“Warm!” Dolly expressed, everyone thinking the same thing as actual heat blasted and seeped into their frozen bodies. Within seconds, the warmth became painful when nerves resurrected, informing frozen women they didn’t like being LT Tom Kazanskyed.
“I…well, it’s warm,” Miaka said, voicing her musing as tactfully as possible.
With a twelve foot ceiling (3.7 m) , the bunker accommodated most Races, Dolly clearing with plenty of headroom. Two comfortable looking couches sat in the center with three hallways leading off to other rooms. The walls were constructed out of material in a honeycomb painted over with a pleasant coral shades. Prominent pictures of wildlife and forests hung from the combs, one a picture of Mount McKinley (or whatever the new name was supposed to be, Honoka couldn’t remember). In one corner, a small glass stand held a folded American flag and a few medals, including a Purple Heart. A pleasant hosting room, all around.
It was also a dump.
As Honoka gingerly shuffled a hoof along the ground, she shifted garbage out of the way to discover russet carpet underneath. Wrappers, discarded cans and bottles, half of the trash was flimsy trays of microwave meals. There was enough food in various stages of decay for a strong odor: not yet puke inducing rancid, still definitely ripe. Honoka imagined flies creating a thick fog over the filth if any such bugs could survive this far down in the dungeon.
In fact, Honoka thought, looking at the garbage in a new light, why isn’t the dungeon eating all this?
Movement from the corner of her eyes turned Honoka towards one of the hallways. Ducking her head to keep from scraping the lower ceiling of the hallway, a tall woman hesitantly straightened herself into the room. And even though Honoka should have been the most empathetic to strange Races or judging a person for who they were instead of what they looked like, the allocated holstaur couldn’t stop flinching when she saw the other woman for the first time.
“…” The other woman opened her…mouth…to speak, but nothing came out. Over seven feet tall (2.2 m), there was no hiding that she was an anthropomorphic wasp. Covered from antenna to elongated toed feet in black and yellow patterned chitin, both sets of thin arms folded underneath sweatered breasts like she was smuggling a pair of frozen turkeys under there. Her head was exactly like a wasp’s, two large compound eyes on the side of the inverted drop shape, three smaller eyes in the center, a giant pair of mandibles clamped closed at the point of the head. Behind her, two sets of veined diaphanous insect wings fluttered nervously, sounding a deep periodic buzz in the room. Most of her legs were covered in sweats, though her hips rode below her abnormally long chest without midriff while a massive insectoid abdomen trailed behind her, the minute flicking of a spearhead sized stinger thrusting in and out in the same nervous pattern as her wings. Her clothing was red and blue, a faded American flag stretched across the chest of the sweater, but with holes and stains and ratty enough Goodwill wouldn’t take them.
Wasp was the immediate reaction, but Honoka spotted some differences. Along parts of her exposed exoskeleton and on her forearms and shins were patches of thin hair colored the same black and yellow as her carapace, a good portion growing behind her antenna and draping behind her head. It looked fluffy and silky, but it also moved oddly, as if there was something else setting it apart from normal hair. Also, Honoka found her eyes unnaturally drawn to the woman, the telltale sign of an unnaturally high Charisma score.
As usual, Honoka’s curiosity was misconstrued as creepy staring. Fortunately, Quinn was quicker on the draw and stepped forward with Dolly, both wading through garbage fearlessly. Quinn and Dolly didn’t talk about it much, but they were both thirteen when the Change happened. They grew up watching the world look at them differently, that same world forgetting beastkin and cheetaurs were people underneath the fur. They vowed to do something about it.
No matter the shape, no matter the oddity, a person remained a person. And no person should ever feel they were alone.
“Howdy! Name’s Quinn.” Quinn said, holding out her hand, using her other hand to push back the parka hood. Dolly also pushed back her hood, beaming a giant smile to the insectoid woman.
At first, the woman flinched harder than Honoka had, staring down at the furry paw like it would bite, buzzing her wings loud as an idling big block engine. After a silent and awkward minute - both Dolly and Quinn patiently waiting and smiling - the wasp woman hesitantly unfolded her lower arms and reached out a hand with long fingers resembling tarsal claws, twitching violently before grasping her chitin appendage around Quinn’s hand.
Neither moved, hands held in place, when everyone noticed the body of the wasp woman was shaking. Miaka and Honoka gave each other sidelined glances, but Quinn and Dolly remained calm, waiting on the other woman. Thick golden fluid built up under the five eyes of the insect woman and slowly oozed down. With a wracking sob, the wasp woman leaned her head down and tenderly moved Quinn’s hand along the side of her face.
“I…I…I haven’t had anyone touch me since just after the Change.” The woman’s voice, no longer distorted by a scratchy speaker, was at odds with itself. It sounded like a Beauty and the Beast metal band singing harmony. On one stereo, it possessed this airy, soothing quality associated with an angel choir. Then it layered a gravely, harsh undertone to it like a bear angrily gargling gravel. It wasn’t what Honoka expected. Honestly, with what this woman looked like, Honoka was expecting the words to buzz. Shows her what growing up watching cartoons taught Honoka about real life expectations.
Voice aside, that didn’t change the compassionate otter’s response. Quinn smiled wider, moving forward slowly, reaching around and hugging the lonely woman, Dolly close behind. As the sobs turned into a full-on bawl, Miaka and Honoka finished the group hug, more than a few tears from the others holding the wasp woman. In one fashion or another, everyone in that room knew what it meant to be alone.
“…so…*sniff*…um, my name is Abra,” Abra said, giggling a little yet still holding everyone fiercely, as if ending this moment would wake her from a dream.
“惚化(ほのか)です。それが美朱(みあか)、ドリー、クインです。どうぞ、よろしく!” Honoka said, introducing everyone.
“Hold on, can you repeat that slower?” Abra replied, suddenly embarrassed. “I know a little Japanese, um, you just introduced yourselves?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you fluent in no time,” Miaka replied, emphasizing her faint Japanese accent as she hugged harder. “I grew up in Osaka and Honoka’s mother is from Nagasaki. Take Japanese in high school?”
“Noooo…” The wasp woman drifted into silence without any other explanation, reluctantly ending the hug and motioning for everyone to take a seat. Which is when she realized what the room looked like and winced. “Sorry, I don’t get guests. Ever.”
“No problem,” Quinn said, casually pushing soda cans off a couch and plopping down, her tail hanging over the edge. Miaka sat on the edge in the middle to allow room for tail feathers and Dolly went around to lean over the back. Honoka carefully lowered onto one end of the other couch and tried to gauge if it could take her weight from the creaking and groaning. Abra sat opposite in a kind of sidesaddle arrangement on Honoka’s couch, her abdomen hanging off the end with her legs tucked up by the knees, stiff wings angling hypotenuse over her abdomen.
“As I was saying,” Honoka said, thinking it best to move along with business first, “we control the holstaur milk in the dungeon and,” Honoka gestured to her taut milk sacks, “have the means to produce as much as we want.”
“Honestly, having you all here and not running away screaming or throwing stuff at me has already convinced me to make a deal.” Abra idly itched under one of her own money makers and Honoka tried so very hard mask how she ogled the motion. Despite Abra’s visible body covered in hard chitin, Honoka’s Perv Radar detected the hint of a jiggle under that sweater. Fortunately, Abra didn’t notice and continued. “Despite that, turning into this thing makes me leery of trusting anyone. How do I know you aren’t a convincing shapeshifter Race or a high level Glamorist?”
Honoka shrugged, a motion she should avoid in the future if her breasts were full of milk, the simple jostle enough cause to bite her lip and stifle a moan. The blanket she wore grew damper from two spreading spots of hot cream. “Guess you’ll have to taste for yourself and decide if it is the real deal.” Which is when the holstaur woman unwrapped the blanket and exposed her leaking mammaries to the room, making sure to keep her lower half covered.
“Chifusa’s tits!” Abra exclaimed, gulping while he mandibles fluttering in an excited and also horrifying fashion. Her legs bent up sharply and while she tried to discreetly hide it, her ratty sweatpants grew damp and sticky.
“Chifusa?” Honoka asked innocently, leering down at the wasp woman, lightly fingering a teat to squirt a stream across the couch. “Do you happen to mean Manyū Chifusa?”
Honoka wasn’t sure how it worked physiologically, but the yellow stripes of Abra’s chitin turned brown. Reddish brown. Even though it shouldn’t have been possible, the insect woman was blushing. She was also squirming and trying to look away, but her compound eyes were against her. Unless she left the room, Honoka’s bosom was on full display in every direction she looked.
“Ahem!”
Honoka started, forgetting herself in the moment. Turning around, Honoka found the wives had been productive, pulling empty water jugs from Dolly’s packs and preparing an adhoc milking station. Quinn’s miserable pregnancy effects had returned in full force, holding her head in one hand as she worked. Every wife had numerous milking rotations with Banda under their belts and knew the drill, Dolly and Miaka stationed on either side, each ready for a teat.
What am I doing? Honoka asked herself, a triple dose of shame falling on top of her to crush any feelings of flirting or fun. The Christian woman had rules, morals, lines in the sand she was unwilling to cross. Yet here she was, bare chested, lusting after another woman without any thought of marriage beyond this carnal moment. Starting to hyperventilate, realizing what she had almost done, Honoka pulled up her Status to stop everything and go home when she felt a hand on her thigh.
“Hey, it’s ok.” Dolly, someone who had suffered so much, mature beyond her years, peered into Honoka’s eyes. The formerly shy architect returned the gaze and saw that the wonderful, beautiful woman understood. Dolly brought that understanding further with her words. “Nothing happened, nothing is going to happen. Just a simple milking, alright?”
Forcing herself to calm down, Honoka nodded and turned her head away from the aroused insect woman in the room. Just a simple milking. Banda had a whiteboard on the wall next to her milking station at home. Every time she orgasms, she tallies up. Her current high score was twenty-something.
“Hmm, don’t want to cause a mess,” Miaka mused, gently grabbing a tit and hefting it, critically studying the leaking teat. Glancing at the jug, the owl woman opened her beak as wide as she could and took the entire nipple in her mouth, licking the engorged tit-spigot yet careful not to close the sharp beak more than poking a titch into the areola. Her thin blue tongue, though, moved in acrobatic directions, spilling milk and saliva over the bird woman’s coat and feathers. Pulling back with an embarrassed half smirk, wiping her face, the owl maneuvered the now well lubed teat and slid it into the round opening of the jug. The fit was a tight one and elicited a loud low out of Honoka’s bovine mouth.
Dolly took a more direct approach, spitting into her hand and giving Honoka’s other nipple a good slathering before shoving it into her jug hole. Which is when both wives got down to the business of milking these bloated boobs.
“Aaaah!” Honoka cried, reaching her hands into the air and grabbing her long horns, not wanting to destroy the couch or her wives with mighty thews, her muscles tightening and bulging as she neared her first orgasm.
Banda had access to industrial vacuum pumps at home and assisting her milking process broke down into monitoring those machines as they aggressively drained Banda dry. However, to get the last gallon or two from each milking session, the wives all relished extracting that final milk from a holstaur’s breasts by vigorously squeezing and kneading downward towards the nipple. They could also jelq the teats (a method to increase penis length and girth temporarily by looping thumb and forefinger around the base and applying equal pressure down the length, the term forever stuck in Honoka’s brain instead of proper dairy jargon), but that would spray milk all over the room, the milk ducts of a holstaur’s nipple physically different than a cow’s udder with ducts along the entire length. No, Dolly and Miaka went for the tried and true method instead of the messy one, holding their jugs in one hand while using their arms to force the milk down swollen dairy bags and out the teats, their efforts spraying thick cream into each container and quickly filling them up.
With a silent scream, Honoka bucked and came, the back of the couch cracking and falling off her side of the sofa, causing Honoka to roll onto the floor. Her thrashing threw the other two women off with screams and spraying milk flying everywhere. Honoka’s pussy on fire, her mind a blinding fireworked cacophony of need, she reached down and rammed one thick finger into her burning snatch, fingering herself as her other hand mashed and cranked a nipple. A deluge of milk fountaining upward as her orgasm took it up a notch and threw her entire body into a wracking seizure of pleasure, her massive body Richtering garbage everywhere in an earthquake of cumming convolutions.
“Honoka! Honoka!”
Someone yelled, others tried and failed to hold her and stop the cow in the honey shop, but Honoka barely heard or felt anything other than a blinding wave of light and oxytocin. It wasn’t like she didn’t care, yet it was as if her Maslow Pyramid only had one level and everything else was pushed aside to some place that wasn’t her pussy and tits.
Finally, Quinn grabbed one of Honoka’s floppy bovine ears and yelled as loud as she could:
“ALLOCATE!!”
Shocked for a moment out of the fugue, Honoka gulped a breath as she instinctively pulled up her Status and moved everything back to quo, the headache lost in euphoric haze. Her body kept orgasming as she shrunk, but the intensity dimmed and Honoka was thinking rationally again. Which is when the crushing weight of shame and guilt dampened anything else, her loss of control something she didn’t know if she could live with. The last bits of her normal body slimming into familiar places (as well as an obvious erection tent under the blanket-skirt that miraculously stayed on her throughout the wild ride). Honoka wiped sweat, lactate and bitter tears off her face and sat up, ready to make any apologies needed, when she and the other wives were shocked into silence by their vespidean host.
Abra sprawled in an awkward crab position on the couch, one leg looped over the back and the other on the floor, her top pair of hands gripping the cushions hard enough to plunge long sharp fingers into the stuffing, white fluff spilling out. Her head thrown back, her mandibles wide open, a long black proboscis jutted outward wildly into the air. Her abdomen rippled, each contraction causing the full eighteen inches of stinger to plunge in and out of the couch, a hissing smoke billowing from the holes and green liquid dripping off the tip. Yet those were all set pieces to the main show: her two lower arms digging inside her sweatpants - nearly all of the blue garment soaked in a thick, sticky liquid - and there was no question where they were located and what anatomy they furiously fingered.
“YEEEESS!!” Abra shouted, knees bending and thrusting her hips towards the speechless wives. What happened next might have shocked any other group, but to women used to seeing the oddest of sexual expulsions this only hit a six out of ten on the weird scale. From the area around Abra’s crotch, the sweatpants ballooned, thick yellow goop oozing between the seams. Gallons of the stuff ejaculated from the insectual woman, flooding her pants before glooping out of the waistbands and dolloping out the legs onto the couch. As the yellow liquid settled, small wisps of frosty mist arose as if it had its own dry ice effect, which is when the odor reached the other women. Combined with all the lactate, the room no longer smelled of trash but had the unmistakable fragrance of milk and honey, like the girls were coming out of a shower and smelling shampooed hair.
Silence except for deep breathing as everyone recovered. No one wanted to be the first to speak, the whole affair embarrassing to the extreme. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Miaka clapped her talons and stood up, surveying the room with a small smile.
“Sorry about the couch.”
********************
It was decided everyone would clean up before they discussed anything else. After sealing the two filled jugs and putting them in a fridge filled with prepackaged food, each took turns using the single bathroom (which was somewhere between the spectrum of Howl’s Moving Castle and Trainspotting) to wash up and change out of winter clothing. Honoka didn’t have anything that wasn’t soaked or destroyed, so she used two unused towels from the elevator ride when she emerged back to the main room. Abra shook her head at Honoka’s lack of clothing and went into a back room, returning with with a Sailor Moon cosplay outfit.
Holding it up against her body, Honoka judged that it would fit, with some surprise. Glancing up, Honoka quirked one eyebrow under her bangs.
“It’ll be easier to show you,” Abra explained, appearing defeated more than anything, wearing a new set of gray sweats. “You need something to wear and my stuff is too grody to loan out. Put it on and I’ll explain everything.”
Honoka shrugged, went back into the crime scene of a bathroom and changed. The outfit almost fit, a sexy two piece arrangement instead of the more accurate one piece, but that allowed her to push the skirt down as far as possible to keep a commando Beast as covered as possible. This action left her slim waist and abdomen exposed down to the top of her pubes, which couldn’t be helped at the moment. Forgoing the gloves and tiara, Honoka stepped out and received five sets of thumbs up as her chocolate skin turned into a chocolate raspberry. Pursing lips, Honoka told the group where they could collectively stick those thumbs and it was with laughter that the troop delved deeper into the bunker, led by Abra.
“If you haven’t figured it out yet,” Abra said, pausing at a large wooden door at the end of a long hall, “I’m a bit of an otaku. My Race…well, it came with some interesting needs, which is when I discovered Japanese anime and…other Japanese…stuff.” Working herself up to it, the wasp girl turned the handle and threw open the door, revealing a shrine to the other women.
“By the power of Grayskull,” Quinn said, echoing everyone’s inner Pegg. This wasn’t a shrine, it was the holy bastion of all things weeb. Thousands of blurays, DVDs, classic Laserdisc and VHS lined the walls on shelves reaching to the ceiling. Spaced between every dozen or so video cases was a figurine of anime girls in various poses. An open closet had hangers full of cosplay outfits ranging from commonplace to outright obscure. A TV the size of a small car took center stage on one wall, rock concert sized stereos on either side. It was…it was…
Which is when the girls couldn’t ignore the perverted in the room.
“Yeah, my Race came with some sexual…stuff.” Was Abra actually excited instead of properly embarrassed? “I didn’t know what to do and I had no one to talk to, so I just kind of fell into hentai.”
“Fell into?” Miaka asked, giving the room another critical look. “There are porno shops less well stocked.”
Which was very true. Upon closer inspection, each figurine was either naked, mostly naked or covered in tentacles. The titles on two thirds of the video collection were outright explicit while the other third came from titles known for their outrageous fan service. In the center of the room was a long lounging couch, but following the cords revealed a sybian and a small device that looked suspiciously like a miniaturized version of Banda’s milking machines. Even the ceiling was plastered in posters showing off a dozen different explicit waifu’s in various provocative poses.
“I was never like this before the Change,” Abra said, walking around to the closet and lightly drifting her hands over the cosplay lingerie. “I’m from Alaska, I used to hunt and go camping with family and friends, every weekend would end in a line dancing marathon. I loved being around people. Then my dad killed himself and my brother during the Change when he turned into a weird sea monster, and a few months later my mother died while she was deployed at the front during the Mexican Invasion.
“I was alone and suddenly the world turned on me.” Clenching her fist, her wings buzzing a little, Abra turned away. “I spent my life being around people and loving the company of friends and family, and every time I showed my head in public, I got attacked. Do you know what a bullet feels like when it shatters chitin? I do! So I hid away in my house, painting all the windows black, waiting for the world to adjust. Three months later, a mob burned my house down and I barely escaped alive.”
The other girls were silent, remembering the terrible first few months after the Change. It was utter chaos, the whole world insane as no one knew what was going on. Groups like Abra described roamed like packs of rabid dogs, killing any Racial person they found, thinking if they killed them all the world would return to the way it was. If there had been any other President in office - his legendary acceptance of Races as people even before scientists could prove it the single most watched address in history - the United States might have become another China or Europe.
“I came to the dungeon. At first, I found a place in Harvardtown, but it was bad there as well. So I went deeper. My Class is Monster Tamer, which has a great symmetry with my Race. When I found a Floor with rare wasps, I set up shop and have been here ever since.”
“Sooo…” Honoka mused, trying to connect the final dots to everything.
“I’m an Apis, obviously,” Abra said, pointing to all of her. “Not a super rare Race - around ninety thousand world wide - though most of them are found in the Middle East. However, my subclass is Queen. Those are rare, I’m one of six. A Queen’s sex drive is insatiable and I spend most of my time in this room. Its why I have such large…tracts of land…as well as my particular…secretions.”
Honoka put it together, hitting the bottom of her fist with her palm. “You ejaculate honey!” As if it wasn’t obvious from earlier.
“…yes.”
“If’n I wasn’t so sick, I think I’d go all Pooh Bear on ya,” Quinn said, smiling while delicately holding her long abdomen. The other three wives all nodded in agreement, licking their lips and beak over thinking about all the gooey secretion covering the couch in the front room.
“You…you girls don’t care?” Abra asked, turning around and studying them in a new and fascinated light. “I mean, you aren’t disgusted, horrified?”
“Abra, look at us,” Honoka said, holding out her arms, then bringing them back in for a Moon Prism Power Make Up pose. “Not only are we all different Races, I have my own Racial sexual problems I’ve had to deal with for five years, only getting the help I needed in the last month from my seven wives. We’re a deviant harem that deals with the extremes of Racial sex on a daily basis. I’m practically salivating at licking your love honey off the couch in the other room, knowing where it came from only making me want it more.”
“Plenty of room for a number eight,” Miaka said, waggling the red feathers on her head that were in place of eyebrows. “I’m sure we can fit you in, if you know what I mean.”
“…um…no, no…I can’t…” Abra appeared as if she were having a panic attack, looking not only at the girls but around the room. “I just…I haven’t even left my house in four years.”
Honoka grew somber, motioning to the other wives to back down. Stepping forward (and inwardly realizing how ridiculous she looked dressed as Usagi-chan), Honoka took one of Abra’s hands and held it in both of hers. “I have a tendency to move quickly, but you should be the one to set the pace. How about coming up to our house tomorrow for lunch after morning services?” Flicking her head back to Quinn, Honoka tried for a winning smile. “Quinn is a fantastic cook and takes requests.”
“[Cornbread Texas Toast,]” the wasp woman immediately mumbled, her mandibles opening and honey oozed out of her mouth in what Honoka estimated was her way of drooling.
“Sounds easy,” Quinn quipped, resting her paws on her low waist. “I assume that’s a savory cornbread sliced thick an’ covered in butter an’ garlic?”
“Yes: my mom used to make them,” Abra said sadly, tears of honey welling up. “I get my food and everything else only a few times a year, whenever the FDR can ticket a guild to hike it down. Everything is packaged crap, I haven’t had a fresh vegetable in years. On top of that, I can get the ingredients well enough, but my ability to make food sucks demon-futa-cock…no offense.” Honoka waved her hand with smile, letting the wasp finish. “Anyway, my mom used to make Cornbread Texas Toast every week after church and…well, I haven’t had any since she died.”
“Then it’s a date!” Honoka announced, going in for the hug as the other girls soon followed, everyone remembering what it means to love someone, no matter who they are. “We’ll go over all the other stuff later.”
The wives left, donning their winter clothing and dreading the walk back through the cold. Not only were they given ten gallon bucket of honey to take with them in trade for the milk, but Abra insisted Honoka wear the Sailor outfit home, claiming she’d retrieve tomorrow. This suited Honoka fine, not particularly relishing the idea of traipsing through the Lair naked or sweltering under heavy furs for modesty in town.
The hike through the frozen tundra remained all sorts of miserable, but Honoka was pleasantly surprised that Floor 271 had an Escape Route. In other words, going deeper through that Floor was traps and death and death and traps, but traveling to 270 was a straight hallway that took ten minutes to leisurely walk. Back at the elevator platform, they waited fifteen minutes for the next lift. An hour and a half later, around two o’clock in the morning, the group stumbled through the plywood gate and collectively jumped into showers to clean off the worst travel grime before bed.
When Honoka returned to her room, there was a note on the door from her Aunt Shilo. It’s ready, bath room 2. Have fun! ;) Leering, the perverted futa thanked her lucky stars her aunt was such a helpful pervert, anticipating tomorrow’s activities with the delight of a parent on Christmas morning waiting for her children to wake up.
Eve was the wife of the night, the little goblin still awake and typing furiously into her phone, naked under the sheets. “’Sup, H.”
“Why aren’t you asleep, Eve?” Honoka asked, stripping towels off and slipping in beside the distracted goblin. Erect to the point of oozing, Honoka was too tired and figured she’d take care of in the morning, already spooning up against her wife, exchanging kisses and snuggles.
“Someone on the internet is wrong,” Eve said, leaning into the snuggle while she kept typing away. “K, not wrong, but they are less right.”
Honoka yawned, already drifting. “About what?”
“About the proper taxonomy for a lesbian.”
“…what?”
Eve was agitated, up in arms over this. “That’s what I said. I insist Lesbianus Sapphoricus is clearly the superior classification, yet they keep throwing all these other ones that are plain wrong. Carpetis Munchis, Likalotapus Rex, Dildus Penitratus, Tribius Temptus, Superious Sciccorucum! The Freeloadius Maximus was plain rude if you ask me. Mind you, I might accept I’ve become more of a Hornium Bisexualiticus, but that is splitting hairs. I’m going to have to rope your Uncle in on this, he knows more Latin than I do.”
Drifting off with a silly smile on her face, Honoka missed the rest of the rant as her mind turned to flying houses and flying monkeys, all forgotten come morning.
“Warm!” Dolly expressed, everyone thinking the same thing as actual heat blasted and seeped into their frozen bodies. Within seconds, the warmth became painful when nerves resurrected, informing frozen women they didn’t like being LT Tom Kazanskyed.
“I…well, it’s warm,” Miaka said, voicing her musing as tactfully as possible.
With a twelve foot ceiling (3.7 m) , the bunker accommodated most Races, Dolly clearing with plenty of headroom. Two comfortable looking couches sat in the center with three hallways leading off to other rooms. The walls were constructed out of material in a honeycomb painted over with a pleasant coral shades. Prominent pictures of wildlife and forests hung from the combs, one a picture of Mount McKinley (or whatever the new name was supposed to be, Honoka couldn’t remember). In one corner, a small glass stand held a folded American flag and a few medals, including a Purple Heart. A pleasant hosting room, all around.
It was also a dump.
As Honoka gingerly shuffled a hoof along the ground, she shifted garbage out of the way to discover russet carpet underneath. Wrappers, discarded cans and bottles, half of the trash was flimsy trays of microwave meals. There was enough food in various stages of decay for a strong odor: not yet puke inducing rancid, still definitely ripe. Honoka imagined flies creating a thick fog over the filth if any such bugs could survive this far down in the dungeon.
In fact, Honoka thought, looking at the garbage in a new light, why isn’t the dungeon eating all this?
Movement from the corner of her eyes turned Honoka towards one of the hallways. Ducking her head to keep from scraping the lower ceiling of the hallway, a tall woman hesitantly straightened herself into the room. And even though Honoka should have been the most empathetic to strange Races or judging a person for who they were instead of what they looked like, the allocated holstaur couldn’t stop flinching when she saw the other woman for the first time.
“…” The other woman opened her…mouth…to speak, but nothing came out. Over seven feet tall (2.2 m), there was no hiding that she was an anthropomorphic wasp. Covered from antenna to elongated toed feet in black and yellow patterned chitin, both sets of thin arms folded underneath sweatered breasts like she was smuggling a pair of frozen turkeys under there. Her head was exactly like a wasp’s, two large compound eyes on the side of the inverted drop shape, three smaller eyes in the center, a giant pair of mandibles clamped closed at the point of the head. Behind her, two sets of veined diaphanous insect wings fluttered nervously, sounding a deep periodic buzz in the room. Most of her legs were covered in sweats, though her hips rode below her abnormally long chest without midriff while a massive insectoid abdomen trailed behind her, the minute flicking of a spearhead sized stinger thrusting in and out in the same nervous pattern as her wings. Her clothing was red and blue, a faded American flag stretched across the chest of the sweater, but with holes and stains and ratty enough Goodwill wouldn’t take them.
Wasp was the immediate reaction, but Honoka spotted some differences. Along parts of her exposed exoskeleton and on her forearms and shins were patches of thin hair colored the same black and yellow as her carapace, a good portion growing behind her antenna and draping behind her head. It looked fluffy and silky, but it also moved oddly, as if there was something else setting it apart from normal hair. Also, Honoka found her eyes unnaturally drawn to the woman, the telltale sign of an unnaturally high Charisma score.
As usual, Honoka’s curiosity was misconstrued as creepy staring. Fortunately, Quinn was quicker on the draw and stepped forward with Dolly, both wading through garbage fearlessly. Quinn and Dolly didn’t talk about it much, but they were both thirteen when the Change happened. They grew up watching the world look at them differently, that same world forgetting beastkin and cheetaurs were people underneath the fur. They vowed to do something about it.
No matter the shape, no matter the oddity, a person remained a person. And no person should ever feel they were alone.
“Howdy! Name’s Quinn.” Quinn said, holding out her hand, using her other hand to push back the parka hood. Dolly also pushed back her hood, beaming a giant smile to the insectoid woman.
At first, the woman flinched harder than Honoka had, staring down at the furry paw like it would bite, buzzing her wings loud as an idling big block engine. After a silent and awkward minute - both Dolly and Quinn patiently waiting and smiling - the wasp woman hesitantly unfolded her lower arms and reached out a hand with long fingers resembling tarsal claws, twitching violently before grasping her chitin appendage around Quinn’s hand.
Neither moved, hands held in place, when everyone noticed the body of the wasp woman was shaking. Miaka and Honoka gave each other sidelined glances, but Quinn and Dolly remained calm, waiting on the other woman. Thick golden fluid built up under the five eyes of the insect woman and slowly oozed down. With a wracking sob, the wasp woman leaned her head down and tenderly moved Quinn’s hand along the side of her face.
“I…I…I haven’t had anyone touch me since just after the Change.” The woman’s voice, no longer distorted by a scratchy speaker, was at odds with itself. It sounded like a Beauty and the Beast metal band singing harmony. On one stereo, it possessed this airy, soothing quality associated with an angel choir. Then it layered a gravely, harsh undertone to it like a bear angrily gargling gravel. It wasn’t what Honoka expected. Honestly, with what this woman looked like, Honoka was expecting the words to buzz. Shows her what growing up watching cartoons taught Honoka about real life expectations.
Voice aside, that didn’t change the compassionate otter’s response. Quinn smiled wider, moving forward slowly, reaching around and hugging the lonely woman, Dolly close behind. As the sobs turned into a full-on bawl, Miaka and Honoka finished the group hug, more than a few tears from the others holding the wasp woman. In one fashion or another, everyone in that room knew what it meant to be alone.
“…so…*sniff*…um, my name is Abra,” Abra said, giggling a little yet still holding everyone fiercely, as if ending this moment would wake her from a dream.
“惚化(ほのか)です。それが美朱(みあか)、ドリー、クインです。どうぞ、よろしく!” Honoka said, introducing everyone.
“Hold on, can you repeat that slower?” Abra replied, suddenly embarrassed. “I know a little Japanese, um, you just introduced yourselves?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you fluent in no time,” Miaka replied, emphasizing her faint Japanese accent as she hugged harder. “I grew up in Osaka and Honoka’s mother is from Nagasaki. Take Japanese in high school?”
“Noooo…” The wasp woman drifted into silence without any other explanation, reluctantly ending the hug and motioning for everyone to take a seat. Which is when she realized what the room looked like and winced. “Sorry, I don’t get guests. Ever.”
“No problem,” Quinn said, casually pushing soda cans off a couch and plopping down, her tail hanging over the edge. Miaka sat on the edge in the middle to allow room for tail feathers and Dolly went around to lean over the back. Honoka carefully lowered onto one end of the other couch and tried to gauge if it could take her weight from the creaking and groaning. Abra sat opposite in a kind of sidesaddle arrangement on Honoka’s couch, her abdomen hanging off the end with her legs tucked up by the knees, stiff wings angling hypotenuse over her abdomen.
“As I was saying,” Honoka said, thinking it best to move along with business first, “we control the holstaur milk in the dungeon and,” Honoka gestured to her taut milk sacks, “have the means to produce as much as we want.”
“Honestly, having you all here and not running away screaming or throwing stuff at me has already convinced me to make a deal.” Abra idly itched under one of her own money makers and Honoka tried so very hard mask how she ogled the motion. Despite Abra’s visible body covered in hard chitin, Honoka’s Perv Radar detected the hint of a jiggle under that sweater. Fortunately, Abra didn’t notice and continued. “Despite that, turning into this thing makes me leery of trusting anyone. How do I know you aren’t a convincing shapeshifter Race or a high level Glamorist?”
Honoka shrugged, a motion she should avoid in the future if her breasts were full of milk, the simple jostle enough cause to bite her lip and stifle a moan. The blanket she wore grew damper from two spreading spots of hot cream. “Guess you’ll have to taste for yourself and decide if it is the real deal.” Which is when the holstaur woman unwrapped the blanket and exposed her leaking mammaries to the room, making sure to keep her lower half covered.
“Chifusa’s tits!” Abra exclaimed, gulping while he mandibles fluttering in an excited and also horrifying fashion. Her legs bent up sharply and while she tried to discreetly hide it, her ratty sweatpants grew damp and sticky.
“Chifusa?” Honoka asked innocently, leering down at the wasp woman, lightly fingering a teat to squirt a stream across the couch. “Do you happen to mean Manyū Chifusa?”
Honoka wasn’t sure how it worked physiologically, but the yellow stripes of Abra’s chitin turned brown. Reddish brown. Even though it shouldn’t have been possible, the insect woman was blushing. She was also squirming and trying to look away, but her compound eyes were against her. Unless she left the room, Honoka’s bosom was on full display in every direction she looked.
“Ahem!”
Honoka started, forgetting herself in the moment. Turning around, Honoka found the wives had been productive, pulling empty water jugs from Dolly’s packs and preparing an adhoc milking station. Quinn’s miserable pregnancy effects had returned in full force, holding her head in one hand as she worked. Every wife had numerous milking rotations with Banda under their belts and knew the drill, Dolly and Miaka stationed on either side, each ready for a teat.
What am I doing? Honoka asked herself, a triple dose of shame falling on top of her to crush any feelings of flirting or fun. The Christian woman had rules, morals, lines in the sand she was unwilling to cross. Yet here she was, bare chested, lusting after another woman without any thought of marriage beyond this carnal moment. Starting to hyperventilate, realizing what she had almost done, Honoka pulled up her Status to stop everything and go home when she felt a hand on her thigh.
“Hey, it’s ok.” Dolly, someone who had suffered so much, mature beyond her years, peered into Honoka’s eyes. The formerly shy architect returned the gaze and saw that the wonderful, beautiful woman understood. Dolly brought that understanding further with her words. “Nothing happened, nothing is going to happen. Just a simple milking, alright?”
Forcing herself to calm down, Honoka nodded and turned her head away from the aroused insect woman in the room. Just a simple milking. Banda had a whiteboard on the wall next to her milking station at home. Every time she orgasms, she tallies up. Her current high score was twenty-something.
“Hmm, don’t want to cause a mess,” Miaka mused, gently grabbing a tit and hefting it, critically studying the leaking teat. Glancing at the jug, the owl woman opened her beak as wide as she could and took the entire nipple in her mouth, licking the engorged tit-spigot yet careful not to close the sharp beak more than poking a titch into the areola. Her thin blue tongue, though, moved in acrobatic directions, spilling milk and saliva over the bird woman’s coat and feathers. Pulling back with an embarrassed half smirk, wiping her face, the owl maneuvered the now well lubed teat and slid it into the round opening of the jug. The fit was a tight one and elicited a loud low out of Honoka’s bovine mouth.
Dolly took a more direct approach, spitting into her hand and giving Honoka’s other nipple a good slathering before shoving it into her jug hole. Which is when both wives got down to the business of milking these bloated boobs.
“Aaaah!” Honoka cried, reaching her hands into the air and grabbing her long horns, not wanting to destroy the couch or her wives with mighty thews, her muscles tightening and bulging as she neared her first orgasm.
Banda had access to industrial vacuum pumps at home and assisting her milking process broke down into monitoring those machines as they aggressively drained Banda dry. However, to get the last gallon or two from each milking session, the wives all relished extracting that final milk from a holstaur’s breasts by vigorously squeezing and kneading downward towards the nipple. They could also jelq the teats (a method to increase penis length and girth temporarily by looping thumb and forefinger around the base and applying equal pressure down the length, the term forever stuck in Honoka’s brain instead of proper dairy jargon), but that would spray milk all over the room, the milk ducts of a holstaur’s nipple physically different than a cow’s udder with ducts along the entire length. No, Dolly and Miaka went for the tried and true method instead of the messy one, holding their jugs in one hand while using their arms to force the milk down swollen dairy bags and out the teats, their efforts spraying thick cream into each container and quickly filling them up.
With a silent scream, Honoka bucked and came, the back of the couch cracking and falling off her side of the sofa, causing Honoka to roll onto the floor. Her thrashing threw the other two women off with screams and spraying milk flying everywhere. Honoka’s pussy on fire, her mind a blinding fireworked cacophony of need, she reached down and rammed one thick finger into her burning snatch, fingering herself as her other hand mashed and cranked a nipple. A deluge of milk fountaining upward as her orgasm took it up a notch and threw her entire body into a wracking seizure of pleasure, her massive body Richtering garbage everywhere in an earthquake of cumming convolutions.
“Honoka! Honoka!”
Someone yelled, others tried and failed to hold her and stop the cow in the honey shop, but Honoka barely heard or felt anything other than a blinding wave of light and oxytocin. It wasn’t like she didn’t care, yet it was as if her Maslow Pyramid only had one level and everything else was pushed aside to some place that wasn’t her pussy and tits.
Finally, Quinn grabbed one of Honoka’s floppy bovine ears and yelled as loud as she could:
“ALLOCATE!!”
Shocked for a moment out of the fugue, Honoka gulped a breath as she instinctively pulled up her Status and moved everything back to quo, the headache lost in euphoric haze. Her body kept orgasming as she shrunk, but the intensity dimmed and Honoka was thinking rationally again. Which is when the crushing weight of shame and guilt dampened anything else, her loss of control something she didn’t know if she could live with. The last bits of her normal body slimming into familiar places (as well as an obvious erection tent under the blanket-skirt that miraculously stayed on her throughout the wild ride). Honoka wiped sweat, lactate and bitter tears off her face and sat up, ready to make any apologies needed, when she and the other wives were shocked into silence by their vespidean host.
Abra sprawled in an awkward crab position on the couch, one leg looped over the back and the other on the floor, her top pair of hands gripping the cushions hard enough to plunge long sharp fingers into the stuffing, white fluff spilling out. Her head thrown back, her mandibles wide open, a long black proboscis jutted outward wildly into the air. Her abdomen rippled, each contraction causing the full eighteen inches of stinger to plunge in and out of the couch, a hissing smoke billowing from the holes and green liquid dripping off the tip. Yet those were all set pieces to the main show: her two lower arms digging inside her sweatpants - nearly all of the blue garment soaked in a thick, sticky liquid - and there was no question where they were located and what anatomy they furiously fingered.
“YEEEESS!!” Abra shouted, knees bending and thrusting her hips towards the speechless wives. What happened next might have shocked any other group, but to women used to seeing the oddest of sexual expulsions this only hit a six out of ten on the weird scale. From the area around Abra’s crotch, the sweatpants ballooned, thick yellow goop oozing between the seams. Gallons of the stuff ejaculated from the insectual woman, flooding her pants before glooping out of the waistbands and dolloping out the legs onto the couch. As the yellow liquid settled, small wisps of frosty mist arose as if it had its own dry ice effect, which is when the odor reached the other women. Combined with all the lactate, the room no longer smelled of trash but had the unmistakable fragrance of milk and honey, like the girls were coming out of a shower and smelling shampooed hair.
Silence except for deep breathing as everyone recovered. No one wanted to be the first to speak, the whole affair embarrassing to the extreme. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Miaka clapped her talons and stood up, surveying the room with a small smile.
“Sorry about the couch.”
********************
It was decided everyone would clean up before they discussed anything else. After sealing the two filled jugs and putting them in a fridge filled with prepackaged food, each took turns using the single bathroom (which was somewhere between the spectrum of Howl’s Moving Castle and Trainspotting) to wash up and change out of winter clothing. Honoka didn’t have anything that wasn’t soaked or destroyed, so she used two unused towels from the elevator ride when she emerged back to the main room. Abra shook her head at Honoka’s lack of clothing and went into a back room, returning with with a Sailor Moon cosplay outfit.
Holding it up against her body, Honoka judged that it would fit, with some surprise. Glancing up, Honoka quirked one eyebrow under her bangs.
“It’ll be easier to show you,” Abra explained, appearing defeated more than anything, wearing a new set of gray sweats. “You need something to wear and my stuff is too grody to loan out. Put it on and I’ll explain everything.”
Honoka shrugged, went back into the crime scene of a bathroom and changed. The outfit almost fit, a sexy two piece arrangement instead of the more accurate one piece, but that allowed her to push the skirt down as far as possible to keep a commando Beast as covered as possible. This action left her slim waist and abdomen exposed down to the top of her pubes, which couldn’t be helped at the moment. Forgoing the gloves and tiara, Honoka stepped out and received five sets of thumbs up as her chocolate skin turned into a chocolate raspberry. Pursing lips, Honoka told the group where they could collectively stick those thumbs and it was with laughter that the troop delved deeper into the bunker, led by Abra.
“If you haven’t figured it out yet,” Abra said, pausing at a large wooden door at the end of a long hall, “I’m a bit of an otaku. My Race…well, it came with some interesting needs, which is when I discovered Japanese anime and…other Japanese…stuff.” Working herself up to it, the wasp girl turned the handle and threw open the door, revealing a shrine to the other women.
“By the power of Grayskull,” Quinn said, echoing everyone’s inner Pegg. This wasn’t a shrine, it was the holy bastion of all things weeb. Thousands of blurays, DVDs, classic Laserdisc and VHS lined the walls on shelves reaching to the ceiling. Spaced between every dozen or so video cases was a figurine of anime girls in various poses. An open closet had hangers full of cosplay outfits ranging from commonplace to outright obscure. A TV the size of a small car took center stage on one wall, rock concert sized stereos on either side. It was…it was…
Which is when the girls couldn’t ignore the perverted in the room.
“Yeah, my Race came with some sexual…stuff.” Was Abra actually excited instead of properly embarrassed? “I didn’t know what to do and I had no one to talk to, so I just kind of fell into hentai.”
“Fell into?” Miaka asked, giving the room another critical look. “There are porno shops less well stocked.”
Which was very true. Upon closer inspection, each figurine was either naked, mostly naked or covered in tentacles. The titles on two thirds of the video collection were outright explicit while the other third came from titles known for their outrageous fan service. In the center of the room was a long lounging couch, but following the cords revealed a sybian and a small device that looked suspiciously like a miniaturized version of Banda’s milking machines. Even the ceiling was plastered in posters showing off a dozen different explicit waifu’s in various provocative poses.
“I was never like this before the Change,” Abra said, walking around to the closet and lightly drifting her hands over the cosplay lingerie. “I’m from Alaska, I used to hunt and go camping with family and friends, every weekend would end in a line dancing marathon. I loved being around people. Then my dad killed himself and my brother during the Change when he turned into a weird sea monster, and a few months later my mother died while she was deployed at the front during the Mexican Invasion.
“I was alone and suddenly the world turned on me.” Clenching her fist, her wings buzzing a little, Abra turned away. “I spent my life being around people and loving the company of friends and family, and every time I showed my head in public, I got attacked. Do you know what a bullet feels like when it shatters chitin? I do! So I hid away in my house, painting all the windows black, waiting for the world to adjust. Three months later, a mob burned my house down and I barely escaped alive.”
The other girls were silent, remembering the terrible first few months after the Change. It was utter chaos, the whole world insane as no one knew what was going on. Groups like Abra described roamed like packs of rabid dogs, killing any Racial person they found, thinking if they killed them all the world would return to the way it was. If there had been any other President in office - his legendary acceptance of Races as people even before scientists could prove it the single most watched address in history - the United States might have become another China or Europe.
“I came to the dungeon. At first, I found a place in Harvardtown, but it was bad there as well. So I went deeper. My Class is Monster Tamer, which has a great symmetry with my Race. When I found a Floor with rare wasps, I set up shop and have been here ever since.”
“Sooo…” Honoka mused, trying to connect the final dots to everything.
“I’m an Apis, obviously,” Abra said, pointing to all of her. “Not a super rare Race - around ninety thousand world wide - though most of them are found in the Middle East. However, my subclass is Queen. Those are rare, I’m one of six. A Queen’s sex drive is insatiable and I spend most of my time in this room. Its why I have such large…tracts of land…as well as my particular…secretions.”
Honoka put it together, hitting the bottom of her fist with her palm. “You ejaculate honey!” As if it wasn’t obvious from earlier.
“…yes.”
“If’n I wasn’t so sick, I think I’d go all Pooh Bear on ya,” Quinn said, smiling while delicately holding her long abdomen. The other three wives all nodded in agreement, licking their lips and beak over thinking about all the gooey secretion covering the couch in the front room.
“You…you girls don’t care?” Abra asked, turning around and studying them in a new and fascinated light. “I mean, you aren’t disgusted, horrified?”
“Abra, look at us,” Honoka said, holding out her arms, then bringing them back in for a Moon Prism Power Make Up pose. “Not only are we all different Races, I have my own Racial sexual problems I’ve had to deal with for five years, only getting the help I needed in the last month from my seven wives. We’re a deviant harem that deals with the extremes of Racial sex on a daily basis. I’m practically salivating at licking your love honey off the couch in the other room, knowing where it came from only making me want it more.”
“Plenty of room for a number eight,” Miaka said, waggling the red feathers on her head that were in place of eyebrows. “I’m sure we can fit you in, if you know what I mean.”
“…um…no, no…I can’t…” Abra appeared as if she were having a panic attack, looking not only at the girls but around the room. “I just…I haven’t even left my house in four years.”
Honoka grew somber, motioning to the other wives to back down. Stepping forward (and inwardly realizing how ridiculous she looked dressed as Usagi-chan), Honoka took one of Abra’s hands and held it in both of hers. “I have a tendency to move quickly, but you should be the one to set the pace. How about coming up to our house tomorrow for lunch after morning services?” Flicking her head back to Quinn, Honoka tried for a winning smile. “Quinn is a fantastic cook and takes requests.”
“[Cornbread Texas Toast,]” the wasp woman immediately mumbled, her mandibles opening and honey oozed out of her mouth in what Honoka estimated was her way of drooling.
“Sounds easy,” Quinn quipped, resting her paws on her low waist. “I assume that’s a savory cornbread sliced thick an’ covered in butter an’ garlic?”
“Yes: my mom used to make them,” Abra said sadly, tears of honey welling up. “I get my food and everything else only a few times a year, whenever the FDR can ticket a guild to hike it down. Everything is packaged crap, I haven’t had a fresh vegetable in years. On top of that, I can get the ingredients well enough, but my ability to make food sucks demon-futa-cock…no offense.” Honoka waved her hand with smile, letting the wasp finish. “Anyway, my mom used to make Cornbread Texas Toast every week after church and…well, I haven’t had any since she died.”
“Then it’s a date!” Honoka announced, going in for the hug as the other girls soon followed, everyone remembering what it means to love someone, no matter who they are. “We’ll go over all the other stuff later.”
The wives left, donning their winter clothing and dreading the walk back through the cold. Not only were they given ten gallon bucket of honey to take with them in trade for the milk, but Abra insisted Honoka wear the Sailor outfit home, claiming she’d retrieve tomorrow. This suited Honoka fine, not particularly relishing the idea of traipsing through the Lair naked or sweltering under heavy furs for modesty in town.
The hike through the frozen tundra remained all sorts of miserable, but Honoka was pleasantly surprised that Floor 271 had an Escape Route. In other words, going deeper through that Floor was traps and death and death and traps, but traveling to 270 was a straight hallway that took ten minutes to leisurely walk. Back at the elevator platform, they waited fifteen minutes for the next lift. An hour and a half later, around two o’clock in the morning, the group stumbled through the plywood gate and collectively jumped into showers to clean off the worst travel grime before bed.
When Honoka returned to her room, there was a note on the door from her Aunt Shilo. It’s ready, bath room 2. Have fun! ;) Leering, the perverted futa thanked her lucky stars her aunt was such a helpful pervert, anticipating tomorrow’s activities with the delight of a parent on Christmas morning waiting for her children to wake up.
Eve was the wife of the night, the little goblin still awake and typing furiously into her phone, naked under the sheets. “’Sup, H.”
“Why aren’t you asleep, Eve?” Honoka asked, stripping towels off and slipping in beside the distracted goblin. Erect to the point of oozing, Honoka was too tired and figured she’d take care of in the morning, already spooning up against her wife, exchanging kisses and snuggles.
“Someone on the internet is wrong,” Eve said, leaning into the snuggle while she kept typing away. “K, not wrong, but they are less right.”
Honoka yawned, already drifting. “About what?”
“About the proper taxonomy for a lesbian.”
“…what?”
Eve was agitated, up in arms over this. “That’s what I said. I insist Lesbianus Sapphoricus is clearly the superior classification, yet they keep throwing all these other ones that are plain wrong. Carpetis Munchis, Likalotapus Rex, Dildus Penitratus, Tribius Temptus, Superious Sciccorucum! The Freeloadius Maximus was plain rude if you ask me. Mind you, I might accept I’ve become more of a Hornium Bisexualiticus, but that is splitting hairs. I’m going to have to rope your Uncle in on this, he knows more Latin than I do.”
Drifting off with a silly smile on her face, Honoka missed the rest of the rant as her mind turned to flying houses and flying monkeys, all forgotten come morning.
