The Botanist

Q: Why do you write erotica?

A: Because if I didn't put sex in my stories, no one would read them.

--Anonymous

Part One.

The Master hated these trips into London, but they simply could not be avoided. The Thief, so peculiar in his demands, would not meet with anyone else. This was perhaps understandable in the beginning, when he was completely unknown, but now he was famous—in his own way, among gentlemen with certain tastes—but famous, nonetheless! And still he had to venture into the most degenerate parts of the city and wait like a common criminal in dark, filthy alleys, fending off pickpockets and whores. The stained brick walls around him reeked of vomit, piss, and sex. At first, when he made these trips, the rancid odors would seep into his clothes, but he had learned to dress in oilcloth slickers that could be easily cleaned.

He waited with his hands balled up into tight fists, impatient to know what the Thief had with him this time. It was always a surprise, each delivery more spectacular than the last.

He paced back and forth. It was getting late. He glanced to the street, wondering how difficult it would be to get home. He had his own driver and carriage, of course, but he couldn't trust anyone to accompany him, not even his own servants. No one must ever know of these visits, or who he really was.

Finally, he heard footsteps, and looked up. As always, his stomach rose with disgust. For a brief moment, an image of his mother flashed through his mind. What would she think if she saw him now? She believed he was a doctor, and he had once been, indeed, a brilliant student. Self-pity overcame him as he thought of his younger self, idealistic, full of hope, slaving over medical books in cramped rooms, and he cursed the Thief under his breath. It was all because of this small, rat-like man with the high-pitched voice and hands as soft and moist as a woman's. He was the reason he was here, in this place, instead of home in front of a fire, or at work in his laboratory. Everything had gone according to plan, except

this.

The Thief walked by, not even glancing in his direction. A dirty pea coat with the collar turned up hid most of his face, and a tattered wool cap shaded his eyes. He kept walking to a stairwell hidden in darkness, and waited.

The Master swore out loud. It was the same every time. First he made him wait, then come to him, like a servant, or a beggar.

He contemplated walking away. He wanted nothing more. But they both knew he would not dare.

He approached and stepped into the stairwell. Passing the Thief an envelope, he shuddered and flinched away from his touch. The Thief noticed, and made the Master wait as he counted the money, slowly and deliberately.

"The price is going up. It will cost double next time," came the whiney voice.

"Again?"

the Master demanded.

"You can afford it."

In the faintest trace of moonlight shining down upon them, the Master caught a glimpse of greasy hair oozing an oily substance, gray, pitted flesh, and crescents of filth under long, sharpened fingernails, and he knew he could not hide his revulsion. The Thief hissed, "Closer!" and when the Master neared, leaned in to whisper in his ear while nudging the back of his thigh.

"I see the way you look at me, you filthy hypocrite."

The Master shook his head, overcome by a wave of nausea at the stench of his breath.

"I see it, and I know why."

He then pressed a tiny packet into his palm.

"Take it. But know--you're no different from me," the Thief whispered.

"No!" the Master whispered back in a pleading tone. "I'm not like you."

"No?"

"No, no!"

"Oh, you are . . ."

The Thief slowly traced one long fingernail down the Master's neck. "I know who you are. I know what you do. I know."

The Master whimpered, "This is the last time!"

At this the Thief laughed. "We'll see about that. Next time, I promise I'll have something very special."

He finally managed to tear his arm away and run into the alley, where high-pitched, mocking laughter followed him all the way to the street.

Hours later, he was home—safe and warm and clean after a long, hot bath he'd told his servants to prepare for him. He was wrapped in a thick dressing gown, his feet clad in slippers. When he'd entered his house, he'd gone directly to his bed and curled up in a ball, shaking and whimpering. He always returned weak and trembling from these meetings, but never had be become so . . . upset.

He was weak, and he was vulnerable. He could not complete his projects without the Thief's supply, and the vile little man knew it! He knew it, and never let him forget it. And now he couldn't get the words out of his head: "You're just like me."

Eventually he'd forced himself into the bath, and the longer he sat and the cleaner he got, the fainter the odors and the memories and the laughter grew. It took a very long time, this night, to forget.

But he did. He always did, until the next time.

***

Hours later he sat by the flickering fire in his mansion holding a glass of wine in one hand. In the other he held the packet between two fingers. He liked to hold the object, the thing, whatever it was the Thief had given him, and wait, and think.

The packet was just brown paper, filled with a number of small, light objects. It would seem non-descript, perhaps even a bit disappointing, to a stranger, but the Master knew better than that. Sometimes the things the Thief brought him were incredible in their own right—a pink apple, a sunflower with petals coated in gold, a tulip that opened and closed of its own accord. But more often than not they were ordinary, everyday things—a daisy, a lemon, a handful of seeds. It did not matter. Whatever they were when they arrived, they all turned into something magnificent by the time he was done.

A current of feeling flowed from the fingers on his left hand up into his arm and directly into his spine and brain. He closed his eyes, savoring it, sensing it, letting it fill his soul.

Oh, it was lovely, and so, so sweet. A sweetness that brought tears to his eyes. Tenderness that could melt the coldest heart. Love and lust in equal measure created a heat that made him swell until he was forced to unbutton his trousers.

"Yes," he whispered, "Oh, yes . . ."

The story began to emerge. A beautiful girl. In love with the wrong boy. A Romeo and a Juliet, but this story would surpass that. This story would convince the most hardened cynic there was no better aphrodisiac than true love. He had never written passion like this. His readers would never see it coming.

The Master, the Botanist, the greatest writer of erotica the world had ever seen, was going to "do" a Romance.

He burst into loud peals of laughter, amused at himself. Yes, he would write about love. He would shock everyone, and they'd beg him for more.

He thought,

"Emily.

I'll call it

'Emily-A Romance.'"

He went to bed that night full of dreams, the story building and growing in his mind like a seed that had been planted in fertile soil. There was so much to do before the final creation would be completed! Tomorrow he would tend to the little packet. He must get in touch with his publisher, and check on his supplies.

He was enraptured, his fear and self-doubt gone. The flames of creation crept inward into every crevice of his body and brain. He saw Emily, he saw her! Black-haired and blue-eyed, tall and voluptuous.

The story was there, a fragile, tender thing, a little shoot of green sending out tendrils, but eventually, it would blossom into something dazzling right along with the flower that he would coax out of whatever the Thief had given him. Fruits worked just as well, but flowers were his favorite. And such flowers! Such exquisite beauty he brought into the world!

He was not a thief. He was an artist. Did it matter where he got his materials? He was the one who transformed them, with his own skill, his own labor, his own ingenuity!

He marveled that he had never seen it this way before. He was suffering for his art, that was all, and the Thief the cross he must bear.

***

The Master's mansion was located on the edges of the city in an exclusive neighborhood, where the wealthy Italian was an object of mystery and speculation to his neighbors. Nothing was known of who he was, where he came from, or where he got his money.

Before he'd moved in, they'd watched as workers built a high, thick wall around the house and nearby grounds, shielding him from any casual view. And then, over a period of a year, they saw with amazement trees, bushes, and flowers grow up and over the wall, enclosing him even further in seclusion. How he managed to produce such a lush garden without anyone ever seeing laborers come and go was mystifying.

They didn't know that the Master had done it all himself, in his laboratory, which was stocked with botanical specimens from all over the world. When he was not writing, he spent every moment studying his plants.

The next morning, he walked through his extensive gardens towards a greenhouse at the back of his property. He was happiest here, in complete control of every living thing in his world. Not a blade of grass, not the tiniest petal, was unfamiliar to him. It had taken a long time to get to this point, but now he had his own little corner of nature at his command, like a vast encyclopedia.

The greenhouse was hot and moist and a little fountain trickled in the center. Every shelf was lined with flowers enclosed in glass bell jars, which were connected by an intricate series of tubes to a second, smaller room in the back. This was the laboratory, and it was full of microscopes, vials and syringes, powders, liquids, and along one wall, an array of cutting implements—scissors, scalpels, knives. In the middle of the lab stood a wooden table fitted with a large bladed contraption on one end.

In the greenhouse, he carefully cut open the little packet the Thief had given him, and spilled the contents into a china bowl. Perhaps a hundred round, spiky black seeds ping'ed against the sides. They were about the size of peppercorns, and glittered in the sunlight.

He picked one up, curious, having an intuition. He tried to crush it between his fingers but found, as he expected, that it was hard, like a little jewel. He laid it on the table, and picking up a hammer, smashed it as hard as he could. Instantly, an intense, penetrating perfume was released into the air. As soon as he smelled it, he was overcome by a wave of erotic feeling pulsing through his nerves. Like the night before, he grew hot to the touch and began to throb, demanding to be stroked, demanding release. An image came to his mind of a woman bent over, spreading her legs, wet and inviting, her moans begging him to plunge into her. Wave after wave of lust centered in his groin. He groaned, and sighed, and held onto the edge of the table to steady himself.

It was so strong, so very strong, unlike anything he'd encountered yet. His mind was in disarray.

This, this, was the key. This was the one thing he needed, that he could not produce on his own. His stories were nothing without it! The mystery of feeling, as pure as mountain spring water, undiluted, unaffected, strong and clear. He knew he could never make this on his own, had never known it, aside from these botanical wonders.

Concentrating, he tried to untangle what he sensed so he could categorize and understand it, and bring it under his own control.

The predominant scent was anise flower, mixed with the purest essence of rose.

Around this central core swirled a braid of olfactory components. He detected a musky layer of . . . osmanthus, leather, amber . . . patchouli, oak moss, vetiver and opium oil. So many elements, too many. He was dizzy with admiration of the complexity of the scent. Then the blend of floral notes—carnation, iris, orange blossom, tuberose and gardenia—all combining to make love, oh love! True love, pure love! Oh, it didn't matter. The emotion gripped him by the balls and squeezed the base of his cock. Love, desire, the need to possess, lust for a black-haired girl, lust for her smell and taste, longing for her voice and lips. His fingers grasped blindly for her thick, dark, silky hair! He would bend her head back, caress her cheeks, and look into her blue eyes. He would feast on her mouth, open it for him, lick the tender side of her lips and whisper how beautiful she was. He would never stop telling her how beautiful. Dearest, darling, precious rose, love of my life!

He could not control the trembling in his body when he thought of her opening her arms and spreading her legs for him. He fumbled at the buttons of his trousers to release himself, then grunted and held onto the table, overwhelmed and dizzy as he exploded in a burst of blinding, exhausting pleasure so intense his hips spasmed violently and he spurted long thick ropes of ejaculate. His eyes rolled back in his head and he whined and gnashed his teeth, thrashing his head back and forth. When it finally subsided he was drenched in sweat, gasping for breath, his heart thumping loudly within his chest.

"Ohhhhh . . ." the Master moaned and moaned. "Ohhhhh . . ."

He bent over, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, but instead he fell to the floor and burst into sobs. He tried to tell himself it was not real, but it did not matter. The feelings seized him in their immediate reality; he was a man desperately in love. The pleasure was a torment, a mixture of heaven and hell!

When he was able to stand upright, his glance fell on the little black seeds.

He realized, this time, he would have to care for them. Oh yes, as if they were Emily incarnate. This could not be just another "project." He would have to love them like a mother, tend them, spoil and coddle them.

He set to work preparing a large clay pot he used for such purposes, but this time he took extra care with every step of the process.

He warmed the pot in the sun, and filled it carefully with the special soil that had taken him years to perfect. It was a light golden color speckled with glints of pink and blue minerals. He layered plant food, a secret concoction of his own invention, gently into the soil like blankets of softest down. He poked one finger into the warm little cradle he had made and gently deposited the seeds.

Once they were covered, and the pot positioned near a small burner, there was nothing to do now but wait.

+++

A week later he awoke in a wonderful mood. All night he had dreamt of his flower. Even here, in his study, he could sense it growing.

But he knew, from experience, that the flowers and fruits the Thief gave him needed time to adapt to their new home. He watered the soil once a day, but otherwise left them alone until he saw the first tentative shoots of green.

In the intervening weeks, he would sketch out the story, though he never wrote a single word until the final preparations.

The servants had laid out his breakfast along with the weekly delivery of mail. Though he lived in secrecy and seclusion, the Master took a keen interest in the outside world. On top of the stack there was a bundle of Italian newspapers, which he read carefully from front to back. He then looked through the large number of scientific journals to which he subscribed—the latest research in anatomy, dissection, autopsy and pathology, mixed in with advanced studies in botany and floriculture, taxonomy, chemistry and pharmacology.

Beneath these, his attention was drawn to a thin package wrapped in paper and tied with string. It bore no return address other than a stamped engraving depicting a woman in a striped dress reclining on a beach under a parasol. She held a book in her lap, and her long hair streamed behind her as she gazed out towards the ocean.

The Tide: A Journal for Gentlemen

was the premier erotic publication in London; he'd been awaiting it eagerly, and he tore open the wrapping as impatient as a child on Christmas morning. The pale purple cover contained another engraving, this time of a woman lying within a field, with one arm held over her head displaying full, exposed breasts bursting out of her country attire. His heart thumped with excitement as he read the caption below:

In this issue, an excerpt from

Cousin Louisa,

the latest by the Botanist, with an appreciation of the author

The Master chuckled at his nom de plume. It meant more than anyone could possibly know.

He thought for a moment. Louisa . . . yes of course . . . one of the orchids . . . this a rare black one, with petals as soft and thick as velvet . . . and yet the scent had been unexpected for so luxurious a blossom . . . a blend of vanilla and sugar as sweet as honey, and the floral note that of a creamy white lily. He recalled how delicate and dangerous an operation it had been.

He flipped open to the page and began to read. And even though he knew the story better than anyone, a slow, thick languor spread immediately throughout his body. He succumbed to the intoxication of his own words and inhaled deeply, and his tongue unconsciously flicked across his lips. He could picture the lovely, innocent girl, but he was not just imagining reclining in a meadow with her, he was there, immersed in the scene. He throbbed with genuine lust, as if he was the boy in the field and kissing his beautiful cousin was all he'd ever wanted.

He smiled in deep satisfaction and admiration of his own craft, since he prided himself on being able to write any sensual taste or act. In truth he cared little for family love, but his talent was so refined that nothing known of human sexuality was beyond his skill to render it.

Yet he felt, now, for the first time, that something was lacking. The sensual feeling was there. He responded as any man would. But it was nothing compared to the emotions that had overcome him the other day. The response was real, but of the body alone. This time . . . oh, this time he would touch their hearts. His next would be his greatest creation.

He could feel the rose, now, here in this room, like a heart beating along with his own in a warm rhythm as he read about himself:

There can be no doubt we are witnessing an explosion of erotic outpourings today. There are so many talents emerging, so many new variations on the old favorites, and such enthralling, groundbreaking material being produced we must look to the 15th century for comparison. We are witnessing a true Renaissance.

But none, none in the past or present, comes close to the one who calls himself "il botanico," but we know as the Master of Erotica.

Ever since his slim volumes appeared in the underground press nearly three years ago, we have been in awe of his talent. At first, the few tattered copies of his stories were traded and passed along with whispered words of amazement and admiration. Now we eagerly await his handsome volumes with baited breath.

We have wondered many times what makes his tales so unforgettably arousing. And we have come to believe that it is because the images and stories that emerge from his pen go far beyond mere representation. They do not merely portray the sexual instinct, they express it in its full reality, as if directly from nature itself.

Our only objection to his work is that we cannot imagine anything surpassing it. Let us hope, however, that it is a sign of greater things to come. Our modern world is changing. Everywhere, we are pulling aside the veils of hypocrisy that cloak our true sensuous nature. Fortunately, for us, in the literature and science of our age, men of genius, men of taste and talent, men of greatness are arising to lead the way, as Leonardo and Michelangelo did in theirs.