These were unlike the ones he had felt before. They were softer, smoother, and were not so pungent and cloying. Will was stock still as the vines snaked up his legs. his thighs, caressed his fingers and the smooth of his forearms.
they remembered him. they have been remade. for him.
They feel the blood beneath flesh, hot with terror, with shameful arousal. They linger. Pulsing, flexing, massaging, doing the work of myriad hands upon his quivering muscles, all speaking with a wordless unison: “be calm, my darling, my love.”
One vine of unique fullness and conscience seems to look upon his face, takes stock of the flushed cheeks, the thrum of heart and scrape of breath. It draws closer, strokes his cheeks, its flesh of eerie familairity. Glistening, smooth, stiff.
it wraps about his neck like so many comforting arms before it, slithers round to his lips—pink and parted—and slunks into his mouth. rests within him, offers him its patience, permits accomodation. Will struggles as the length bids his jaw open. Gags from pressure on his tongue.
Then there is a teeming. A tingling. A numbing. A swelling. His pants sport a sudden discomfort that demands succor. His eyes roll back as the knowing length delves deeper into him, throbbing with its talent of mind and body, swallowing his moans as he swallows it.
His eyes are shut and staring blankly at his brain, his senses too far gone to register the approach, the crunch of feet on dead leaves…
