sexstories.com

Introduction:

FuckLore is a series of 5 unrelated episodic short stories based on folklore and mythology. Extreme Horror NC.

The Dryad is a short story from the perspective of a supernatural female monster. She lures and ambushes a group of college-age hikers. Modern setting, fantasy horror, tentacles, plants, extreme, NC.

--------------------------------------

FuckLore:



--The Dryad. Short story from the perspective of a supernatural female monster. She lures and ambushes a group of college-age hikers. Modern setting, fantasy horror, tentacles, plants, extreme, NC.

--The Night Mare. Short story from the perspective of a supernatural goblin-like monster. He creeps around the apartment of a college-grad while she sleeps, putting her through a series of fantastical nightmare scenes. Modern setting, fantasy horror, extreme, NC.

--Pixie Lust. Short story from the perspective of an 18 year-old boy. Out in a meadow at the family farm, he peeps his pretend-sisters and pretend-cousin masturbating with pixies. Modern setting, fantasy horror, extreme, NC.

--Toy Tale. Short story from the perspective of a guy who comes back from college for a family Christmas party. He uses voodoo doll magic to hypnotize his entire extended pretend-family, making them slaves that perform all his sick fantasies. Modern setting, fantasy horror, extreme, NC.

--The Nephilim of the Fallen Angels. Male angels charm and abduct human women to breed an army of Giant offspring in preparation for rebellion against Heaven. Short story from the perspective of a monstrous fallen angel. He and his angel brothers go out on the town, prowling the city streets for worthy prey. He seduces a woman in a night club, dancing and drinking, then kidnaps her. Modern setting, fantasy horror, extreme, NC.



Link to all my stories and more chapters to this story are in my profile.



--------------------------------------



DISCLAIMERS

In this series, I write from the perspectives of the VILLAINS. That means I don't agree with their choices, and you're not supposed to either. We're all acknowledging they are evil and wrong. Obviously nothing they do should ever be done in real life! Please be mature adults and separate fantasy from reality. This SHOULD evoke visceral, icky feelings. That's the POINT. This is HORROR.

All characters are 18+ and unrelated by blood. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to events, locales, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.



KINKS / WARNINGS

-NC, Violence, Femdom

-Gross Descrlptions, Tasting, Bodily Fluids, Piss

-Body Modification

-All the way through

-Tentacles & Suspension Bondage

-Brother / Sister

-Unconscious



--------------------------------------



The Dryad

--

She’s a sunflower. Tall and bold and unashamedly eye-catching when spread on full display. Her blonde head is caked with sap, making her hair look like honey dripping from a comb. She screams and thrashes about in midair, adorned from head to toe in spirals of green garland that cut into her flesh. Her tan skin is that of a sun-ripened peach. Her plump breasts are each individually squeezed by vines, nipples flushed and erect and pointing right at me.

--

We have hidden ourselves from human understanding like the moon hides in the daytime sky. There in plain sight, yet veiled. Waiting.

While there were ancient votive cave reliefs and vase paintings depicting our kind, the first attempt at capturing our true likeness was the tile mosaic of Pan and a Hamadryad found in the ruins of Pompeii. This intimate Roman artwork from the 1st century B.C. was crude and inaccurate, but it would take humanity nearly two millennia to offer better representations.

The 1870 painting by Émile Bin titled The Woodcutter and the Hamadryad Aigeiros depicted a naked woman with milky, porcelain skin encountering a man cutting down her tree. From what I’ve heard of my ancestor’s wrath, their true encounter was far from the serene elegance shown in the painting. In 1879 another painter named Albert Pinkham Ryder created a dark dreamlike scene called Dancing Dryads. While this work tried to illustrate our emotions, our joy, a true portrayal of our revelry and pleasure would be the stuff of nightmares. Again, Evelyn De Morgan in 1884 and John William Waterhouse in 1893 created more artworks of radiant women emerging from trees.

These paintings were attempts at appeasing us, gifts offered to my kind as apologies for offenses toward our lands. They characterized us as beautiful, practically divine beings. Simple flattery in the hopes of avoiding our vengeance.

None of these works ever get it quite right of course. Encounters between my kind and theirs are never scenes of such tranquility. They are right to always include nudity in their art, but the full extent of bodily pleasures and carnal depravity is always pointedly missing.

And we look nothing like the angelic women in their paintings. In truth, my skin is part bark, part flesh, and far from the soft alabaster shown in their artwork. When I emerge from my trunk, I am still part of my tree, not some separate woman of resplendent beauty. The trunk is like a womb, encasing me entirely. When it peels apart to allow my more humanoid form to emerge, most of my figure is still physically attached. Knotted clusters of viny tendrils link me to the inside of the tree like thousands of umbilical cords all down my skull and spine. I can never move from here, forever rooted in place.

I do not walk, but I have no need to, for I am connected through endless networks of natural wisdom. I know everything the wind has heard. For centuries, I’ve seen the change of colors in every season across thousands of miles of woodland. Mankind must wander around aimlessly stumbling into knowledge. My kind simply sits and allows it all to come to us.

In their paintings, they fawned over us with adulation, made us beautiful, showed us reverence. But long gone are the days when humanity cared about rectifying its wrongdoings, apologizing for its slights toward us. Gone are the days when they were freely given our lifeblood, harvesting it for its potent healing properties. Humans have detached themselves from their old gods, stopped believing in the old magicks. They’ve left us alone for centuries. Or maybe forgot about us entirely as they lost touch with the earth. We’ve become ‘myth’ in their minds. We’ve receded into our groves, tried to live on in secret, peacefully apart from our garish neighbors.

Until recent years. Now humanity has grown arrogant. They wander too far, to places they don’t belong. Places they can’t begin to understand. They’ve forgotten what lives in the deepest places of the woods.

And now, as an early autumn evening approaches, I can taste fear in the chilled breeze. The light of day is waning. And when it has gone completely, these intruders will be mine. They fear the approaching dark. They always do. Because they fear losing sight of their path. Humans always need paths. Without their guidance, they walk into the unknown. And the forest at night is teeming with the unknown. It’s not just the trees they fear, nor any wildlife exactly. It’s what hides unseen within the trees. The monsters that thrive in that darkness.

Their shiny droppings of plastic and aluminum are left to rot on my land. A grave insult. A direct threat. They’ve thrown the first stone, and I’ll throw an avalanche in response. Anyone brazen enough to defile my home, to steal away peace from my sisters and me, must be defiled tenfold. I will show these intruders what truly lurks in the dark.

I suppose the four hikers stomping their way through my home this evening will become just another few tallies on the ever-growing list of disappearances in these parts. My White Mountains and the vast stretches of woodland surrounding them are infamous throughout American history. Stories of the supernatural and sightings of the unexplainable have been commonplace over the centuries in this region sprawling across New Hampshire and Maine. Stories of strange lights, of moving trees and female figures. But no one will ever know the truth. The disappearance of these four hikers will be blamed on exposure or falls. Steep trails, unpredictable weather, and thick alpine fog will be the explanation. Some say when storms roll in, the forest seems to swallow sound itself. But they don’t know the half of it. And they don’t want to believe.

I flex, wood creaking, my roots digging in deeper to feel the earth. I spread my branches out like a bird ruffling its feathers, my leaves listening to the air. Enclosed within my trunk, I close my eyes and focus. They’re still far, but I can feel them.

Four sets of footsteps crunch through leaves, snapping twigs and kicking pebbles. Their voices carry over the landscape, occasional laughter breaking the calm air. Breath strained from their long uphill trek, their tones grow anxious as they gradually realize they’re losing daylight and no longer know quite where they are.

And this anxiety makes them stupid and desperate. Easy to lure. Like a deep-sea anglerfish, I draw them closer using my lights. The Wampanoag tribes to the south named these lights ‘Tei-Pai-Wankas’. Apparently the English called them ‘will-o’-the-wisps’. Whatever name they’re given, many of us creatures of the forest utilize these lights to interact with things beyond our immediate reach. My branches rattle as I call to the lights, control them. The pale blue glow of these little floating balls is seen from a distance through the trees. And in the twilight of dusk, they become a beacon of hope to the lost hikers.

I hear the human voices from far off, carried on the breeze. Broken fragments of their words. “…I’m telling you, I saw lights up there. I’m going that way…” This one’s voice is like a pretty birdsong in the summer. It tells me how attractive she is without even seeing her. The type of voice only acquired from a lifetime of confidence in one’s own appearance.

And as I hear their voices, I also start to sense vague outlines of them. I build a descrlption of their entire beings based on the feel of their bodies brushing through foliage, their layered clothing tickling my senses. The way they each walk, the subtleties of movement and breathing. By the time they reach me, I’ll know more than a picture could tell.

“…no signal way out here…” This one is a male. He speaks with routine informality to the first voice. Do they have some sort of relationship? Lovers? How interesting.

“…told you we were going the wrong way. You never fucking listen…” Another female, this one annoying and whiny. Her voice is the high insistence of a wren, a songbird that learned volume before melody. Her tone is of someone who normally gets her way. And she speaks with harsh familiarity with the male. It’s almost a similar voice to his. Related? Bickering like… siblings? Her footsteps are lighter, a petite body type. A prissy little thing. I’ll be sure to give her the attention she craves.

“…guys I really don’t like this. Should we try that other way...” Softer, timid like a mouse. The last female, always following in the back of their group. Leaves graze across her curves as she walks, occasionally catching in her mane of curly hair.

Three females, one male. All young adults. All very close with one another, but in different ways. Siblings, lovers, friends.

The more I learn of these trespassers, the more arousal vibrates through me. My roots churn the soil where I stand. My branches swell and flutter. These are more than average people. They are of exceptional beauty. Youthful yet ripe. It’s been too long since I’ve indulged. And this could end up being the greatest catch I’ve ever had.

I feel as though I can still smell the burned remains of the trees just over the ridge to the east. An ‘accidental’ massacre caused by careless humans last summer. They often seem to take pleasure in such reckless destruction. Dancing and drinking and singing to disgusting effigies of those I once knew. I don’t see them as human anymore. They are beasts. I remember what it meant to be human. I was one once, long ago when there was still decency in the world. But that part of me is gone now. Now there’s only decay and perversion, like weeds choking out my humanity. I cannot distinguish my hair from vines, my blood from sap. Alone for too many seasons, my mind is crazed. My anger growing like wildflowers, my mind poisoned like ivy.

The approaching creatures are different than I was at their age, and as I hear their awful voices, I give in to base desires. I’ll be happy to cleanse my home of such pests. I can’t wait to cut them down, make something… useful of them. If humans take such pleasure in careless destruction and debauchery, maybe I should as well. Besides, it’s my duty to regrow. To reseed the land.

Finally as the last rays of sunlight dip beneath the mountains, I begin to see the walkers with my own eyes. I peer out the open slit of my trunk and watch the tiny flickers of light approaching from the distance. Not only my lights guiding the people toward me, but others of their own coming from the palms of their hands. The lights they produce are cold and unnatural. Technology—they depend on it. Worship their devices like holy relics, like fetishes or spell foci. They tap at them as if sanctuary can be found within the tiny metallic devices.

The voices are so close now. Complaining about nonsense like “service” and “GPS”. I move my orbs of light over the ridge behind me, putting myself directly along the path between the humans and my lures. The sun only gives their eyes ambient illumination now. Shadows lengthen all around, my trees swallowing the last dregs of daylight with every passing second.

It’s nearly night when the hikers walk within my reach.

And the ambush begins.

Vines shoot out from trees all around them! Roots burst up out of the ground under their feet! Panic spreads like wildfire, screams and thrashing movement everywhere. One of the ladies is grabbed around her ankle and flipped upside down into the air, like a rabbit strung up by a snare. “Ah! What the fuck?! Help! AAAHH! ” A grown woman reduced to the pure terror of a chiId.

“Wuh- what’s happening?! Oof! ” A thick branch punches another female in the stomach, making her double over coughing on her knees.

“Emmie!” The male shouts and lunges into action, ripping the attacking plant life away from the girl nearest him. It takes a half-dozen ropy vines strapping his limbs and choking his neck to finally subdue him.

Look at them scurry. Look at them squirm. It’s like lifting a rock and watching the insects hiding beneath scuttle for cover. Finally up close, I can peek out of my trunk and inspect each hiker with my own eyes.

One shrieking girl is suspended upside down and hovered before me. Dangled by vines spiraling around one of her legs, she wriggles in midair. She has an unfair sort of beauty. Like a long summer day that doesn't want to end, the arrogance of the sun staying up too late. Blonde hair and tanned skin straight from a tropical beach. She’s of medium build, thin but clearly well-endowed in the hips and chest. Hair back in a ponytail, simple yet effortlessly attractive. Her face is gorgeous despite being distorted with fear and pain. Her clothes are unnecessarily sexualized. Even in cold weather, the layers cling intentionally tight to every curve and contour. Green-gray tights riding high up her butt crack.

And then she sees me. We lock eyes, hers blue and bloodshot, mine like green-black orbs of swamp water without scleras. She freezes for a moment before screaming, “OH MY GOD! Wh-what the fuck- what the FUCK IS THAT!? ”

Thwump! I slam her against a neighboring tree to render her groggy, to cease her awful sounds. Then my branches start crawling up under her clothes and bursting out from within. Little holes begin opening up all over as her layers of fabric are ripped apart. But with chaos all around, I can’t indulge for long on any single hiker. My attention shifts.

Another girl claws at the ground with her fingers, kicking and screaming as my vines drag her toward me. Her cute winter hat falls off to reveal dark hair with streaks of attention-grabbing dyed blues. If the other girl was like ‘Summer’, than this one is ‘Spring’. From what I gathered before, she has quite the bubbly bright personality, though annoying and demanding. Her shrill voice assaults my ears as I reel her in. “Oh-my-God-oh-my-God-oh-my-God-no-no-no-NO! GET IT OFF ME!! Brad! ”

Spring has deliciously skinny legs wrapped in thin black tights. Though not nearly as blatantly seductive as her blonde friend, the pants are so tight that they show the thigh-gap between her slim legs. She has an almost juveniIe figure, like a young calf. Cute fuzzy socks up over her ankles almost like leg warmers. Stylish little hiking boots. She wears a poofy cream-white coat, horizontal lines of stitching giving it a segmented look, like a bunch of marshmallows stacked on top of one another. Thorny brambles swirl around the young lady as she gets dragged face-down in the dirt, shredding her clothing with hundreds of cuts. Soon her clothes look like peeling birch bark, and I finally begin unwrapping the wonders of her body within. Bare flesh peeks through ripped fabric, pale but glowing with soft color like a warm morning. A sports bra over small breasts. A length of soft thigh. Patterned underwear and a glimpse of a perky butt cheek. But again my attention is torn away.

Keeping with the theme, there’s no way I don’t refer to the third girl as ‘Autumn’. Her hair is a bushy nest of auburn curls, now tangled with my twigs and leaves as I yank her closer. Her horror-stricken face is so very Irish, dappled with freckles like the first drops of a light October rain. She wears a baggy red flannel shirt under a rugged dark green jacket. Tight skinny jeans stuffed with her curvy body. She has a waist that dips and swells, breasts bountiful and generous.

Vines stretch Autumn out, bending her over a gnarled knee-like root sticking out of the ground, her thick butt wiggling up in the air. She squeaks and yelps adorably as I rip into her wrappings. Jeans peel down off her ass, purple-gray panties beneath pulled halfway off along with the pants. Her whole back is bared to the chilly air—jacket, shirt, and white bra bisected by rough plant-fingers. Her skin is milk and ivory, almost aglow in the dim light on the forest floor. Autumn’s hiking boots are the only things I can’t seem to claw off her.

The boy is making quite the fuss. Just to complete the set, I decide to call him ‘Winter’. I suppose it’s fitting because of his strong male coldness. He’s quite the handful, grappling with my appendages, breaking my branches, tearing at my vines. A sudden stab into his shoulder from one of my sharpest branches makes him howl. Then several roots overpower him, pulling him down to lie sprawled on his back on the ground.

Throughout the skirmish, from all their subtle interactions with one another, I piece together their relations. This boy I dub Winter is the boyfriend of the blonde I call Summer. Winter is the brother of the whiny skinny girl, Spring. And shy Autumn is a friend to them all.

The remaining ambient light of day is slowly fading, and with it so is any hope of escape. The hikers have taken my bait and sprung my trap. Now they’re fully within my grasp.

Amber-colored sap begins seeping out of all my branches. Forming tiny beads and dripping like syrup. Coating rough bark in slippery lubrication.

Autumn screeches, still bent over a root, as vines begin lashing down like sharp whips onto her pale back and juicy rump.

And nearby, Winter’s gruff male voice is muffled by roots wrapping over his mouth as his whole body is bound spread-eagle on his back in the dirt. His clothes get ripped away in jagged strips. Then thin creeping vines coil around the base of his flaccid penis, squeezing and kneading. The snaking plants stroke and cover him with slime until his manhood swells with stiffness against his will.

Spring tries to crawl away on muddy hands and knees, but vines regain control of the girl and stretch her out face-down on her stomach. She screams annoyingly again, so a leafy branch gets stuffed in her open mouth to shut her up. Her hair flings about in the struggle—dark and straight, with occasional strikes of light blue dyed highlights, like night sky cut with veins of glacial melt.

Spring’s layers of clothing are shredded but still mostly intact. Ropes of ivy around her ankles spread her legs wide. Then a thorn-tipped vine shoots forward, aimed directly up the center between those slender legs. And it pierces right through her pants! A hole is punctured through the crotch of the black tights, right through the warm underwear beneath. In the same vicious thrust, it burrows itself inside the young woman’s vagina! Though her cunt is shriveled with the lack of arousal, the vine forces the entrance to stretch and accept the intrusion. Her labia is like a pale pink tulip, mostly enclosed so that the petals must be pried apart to get inside the tight bloom.

I shudder, feeling the sensation of entering her. The quivering warmth wrapped around my appendage. Her insides are the wetness of dewy grass. The poor girl gurgles with agony, her mouth muffled by the branch stuffed in it.

Despite the unavoidable pain Spring is subjected to, she’ll be fine… mostly. Everything is becoming coated with more and more sap, able to slide more easily. And the sticky substance has powerful healing properties. The more I pump my spears of plant life in and out of her holes, the more sap is rubbed into her. Any torn flesh is mended before long. My kind are guardians of the forests, healers and protectors. We can give life and growth to flora and fauna under our care. But we can also use our power in these darker ways when provoked.

Spring gets lifted up from the ground by only the vines and branches stabbed deeply inside her mouth and vagina. Spit-roasted while the rest of her clothing is violently ripped away by dozens of other finger-like plants. As her black tights are torn away in two halves to either side, her butt cheeks jiggle enticingly. Then her panties are gripped by a coiling vine and wedged upward, the delicate fabric stretching until it snaps. Boots, socks, and the shredded remnants of coat, shirt, and bra are all scraped off. Soon the woman is left naked, lifted by branches impaling her from both ends. She’s a sight to behold, bare skin so lewd in the cold open air.

These people—modern people—are so much cleaner than we were back when I was human. Soft and sleek and pampered. They preserve their bodies so well, and yet they barely hide them. Barely cover themselves with any amount of modesty. Such tight and revealing clothing. I’ll never understand them. But I do enjoy it.

Light continues to wither, like a fire down to its last embers. The doom of night approaches, shadows engulfing the grove.

Meanwhile, Summer is still suspended upside down face-to-face with my humanoid form at the center of my tree. She kicks and screams wildly as I begin pulling her inside the trunk with me. Like a snake gulping down its prey, she slowly disappears headfirst into the vertical slit opening in the bark from which I’d emerged. I want to experience her as close as possible.

The young woman looks like she should be on a beach, like I should be smelling sunscreen and salt air. Instead an overwhelming medley of scents assaults me. A mixture of products, each some unholy replication of a real fragrance from nature. Honeysuckle in full sprawl, lemon zest, warm coconut and hot sand. These people are so perfumed, but it’s so much more than the simple spices and oils of old. It’s an affront to the real nature it mimics. And anything I lick seems to be lightly coated in one oily substance or another. Makeup, lotion, deodorant. Artificial abominations.

Beachy blonde hair brushes past me, the color of a wheat field at peak harvest. I lick up the side of her screaming face. Her eyelids are the half-lidded laziness of an August afternoon. I taste her delicious lips. Plump and juicy like ripened strawberry.

She slides in deeper with me, and I lick my way up her body while my clawed fingers rip away any remaining clothing. My tongue glides up her warm neck. Her collarbone is a long inviting shoreline. Then the valley of her cleavage. Everything the tan color of warm sandstone. Such plentiful breasts slide against my face, finally freed from all clothing covering them. The seawater flavor of a little nipple fills my mouth.

My sharp talon-like fingertips caress and gouge into her tender flesh. My face continues exploring up her toned stomach as she slides tightly against me, every inch of her becoming coated in sappy slime within the trunk of my tree. We are like twins inside the same womb.

Finally my face is at her groin, and hers at mine. Though her clothing is torn apart, her sweetest spot is still hidden from me—the crotch of her lewd green-gray tights still covers her treasures as I get my face right in it. I breathe her heat, my bark-covered nose digging into the pillowy crotch. It smells sour, the musk of being trapped in layers of tight clothing throughout a long day of hiking, but I growl with excitement all the same.

My monstrous sound is apparently enough to push the woman’s fear over the edge. A wet spot starts forming before my eyes, right at the center of the gray tights. The unimaginable nightmare she’s in is making her piss herself! I dive my face in to lick and smell, my sharp fingertips pulling apart fabric to either side to reveal the gushing prize beneath. Her labia is like a bloom of darkened pink hibiscus petals. Urine geysers up from between them as her bare cunt is unveiled. Such a perfect girl to be doing something so foul. I stab my long tongue down inside, splitting her open and tasting her sour apple flavor. And my hands go down to force her face between my mossy thighs. Muffling her wailing mouth as I rub her right into my cunt full of sopping sappy fluids.

Even as I work on one of the women, my senses are fully aware of everything else happening to the others. Like Autumn, with her pale back marked with bright red crisscrossing lines from the lashing she took from the vines. She scrambles from the onslaught, backing away from a swarming storm of plant life all around. She sits cowering with her back to my trunk, oblivious to the unseen horrors being inflicted upon her blonde friend just within the tree behind her.

Her curly hair has the variety of color of dying leaves. I grab a handful with my sharp branch-tips, brutally thumping her pretty head back against hard bark. Her pale breasts are on full display. Thick udders that curve upward at the tips, topped with acorn-colored nipples. A smattering of freckles frames them, like scattered nutmeg on warm porcelain.

Vines wrench Autumn's knees apart as she sits there thrashing helplessly. Between her milky thighs is a wild undergrowth of fiery pubic hair, like an unruly sprawl of red thicket. The inner labia is mostly hidden within the outer, tiny little light pink snapdragon petals peeking out from her ginger bush.

As she sits struggling and groaning with her back to my tree, Autumn’s entire head becomes engulfed in an overgrowth of tangled bramble. Her eyes go wide with terror. Such pretty hazel eyes—a mix of fern green and dark honey brown. Her screaming face disappears beneath the creeping vegetation. Tiny tendrils crawl like worms along her skin and wiggle their tips inside any entrance they can find. Every orifice invaded. Her ears are stuffed full. A tiny vine goes inside one nostril, while another is sprouting its exit out the other from inside her throat. Yet another even coils around her wriggling tongue, grappling and strangling it in its own personal battle within her mouth. The young woman’s makeup is smeared with teardrops as enthusiastic green sprigs even try to bore down into the corners of her eyes.

Meanwhile the boy, Winter, lies flat on his back. Bound by thick roots, his limbs outstretched in a big X. His naked body still fights me, his muscles straining, the roots creaking with effort to hold him down. But the more plants swirl around his manhood—caressing him, forcing his penis to swell—the more his strength is sapped. And as he surrenders, he begins to ever so slowly sink down into the soft earth beneath him.

Above Winter, his sister Spring is suspended in the air by vines wrapped around her neck, limbs, and midsection. She had been spit-roasted from both ends mere moments ago, and now those holes are pouring profusely with amber sap. Her mouth mumbling incoherently, bubbles of goo dribbling down her chin and chest. Vagina left winking agape, leaking a foul concoction of frothy fluids. She struggles weakly against the bindings holding her aloft, but it’s no use. The strength of the forest is far too much for a pathetic little girl like her. She’s built like something that expects to be handled carefully. But I don’t give her that courtesy. Her arms are forced up out of the way, legs outstretched, then bent at the knees into a kneeling, squatting position.

And I lower her down over Winter. She’s turned so her perky little breasts face down the length of his body. She squeals with renewed horror as her earthy brown eyes gaze down at her brother’s naked figure.

And then I make her cunt sit right down onto his shouting face. His eyes go wide with shock as he watches his own little sister’s brown asshole get shoved right onto his nose, her vagina smothering his mouth. Her little pussy is a dark pink cherry blossom, the smoothness of calla lily spilling out slightly from the center. Though I can imagine the boy wouldn’t describe his sister’s genitalia in such poetic terms. Nevertheless it all gets rubbed onto his face, no matter how much he screams out in protest or scrunches his features in sheer disgust. The roots immobilize the young man on the ground while her ropy restraints move her hips around. All the rubbing of wet cunt, all the vines stroking at his cock—soon he can’t resist hardening, forced fully erect like a second tiny tree sprouting from the earth next to mine.

Spring screams out and whips her head back and forth. Her lovely dark hair with occasional strikes of light blue died highlights, like crow feather with a streak of pale April sky. Her squawks of protest get drowned out amid the havoc being wreaked upon all her friends around her.

And then I silence her shrill cries. My vines tighten their grips and manipulate her position further. She strains against it, but the one wrapping her throat chokes the fight right out of her. Still sitting on her brother’s face, she gets bent forward and down. More little sprigs reach out and pry open her gurgling mouth. Lips the graceful pale pink of orchid petals get spread wide. She’s lowered down and forced to take her own sibling’s cock deep into her maw.

Sap secretes all over them both, coating their naked bodies with healing slime as the girl’s face is pumped up and down on the engorged penis. Throat crushed, deprived of breath, the young lady loses consciousness after a while. But her slackened mouth is still used. Up and down repeatedly.

Winter is smothered in the fluids and smells of his sister’s privates grinding on his face. Until it’s too much for the virile young man. He can’t help his biology. He succumbs to the constant stimulation. The vines wrapped around the root of his ball sack feel his spasming climax first. Then he explodes within his sister’s sleeping mouth. His seed planted deep inside her esophagus.

Just as his orgasm is at its height, his crotch-smothered face is finally submerged beneath the soil completely. He’s being pulled down into the earth by the constricting roots, to be used as compost. Fertilizer for a more important organism. Spring’s unconscious face is lifted up off him, semen gushing out of her mouth as it’s plucked from her brother’s penis. The last thing to sink beneath the ground is his spent little sapling sticking straight up.

Spring lurches back into consciousness, coughing out globs of her brother’s hot sperm. Then she screams in panic, realizing she’s sitting on his face, with roots churning the earth as he’s disappearing beneath… And she’s following him! In her kneeling position, her legs are slowly being forced to nestle into the cold dirt under them. Soon she’ll be buried alive right on top of her brother!

Satisfied with the subjugated siblings, I return my attention to the other two hikers. I finally release Summer from the inside of my trunk, wrapping vines around her ankles, sliding her out, and suspending her in the air again. Her naked body drips with yellowish slime, her muscles twitching, her mouth muttering incoherently. My green lips curl into a sadistic sneer at the sight. She’s gone into complete shock, her brain unable to comprehend the horrors she’s faced.

I climb out of the slit in the trunk after her, and my eyes find sweet Autumn just below me. She sits with her back to my tree, her entire head and upper body camouflaged beneath intertwined vegetation all competing to invade every orifice of her pretty face. Her lower body sits mostly free of plant life. Pale naked legs, but she still wears her little hiking boots—I couldn’t rip those off like the rest of her clothing. They kick around wildly in the dirt.

Crawling out of my trunk as much as I can, I creep down headfirst over her like a spider descending on prey caught in its web. My hair begins to writhe like a hundred snake-like vines coming to life and aiming at the girl below me. They all reach down, coiling around her boots, lifting her legs and butt clear up off the ground. They hold her nearly upside down, with her head and arms still fully enveloped by constricting plants near the base of my trunk. I peer down between her struggling legs, and I lick my lips.

Autumn’s red pubes are plastered down on her mound, sticky with sap and sweat. Thighs jiggle on either side of my head as I nuzzle my face down the center. My fingers, my lips, my nose all brush against the girl’s most forbidden fruits. Her pink labia feels like the soft underbelly of a mushroom, clammy and impossibly delicate. I plunge my face into her crotch, nose inhaling deeply, tongue flicking out to stab inside her vagina. The rolling hills of her curvy body erupt with quakes of protest in response. But the constant swarm of plants gripping her all over is impossible to escape.

The flavor of her womanhood fills my mouth. A potent mix of sweet honey and overripe apple must from a forgotten orchard. Earthy and sour, with the moisture of morning dew on grass. I slurp at her juices as my long tongue excavates deep down her hole. Gushing secretions of healing sap pool into her twitching cunt as my claws reach in on either side of my tongue and pull her entrance wider. My tongue elongates, piercing through her cervix to taste at the inside of her young womb.

After drowning in Autumn’s nectar for minutes on end, I finally reel back my head, gasping for breath and drooling from my chin. And my lust-crazed eyes lock onto Summer hovering just above us.

She’s a sunflower. Tall and bold and unashamedly eye-catching when spread on full display. Her blonde head is caked with sap, making her hair look like honey dripping from a comb. She screams and thrashes about in midair, adorned from head to toe in spirals of green garland that cut into her flesh. Her tan skin is that of a sun-ripened peach. Her plump breasts are each individually squeezed by vines, nipples flushed and erect and pointing right at me.

Summer’s golden legs are held apart, kicking weakly out to either side, round butt bouncing. And up the center, a thick branch, all gnarled and knobby, is impaled up her cunt. It pumps up and down—or rather she’s being pumped up and down on it. It stretches her out, ruining her pretty genitals with every merciless thrust, only to then discharge globs of gooey sap to heal her right up again. Her pretty birdsong voice is turned to raspy squalls of pure agony.

Then Summer is cast into a mad fit of convulsions when the staff is wrenched out of her hole without warning. Her vagina gapes and winks, unexpectedly empty all of a sudden, and a steady stream of fluids runs out of her like a babbling brook. Then three winding vines, each slick with slime, shoot up to take the branch’s place. They fight each other for entry, swirling around and nosing their way between her trembling pussy-lips. They twist and turn inside her with violent playfulness. Their serpentine movement can be seen from the outside, grotesque bumps in her flesh just above her pubic mound.

Swollen knots appear along the lengths of vine, like a snake’s belly just after it swallows something too big. These knots run up the vines and disappear within Summer’s cunt, where they deposit their contents up into her young womb. Copious amounts of sap pumping her belly full. Inflating her rapidly like she’s suddenly pregnant!

Summer passes out for a second, only to regain consciousness a moment later. Her sea-glass blue eyes dart around confusedly to take in the otherworldly surroundings they’d forgotten. And she screams like a crack of thunder as she’s reintroduced to the nightmare all over again.

Meanwhile her other hole is invaded. Her tight brown starfish is stabbed by a vine that got left out of the fun in her vagina. It forces its way into the puckered sphincter, dilating the unwilling hole and squirming around inside the blonde beauty’s rectum. Instead of thrusting in and out, it just keeps driving deeper. As it coils through her intestines, it secretes pump after pump of sticky sap. She’d be dead already if not for my healing powers constantly mending anything I damage. I feel things tear and repair repeatedly.

While it may seem needlessly sadistic—and don’t get me wrong, it is quite enjoyable—all this cruelty is a necessary part of the transformation process. Tissue destroyed and regrown from the inside out. Every orifice violated. Her body ravaged but then stabilized by my healing sap. Now her veins are pulsing, turning green-black, visible beneath her lovely tanned skin. Belly engorged full of fluid. Asshole and intestines run through. She’s being fertilized. Seeded.

Summer tries to scream again. Instead she only spews. The vine pumping up through her butt makes her explode out her other end. The contents of her insides are ejected with an endless torrent of watery amber-colored sap like a volcanic eruption of syrup from her mouth. Then the vine emerges from her gaping jaw, wiggling around in the air like an inhuman tongue. It had penetrated her cute little sphincter, worked its way through her rectum, twisted and even punctured through all her intestines, up her stomach and esophagus… and up out of her pretty open lips! Fully impaled, all the way through, swaying around above me.

Her bulbous pregnant belly, swollen with goo, finally expels some of its contents too. It’s as if her water is breaking and she’s going into labor. A waterfall spraying down around the writhing vines stuffed in her vagina. And more runny sap shoots up out of her mouth at the top around the tongue-like vine dancing in the air.

Meanwhile all these foul fluids rain down onto Spring like warm April showers. Trickling all over her naked upper body sticking out of the ground. From the waist down, she’s buried in the damp soil, her brother Winter somewhere even lower underground now. Planted siblings.

Spring had been like a little sparrow, soft and small but jolting with energy and certain of itself. Tiny, loud, and impossible to ignore. Now the girl is just stuck there in the forlorn earth, her body spasming silently. Her dark hair hangs like weeping willow leaves across her wet shoulders and chest. Her gurgling mouth is stuffed full of sap-coated plants churning her gullet. Her small breasts are squeezed by constricting vines so hard they’ve nearly turned the color of lavender in full bloom. And she has the same dark green veins as Summer above her, creeping up her chest and neck as she’s slowly pulled down into the earth. Her metamorphosis is almost complete.

Winter will be discarded, mulch in the soil. He will become part of Spring’s roots. Compost to make her tiny figure strong. They both came from the same womb originally. Now they return to the soil as one.

Summer and Autumn will soon meet the same fate as little Spring. After they’re thoroughly depredated, they’ll be planted just the same. Remade and sprouting up anew.

As the last remnants of light are swallowed by the dark forest, we are plunged into blind blackness. And throughout the long night, the usual sounds of crickets and nocturnal creatures is accompanied by new sounds of squelching fluids and soft whimpering. Flesh is destroyed, sinew and muscle regrown as plant fiber and bark. Blood thickens into syrupy sap. Roots take hold, spreading under the earth. Mother nature is quite the fitting term—there is a pregnancy that lasts the night, the creation of new life. A reproduction process that is at the same time natural and entirely inhuman.

By morning light, the four hikers are no more. The first warm rays of sunrise touch three new trees in my grove for the first time. The female victims have burst up from the dirt as my new sisters. Their bark shifts and creaks as they begin to stir. Slits open in their trunks. Humanoid figures that only vaguely resemble their former selves peek out from within.



The End



-----------

Thanks for reading! See the link in my profile to find all my stories and more chapters in this series

---