It is hard to moan and run at the same time.
That is the key lesson that I hope to impart upon you today little one.
Yes, I know, you’re such a big strong soldier with a scary scowl who’s never once thought about sitting still and letting Miss dress you in something beautiful.
Yes, I know, you had lofty goals and elaborate plans with a rebellion that you were so desperate to see through. There is an obvious word in your language to describe this moment.
Anger.
“This is wrong!” You cry out, “I don’t want to be a pet. I want freedom. This is wrong.”
It makes my injectors start to dribble just hearing you. Because I know a fundamental truth about an adorable thing like you.
It is hard to moan and run at the same time.
My tendril moves across the space so effortlessly it makes you wonder if I deliberately let you go. I take great joy in selecting a spot where the skin looks softest and neediest to plunge into. It’s a feeling you’ll come to crave soon. The lazy drag of the thorn, the perfect choice, the heat of it under your flesh, the way it makes everything you touch feel so incredible. The dusting of pollen on the pinprick.
Perhaps I did let you go, because every moment that you spend hoisted off the ground and wrapped in my vines as I take you back to the bed seems to erode your fight more.
Angry tears and writhing limbs fighting against indescribable pleasure in a war of cognitive dissonance.
The fact that I have made you love the way I feel only makes you hate me more. For now. You are in the early stages.
Denial.
This is a particularly cute place for you to find yourself. I adore denial. Gasping, shouting through a vibrating tone. You continue with your old shtick for as long as possible as I effortlessly grip your wrists and ankles. I press your body into the soft material of the most comfortable bed you have ever felt.
I coo, and administer light petting to you, the animal in front of me. It comforts you on a primal level. Still you shout about your escape plans, how you want to kill me, what a monster I am.
Bargaining.
You finally admit that I’ve done something to you, but you refuse to identify the exact sensation you are experiencing.
You know what it is. I know what it is. Yet, we pretend. I believe Terrans refer to this as flirting. I ask you what’s wrong petal, and you spit in my face. You say that I know exactly what I’ve done, and yet you still refuse to use the exact word as I start to pull at the seams of your standard issue jumpsuit. Little pulls at thread that match the way I’m tugging at your resilience. With every opening I slide another vine deeper, running across your arms, your thighs. You whimper as I finally shatter the illusion you have constructed.
Docility.
You realize now the inescapable reality of your bliss, but you are not ready to appreciate it yet. All at once your limbs go slack as the fight leaves you. The cortisol drains and drops out, quickly replaced by the endorphins and euphoriants I have ensured are reaching optimal levels. It is my preference to work through this stage as efficiently as possible.
The pet inside you is winning. She needs encouragement to properly take root. I finish removing your clothes and maximize the surface area available for my molestation. Ropes of my body bind you tighter, hold you closer.
Vines that live the closest to my core with fibrous textures tease at your skin. Oh, how you’ll crave them in time as their rougher material becomes associated in your mind at a neurochemical level with the addling and addictive comfort of my most intimate cuddles.
I run a grafted feeler across your scalp in a massage that makes you drool and gasp. Your dilated eyes roll back into your skull as I hum a warm and loving song into your grey matter.
Smaller tendrils run between your toes, across your neck, into the folds of your ears and eyes and nose. They brush your lips and they part so easily, but I do not enter. This is still the beginning of our courtship and I wish the explore the moist cavity of your throat at a later time when it can be fully appreciated.
You leak from every place a pet can leak.
I produce a flower bud and rock it lazily back and forth in front of your bleary eyes.
You watch as the soft petals of the bulb retract, revealing the dripping thorn within.
You break into a million little pieces as the pet within you wins the battle.
My sweet little thing begs for more.
How can I possibly resist.
