Honeybees
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Bees free porn video
Bees
by Bryony Marsh
"New kid, eh? I'm Baker. Stick to me like glue today, and you'll be OK."
The new worker stood out prominently, his clothing yet to be stained by
the pollen. He looked excited, and anxious.
"Is it true about the bees?" he asked. "I mean, you hear things, but...
if they sting you...?"
"It's not a sting; it's a bite. And of course they're not exactly bees -
although close enough. If they bite you, they'll inject you with a poison
that makes your nuts shrink. Gibson over there," he raised his voice,
"he's been out here for years, and he's got a pair the size of raisins."
Gibson replied with a middle finger.
"Isn't there an antidote...?" the new kid began, but was interrupted by a
shout from a gang boss.
"Sector nine! Harvesting crew move out: transport on the ramp."
He quickly checked through his gear, and finished by settling his
breathing mask in place. Its filters were now the only thing that stood
between him and the pollen.
Everybody loved pollen. It was a benign, exhilarating narcotic. There
were no addictive tendencies, and no side effects. It was the perfect
drug - except that nobody had worked out a way to synthesize it: pollen
had to grow naturally, and that was the reason why teams of men came to
harvest it. Some they used themselves, but most they sent home, where it
was worth its weight in gold.
The 'transport' waiting for them was just an all-terrain; some of the
older harvesters called it a 'pickup'. It lacked seals to keep the pollen
out, so the team would have to keep their masks on all day. They bounced
their way out to the assigned sector on the unmade road, and at last drew
to a halt.
They climbed down, and started unloading their kit.
"There's a bee," Baker indicated it with a nod.
The new kid just about jumped out of his skin. "Is it safe?"
"Sure. Have a closer look at it. We're still a good distance from any
flowers, so it'll ignore you. Also," he laughed, "they always go for
Gibson first. Old lightning-rod Gibson, we call him."
"Fuck you," the reply came, slightly muffled. "I've been here longer than
any of you, is all."
"We can tell..."
The middle finger, again.
Baker led the new kid towards the bee, using it as a pretext to get away
from Gibson so he could talk.
"I know you're new here, and you're keen to make your fortune, and
everything. Maybe you've got a sweetheart back home, and you've told her
you're going to come home as soon as you can afford to raise a family..."
He held up a hand, rudely, to suggest he wasn't interested.
"Just remember this: whatever your reasons for coming here, it's a
balancing act. You want to work here long enough to make a pile, fine...
but remember to get out while you can still enjoy it. Gibson won't admit
it, but he doesn't ever plan to go home, because the bees have crippled
him."
"Crippled him?"
"Yeah. Look, you've noticed there are no women at the camp?"
The new kid nodded, warily.
"In a few weeks, that's going to be driving you crazy. There's porn, of
course, and cheaper and better pollen than you'd get anywhere else, but
you'll still miss the squeeze. Then you'll get bitten once or twice by
the bees... and it won't matter so much. You won't feel the need to
masturbate anything like as often, and that's a kindness when you think
about how we live."
The kid said nothing, but he looked thoughtful. Baker was pleased:
sensible kid!
"Everybody gets bitten sooner or later. So you've got to decide, how much
of yourself are you willing to trade away, before the wealth loses its
appeal? Think about it, kid. But don't end up in exile like poor old
Gibson."
They examined the bee closely, while it droned back and forth in a simple
flight pattern. It was almost an inch long, and covered with fine brown
fuzz, coated with traces of pollen. Baker pointed out some things about
it, and told the new kid to listen to its droning hum. Then he poked it
with a gloved finger, and its hum became a whine.
"This is the sound you have to listen out for," he said, batting the bee
away. "It means the bee is going to attack. If you hear that sound, get
your 'tennis racket' out, and swat him."
The 'tennis racket' was a tool with a grid of fine wires, each carrying a
high voltage. When brought into contact with a bee, the unfortunate
creature was burnt to a crisp. Baker demonstrated this with a backhand
swipe, and stowed the tool again.
"Let's go get some pollen."
+++
It was a long, hard day - as they all were. The new kid learned how to
use a 'paintbrush' to dislodge pollen, and a 'vacuum' to collect it. At
the end of the day, what he gathered would be weighed in, and his Company
account would be credited accordingly.
"Don't be tempted to scrub too hard," Gibson told him. "If the pollen
isn't ready to fall, it isn't worth having. It'll just contaminate the
batch. Anything that won't fall is best left to mature, and we can gather
it next time we come this way."
Gibson certainly knew his harvesting. He gathered at least twice as much
pollen as the new kid, and didn't seem at all fatigued from all the
climbing.
The day went well, although they had to defend themselves against bees
several times. As Baker had predicted, they seemed to go for 'lightning-
rod Gibson' mostly.
+++
The exotic and frightening became more comfortable after a few days. They
would go out and gather the pollen, and keep a little back for their own
enjoyment in the evening. When they weren't playing cards, they were
using. Everybody at the camp was a pollen user.
The new kid joined various different work crews, and got used to this
pattern of life. It was his tenth time out when the accident happened.
He was with Baker, Gibson and three other guys. They were harvesting from
a profusion of flowers that looped around the branches of an immense
tree. The best flowers weren't accessible from ground level, so they had
climbed onto the lower branches and were working their way along them, in
pairs.
Several bees erupted from the blooms, all at once, and whined as they
bore in towards (of course...) Gibson.
"Son of a..." He grabbed his 'tennis racket' and incinerated them: one,
two, three...
Then he lost his footing.
"No!" he cried, as he toppled out of the tree, and crashed down into the
jungle below.
As the most experienced men in the team, Gibson and Baker had been
working the limb of the tree that extended out over a drop. The ground
fell away into a steep ravine, filled with thick foliage; Gibson
disappeared from view.
The remaining five men fetched a rope, and used it to scramble down into
the ravine, hacking at the dense undergrowth. They thought they could see
damage where Gibson had crashed through the branches, and they continued
to descend.
Perhaps halfway down, they found Gibson's breathing mask, obviously
knocked off as he fell.
"He'll be high as a kite by now, if not unconscious," Baker warned.
Calling out to their lost teammate would do no good, then.
They continued to push on downwards, but were frustrated in their efforts
by an increasing number of bees. Their whine was almost constant, and it
was difficult to swat them in such a confined space. One man was bitten,
and then another.
"God damn bee nest!" the man exclaimed. "Let's get out of here!"
They had to retreat: everybody agreed. Even back at the camp, nobody
criticised them for abandoning Gibson. You didn't wade into a bee nest
for a man who'd probably been killed by falling, and who'd lost his
breathing mask.
Baker called for a toast to "Old Shrivelnuts Gibson" and that was that.
Gibson was gone.
+++
Fifteen days passed. Some of the bees seemed to have been acting
strangely; more aggressively, the old-timers said. The new kid had
suffered his first bite, and had learned (as all did) that there was
little that could be done, other than to take a testosterone supplement,
and try not to get bitten again.
Just as Baker had suggested, the bite actually helped him a little, as he
had been feeling horny, and they were a long, long way from womankind.
It had been a difficult day in Sector twelve, with the teams needing to
stay close and keep a man on watch for bees all the time. They shared
this task between them, so that all still had a chance to harvest the
pollen, but the yields were poor.
Back at the camp, the atmosphere was tense. An altercation broke out. A
man was accused of cheating at cards. One of the other workers hauled him
up out of his seat, and colourful bits of pasteboard went everywhere. It
seemed that he did, indeed, have an extra deck concealed.
These were men who earned a fortune - ten times what they would have got
at home - and many of them gambled hard. In some cases, they lost
fortunes. Wallace, a man who had lost a great deal in a recent game
produced a knife, and before anybody could stop him, he tried to stick it
in the cheater's belly. Only by luck did he avoid becoming a murderer, as
his foe twisted aside, suffering a deep gash instead of a stab wound.
"Enough!" roared a gang boss, savagely swinging his baton to subdue
Wallace. He hit him twice, rendering him unconscious, and then stood over
the bleeding, blubbering cheat, daring anybody else to try his patience.
An alarm began to sound, indicating a malfunction in the ventilation
system.
Dozens of men scrabbled for their breathing masks, and then looked to see
what might be wrong with the mechanism.
"It's bees!" one worker exclaimed. "The intake is clogged with bees!"
The camp's filters were designed to separate out pollen, so the men
inside didn't need to wear their masks. A fine mesh trapped any stray
pollen (which was added to that harvested) but now each filter was
covered by the furry bodies of thousands of bees, and virtually no air
was coming through.
"It's getting hot," one man complained.
"Will we suffocate, or die from heatstroke?"
"We'll have to burn them."
Nobody had any good ideas. This simply hadn't happened before, and the
men's weapons were only meant for swatting individual bees, not dealing
with an immense swarm such as this.
They sent out radio messages, but they knew no help was available.
Then something extraordinary happened.
"There's a woman out there!" someone exclaimed.
"What?" Several men checked the speaker's breathing mask, assuming he'd
taken in some pollen - but no, it seemed he was right: there appeared to
be a naked woman standing at the edge of the clearing.
She beckoned.
Some of the more educated among the men thought of the sirens of Greek
mythology, luring sailors to their death. Some of the others were simply
aroused by her, although those who had been bitten too many times found
they could appreciate the sight of her intellectually, but not in a
sexual way.
Still, she beckoned.
"She wants us to go out there."
"Fuck that."
"It's a trap."
"So is this," Baker said. "I'll go an see if she's real, and ask what she
wants."
Pleased that he didn't suggest that somebody should accompany him, the
men let him go. There didn't seem to be any bees flying in the immediate
vicinity of the airtight door, so Baker opened it briskly, and slipped
out.
No bees whined. They kept their distance from him, and he crossed the
clearing.
As he drew closer, Baker could see that 'woman' wasn't quite the right
word to use. This was a human-bee hybrid. She was covered in a fine
golden fuzz, although in places it was black, and she had a kind of tail,
extending behind her like a bustle. She gave the impression that standing
erect was not entirely comfortable.
He also thought he detected a little of his former comrade, Gibson, and
this caused him to stop abruptly.
"Gibson?" he asked.
"I was Gibson," came the reply, in perfect English with feminine
overtones.
"But how -"
"The bees needed me. They lost their queen, long ago. The enzyme in their
bite was more complex than we thought."
"What do they want?"
"They are just drones; they want nothing."
"Drones, right." Baker scratched his head. "Should I think of you as
their Queen?"
"That title will serve." The Queen met his gaze with eyes that appeared
to have compound pupils.
"And what do you want... your majesty?"
"You have invaded this place. You must not disturb the Forest."
Baker swallowed. "I'll tell the others. Anything else?"
"There will be reparations to pay. If reparations are satisfactory, there
is the possibility of trade between us."
"Trade?" Baker was nonplussed.
"You still desire pollen."
"I imagine so," Baker admitted. The Company wasn't going to stop
harvesting pollen, even if it had to fight a war to obtain it.
"Fetch Green, and Hernandez. Only they have the authority to make an
agreement."
"Right. I'll go now." Baker turned, and trudged back to the buildings. It
was disconcerting, trying to negotiate with so alien a creature, when it
knew so much about the Company and its personnel - but that would be a
problem for management.
Baker found it much hotter inside the building. He reported his
conversation, and the identity (old and new) of the woman at the edge of
the clearing. He said he hadn't got the impression that the Queen meant
them immediate harm (she was still partially Gibson, after all) but that
with her bee swarm, she had tremendous power.
Being less practical men than those who went out harvesting every day,
Green and Hernandez didn't relish the idea of facing the strange, human-
bee hybrid... but what alternative was there? They insisted that Baker
accompany them, and the three men went outside.
It took four hours to thrash out a deal that satisfied both parties.
There would be no more harvesting by humans: only that conducted by bees.
Seeing the huge number of bees that the forest contained, the gram or so
that a bee could harvest should be more than sufficient. Humans would no
longer enter the forest, but could maintain the camp as a trading post.
In return for pollen, the Queen would demand such items of human
manufacture as she might wish for her own purposes, with a fair price to
be agreed on an item-by-item basis. What remained of Gibson knew the
approximate price of many things, and the value of the pollen as a
narcotic. The Queen warned them that this would be no mere exchange of
vast natural wealth for a handful of glass beads, as had occurred when
explorers had discovered other cultures in the past.
"And you mentioned reparations?" Baker prompted, warily.
"One hybrid is not sufficient for this great forest; nor do I alone
provide sufficient genetic diversity," the Queen announced. "You will
offer me tribute, yearly, for as long as you wish to continue trading for
pollen."
"Tribute?" Green asked.
"Human beings," the Queen replied. "For now, I require... three."
She gestured, and the bees that had been clogging the air intakes of the
buildings rose into the sky.
"I do this as a sign of good faith," she exclaimed. "Shall we say, two
days from now? My bees will be watching."
Green and Hernandez looked at each other for a moment. Hernandez shrugged
microscopically, and they took their leave. The Queen turned and strode
into the undergrowth, while her swarm dispersed.
+++
The trio went back inside the camp, and the gang bosses were called into
a meeting. Knight, the man who had cheated at cards, was treated in the
infirmary, and Wallace, his attacker, was confined to quarters.
At dawn, two days later, a pair of all-terrains were brought out, and
prepared.
There had been rumours circulating, but now Hernandez brought all
speculation to an end. "You all saw the bee Queen," he said. "She wants
three people."
Uproar.
"We've already decided!" he shouted, and the commotion was replaced by a
distrustful silence.
"That's better," he said. "We're going to give her Knight, because he
cheated a lot of you..." This was a crude appeal to the vengeful nature
of the harvesters, and it worked surprisingly well. There were noises of
approval. "Also Wallace," Hernandez continued, raising his voice:
"because he broke the law. You all know we don't permit fighting in the
camp."
This was greeted with muttering, but no outright protest. Through the
window, gang bosses could be seen dragging Knight and Wallace out to the
all-terrains; both were in handcuffs.
"Who's the third man?" somebody asked, unease evident in his voice.
"The new kid," Hernandez replied, in a voice like flint.
"But... I haven't done anything wrong!" the newest worker yelped. All
eyes turned to him.
"Well, no. But it had to be somebody, and you delivered the lowest yield.
Plus you still owe the Company a lot for transportation, and equipment.
You owe us."
"That's not fair!" the new kid objected, but nobody supported him. Baker
looked ashamed, but didn't speak in his defence. Two gang bosses gripped
the kid's arms from behind, and they gave him the bum's rush, out towards
the all-terrains.
Few of the men on the base even knew his name.
They didn't drive far; just to the next clearing. That was far enough
that they were out of sight for the men who remained in camp. In the
clearing, three posts had been hammered into the ground, and each
featured a short length of chain.
It was a kindness that they had taken the breathing masks off each
prisoner; atmospheric pollen took the edge off their fear, and all three
were beginning to feel quite buzzed by the time one of their handcuffs
was unfastened, and passed through a link of the chain instead.
"It's like sacrificing maidens to King Kong, ain't it?" one of the gang
bosses joked, "Only King Kong is a bee smaller than the top joint of your
thumb, and these ain't what you'd call ladies... yet."
Despite the narcotic effects of the pollen, the new kid could just about
understand what was being said. He tried to think of a suitable
comeback... and failed. He sat down on the mossy ground, and giggled to
himself.
The gang bosses left the keys to the handcuffs out of reach, but where
the Queen would find them if she wanted them, and they returned to the
vehicles. They roared away as quickly as they could.
Perhaps an hour passed. The three men in the clearing felt nothing but
bliss. When the first of the bees began to bite them, they weren't
coordinated enough to slap them away, and after a few dozen bites they
lost consciousness.
+++
When the new kid opened his eyes, he no longer felt completely
debilitated by the pollen. He still savoured its presence, but he found
that he could think. For a few minutes he blinked madly, thinking he had
double vision... but then grew used to seeing the world through compound
eyes.
He pushed his way out of the waxy debris and shredded clothing that
covered him and stood, finding that his slender wrist slipped easily out
of the shackle that had held him in place. He looked around, and saw a
tremendous number of bees... but they were no longer a threat. He
understood now that they were his to command. There was nothing to fear
from them; they were simply the remnant that had preserved the bee genome
until it had found a new host: him.
Which meant...
The new kid examined his body, and discovered that masculine pronouns
were no longer appropriate.
Her skin was covered with a delicate golden fuzz, with symmetrical black
markings here and there. She had breasts (a concession to her mammalian
DNA) and an impossibly small waist - plus a large abdomen that she
already knew would become the origin of a new race of bee drones.
The other two former prisoners were also admiring their new bodies; none
of them at all disturbed to be part human, part insectoid. All they felt
was an urgency to be about their task: to restore the bee species to its
rightful place as keepers of the Forest.
The Queen strode into the clearing, and they abased themselves before
her.
"Welcome... sisters," she said.
---
A note from your authoress:
The reproductive cycle of bees is complex, featuring both queens and
'virgin queens' (who can produce drones without mating). There is also,
in some species, reproduction by a form of parthenogenesis called
thelytoky, which changes the reproductive landscape completely. It's not
entirely daft that all four of the transformed workmen should become
females, therefore. (And this is Fictionmania, after all...)
Julianne
- 01.04.2022
- 21
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