Finding the Coc in the Wood

Held aloft, she is bathed in the light of lambent gold. The receding sun her nimbus, her divine outline trace with a bright band; she revels in abandon, perched atop her adoring subject, the phallus, planted deep inside her. She is lifted, its final fervent thrust canons molten worship into her. Their combined juices jet from her nether in a conical fount, glittering gem-like in the light. Each spouting convulsion lifts then lowers her further, the emptying phallus softening, gently lowering her to the earth.

She comes to rest on a bed of soft grass. Underneath the grass, the earth ripples. The tendril's deep roots have become a host of writhing members, penetrating up from the ground like gnawing fingers shivering at the thrill of her soft skin. The groping mass wildly stimulates her. Deep in her belly, that sweet and sticky heat wells up and trickles throughout her body.

The members surge with a great lust for her resplendent body, swelling in length and girth, lifting her up, forming under her a throne of writhing and worshipping tongues, exalting the naked beauty of her perfect alabaster proportion, so fittingly exposed and displayed. Her stimulation overflows in a viscous stream from between her legs.

The writhing members greedily leap over and against each other to lap it up. Others fight for entry to her labial fountain, forcing at each other in a churning battle that grinds over her loins. She thrashes with the intensity of the sensation as the squirming mass seethes against her most sensitive place.

Those lapping at her stream coalesce into a single, limb-like member, the tip bulbous like a clenched fist. Her legs are pulled apart with little resistance, fully exposing the swells and lips of her salivating gape as it yawns with desire, yawning wider and wider in anticipation of the stout limb. It pushes aside the smaller, swarming members and nuzzles her nether mouth, slicking itself further in her copious fluid. Her excitation boils to the brim. Coiling like a viper, the burly limb strikes. Her scream is a shrieking whistle, a razor of searing delectation. All the members engorge.

They clutch, grabbing and pinching, curling around her legs and arms, pulling in different directions, and painfully torquing her skin. Some plunged into her, sinking into her mouth and into the recess of her buttocks, phalli worm their way deeper and deeper as others strain to force into her overfull holes. She is overwhelmed.

Upon the brink of torrential release, what seemed an eternal welling up of wet pleasure stops. In the back of her crowded throat and low in her belly, the steaming heat of arousal runs dry. The waves on the shore evaporate in the shimmering rays of the arid void expanding from her core and which threaten to drain her dry under this entire assault.

Every bit of her skin is roughly scoured, members assault her breasts, buttocks, thighs, legs, arms, hands, and thoroughly lick her tender feet. Ravenous, they vigorously thrust into other places; behind the knees of her bent legs, through-holes formed by her hands, and through the slits of her arms pinned to her sides, between her thighs pressed to her stomach.

The throne is now a great and ravenous maw, spiked with rows upon rows of sinuous flesh-teeth, each with an appetite of its own and brutally erect. The frenzied members erupt in unison, spewing torrents of hot sap, plastering her in a dripping, glinting glaze. Those that penetrate her spray their sap into her body, the excess splashing out of her crowded holes. The thick fluid chokes her as she sucks it down her parched throat like the drowning gulp air. It is as seawater to her thirst.

All the fluid pumped into her pools in her belly, swelling more and more until, with a wrenching scream, she bursts open, her insides scattering in a wide fan of viscera and thick ribbons of bloody fluid. The sap turns acidic and bubbles out of burning holes in her skin, ripping out her screams. Its residue remains as a blistering tar on her raw flesh. Her skinless body weeps crimson tears.

She wakes, thrashing, screaming, the chimera still vivid. So immersive was the dream that its effects ooze between her legs. The dream fades, but the pain remains. Unused to such long exposure to the withering eye of the naked sky, her fair and pale skin burns a bright red and radiates a stinging heat. Her back and buttocks are unscathed, damp with perspiration against the warm earth.

The evening-dim cool of her beloved forest beckons. She shifts to rise, but movement is pain. Her muscles groan as they strain to lift her, so sore and cramped from the intensity of her ecstasy. Gritting her teeth, she forges on. Only to find herself tethered to the ground.

The tendril has wrapped around her in a firm embrace about her waist, entwined with itself in an act of clinging possession, fearing the loss of its new obsession. Though it does not constrict, her attempts to extricate herself prove futile against its fast lashing. She sits, leaning back and supporting herself with her arms. The memory of the tendrils salacious violations sours, fermenting to a sharp bitterness tasted by the whole of her body. Its touch is now odious.

She notices something near her feet. From the place their spewed fluid soaked the ground has grown a lush bosquet of blooms. Vivid colours have flowered alongside fruiting plans and succulents, most unfamiliar to her and all unique in the glade. One of the succulents she recognizes, a rosette of fat green leaves, the juice from which she has in the past used to soothe her lips when dry. Wary of rousing her captor, she painfully leans forward to pluck a handful of the plump, fleshy leaves.

She squeezes a puddle of juice into a cupped hand, drizzles the moisture over her shoulders and breasts, then gingerly massages it into her inflamed skin. The relief is immediate. The fertile concoction of essences and the rich atmosphere of the verdant glade have created fauna of potent vitality. She plucks more leaves and spreads the sweet relief thoroughly across her face, arms, breasts, and stomach. But the leaves within her reach run out before she can soothe all of her, leaving her lower body untreated. The familiar rush of exposure floods up her back.

The tendril has awakened. It circles tighter, squeezing her affectionately, chafing her skin and internal soreness. She groans. It mistakes her pain for pleasure and grips tighter, the tip slithers around her hip toward her loins. The friction is agonizing. She grabs it, yanks it away from her burning skin with a gritty yelp. This it understands. It feels her urge to flee as she attempts to wrench herself from its embrace. It cinches tight, anchoring her buttocks to the ground. She strains to loose its grasp but her efforts are even more wasted against its waking strength and resolve. She reclines in defeat.

It observes its captive. Notices the reddened state of her lower body in contrast to her upper, which is nearer their former milky delicacy it found so very intoxicating. It sees the crushed succulent leaves on the ground around her. With some surprise, it notices the bloomed result of their passion. It nuzzles against her breasts and she shoves it away. The scent of the leaves' juice on her skin is enough for it to deduce what she had been up to in the moments before it awoke.

In a flash, the tendril releases her waist then darts down and ensnares her left ankle to the ground. Its reach exceeding hers, it snags the last succulent rosette and rips it up, roots and all. It coils around the plump leaves and squeezes, drizzling the thick juice over her, starting at her lower mouth and trailing down her right leg. She hurries to spread the juice, anticipating the tendril's intent to do the same, and dreading its ministering touch. Even in the present state, the relief of the juice and the caress of her hands on her thigh and between her legs excites; she flushes.

The leaves run empty at her foot, the last drops wrung out on her toes. The tendril tosses the spent leaves aside and begins to slather the juice over her foot. Its movements are brisk but tender. She ignores the tickle of its touch and continues to spread the thinning juice past her knee. They meet near her ankle. She recoils as it licks her hand. It's intense scrutiny roves over her body.

She covers herself as before; an arm firmly pressed over her breasts and a hand tightly held between her legs. Despite her resentful revulsion, the same sweet heat was spread by her captors' caress, accentuated by the acute relief from the healing juice.

Aware of her unattended left leg, the tendril snakes around, searching for more of the healing plant. There are none. It turns back to her. She sees it begin to slowly swell, the pulse of sap thudding through its veins. She shrinks back. No! She couldn't bear its violation now! She strains against the shackle at her ankle, tries the scramble backward; all in vain. She kicks with her free leg, trying to stomp her attacker with her heel. But it catches her, nimbly trapping the flailing ankle and binding it to the other. Legs clamped tightly together, hands clutched over her vulnerable opening: she recognizes the inevitability of what is happening.

Worming between her knees, the tendril contorts into a double loop and expands outward, prying her legs apart. Her tears begin. How pitifully and infuriatingly helpless she is against this brazen, single-minded intent to exploit her. And how bizarrely eager her body is to violate her will and be violated. It quickly remembers the delicious thrill of the penetrations and hungers again for the wracking thrills, salivates in anticipation. Her own betrayal stings out more tears. Yet her resistance is strong; if she is invaded, it will not be because she allowed it.

Sap already drips from the tendril's tip as it nuzzles her hands, the barriers guarding its prize. Despite her desperate resistance, the aroma of her body's arousal is strong. The tendril pushes at her fingers, trying to slip underneath. Her ardent defense proves difficult to undermine. Wetness seeps through her fingers, slicking her hand and the tendril, which twists and grinds against her, wetting itself. It slips around, frantically searching for an exploitable slit in her guard.

A realization pierces through her resoluteness. The tendril tenderly tending to her ravaged skin, its quickness to apply the remedy, its search for more: it intends to draw again from her fecund fount. Might it be better to hasten the rape? Her lapse in resolve allows an opening. The tendril curls up and under her palms, slithering over the gratingly sensitive crest of her swollen lips and wrenching from her a gutteral cry. It hooks into her oozing hole and sinks deep. Against her will, she removes her hands. The assault ensues.

She focuses intently, bearing down on the hammering tendril with all her might, gritting through the deep soreness of her newly discovered and strained muscles, clamping hard to wring out the end as quickly as possible. And the spent phallus's clutches may be easier to escape. She spreads her knees as wide as her bound feet will allow and rocks her hips in rhythm with the thrusts. The phallus, freed from the extra effort, pounds away with great vigour.

She clutches her breasts, roughly kneading them and thrusting them up to her mouth. Her nipples are already intensely erect as she swirls them with her tongue. She can't help but savour the ecstatic shudders that shoot down to that sweet place low in her belly. Leaving one breast to her hand and sucking mouth, she hurls the other at her mound, grinding it against the special bright knot whose singing strings reach deep. The phallus feels her strain at her restraints and frees her ankles. She spreads her legs, grasping her knees and pulling them wide to their limit.

Amidst the eye-lolling fever, she catches a glimpse of herself. For a brief moment, the scene gleams and time slows. She sees her delicate feet waving in the air, toes pointed, her shapely calves, the way her hands press into the soft skin of her thighs, the hypnotic ripple of her breasts thudding up and down, the sheen of her damp skin glowing in the rich amber of the setting sun. And framed between her breasts, the delectable curve of her mound, swelling with each thrust of the thick phallus.

Her hips buck involuntarily, the whole of her body has become a quaking mass. Her angled hips cause the ramming to bulge out her lower belly, raking against those deep strings and forcing their notes through her wailing mouth. The stop is pulled. The phallus yanks out, drawing with it the thick stream of her release. She goes rigid, swept away by the deluge that roars through and jets from her. The stream douses part of the bosquet and soaks the ground beside it.

Her arousal spent, she balks at the thought of further penetration. Claps the tendril between her feet and slides them up and down. Its length is well drenched, so her soft soles easily slip around the quivering shaft. It stands fully erect, shuddering as her feet slowly and firmly stroke from its base up as high as she can reach. Near its own release, it slips from her grasp and quickly winds around her ankles, pressing her heels together, and around her toes, creating a tight gap between her soles.

It shoves into the gap, forcing a considerable length through, twisting as it goes. She bites back a laugh at the fierce tickle. Through and back, through and back. It clamps harder around her feet, slowly forcing one more thrust. She feels a great pressure building at the crimp. It releases, spraying a fast torrent of sap. It rapidly thrusts again and again, ejecting smaller and smaller spurts. She feels the sap pulse through with each spurt until the tendril weakly expels its last drop. It remains snugly about her ankles.

The drenched ground holds their cathexis. The growth begins. Almost too slow to be seen, only really noticed when realizing that the plants gazed upon are larger than they were before. The rewet section of the existing bosquet stretches taller but stranger. There is a distortion of features, a darkening of pigment. The newly fertilized ground yields a crop of purer distortion. Flowers of discomforting shape and shade, stalks sprouting fruits of poisonous appearance. The healing succulent grows, but with a crimson hue and needle thorns spiking its sides.

Carefully, she plucks a ripe leaf. Winces when a thorn pricks her palm as she squeezes its moisture onto her leg and spreads it over her thigh. There's a heat to this juice she can feel even on her hot skin. The heat flushes through her body, rekindling the ripples of arousal, the intense healing of the juice is a sharp pleasure dancing atop the ripples. The tendril pokes about the new and wicked rosette, hesitant to risk injury by wrapping the bristling base. She snaps off a few more leaves, enduring several painful pricks. A flower on the far side of the bosquet catches her eye.

A thick, thorny stalk grows, hefting the bulbous bud swelling at its head. It grows much faster than the other plants, rising to the height of her chin as she sits. The corpulent petals open, spreading wide in lewd display. She is entranced by this flower as she distractedly massages the remaining juice over her leg, gazing intently at the fang-like thorns, each as long as the breadth of her spread hand. Her lower mouth hungers again.

She finishes treating her skin, and, while rubbing the last of the juice onto her foot, lets a few innocent caresses drift over the tendril. They do not go unnoticed. An arch rolls through the tendril. The tip begins nuzzling her, exploring her rejuvenated skin, grazing and caressing up her leg then down her other leg, groping every bit of exposed pale flesh. She quivers with excitement. It senses this and responds with an increased rate of its hot, thudding pulse.

The tendril loses itself in her breasts, curling underneath one then the other, hefting, kneading with a reverential touch. It traces her left breast, slowly grazing in smaller and smaller circles, leaving a tingling trail of its sap until it nuzzles around her erect nipple. She brings her hand to her right breast and works her nipple, rolling the hard and achingly sensitive point. While the tendril is gorging itself on her breast, she is able to slip one ankle free of its shackle.

She skims her sole over the loop around her other ankle, teasing it with the lightest touch. It quivers and she feels it in the tip at her breast. Her other ankle is free. She puts her feet together, grasping the tendril between her toes, flexing and wriggling them as the tendril shudders. She grasps it just above her feet and strokes up as high as she can reach. The tendril contorts in a rolling arch, pulling its full length through her hands then standing fully erect.

She quickly kneels up, stretches out her tongue and licks all the way up as she stands. The tip leans to her face, reaching the waiting kiss on her lips. It tries to push inside but she holds it back. She takes a step forward, leaning against the stiff pole, thrusting her hips, sinking it between the swells of her streaming lips, crushing her sweet spot. Her body convulses from the blast of pleasure. The tendril curves to cup her loins as she rocks her hips, slathering the curve with her hot fluid. How quickly she has brought it under her control!

Her mouth brimming with saliva, she pulls the tendril's tip to her mouth. She wets her lips then parts them just enough to plant a soft, sucking kiss on the tip. Drops of sap trickle into her, she swirls her tongue around the tip and mixes it into the pool already in her mouth. Undulating her lips, she draws the phallus in oh-so-slowly, a sliver at a time with each soft purse, coaxing it further and sucking a little harder, stroking her tongue around the underside.

She finds herself relishing the control she wields over this thing, each twitch that shudders through it as she sucks and touches, it's lostness in her; she can sense that for it, nothing exists but sink deeper into her. It nudges the back of her throat, prompting a flood of thick saliva. She gags and a rivulet streams onto her chest and trickles between her breasts. Sucking strongly, she eases the tendril out from her mouth, slathering her tongue over the whole of the tip. Like a barbed quill, it is loathe to leave its home, but her firm grip it and the delicious suction of her lips are so achingly sweet that it yields.

She pushes the resistant tendril back. Its tip remains riveted on her mouth, even as she works her hands up a down its slick upper part. She lets her overflowing mouth drain onto her breasts, pulls the tendril in, and nestles it in the slick cleft. It violently trembles as she presses her breasts together, trapping it in her soft and swollen flesh. She bobs her body down and up, sliding around the tendril in long, slow strokes. Its trembling intensifies, the end dancing while the rest strains to remain still in the glorious embrace of her firm curves.

She feels the thudding pulse surging in its veins as well as her own pulse throbbing through her.

Stepping forward, she bends the tendril over, farther, farther, until she is on her hands and knees. She rocks forward and back, nuzzling with her cheek as she rubs her body over it. She uses one hand to support her and the other to press the tendril to her as she moves. She licks too, nuzzling with one cheek, licking a long, wet stroke, then nuzzling with the other cheek.

She crawls forward, sliding along. She kneels up and reaches down to her hot mound, slides her palm over that sharply buzzing shard then dips a finger in her dripping lower mouth. Her scent floods the air, causing the tendril to writhe, desperate to hurl itself into her sweet, wet, gape. She holds the tendril against herself, stilling it, promising that its torture will find release soon enough.