Bearing Fruit

"Routine patrol, he said," grumbles Brent, stomping through the grass, "Probably be back before he's done, he said."

The familiar campsite seems almost fantastical in the moonlight, the windswept trees looming like giant claws. The transceiver at his hip crackles and Brent jumps, knocking into a tree that rains some sort of sandy dust onto him.

"Central, R32 on Windigo," says Dana's static-burred voice over the radio, as Brent tries to brush the sticky grit out of his hair and clothes. Some of it lands in his mouth. It's chalky and sweet.

Hailey's "R16, go ahead" sounds like it's coming from far away—which of course it is. She's fifteen miles southwest of them, at headquarters, maybe three cubicles away from where his partner Mitch is hopefully typing furiously away at his emergency paperwork and not laughing at the rookie floundering around in strangle flora, or whatever.

The stuff won't wipe off his increasingly clammy palms. He brings it up to his face and sniffs. Pollen.

"I'm on Minong Ridge Trail just east of Lake Desor," says Dana, the radio fading in and out. There are eyes in the dark, watching Brent.

He backs away from them, his breathing so, so loud, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He has to—Dana's still droning on about—he fumbles at the volume, finally managing to twist the knob until it clicks off, right as Dana mentions a cougar—

The eyes in the dark glow yellow.

Panic roars in his ears, like the ship-swallowing gales of Lake Superior, until it doesn't.

He's in some kind of clearing, the scrapes on his face and hands starting to register now that the adrenaline is fading, his shoes gone and his shirt ripped. He has to get back, but he has no idea in which direction he ran, and for how long. The air is sweltering, like August instead of May.

It has to be some kind of allergic reaction, between the sweat dripping off his chin and the returning paranoia, and Brent's just reaching for the transceiver thankfully still on his belt when the moon peeks from behind the clouds.

Something slimy wraps around his ankle.

Brent yells and kicks, but—it has to be a nightmare another figment of his imagination he has to wake—fucking vines wrap around the rest of his limbs, hoisting him into the air, until one shoves its way unceremoniously into his mouth. He bites down out of panic, but nothing happens, the slimy, cool vine practically petting his tongue no matter how much he gags. Another vine wraps around his torso, and—

Something inhuman coos in a voice that only seems to exist in Brent's mind.

Brent wriggles and squirms as best he can, but the vines let him dangle uselessly in the air, petting his head and shoulders with not a little satisfaction. It's focusing on the pollen, he realizes, right before the vine in his mouth pulls out to make way for the one fondling him.

The dusty, sweet taste coats his tongue again, at the same time a thinner vine starts licking between his fingers. The combined sensations shoot straight to his dick, which apparently has no trouble at all getting into the mood despite the rest of Brent's reservations. Brent tries to gasp, choking on a sudden glob of slime dribbling down his throat.

He's burning hotter than ever, and the vines are no help, warmed up to body temperature, as they stroke over his over-sensitive palms, ripping his remaining clothes to shreds. He's close to bursting out of his skin, squirming against the vines for an entirely different reason now.

A vine brushes against his nipple.

Brent jerks like a live wire, and the vines freeze. Tentatively, it brushes against his nipple again, and when Brent moans, it rewards him with more slime and—he tries to guess what it rubs against his nipples—leaves, different textured vines, a thorn quickly withdrawn, the soft furry buds of new leaves that makes him whimper and grind against bare air, his dick cruelly neglected.

He wants to beg for—for—he doesn't know what, thrusting his chest against the velvety buds playing with his nipples, swirling his tongue in the same rhythm around the vine and its sweet nectar, spreading his legs wider to accommodate the vines snaking up his legs, digging into his tender inner thighs—

Completely bypassing his leaking cock to wrap around his balls.

Brent freezes. A new vine tickles its way down his chest, but every twitch he makes away from it tugs against the firm hold around his most vulnerable organs. Cold sweat trickles between his shoulder blades.

The vine withdraws from his mouth, lingering to stroke his lower lip, and Brent swallows down an unexpected sense of disappointment. He licks his lips, electricity shooting down his spine as his tongue passes over the vine, and croaks, "You done already?"

It pats his cheek in a manner that can't be described any other way than condescending, and nudges between his ass cheeks.

"Hey!" he yelps, too surprised for dignity, "Cut th—"

The vines around his balls tighten until Brent stops trying to squirm away. He blinks back tears as it presses firmly against his dry asshole, and gasps, "Seriously, that's an out hole, not—"

A vine smacks against Brent's tender lower belly. He jerks back, his hole clenching then fluttering open in surprise, just enough for the tip of the other vine to slide inside. It's so wet and warm—Christ, from his mouth—wriggling its way inside no matter how much he tried to tighten up. It pulls out, and then squelches in, even wetter than before, gliding right in. Fuck, it can't all be his spit, can it?

As if in response, it pulls out until only the head rests against his hole, stretching him open, drooling the same slime that it must have been leaking into his mouth. Brent bites back a moan as the vine pushes back in, pressing against his walls, brushing against something that makes his toes curl. He can practically taste it.

It has to be the slime making his head hazy. It has to be the slime making him push back into each slow, inexorable stroke, his hole fluttering around the wide vine. It has to be the slime making him forget that his arms are tangled behind his back, as he tries to wrap a hand around his cock, writhing against his bonds.

Someone else is moaning like a porn star, arching his back for more, for harder, for someone to touch his dick.

He can't shut himself up. Another vine flirts at the edges of his mouth, waiting for him to dart his tongue out for a taste, before it plunges into his welcoming mouth, freezing halfway down his throat. The vine in his ass stops too, as well as all the vines keeping him hogtied in the air.

He's stuck in an immobile web of vines, eight feet in the air.

Brent absolutely refuses to die hanging in the air like a stuck pig. He struggles in his bonds, trying to free his hands, ignoring his bobbing dick, which sulkily refuses to go down.

A vine wraps around his waist and pulls him against the vine up his ass, so deep it makes him squeak.

He's still gasping for air through his nose when the vine pulls him the opposite direction, until the vine down his throat has to be tickling his stomach from the inside, making him swallow convulsively, trying to keep his gag reflex down.

It withdraws, leaving Brent's heart jackhammering against the vine splitting him open. He has no idea what's going on.

A vine smacks him out of nowhere, biting right into the meat of his ass. Brent yelps, jerking forward even more, choking on the vine down his throat. A bruising grip around his hips yanks him back into the vine splitting open his hole, rocking him between the two vines at a punishing pace. A fourth vine peppers his ass with stinging blows, making him jerk and squirm. His no-longer virgin hole smarts, his throat still trying to cough out the thick intruder.

He's never been harder in his life.

The vine around his hips must have withdrawn a while ago, but he wouldn't know, rocking desperately against his bonds to swallow the vines deeper into his holes, suckling on the sweet nectar filling him up. A second vine nudges against his ass, and he pushes back against it, canting his hips to accommodate both vines.

It's a stretch, aching and filling him up exactly the way he wants it.

"Please," he gasps, as the vine pops out of his mouth, "Please, give me more."

It caresses his face, before dipping between his collarbones to cup his pec. A third vine pushes its tip into his hole, just as a vine whips him in the seat of his ass. His hole seizes up in surprise, clenching painfully around the brutal stretch. Brent mewls, helplessly.

The vines slow down to a glacial pace.

Wet vines lick around his sensitized nipples, dipping into his belly button, drawing designs behind his knees and against his inner thighs. A vine pets his cheek and jaw, evading Brent's seeking mouth. And the three vines twine around each other in his hole, shoving their way inside as slow and inevitable as desk work.

Brent tries to find both his voice and his bravado. He can't imagine why the kid gloves are coming out now. "What are you waiting for?"

It tugs at his hair almost playfully. The vine curling around his ear wraps loosely around his throat, until it's gradually not so loose.

All the self-preservation drains out of his dick, making it bounce wetly against his belly.

The vines cut off his air just as Brent opens his mouth to scream, the entwined vines punching into his ass like a piston, like a jetboat, like the F-150 he'd driven north, north, as far north as he could drive to get away from the people, the clamor, the never-ending rat race of the city what feels a lifetime ago. The vines blossom in his hole, looping around themselves to rub against his rim, press up against his prostate, until Brent can't catch his breath even after the vine around his neck (and won't the bruise leave a nice choker) loosen, sparks lightening up his vision like the stars cranked up to eleven.

He nearly cries when they withdraw, leaving him aching and limp except for where it matters. He still hasn't come.

The vine slides back into his mouth, soothing the ache in his throat. Another finally wraps around his cock.

That should have been his first clue. But it's not until he catches a glimpse of the behemoth rubbing itself over every inch of Brent's exposed skin, lapping up the last of the pollen, that he finally cottons on.

"No," he tries to say around the vine in his mouth, to no avail. He gives it another bite, to the same result. The vine bears more resemblance to a tree trunk, thicker than all the other vines combined, thicker, possibly, than one of his legs. There's no possible way it'll fit. He squirms more, and the vine pulls out to slap him so hard his ears ring.

The world abruptly flips upside down, smacking him in the face with something wet and gritty.

It's the ground. Brent digs his fingers into the wet clay soil as his legs are pried apart even further, still in the air, his thighs shaking as he tries to keep them closed. He barely has time to unclench his teeth and suck in a breath before the vine plunges into his hole.

This time there's nothing to hold back his scream.

It's like nothing he's ever experienced. It's like being pried open, like being torn apart, like rearranging everything he is inside to fit an entirely alien entity. And it keeps going, pushing in, and in, and in, until he can't understand why it hasn't pushed all the way out the other side. It's hard to breath, between his panic and sobs and the loop of vines cradling his head.

He wants to push away the parody of comfort. He wants to burrow himself into it.

Finally, it stops pushing in, probably somewhere between his self-respect and his liver. It certainly doesn't stop moving.

"I don't understand what you want," says Brent, as it nudges against his sore prostate every now and then with its restless squirming. His dick is already starting to rise again.

It pets his back, soothing over the welts on his ass. It traces a wet vine around the rim of his hole, impossibly stretched, making him gasp. Another vine wraps loosely around his dick, adding just the barest of friction as the giant vine fucks his hips forward.

He turns away from vine resting at the corner of his mouth, desperate for just that little bit of autonomy.

There's a—he's not sure if it's the alien representation of a shrug in the back of his mind, or his own overactive imagination, but the vine at his mouth pulls back just as his legs are pulled even further apart, his cheeks pried apart by two more vines. The vine grows impossibly thicker right where it meets his hole.

"No," he says, craning his neck to look down—no, look up in the air—where something the size of a grapefruit bulges in the vine, pulled down inevitably by gravity. "No!"

It's no use. Blood rushes in his ears, both from hanging nearly upside down for so long and straining to push out something trying to squeeze into his body.

It's a losing battle on both fronts, even though the widest part nearly doesn't fit, almost audibly popping past the tired ring of muscle. The rest practically sucks itself in, so big it feels like it's crushing his prostate. Another vine presses against his belly, as if cradling the hard lump from the outside. He's never been so full, stuffed to the point of pain and beyond.

He's never come so hard in his life.

When he comes to, there's another something nudging at his rim. Boneless, Brent has no more fight to offer up, and this one pops in with less resistance, bump-bumping against his prostate as they rearrange themselves in his gut, one after the other. It's too much—he's dribbling out another orgasm before his dick even has a chance of getting hard.

They come down the vine hard and fast after that. Four, six, twelve...thirteen? He's losing count.

Christ, was there ever a time he wanted to come? His sore dick weeps continuously, the pisshead twitching so hard it hurts, yet every time another of the things drag hard against his prostate, his poor balls try to empty a reservoir long gone dry. Dimly, he realizes he's crying again.

A vine wraps around his unresisting wrist, lifting his hand up to feel his belly. He gasps.

So far, he's managed not to look down. He's sure that his stomach's obscenely bloated, probably lumpy with whatever it is still cramming past his rim, brutally rearranging his guts. It's true that the press of his palm against it nearly makes him white out with pain. It's true that he's unable to see his dick as it twitches through another dry orgasm. But he wasn't expecting to look so pregnant.

It's round, and smooth, and if he were set on his feet, it would sit low on his belly, centered where a uterus would be if his biology allowed for it.

Seed pods, coos that voice that doesn't exist, as vines stroke reverently over her progeny. She latches onto his nipples again, relentlessly stroking over every inch of sensitive skin on his body she's discovered, until Brent is a vibrating mess again.

"No, please, no more," he manages just before she brushes the lightest vine up the underside of his dick.

He shudders through one last orgasm as she withdraws all of her vines, the seed pods rearranging themselves in the new space left behind, grinding against his prostate. His aftershocks last so long, that by the time he can do more than twitch, she's gone.

A few feet away in the wet grass, his transceiver crackles. "R36, this is R16, report," says Hailey, static making her voice waiver, "You've missed the last two check-ins. Please, Brent, just say anything."

He presses the talk button.