The atmosphere in the hangar is florid with excitement. The day's tasks - monitoring the climate, gathering the samples - feel like the giddy rituals of someone preparing for their own birthday party. I float around in a state of readiness, of hopefulness, flanked by my fleets of robot assistants, feeling myself not unlike a queen bee.

I gaze at the robots from my observation pod in the hive, enjoying their jerking, primal movements. Designed that way, of course, to emulate the bees themselves, so that the robots won’t be shaken off when they probe the subjects for their blood, venom, and tissue. Soon, I will send the report samples back to Control, and receive another missive honeyed with praise and encouragement. Of all the hives, ours is the most successful. We’re the only hive thus far to have produced a whole fleet of male bees, nurturing them from larvae to their full six-foot majesty. 

I watch them now, darting through their honeycombed palace. I let my gaze sweep over their soft bodies, alternately slashed in black and gold, like clouds in fiercest night and sweetest sunset. I sometimes hope they can hear me through my hormones as they hear each other. I know the ragged orchestra of my pheromones must be muffled by my overalls, muted by the thick glass of the observation pod. Still, I wonder what my desire would sound like to them - a primitive moan? A petal-thin whimper?

A torrent of them stream out of the hive, and I steer the pod after them. We emerge into the hangar's vast jungle of flowers. This oversized Eden that only I might ever get to see; hydrangeas the size of trucks, trees like skyscrapers. Grass that could swallow you whole.

The flowers glitter and tremble from the sprinkler system’s daily deluge as the female bees set about collecting the precious offerings of nectar for the family.

It's not the females I'm interested in though. Ever since the boys were born, they alone have captivated me. There were moments when I first got here, when desire yanked through me like a ripchord and I was almost willing to go after one of the girls. But to do so would risk being stung, risk discovering what litres of venom could do to the human body. No - I decided my fate, and it was immaculate. Now, with the boys beginning to reach their full size, my patience is excruciatingly close to being rewarded. It would only take one. One to drop his scent, to herald: I am ready. Come to me.

I weave through the foliage, scanning for the sign, fretting yet again that I won’t be able to distinguish it from the dew. But then up he glides, right into my line of sight, the fur of his abdomen gliding slickly across the exterior of the pod. I gasp at the violent and blatant flirtation. This has to be it.

I swoop the pod down to the soil. Sure enough: a transparent puddle, glistening in thick strands against the grass blades.

It's time. I race the pod back over to the samples library, cursing its languid glide. Faster, faster! If the queen discovers the puddle before I can return, all is lost. I can’t let that happen.

In the library, I burst out of the pod, yank off my overalls. I find the refrigeration unit I'm looking for - the one specifically for the queen's samples - and burst in. Grab a fistful of vials. Nectar she’s gathered. Her blood. Honey. Waste. The key to my desire clenched in my hand, there is a single moment of hesitation. But raw, animal need is pumping through me with every jagged breath. It is too late for anything else.

I bash the vials against the wall. Shatter the glass. Splinters of it pinch my hand. I gather the various serums in my other hand, as much as I can, and begin to smear them over my chest. More vials. More glass. More blood and nectar and hormones on my body, over my stomach, my thighs. Between my thighs. My own blood is mingling with the samples. I hope the stink of it won't deter my paramour.

Soon, I am covered in the sticky murk of her. The smell burns my nostrils. It is every scent imaginable. Musky, animal, feral, repulsive. Floral, sweet, bitter. I smell like birth, life, death.

I race back to the pod, head straight for the garden. I catch my reflection in the glass - the tarry look of me, only disrupted by the whites of my eyes, terror-wide. I had hoped to feel more beautiful for him; more regal, more worthy. But this is the only way he will take me.

I descend upon the grassy patch where he has released his scent. My shaking hand hovers over the door release lever. Just for a moment. Feeling the enormity of the adventure I'm about to release myself to. I pull the lever.

Outside is noise, is pure sensation. Wings roar; even the undulation of the petals sounds like a tidal wave, a gale, an assault. And the smell! His scent is just like mine, now - feral, florid, battering.

My head pulses hot and stings as I stumble weakly down. My head to the soil, I can practically hear the miles of interconnected roots beneath me sucking up every bead of moisture from the dirt. Nausea sets in hot and close, and my thoughts churn. What if he does not come? Is it too late? Can he sense I am a fraud, a cheap imitation? The foolishness of this plan swirls around me like grasping vines, the dull ache of impending failure pressing in harder and harder on my chest.

I will this meaning to sing through my veins, to call out to my suitor. Please, please, wherever you are, come to me now. Come to me. I tense every muscle in my body, focusing on this single, burning wish - until, all of a sudden, here he is.

His beating wings cleave the air and the grass as he descends onto me. I know it's him. I know because his genital capsule is already fully extended. My definition of beauty swells again to include these slick, black prongs. I need them.

His wings flutter to stillness. He's on me now. He presses his face to mine, his antennas threading through my hair. His eyes are as enormous and black as a starless night. His fur enfolds me, envelops my chest, my thighs, my everything, in the softest, most tender embrace. His limbs press all over, sinking into my hips, my arms, my neck. The pressure is so intense I can feel myself bruising, can feel my blood vessels yielding beneath his hungry touch. It is an embrace so sharp and exquisite that I wonder if my body can take it.

And then, the tips of his genitals are probing me- probing where I'm already soaking wet, probing where every touch makes me groan. They find where they need to go, and they thrust. And I am cleaved. And I am filled. Imagine my cunt is shaped like an oval, perfectly crafted just for him, for the perfect arcs of his pincers. He begins to move; tiny motions, impossibly fast. The vibrations wrack through me, and I’m howling, clenching every muscle to withstand this impossible rapture. I see my reflection in the domes of his eyes- my jaw slack, my whole body convulsing. A madwoman. A creature entirely lost to pleasure.

The sensation is so sharp that a climax feels like it would be a de-escalation. Everything is climax, from the first thrust. For me. For him, the climax comes quick, ferocious. It gushes into me - hot and vicious, like a flash flood, like a starburst - then spurts out, drenching my thighs, clogging his fur.

And then, he is still. And I am warm, my lover still inside me, surrounded by his limbs, cocooned in his fur. I am surprised to find tears running down my cheeks, congealing between my face and his. Why should I cry at this, the sealing of my fate, when I have stared into the abyss of beauty more deeply and fiercely than any member of my species ever has before?

We lie so still that I begin to doubt my fate is coming. And then I begin to feel it - the secretion of the second liquid. The bung. Which will harden inside me, ensuring nobody else can impregnate my lover's queen.

It starts coming, and doesn't stop. It spills out of me, mingling with his seed. He begins to pull out as he shoots out more and more of this liquid, vast, boiling jets that seem to plunge right into the depths of me. I am soaked, comprehensively.

It begins to harden and expand almost instantly. The cramps come quick, a dull repetitive sensation growing louder, louder, his secretion squeezing up against the meat of me, stretching me to bursting.

I cling to his fur, try to stay still for him. He’ll stay here, with me, until his duty is fulfilled. Until my organs split. Until I am gone.