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NON HUMAN STORIES

Green Thumb

Green Thumb

by atiaswift
19 min read
4.67 (9200 views)
adultfiction

Author's Note: This story is dedicated to my best friend Yang, who never got to read it but spent the last eight years inspiring me to make filthy, filthy things. Godspeed, my good man - if there's an afterlife, may it be filled with boba tea shops and people who call you Daddy.

-

Imrahil spends a lot of her time naked, these days. Today it is on her knees beside Lady Aranel's seat on the sofa, dozing with her head in her Lady's lap and her Lady's fingers carding through her soft blonde curls. Lord Calanon and Lady Aranel have taken to treating her as a normal part of their lives now, keeping her at their sides as they go about their daily business in the palace, and thinking about the stability of this new life as their treasured plaything always brings a burst of warmth to her chest.

Stability is, of course, not the only thing warming her up inside. When her Lord and Lady are feeling playful, their fingers spend far more time tugging at the sensitive new rings through her nipples than they do stroking her hair. Her Lord will come up behind her and nibble at the sensitive tips of her long ears, bending her forward over the nearest surface as his hands make short work of her skirts and the buttons on his trousers. She often wakes in the night in the throes of pleasure, her Lady's fingers deep in her pussy and rubbing circles over her clit.

She stumbles away from these encounters dazed and dripping, long ears and pert nipples red and tortured, all too often plugged up tight with their preferred toy. Her Lord and Lady seem nearly obsessed with filling her up and leaving her to squirm and suffer, unable to even take a step without their toys shifting deep inside her, pressing hard in just the right places to make her see stars.

Imrahil forces herself back to wakefulness at the sound of Lord Calanon's voice. He sounds stressed, and Lady Aranel's hands have stilled in her hair. She makes a soft noise of protest, but her Lady does not continue.

"...I believe it is dying," Lord Calanon is saying as he turns on his heel in front of Lady Aranel's chair. "I have been unable to get it to accept any of the alternatives. It came after me like a wounded animal."

Imrahil peers up at Lord Calanon. His dark hair, usually combed smooth down his back, is tangled and frizzy around his shoulders. He paces back and forth across the floor of the sitting room, leaving muddy boot prints on the carpet. Lord Calanon is usually strict about cleanliness, with Lady Aranel not far behind him, but neither one of them says a word about it.

Lady Aranel sighs. "So it needs an elf as a host," she says, brushing strands of silvery hair back out of her face, "And it will die without one. Is there no one who will agree?"

Lord Calanon shakes his head. "I can hardly blame them for saying no," he says. "No amount of gold or glory could ever bring one of our citizens to agree to such a thing."

Imrahil has oft been accused of being a little mouthy. Out of sheer curiosity, she decides to take the plunge anyway. "Are you sacrificing someone?" She asks.

Lord Calanon and Lady Aranel look down at her. Lord Calanon's anxious expression softens, and his lips curl up into something that is almost a smile. "Not quite."

Lady Aranel has a gleam in her eye now, a gleam that Imrahil recognises. It's the look on her face when she's come up with something particularly brutal, some form of torture that will drag Imrahil to the edge with pain and pleasure and leave her desperately, fruitlessly

wanting.

Imrahil shivers. She can't help it. "You know, Calanon," Lady Aranel says, "Imrahil is not one of our people."

Imrahil is well aware that much distinguishes her from the elves of the western shores. Her golden curls and tan skin stand out in a crowd of shiny dark hair and pale faces, but her mannerisms set her apart even more so; she is chatty where they are quiet, and outspoken where they are deferential. She runs with her skirts hitched up and makes no secret of her willingness to get her hands dirty. Perhaps most of all, the Wood-Elves that inhabit the eastern forests are unashamed of their bodies and their love for one another, and Imrahil has always been a proud example of her kind.

She still laughs privately at her Lord and Lady's assumption that they had been sent a virgin. As if!

It had been difficult, at first, living amongst a people so different from her own. Imrahil had expected that Lord Calanon and Lady Aranel would be stuffy and boring, that they would shy away from caring for her needs and leave her to her own devices - it's all she'd ever known about the elves of the West and their lack of proclivities. She knows better now, of course. Lord Calanon's intimidating collection of butt plugs and Lady Aranel's fondness for the paddle had set her straight immediately. Who could have thought that the elves of the West were merely repressed, desperate and burning for one another behind closed doors?

Lord Calanon contemplates Imrahil, gazing down at her with the piercing blue eyes that she so adores. The hunger is clear in his expression, and she feels her face flush red to the tips of her ears.

Her Lord and Lady have something planned, then. Something devastating.

Imrahil cannot

wait

.

Lord Calanon laughs quietly at the look on her face. "Already wanting for it, I see," he says fondly. "You do not even know what it is we have in store, and yet you are half-begging." He reaches down and ruffles her hair, already a little mussed from resting in Lady Aranel's lap. "Perfect slut."

Lady Aranel's fingers brush over Imrahil's lips, and she opens her mouth obediently. Her Lady's thumb presses in, and Imrahil sucks, eyes fluttering shut. Lady Aranel laughs. "Perfect slut indeed. She can take anything we give her, I should think. Even this."

Another shudder runs through Imrahil's body.

Even this

. Her Lord and Lady have put her through so much in their bed... she can hardly imagine what could be

worse

.

And just as they say, no matter what it may be, she

craves

it.

Lord Calanon sits down across from them, and Imrahil opens her eyes all the way to watch him. He smiles at her, ever so fond as always. "There is a rare plant that is originally native to the furthest western edges of our continent. It produces seeds that can be made into the strongest medicine known to our people. It can cure nearly any ill that befalls Elves or Men."

Imrahil watches him with interest. Lord Calanon is a brilliant healer by nature and by trade, and she has seen him perform nothing short of miracles.

Lord Calanon takes a breath. "We ran out of seeds years ago, and this plant... is the last one of its kind. The sea has long since swallowed up most of its natural habitat."

"The plant is dying," Lady Aranel interrupts, as she often does with Lord Calanon's scientific exposition. "It needs to breed, and to breed it will require a host."

Imrahil swallows. "A host?"

Lord Calanon nods. "Aye, a host. An elf."

"We

do

know a

very

slutty elf, do we not, Husband?" Lady Aranel asks sweetly.

Lord Calanon smiles again. "We do. In fact, we own one."

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The flush of red spreads down Imrahil's neck and across her chest. Her Lord and Lady do not let her forget that she is their concubine, bought mere months ago from her home far across the mountains. She loves it; she does not want to forget.

"She is no stranger to taking things that should be too large for her," Lady Aranel says, "and holding them." Her fingers trace down Imrahil's chest and across her stomach, over the bulge from the plug that shifts inside Imrahil with each moment. Imrahil gasps and squirms as Lady Aranel presses down, which does nothing to relieve the pressure. It is too much and not enough all at once, like everything they give her.

"Yes, my Lord, yes, my Lady," she whispers, voice hitching. "I am yours, to do with as you please."

Lord Calanon rises, and takes Imrahil's leash from where it loops over the arm of the sofa. "That you are. It is settled, then."

The shift of the plug inside Imrahil as she stands is nearly unbearable, and she cries out. Lord Calanon and Lady Aranel merely watch as she clings to the arm of the sofa, offering no help. They have trained Imrahil well, stretched her ass wider than she ever could have imagined, but moving with something inside her may always be too much.

One step at a time takes her into the garden, Lord Calanon tugging on the lead each time she falters. The soft grass under her feet and the warm breeze of summer on her skin cannot compare to the stretch of the plug, and she focuses on breathing through the jolts of pain and pleasure that run through her body.

"Do you suppose we should tell her what will happen?" Lady Aranel says thoughtfully, falling into step alongside Imrahil and reaching out to tug at one nipple ring.

Imrahil has to dip her head to gasp at the sensation, but she can hear the smile in Lord Calanon's voice. "No. She likes not knowing. She likes to be forced."

Imrahil does like to be forced. She

does

. "Yes," she says breathlessly, "Yes, Milord, I

do

."

Lord Calanon pauses, then, and then he's tilting her chin up and claiming her lips in a deep, hungry kiss. She whimpers into the kiss as the plug inside her presses against his thigh, and tears fill the corners of her eyes by the time he pulls back. "Good girl," he says, dragging his thumb over her lip, "

our

good girl."

Lady Aranel's fingers trail down between Imrahil's legs, grazing teasingly over her clit before dipping into the folds of her pussy, and Imrahil cries out. "Please!" She's

so

wet,

so

ready to be fucked. Whatever they have in store for it, she

needs

it, and she couldn't care less about the details. Lady Aranel pulls her fingers back after only a moment, and Imrahil nearly sobs with desperation. "Please,

please

..."

"A few more steps," Lord Calanon says firmly. "You can do it."

"N-no," Imrahil whimpers, and cries out as Lady Aranel lands a solid smack on her ass.

"Listen to our Lord," Lady Aranel says firmly. "As he says, you will do. You should be well aware of this by now, pet."

Lord Calanon caresses Imrahil's face again, brushing the tears away that threaten to spill down her cheeks. "A few more steps," he repeats, "and you will have everything you crave."

Imrahil manages it, somehow. Each step forward nearly brings her to her knees, and by the time they pass through a wrought-iron gate that Lord Calanon unlocks with an ornate key, she is panting and crying in desperation. Lady Aranel strokes her hair soothingly, and Imrahil leans against her, already worn out.

Worn out

means nothing to the plant, however. The entrance of three elves into its enclosure is enough to bring curious vines over to investigate, long green tendrils unfurling to reach out for the newcomers. Lord Calanon steps in front of Lady Aranel, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, and the plant immediately shrinks back. The vine reaching for Imrahil pauses for a moment, and Imrahil has the chance to take in the plant's appearance for the first time. It seems innocuous at first, heart-shaped leaves trembling faintly as if caressed by a light breeze. It looks like something Imrahil might duck under to take shelter from a rainstorm at home, with leaves large enough to use as an umbrella and a smooth, thick trunk that arches high above their heads, but the way it reaches out for her on instinct suggests something much hungrier and less innocent.

When the plant has decided that Imrahil means it no threat, the first tendril fully unfurls to stroke her cheek. Its flesh is just as smooth as it looks, and the vine is strangely warm for what she might expect from a plant. It explores her face with what almost feels like curious fingers, tracing over every ridge and crease. She has to stifle the urge to giggle at the sensation.

When the tendril rubs over her mouth for a second time, Imrahil lets her lips part out of sheer instinct, the way she would for Lord Calanon or Lady Aranel. The tendril presses into her mouth and she recoils slightly at the unfamiliar sensation, but Lord Calanon's hand presses into the small of her back, keeping her in place. "Let it do as it wishes, slut," he says. "That is an order. And you

will

follow my orders, because you wish to please me, yes?"

Imrahil

does

want to please him. She craves the way Lord Calanon says

Good girl

as she takes his cock deep into her mouth, her ass, her pussy, and she would do anything to keep him happy.

She whimpers softly but obeys the order, keeping her chin tilted up and her lips parted even though she wants to press them shut again. The tendril explores the inside of her mouth with the same curiosity as it had her face, and she gags slightly as it dips a little too deep down her throat. The plant pulls back immediately, and relief fills her at the thought that it will respond to her body's cues.

Lord Calanon is chuckling, and she wonders what he finds so funny - but then the plant is sending out more tendrils, longer and thicker and faster than the first, and Imrahil yelps as it winds them around her wrists and ankles. Lord Calanon's hands are on her throat then, and she wonders for a moment if he will tighten his grip, but then he unhooks the lead from her collar and winds it around his hand.

Free from a tether, but not for long. The vines holding on to her limbs squeeze a little tighter and then she is rising into the air with a squeak of surprise. Imrahil squirms uncomfortably, and Lord Calanon's hand is on her shoulder, keeping her steady as the plant raises her up off the ground. "Good girl. Let it do as it will."

Imrahil goes still obediently, nodding quickly, desperate to please. Another vine wraps around her body, supporting her from below, and she would be grateful except it presses down on the bulge in her stomach and the plug

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shifts

. She cries out in pain and pleasure, and the tendril in her mouth takes the opportunity to press deeper, and- and suddenly there is liquid in her mouth, sweet like the nectar of the honeysuckle flowers back home. She nearly chokes on it, coughing a little, but this time the plant does not pull back. The sensation is odd - the tendril almost seems to swell in her mouth, growing thicker as it pumps the nectar into her mouth.

"Wha-?" It's hard to talk with her mouth full, but Lord Calanon seems to understand, and he looks extraordinarily pleased with himself.

"It has ways of ensuring you are good and ready to be bred, my dear. That is all this is."

To be

bred

. The thought is terrifying, just a little - what does he mean to happen to her? What can a plant even do, to breed an elf? Imrahil tries to speak again, to ask the questions rapidly bubbling up in her mind, but when she opens her mouth all she gets is another gush of nectar down her throat, and all that comes out is a "Mmmh!" Lord Calanon's hand is warm on her back, and the plant is starting to trail more tendrils across down her stomach, and she feels a little out of her mind for a moment. With every sound she makes, the plant feeds her a little more nectar, and her head spins like she's had one too many glasses of potent Elvish wine. Perhaps she

has

. What in the world is

in

this stuff?

One of the plant's tendrils brushes across her clit, and Imrahil lets out a muffled cry of pleasure. Lord Calanon has done such a marvellous job of torturing her these last few weeks, bringing her to the very edge and leaving her to whine and beg, and she's been

so

desperate to come. The plant trembles as if in excitement and traces Imrahil's pussy with delicate vines. It almost seems to understand how badly she needs it, how badly she wants to take anything it has to give.

Lord Calanon is there beside her again, his lips brushing over her ear. "You do not know what it has in store for you, my darling," he breathes, and Imrahil shudders. "And yet, you want it anyway, do you not? You are so terribly desperate to come. You would let it do anything, let

me

do anything, no matter how terrible. And you would

beg

."

Imrahil nods quickly, her ears twitching in pleasure as more tendrils begin to trace around her entrance, slowly opening her up. The sensation is exquisite; she loves how it feels to be stretched and filled, and the vines slowly spreading her open are softer and more nimble than any fingers could be. One tendril reaches around her ass to explore, and Imrahil squeaks in surprise as it curls around the thick plug in her hole.

Lord Calanon laughs softly, and Imrahil squirms uncomfortably as he presses down on the base of the plug. "Not now," he tells the plant, brushing at the vine, and it obediently slips away. Imrahil's curiosity rears its head for just a moment, her thoughts whirling at the implications of the plant's response to spoken words, obedience to a

command

- and then Lord Calanon's fingers are dipping lower, pressing into her entrance where the plant's tendrils spread her open for him. Imrahil spreads her legs wider, moaning around the vine in her mouth, gazing into Lady Aranel's eyes with wanton desperation, and all the thoughts are gone.

"It will only be more intense with her ass plugged like this," she hears Lord Calanon say to Lady Aranel, and she only has a moment to wonder what in the world

it

could be.

A thick vine presses into her, slipping inside her entrance where the tendrils hold her pussy open for it, and she gasps and squirms against the feeling. It's different from anything she's taken before, longer and thinner and reaching deeper inside of her than any cock ever could. The vine throbs inside her and begins to

grow

, pressing against the plug in her ass as it fills every inch of her up.

Imrahil whines around the vines in her mouth, and she can feel her cheeks flush redder as she imagines what a picture she must make with her legs spread wide and all her holes full, good for nothing more than being

used

. She belongs to Lord Calanon and Lady Aranel, and she belongs to their plant now, too. She imagines it might breed her the way they would, filling her with gush after gush of seed until it's leaking out of her pussy, her

cunt

, and down her legs. She imagines Lord Calanon pressing in after the vines withdraw, fucking her until he spills too, and Lady Aranel forcing Imrahil's legs even further apart to lick her husband's cum from Imrahil's soaked cunt. She can feel the plant exploring the deepest parts of her body with its tendrils and she nearly sobs with how much she wants it,

craves

it. She wants it to fill her up with its seed until her flat belly curves just a little, showing the evidence of how much cum she's been forced to

take

.

She doesn't expect the seed she actually gets.

"Oh, look, there it is," Lady Aranel says, pointing to something Imrahil can't see. Her Lady's eyes are bright with desire, and Imrahil can see the flicker of sadistic delight that usually precedes a good hard spanking or a night left on the agonising edge of a climax that will never come. Imrahil squirms a little; that look always spells danger, even though danger always feels good in the end. Lady Aranel looks like a dignified queen from afar, but Imrahil knows better; the woman is utterly depraved in a way that even her marvellously sadistic husband can't match.

Lord Calanon's smile widens, his expression shifting to match his wife's. "There it is indeed."

"Mmh?" Imrahil tries to ask, but Lord Calanon shakes his head, reaching out to run his fingers through her mussed hair.

"Oh, you'll see. You'll see."

Imrahil opens her mouth to protest that she

won't

see, actually, as bound up as she is, and then she feels the stretch.

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