Plants vs Cunts Vol. 15

Puki had only meant to cut through the forest. The path was supposed to be short. Then the undergrowth closed behind her and the air turned thick and sweet, like overripe fruit left in the sun.
The first vines were thin. They slid around her ankles before she registered them as anything but weeds. When she kicked, they tightened. More came from the moss, from the trunks, from the hanging curtains of leaves. They were warm. They pulsed.
She tore at them. They tore back, splitting her clothes with patient, wet strength. A thick tendril wrapped her waist and lifted her off the ground. Others found her wrists and pulled her arms wide. She hung there, kicking, while the forest rearranged itself around her body.
The plants were not hurried. They mapped her. Tendrils traced the insides of her thighs, the undersides of her breasts, the hollow of her throat. One slender vine slipped between her lips when she opened her mouth to shout. It tasted green and faintly sweet. It did not choke her. It simply occupied her tongue and waited.
Pollen drifted. It clung to her skin and made every place the vines touched feel hotter. The first real intrusion was a blunt, slick tip pressing against her entrance. She clenched. It waited until her muscles tired, then eased in anyway, stretching her open with a slow, wet insistence. Another found her ass and did the same. A third, thinner one, circled her clit and began a steady, maddening rub.
She lasted longer than she expected.
At first it was only violation. She thrashed, bit the vine in her mouth, tried to grind her hips away from the ones inside her. The plants answered by adding more. Two more tendrils pushed into her cunt alongside the first, forcing her open until the stretch burned. They moved in different rhythms, one thrusting deep while another curled and pressed against her front wall. The one in her ass thickened. The one on her clit never stopped.
Pleasure arrived like a traitor.
It started as heat that would not stay pain. Her hips jerked once, involuntarily, trying to take a vine deeper. She froze in horror at her own body. The plants noticed. They rewarded her. The tendril on her clit sped up. The ones inside her found a pace that made her thighs shake. A flower opened against her breast and fastened over her nipple, sucking in slow, rhythmic pulls that sent sparks down her spine.
She came the first time with a muffled scream, body locking around the vines. They did not stop. They used the orgasm. While she was still clenching they pushed deeper, thicker, until she felt impossibly full. A new vine slid into her mouth beside the first and began to leak something warm and viscous down her throat. It tasted like the pollen smelled. Her thoughts slowed.
The second orgasm came faster. The third faster still. Each one left her a little less able to remember why she had been fighting. Her mind kept trying to surface—this is wrong, get out, they’re inside you—but the pleasure was louder. It filled the spaces where fear used to live. The vines fucked her through every peak, never letting her come all the way down. Her cunt made wet, helpless sounds. Her ass clenched around the thick intrusion. Drool ran from the corner of her mouth around the vines using it.
She started moving with them.
It was small at first. A roll of her hips when a tendril dragged over the spot that made her vision white. A moan instead of a protest when the flower on her nipple sucked harder. The plants grew bolder. They lifted her higher, spread her legs wider, turned her so more of them could reach. Vines wrapped her breasts and squeezed in time with the ones thrusting into her. Others coiled around her throat just tight enough to make every breath a conscious thing.
Her mind began to tear.
Thoughts arrived in fragments and then dissolved. She could no longer hold onto the idea of escape. The only thing that stayed sharp was sensation: the relentless stretch, the wet slide, the way her clit throbbed against the vine that never stopped working it, the warm fluid filling her belly and leaking back out around the ones in her cunt. She came again and the orgasm did not feel like hers anymore. It felt like the forest using her body to make more of itself.
By the time she stopped struggling entirely, she was smiling around the vines in her mouth.
They lowered her to the moss but did not withdraw. They kept fucking her, slower now, deeper, as if savoring the way she had gone soft and open. Her legs stayed spread because the plants wanted them that way. Her arms lay limp above her head. Every few minutes another climax rolled through her, weaker in resistance, stronger in surrender. She made small, broken sounds of pleasure and did not try to stop them.
The last coherent piece of her watched from somewhere far away as her hips lifted to meet a particularly thick thrust, as her tongue curled around the vine feeding her, as her body arched and trembled and offered itself. Then that piece tore too.
What remained was heat and fullness and the sweet, endless rhythm of the plants using her. She was wet everywhere they wanted her wet. She was open everywhere they wanted her open. Her mind was gone; only the pleasure was left, and it kept coming, wave after wave, until even the idea of “herself” had been fucked into something small and useless and smiling.
The forest held her there, vulnerable, dripping, mindless, and continued.