay veered left instead of right, away from the stairs leading to the entranceway. He could hear something like the tearing of plastic, only deeper and louder, creeping up the stairs. As they made their way down the hall of glass-enclosed offices, they tried each door, finding most locked. Though he hadn’t mentioned it yet to Maggie, he had seen no windows on this floor in any of the offices. His plan to escape the factory hinged on a way out besides the tall doors of the entrance. It was rapidly becoming clear that the building had been designed to contain the experiments conducted here. As he thought again of Christine’s gray skin and flowing black eyes, he shivered.

The drones stood a half-step behind Christine as she regarded the cocoon near the door. It was large, and Christine could feel the thoughts of Nareen and Stephen as they clung together, the fluid of the rubbery sac working into their skin, into every opening, changing them to better serve their new queen.

Justine’s hands continued to explore her electric senses, groaning with spikes of pleasure when her fingers found her hard nipples or the wet folds of her dripping pussy. Justine had heard only whispers of the communication that flowed freely from Christine to her drones, holding them fast though they yearned to explore the upper level of the building for the two remaining uninfected. It was in their rubbery DNA to desire more like themselves, but Christine disliked the notion of taking Clay and Maggie by simple force. She wanted them to come unto her willingly, and she knew they would, in time. Her appearance had frightened Clay, a fact that hurt her. She would reveal the wonder of herself to him when he was ready, and, when he emerged from his own cocoon of dark latex, she would revel in his worship like no other conquest.

The sac stretched and bulged with motion, and Christine smiled. She gave a terse nod, and the drones moved to the sac and helped as it split open, depositing dark goo and two slippery bodies onto the floor.

Nareen had adopted the form of her sisters, now indistinguishable from the others, aside from the still-fleshy Justine. Her thoughts expressed initial confusion, dissonance in the otherwise uniform thinking the drones enjoyed. It was like a ripple on the surface of an otherwise-smooth pond, but she quickly found the proper paths of thinking like her sisters, and her voice joined theirs in the chorus of drone-think.

Stephen was similar, though unique in his suggestion of masculinity. His chest was flat, rather than curved as Nareen’s was, his waist less shapely, his cock black and seamless against his skin, curved slightly upward. The phallus waggled between his legs, the only protrusion from the blank-faced and slick body. He took his place amongst the drones, who nuzzled their own featureless faces against his, their hands stroking his sex, curious and aroused by it.

His thoughts wove into the song of the drones and they all became one, only altered in their path of pleasure by direction from their queen, who, for now, was silent. She reached out to one of them and inserted a new thought.

Justine nodded and ascended the stairs.

“We have to go downstairs. We have to get past them.” Clay stared down the stairs, careful to keep flat against the wall. He couldn’t see the steps on the opposite side, where they had initially climbed up to the offices, but there was still the dim glow of lantern light from the entrance. “Stay here a sec. I’m going to see if they’re still down there.”

Maggie’s hand snapped to his forearm. “No. You can’t leave me here.”

“I’m only going down the steps a little. You’ll be able to see me the whole time.” He took her head in his hands. “We’re going to get out of here, Mags. I promise you.”

She tried a smile, a tear rolling over her cheek. “Just hurry, okay?”

Clay crept down the steps, taking it slow, huddled against the shadows of the stairs. He looked back and saw only a silhouette to suggest Maggie’s presence at the top. Halfway down, he could see past the receptionist’s desk to the doors, where he could make out something like a black garbage bag that had been filled to capacity and emptied, glistening in the light. Otherwise, the room was empty. Looking back to Maggie, he saw the shape behind her, moving close to her.

“Maggie,” he whispered, waving her close. Come here. Quick!”

Maggie responded fast, fast enough to avoid the hand that reached for her. She was halfway down the steps, finding Clay and wrapping her arms around him, when she glanced back up.

Justine looked beatific in the half-light, her voluptuous form wet and dripping, her nude body appearing somehow more natural than it had when she was dressed. Her heavy breasts and hairless cleft were an enticement beyond words for Maggie, and the way she reached for her made Maggie want to go to her, to fold herself in that embrace again.

“Maggie,” she said, the soft smile never leaving her lips, “you have to see. I want you with me, Maggie. Please.”

“Justine.” Maggie paused, wanting nothing more than to do as she asked, to find herself pressed against the body she loved so deeply.

“Come on,” Clay repeated, squeezing her hand hard enough to shatter thoughts of abandon.

They ran, past the split cocoon, to the doors that were still unlocked, throwing them wide.

When Clay looked back, he saw Justine at the bottom of the steps, following them slowly, and then the rest. Christine appeared from the hall, five rubber-cloaked bodies behind her, marching together in unison. He felt his heart break at the sight of her, the way she seemed so similar and so different at once, and then he and Maggie fled, into the cool night air of the jungle, into the black.
Rubberwerks Part Four
By Lyka Bloom


The foliage whipped by, leaving behind small lacerations. Clay’s face and arms were criss-crossed by these red lines, his hand clutched tight to Maggie’s as they ran. He had a vague idea of the trail’s location, and he wondered, a fleeting concern, if they might not just keep running, missing the trail as they tread across it, hurtling deeper into the jungle where they would surely be lost. It was the lesser of his fears, and far behind the dread of what they had seen.

The image of Christine floated before him. In his mind’s eye, the blonde-haired, statuesque girl split open, the tan skin sloughing away to reveal the gray-skinned creature that had called his name inside the concrete tomb. The building itself disappeared behind a curtain of trees and vines and brush as they ran, but it was no less terrifying for its absence. When the creature in his mind reached for him, part of him wanted to go to it, and, even as they ran, he could feel a tug back to the building, back to the slimy arms of his lover.

“Stop,” Maggie gasped, her sweaty hand slipping out of his grip. “I have to stop.”

Momentum carried Clay a step or two away from her before he, too, stopped, bending and placing his hands on his knees as he sucked in the humid jungle air.

Maggie met his eyes, hers red-rimmed from the tears that leaked from her since they began their flight from the building. Her nose was crusty, her upper lip caked with mucus. Her neon-red bob was plastered to her skull from sweat, her tee clinging to her skin and framing her slim body.

“We can’t leave them,” she managed.

“We have to get help, Mags. There’s nothing we can do for them.”

“What is it?” she asked, but the tone begged for relief, rather than answers. She wanted this to exist in the world of the explainable, an event that could be neatly categorized and, therefore, dealt with. Her world outside this jungle was neat, organized. Even if she was forced to contend with the occasional stare from a stranger when she held hands with Justine on the street or in a restaurant, even that bigotry made sense. What happened in the factory threatened to pry her mind free of its moorings.

“Something old, I think,” Clay said, straightening and looking past Maggie to the jungle, searching for signs of movement that would indicate pursuit. “I found some files upstairs, something to do with experiments, but…” He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, Maggie. All I know is we have to get back to the village and get some help.”

“I don’t want to leave her.”

“You think I want to leave Christine?” he asked, and his voice was loud and sharp, as cutting as the greedy green fingers of the jungle had been. He lowered his voice. “I’m sorry, Mags. I know how you feel, I do, but you saw what happened. They just have to touch you. We can’t risk it.”

“I love her,” Maggie said, but Clay understood she was no longer talking to him. She was, in her way, giving a eulogy. “I just want her back. Please let her come back.”

Clay had no response, other than to silently repeat her prayer, this time for Christine. ‘Please, God, let Christine come back.’

They did find the trail, and following it as it descended away from the thick jungle to the relative civilization below, Clay felt something like hope. The sun was rising, and the fact of it seemed to dispel the worst of his fears just as it drove away the darkness. Maggie’s pace had picked up, too, and Clay believed she felt a similar optimism. Things might be okay, after all, he thought.

The village from which they had launched their adventure into the jungle was just waking when they came to the outskirts, the trail depositing them at the south end where a young girl with a tangle of dark hair and a dirty yellow dress chased chickens that bobbed and weaved away from her. She stopped her pursuit when she saw Maggie and Clay emerge from the jungle, her hands flexing into fists as she they approached.

“Mama,” she said, turning suddenly and running away from the gringos staggering along the path.

Their arrival drew more stares as villagers emptied into the main street, a riveted dirt road that wound through the village before slithering into the distance towards the larger cities. An old man in a straw hat offered a smile, his teeth a patchwork of rotten ivory and black gaps.

Clay was struck by the silence of the villagers, leaning around one another to see, they stopped at the apex of the road’s path through the village between a wood-and-tin store that had not yet opened and a cantina that had.

“Hablas ingles?” Clay asked. “Please, we need help. Something happened in the jungle. Our friends are sick.”

Clay looked into the shadowed faces of the villagers, eyes narrowed as the sun climbed up the sky, their clothing primitive and elegant in its simplicity, a small lake of white and red and blooming fabric that fit loosely on the uncomprehending populace.

“Please,” Justine repeated. “We need help. They’re at the building in the jungle. The factory.”

Whispers bubbled up from the congregation, faces that had fixed on the Americans now turned toward one another, some shaking their heads, others abandoning the scene to retreat indoors and shutter themselves from the scene outside.

Clay watched as the mood of the villagers changed from curiosity to mistrust, and he could sense rather than see the subtle tide of the crowd recede away from them. When he took a step toward the old man in the straw hat, he inhaled sharply, almost a hiss, taking a pronounced step away. He cursed himself for his inability to communicate, but Christine had served as their translator. As with everything, it was Christine that was the expert, the driving force behind the group. Without her, he was as helpless as an infant, unable to translate his need into anything resembling a comprehensible thought. Before he could lapse into charades, a crisp voice called from the back of the crowd.

“You have been to the facility?”

Clay’s eyes focused on the rail-thin elderly man parting the crowd as he came closer. He leaned heavily on a wooden cane that wobbled when he favored it. His skin was deeply tanned, creased like well-worn leather. His eyes were a light blue, sharp as a razor’s edge, and his expression was almost bemused as he hobbled near, his arthritic hand hooked like a talon on his cane.

“How did you find it?”

“You speak English?”

“Yes,” he said. Though his accent was faintly Teutonic, the vague smile on his face reflected in his voice. “But you should not have gone there. Your friends, they are still up there?” He waggled the tip of the cane toward the thick jungle. His eyes narrowed with the motion, then he fell back onto the cane as it pierced the dusty earth.

“There’s something wrong with them,” Maggie said, her voice hitching.

“Your friends are no longer your friends, yes?”

“You know something.” Clay stated it as fact, not a question.

“Come with me.” The Germanic old man shuffled away, now, ushering them to follow with the feeble wave of a hand.

Christine tossed her head back, holding Justine to her wet, black folds. The new recruit’s tongue was expert and eager, running slickly over the enlarged and engorged labia of her queen. Christine writhed on the ground, her body producing the dark and viscous goo, which was in turn swallowed by the girl buried in her sex. It was a form of suckling, Christine’s aphrodisiacal expulsions bonding her subject further to her will, to wipe away the last traces of human hesitation.

She could cull from the minds of the three drones found in their tanks what their lives had been before. One had been a secretary at the facility, corrupted by the casual brush against one of the test subjects. The other two had volunteered under the guise of patriotism, and found themselves evolving together. Even now, Christine could sense a closeness between them.

They clung together on the floor, ropey tongues extending from the slits on their bulbous and smooth faces. The echoes of their humanity were examined and turned over like a curiosity as Christine reached into their minds from the pool of consciousness they all shared, then buried deeper. Christine knew she would need them focused on her for the coming days and weeks. Any humanity that remained would need to be snuffed out for the next wave of progress. They must be ideals of service to her, their thoughts uniform and indistinguishable from the others.

The one called Nareen had submerged the quickest of all the newly converted, and she moved beneath the one previously known as Stephen. She had tasted oblivion and found it suited her. It was ironic that the submerging of her thoughts into the group’s communal awareness had erased the last of Stephen’s resistance, and now the two were perfectly obedient to Christine’s will. She stroked their minds with hers, praising their nothingness. They came together at her ethereal caress.

She would allow them a few more hours of pleasure, of exploration into their nearly-identical forms, before rallying them to march. They would need the darkness for their work.

The drone known before as Justine twisted between Christine’s legs, hacking and coughing up thick black fluid. As soon as it struck the floor with a meaty splat, the goo quivered and shook, then flowed like dark mercury back to Justine where it was absorbed into the slick coating that covered her.

She continued her coughing, rising up to her knees and crawling away, spewing the dark ooze onto the floor ahead of her. Finally, she threw her head back and opened her mouth wide, oily cords exploding from her mouth. Christine smiled as the drone lifted into the air, pulled high above the rest by the rubbery cables she vomited out. In moments, she was cocooned above them, just as they all had been. Christine felt her thoughts, her fear searing her consciousness. Their queen guided the thoughts of the nest and reassured Justine, wrapped her thoughts in bliss and welcome, teasing her with the anonymity that awaited when she emerged from the reflective sac which enveloped her.

The orgasms of the group lifted her thoughts from worry to need, and Christine felt her desire to change for them, to be like them, and Christine assured her this thinking was right and good.

Christine rose, walking amidst the shuddering bodies of her drones, encouraging them as they lost themselves in one another, their mouth-slits and pussy-slits given equal attention, as both brought similar pleasures. The protruding phallus of Stephen’s droneform was given attention by all, and he filled them with his black seed.

Christine knelt in the center of them and her drones found her, worshiping her with their hands and mouth-slits. She did not lead them from afar, enjoying their pleasures as much as her own. There was little difference between them, in truth, save for the need to rule them she understood as an essential part of herself. And, above all, was the need to have more, to rule more, until she could feel no thoughts but those of her subjects.

The name sat him down, and Clay felt his world tilt on its axis, dumping him into the leather chair with the cracked and worn seat.

“What is it?” Maggie asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Hauptmann?” Clay asked, incredulous.

“Yes. And I am the last survivor of the experiments conducted in the facility you and your friends found.” He swiped at the wispy white hair on his head, thinly covering the liver-spotted skin.

“I saw your name on the door.”

“You saw the files, then?” Hauptmann shuffled across the floor of the modest home, palatial by the standards of the rest of the village. The furniture was patchwork and aging, but comfortable. Sunlight filtered through dirty windows, illuminating walls covered by awards and degrees, yellowed and faded with age. Off the den, where Clay sat and Maggie stood beside him, was a kitchen, the linoleum peeling up at the corners, dust collected there and grown black with neglect. A dim hallway led away from the den and to the bathroom and a pair of bedrooms beyond.

They watched Hauptmann prepare a pot of tea from the kitchen, pausing to stare out the window at the jungle past the border of the village. He tilted his head toward the den, not looking at either of the Americans.

“Your friends are infected, yes?”

“Yes,” Maggie said, taking a step toward the kitchen, her hand slipping from Clay’s shoulder. “Can you help them?”

“I can stop them,” Hauptmann replied. His voice was as distant as his eyes, staring down a corridor of memory. “We stopped them before.”

“What is that place?” Clay asked finally.

Hauptmann handed the tray with its teapot and clinking cups to Maggie as she stepped forward to meet him, and he fell back into the chair across from them. Maggie placed the tray on the coffee table between them, noting the magazines on the table were all written in German, and none were newer than five years before.

“We were given a simple order. From Berlin. You know of the war, yes?”

“Yes,” Clay said.

“The tide had shifted. We were losing,” Hauptmann said, emphasizing the last to indicate the surprise at the time. “There was always a philosophy behind the politics, you know. To bring peace, in a way. To purify.”

Hauptmann poured his tea. He lifted his cup and raised his eyebrows in invitation, but Clay and Maggie both shook their heads. Maggie leaned again on Clay, barely taller then he was sitting down.

“We discovered the material when we were developing new uniforms for the Wehrmacht. It was pliable and strong and completely organic. It was alive, you see? It could heal itself. The first tests showed us we could bond it to the subjects, but they were no good. The subjects suffocated inside them.”

“You choked people to death,” Maggie said, her hand drifting to her chest, a fist between her small breasts.

“As I said,” Hauptmann went on, “we were losing. We were desperate. We were working around the clock, far from the front lines. Hidden away here. If we were successful, we would send the material to the closest regiment and it would spread from there. We needed no factories, no manufacturing. It could spread from one soldier to another with but a touch.”

He took a sip, his lifting his busy eyebrows and he smiled, a bitter, humorless expression.

“You are too young to understand. We would be crushed, humiliated, subjugated by our enemies. Our volunteers ran out. We… incorporated… some of the men from this village to test, with no more success than our own patriots had shown. It wasn’t until we used one of the female volunteers that it worked. It needed a mother, you see.”

Hauptmann laughed, a rasping chuckle that exploded into phlegmy coughing.

“The subject lived. If you’ve seen the files, you know that the woman bonded with the material far beyond our imaginings. It became part of her, changed her. And it spread just as we had hoped. As easy as the brush of a hand. What we could not have anticipated is the assertion of its own consciousness. It didn’t care about our politics, our petty philosophies. It only wanted to make more like itself. And those that were infected acted as one. Part of a collective consciousness. The first infected, she served as a leader of sorts, like the queen bee in a hive. The only aspect of humanity that remained was their desire. The most primitive parts of the human consciousness… reproduction and survival.”

“How did you stop it?” Maggie asked from her place by the door.

“We burned them,” Hauptmann said, his voice lowering. “And we will do it again. Come the morning, we will go back, the three of us. And we will burn them all.”

“We can’t.” Clay stared down at his hands, limp in his lap. “They’re our friends.”

“Not anymore. And we must do it. Should the infection spread… It could be devastating to the human population. To be honest, I thought they had all been destroyed. I was wise enough to run, you see. Once word was sent to Berlin, I knew a team would arrive. They would kill us all. I suppose we’re not so different from the infected subjects. We all want to live, do we not?”

Clay and Maggie looked at one another, neither able to divine the other’s thoughts. Clay imagined the ache in Maggie’s chest was the same as his own, the creeping realization that the ones they had known and loved were truly gone. He tried to imagine watching Christine, even the thing she had become, burning alive before him, and squeezed his eyes shut against the image. It lingered, the blackening skin, the cracking scales of her flesh revealing burning red beneath.

“It’s horrible, I know,” Hauptmann said. “But it must be done. You will stay here tonight, rest. Prepare yourselves. Tomorrow will be a difficult day for us all.”

He and Maggie had spoken very little after excusing themselves from Hauptmann’s home to find food. It was strange seeing the village going about its business while, somewhere in the jungle beyond, their friends and lovers went about their dark business.

“I can’t do it. I won’t,” Maggie said as they sat at a picnic table outside a cantina. Clay was pushing a burrito around with a plastic fork, nestled in a red basket lined by wax paper.

“Okay,” he said simply.

“We should go. Just leave.”

Clay nodded, staring at the flour tortilla as it came apart and revealed the ground beef and grilled onions inside. It was greasy and the way it glistened under the fading sun reminded him of the reflection off Christine’s gray-skinned body. He dropped his fork in the basket and rolled a napkin between his hands.

“I won’t leave her like that,” he said, meeting Maggie’s eyes. “For all I know she’s in pain. Even if she’s not, Hauptmann’s right. We can’t let them escape. You saw how fast it took Justine.”

“Yeah, I did,” Maggie spat back, the bitterness in her voice sharp and pained. “But that doesn’t mean I want to set her on fire.”

“Like I said, you don’t have to go.”

Clay stood and stretched, his hands in the small of his back.

“You stay behind tomorrow,” he said, straightening. “I’ll go with Hauptmann. When it’s done, I’ll come back and we’ll leave.”

“You’d kill them?”

“I don’t know what else to do, Mags!” He lowered his voice, seeing eyes turn to the American strangers in the village. “It’s not like we can call the embassy, or their folks. I feel sick at the thought of doing this, but it’s got to be done. Just try not to make me think too much about it, because I hate myself enough for both of us, okay?”

Maggie was slack-jawed as she stared up at him from the bench. She looked down, then back at Clay, her eyes steelier than before.

“Fine. I’ll wait until you get back. Then we’ll go home.”

They marched through the jungle, Christine in the center, the rest in a circle around her. All seven moved in time, their footfalls precisely mirroring one another, bending and twisting gracefully through the foliage. They ignored the trail. Christine led them, reaching out to the village and sensing the four hundred souls preparing for bed or drinking in the cantina.

The Justine-drone emerged from her cocoon and descended into the pleasure of her obedience and the collective mind of her brother and sisters. There had been time enough to welcome her properly, impaled by the Stephen-drone’s phallus while her sisters had caressed her, and her long, slender tongue lapped at the rubber skin of her siblings. When they had shared in her climax, and then another, Christine had ordered them forward, their bodies glistening under the moonlight that filtered through the high canopy of the jungle.

Around them, the wildlife fled, detecting something off about these creatures. Christine could feel their simple thoughts, but her focus lay on the village below, rapidly approaching. It was faint, but she could find Clay’s mind in the babbling chorus. She could not divine his thoughts precisely yet, but she would. She would feel him submerged into the pool of their thinking and be born anew in it. And she would give him such bliss. His terror was obvious, and Christine believed something else colored his emotions, but it was dark and unpleasant and Christine discarded the unpleasant aura. Soon, he would only know happiness.

When they broke through the line of trees where the jungle began, Christine paused and the drones stopped in time with her, awaiting further instruction. When they were left to their own thoughts, she could hear tender worship from them. Pure love and awe radiating from them, and that worship warmed her, made her whole.

She scanned the roofs of the squat buildings that served as the village’s homes and shops, tracing a path with her eyes for each of them to follow. She found the nebulous consciousnesses of those aeady sleeping and, with the merest thought, ordered the drones forward. They would move from house to house, creating more in their image. The ones who slept would be the easiest targets. When those had been assimilated, they would move en masse to the other homes and baptize more into service to the queen.

With a nod, five of the drones started for the village, their bodies moving with an agile sexuality. Christine could not resist a smile of pride, and imagined looking over a sea of these hooded drones, all erased and reprogrammed with two needs - pleasure and service to her.

The drone beside her was curious, she sensed, and Christine reached into its mind and caressed its thoughts, reassuring it that it was serving well. She had a goal in mind for it. A conversion as reward. Despite the rubber’s amnesiac qualities, emotions lingered, and Christine preferred to foster love between the drones rather than cast it aside. She showed the drone what she most desired and promised it would be hers forever.

“Show her,” Christine said aloud, a gesture of emphasis. They were beyond words, yet she still found pleasure in the way her tongue moved when she spoke, the sweet sounds her lips made. “Enjoy her.”

She could feel the drone’s joy, and it shivered in excitement. It spoke, it’s voice wet and bubbling as it issued from the slit in its otherwise-smooth face.

“Maggie,” it said.

The doors of the village’s homes were rarely locked, and the drones followed their designated paths, slipping unheard inside those where families slept. It was easy for the drones to stand in glimmering darkness beside beds where the dreaming villagers lay, brushing their cheeks with corruptive fingers. They stood attentively nearby, urging husbands and wives to turn to one another as the ooze covered them, formerly passionless couples now loving with abandon as their faceless benefactors stood watch. When the infection had spread completely over their targets, the drones would move to the next house assigned to them. In a matter of minutes, their number had doubled.

Unaware, Clay sat outside Hauptmann’s home, staring up at the stars. It was overwhelming and humbling to see the breadth of the universe spread above him, unspoiled by the lights of a city. He had found a measure of peace, convinced that his painful work in the morning was a sin of necessity. His heart was hollow, his emotions cut off from him by design. He could not allow himself the luxury of feeling or else it would consume him.

In the distance he heard the moans of passion, and managed a smile. Despite his own locked-away sorrow, he could appreciate the sounds of two people who knew nothing of the bizarre workings of the facility in the jungle, finding a stolen moment of happiness.

When another cry of lust followed the cool nighttime breeze to Hauptmann’s door, Clay felt the first twinge of panic. One couple joined in sexual congress was natural, another and… yes, another still… told him something was amiss. He stood quickly, rushing inside and throwing a wooden bar over the door behind him.

“Hauptmann!” he called, casting open the door to the old man’s bedroom.

Hauptmann was sitting up, his spindly legs dangling from the edge of the bed almost comically. He wore a long shirt and shorts that emphasized his slight frame. He was adjusting his glasses taken from his bedside table when Clay appeared in the doorway.

“I hear it,” he said. “Follow me.”

Clay did. Hauptmann led him outside, leaning the wooden bar that secured the door against the interior wall, ushering Clay to follow as they scanned the dark street for signs of movement. The sounds of passion were louder now, coming from at least four separate sources.

“They’re reproducing themselves,” Hauptmann hissed in his Germanic inflection, “We have to be quick.”

A small shed, the tin walls and roof red with rust, was chained closed just behind the house. Hauptmann fumbled with a keyring, finding the small key that opened the lock. The door swung open with a squeal and Hauptmann disappeared into the pitch of the shed’s interior.

“Here,” he said, shoving a heavy gas can into Clay’s hands. It shifted its weight in his grip as the gasoline sloshed inside the can. Hauptmann emerged from the shadows and pointed a twisted finger to a nearby house, no more than three rooms by the size of it. “Start there.”


“Burn it!” Hauptmann cried. “Burn every one or all is lost!”

Clay looked at the real terror etched on Hauptmann’s creased face and gritted his teeth.

“Matches?” he asked.

Maggie sat at the head of the bed, her knees curled to her chin, arms wrapped around her slender legs. She listened to the sounds of the village, the moans and the sharp cries of fear, quickly silenced. She tried to focus on the metallic squeak of the bedsprings as she rocked on the ancient mattress, choosing to hear only that and not the sounds of the village falling to pieces around her.

“Maggie,” the voice said, bubbling and thick and so familiar and strange all at once.

She looked up to see the drone enter, its body black and slick and wet as the voice had been. The slit that served as a mouth strained to form the words.

“It’s me. It’s Justine.”

A barking sob sprang from Maggie’s lips and she cupped her hand over her mouth to secure it before another could escape. And still she rocked, faster now, tears squeezing from the corners of her eyes and tracking down her cheeks.

The drone stopped short of arm’s length. Its hands ran over its flat belly, over the bulbous breast shapes on its chest, over its shoulders.

“I love you,” it said.

“You’re not Justine!” Maggie screamed, shutting her eyes in an attempt to deny the existence of this thing.

“I am. I love you, Maggie. Please. Come with me.”

It extended a hand and Maggie could see the ooze swirling in its palm. It was like the rainbow pools in a pothole left behind by a sudden rain, beautiful and poisonous.

“We’ll be together, Maggie. Forever. And you’ll be so happy I promise.”

The way the words tumbled rough and moist from the thing’s mouth hurt Maggie’s soul, and yet she felt she could hear Justine’s voice. Perhaps it was optimism, or a reaction to the crippling fear twisting inside her. Regardless, a locked door in her mind opened the slightest bit. Behind that door was a wild tangle of possibility, of hope.

“You and me?” she asked.

“Together,” the drone replied, no more resembling Justine than any other drone would. “Just take my hand and be with me. Please, Maggie. I love you.”

Maggie watched her hand raise and move toward the open palm of the drone, whimpering as a resolve to live anonymously and changed weighed heavier in the scale of her judgment than the thought of living without Justine.

She seized the drone’s hand and squeezed it, feeling the goo squirt between her fingers and quickly coat her hand. It tingled, and Maggie thought for an instant that it really did feel pleasant.

The drone pulled Maggie close and wrapped its arms around her, her clothes dissolving until her bare skin pressed against the drone and she leaned to its featureless face, opening her mouth to take the oil-slick tongue into her mouth. Maggie felt the ooze tickling her as it flowed over her skin, into her as her leg slid up the drone’s thigh. She moaned at the heat between her legs and sank to her knees, her clothes dissipated and her body completely covered by the viscous substance.

Maggie felt her body’s need as an immediate and desperate thing, clinging to the drone’s legs and running her tongue up the smooth thigh until she found the slit between its legs.

‘I love you,Maggie,’ she heard, and it was Justine, her words in Maggie’s mind. ‘We all do.’

Maggie’s tongue parted the tight seam and she moaned against the rubbery skin of her former lover, the taste of her as blissful as the intense connection she felt to Justine and, yes, the others. She understood that what coated her was love and need and perpetual joy and she embraced it, feeling the shuddering pleasure of Justine. The Justine-drone gripped Maggie’s head as she had before, holding her face to her slit as the slippery canal discharged its sticky lubrication and Maggie drank it in, filling herself with it.

Three of the houses were burning now and it was spreading, leaping from roof to roof. The image of blackened husks cracking and revealing red molten skin beneath haunted Clay once more, but he shook his head to banish the image. Behind him, Hauptmann tottered on his cane, pointing a twisted finger to the cantina.

Clay followed his finger to find her, walking bare-footed in the center of the street. She was gorgeous in her exaggerated physiology, gray-skinned with shades of black at her lips and nipples and sex. She placed one foot directly in front of the other, her hips wagging as she walked toward them.

“Clay,” she said, smiling. “Come to me.”

Hauptmann took a step forward and Christine stopped, retreated a step.

“She has to be destroyed!”

Clay closed his eyes and sighed. He knew, had known all along, he would not be able to burn Christine alive. He simply cared about her too much, but knew she could not continue this way. She was a disease now, a virus that threatened more than this village.

“Don’t touch her!” Clay shouted, turning on Hauptmann and shoving the gas can, now half-empty, into his sunken chest. “I won’t hurt her!” He offered Hauptmann a wan smile, and whispered quietly. “I can’t hurt her.”

Hauptmann made no protestations as Clay backed away and turned to face Christine. The light from the fires made her wet skin shimmer with yellow flecks. She was otherworldly and beautiful. Even before he touched her, Clay could feel her essence worrying at the edge of his thoughts, like a dog chuffing along a fence, looking for a way inside.

She opened her arms to him, a patient, waiting embrace so unlike the vivaciousness of the old Christine, the impulsiveness and quick passion. This was a creature of eternal awareness, unmoved by the rush of the present. Even the destruction of her drones registered as a nuisance, a problem to be solved through sheer numbers. Clay could feel her insistent presence in his head, assuring him he would find peace in her arms. The thought made him smile, despite himself.

He slipped into her arms and held her face, staring into the black pools of her eyes. The ooze spread over his hands and up his arms, an eager infection that left his skin bare as it erased hair and clothing to reveal him and paint him fresh.

“I will always, always love you,” he said, and she smiled.

“Then kiss me,” she replied.

He leaned to her, met her lips and felt her slippery tongue push past his lips and coat his mouth with the viscous ooze. His body trembled with the pleasure it brought, and his embrace tightened. He felt his body exposed now, his clothes nearly eaten away by the greedy fluid, coating his body and setting his nerves on fire. His cock was hard and aching with the need for Christine, and he felt himself drifting into her, into the pool of minds that she stood above.

“No!” she cried out suddenly, her hands on his shoulders, pushing him away.

Clay held her tight, partially out of his need for her, his absolute lust to bury himself in her folds, to feel her pussy wrap around his shaft and take the length of him. But he could also feel the splash of the gasoline as Hauptmann swung the can, splashing them with fat droplets.

“I love you,” Clay repeated.

“You can’t!” Christine cried, squirming slickly in his arms, but he held her, even as the rain of gasoline stopped and that meant the hard part was coming.

Clay clung to Christine and the fragment of his mind that resisted her instruction - to release her, to save her, she was his queen! The heat was sudden and sobering, and Clay’s embrace wavered an instant and, for just that second, he thought she would escape. Part of him wanted her to escape. Then he found his other hand and locked his grip, wrapping her up in sticky flesh and flame.

The last thing he saw before the flames took them was her eyes, pale and blue and afraid, no longer the empty darkness. Perhaps it was imagination, synapses projecting his fondest desire in the moments before he burned, but he tumbled into the darkness with a final thought - ‘I saved her…’

The drones, over twenty of them, slipped back into the jungle as dawn approached. At the loss of their queen, many had frozen, lost without her instruction.

Many had never felt the pleasure of communion with the hive, burned by the old German before they could connect fully. Most of the villagers woke to a dawn that left behind only questions. Their village was nearly destroyed, a large portion of the population dead or missing. Hardened pools of some black substance were left behind, and the German warned the villagers to burn it until it was ash. A disease, he called it.

The drones marched through the brush and sang a silent dirge for the loss of their queen. The Justine-drone’s voice was mournful, but interrupted the steady bleat of sadness, introducing a new thought into the collective that was examined, found acceptable, and broadcast until it became the truth of them.

The Justine-drone faltered slightly, the weight of the cocoon rescued from the German’s house weighing her down, but other drones joined her, raising the cocoon to their shoulders, carrying it like a royal litter, for that is what it was. Inside, the one that had been called Maggie incubated, her body developing within the rubbery sac. She could feel the minds of the drones call out to her, in one voice and with perfect love.

‘Queen,’ they sang to her, and she smiled. She accepted their song and answered them.

Well... I think I hit the right spot on Ra with “Rubberwerks...   Girl_cool
For those whom have read “Rubberwerks”, what are your thoughts?

Also, if you knew what the oil would do to you, would you still touch it? If so, why?
I've read only the first part 😉

Contributors: Like Ra (6) , TightSlip (3)