The original concept belongs to Marjorie Green and can be found in the Flessik Bulb Art (page 1 and page 2), based on her story Freedom for Tara, Chapter 9.
What follows is an exploration inspired by the suggestions additions of Strawberry Wulph here.
* * *
You jump awake, eyes suddenly wide, staring around you at the strange alien jungle, its pink and purple colours settling too slowly into the shapes of leaves and vines. A sense of urgency fills you, as if you awoke from a frantic nightmare you can't now remember, leaving you only with the knowledge that you're in danger! Where even are you?
North Ridge, Research Quadrant A, Karagoss, Gasetti System - your memory offers the factoid with dispassionate haste. Okay, great - your conscious mind thinks - and why am I naked?!
Silence is all your memory has to offers, as you observe with mounting apprehension the nude skin of your arms and chest, glossy with a liquid coating that keeps you unexpectedly warm in the cool jungle air. And below your pale chest, you see only pink - an expanse of fleshy pink wrapped snuggly around your waist and billowing out around you in a large bulb, large enough to contain your entire lower half. The silky contact holding your waist is felt against your unseen feet, flexing experimentally against a surface far too warm to be the ground, a vague pulse sensed in your sensitive arches. The plant's heartbeat? Or your own, felt clearly hammering in your chest on the edge of total panic. What, the FUCK, is this?
Flessikae Vulgaris, Psuedoplant Family - your memory offers at last, accompanied by a gasp of sudden recollection. You remember roots and leaves, each carefully amputated with your plasma scalpel and placed into sealed botany containers secured around the belt of your hazard suit. You remember purple vines and pink leaves, dappled in the golden light of the midday suns as you journeyed deeper into the alien jungle. You remember the blinking red warning on your visor, adamantly informing you that you were leaving the carefully mapped Safety Zone. You remember disabling the warning, too excited in the exploration of such amazing xenobotanical specimens to be worried at nothing!
You remember an immense pink bulb, a flower bigger than any you'd ever seen, furled into a bell shape that stood almost as tall as you! You remember your impatience as your visor cycled through millions of silhouettes, wondering if anyone had discovered this amazing alien flower before. You remember disappointment as your visor shows: Partial Match: Flessikae Vulgaris, Psuedoplant Family, CAUTION: ranged neurotoxin attack! Remain at least 50 feet away at all ti- and then the warning interrupted by a glob of green hitting your visor, hard enough to send you staggering back! Your gloved hands frantically wiped at the liquid covering your visor, panicking as you heard and saw it steaming against the clear surface. Seeing the green steam BEHIND the visor, smelling its sharply sour scent, dimly registering your hud flashing warnings about overwhelmed air filters as you felt the steam flowing straight into your gasping mouth, filling your lungs with a heavy, warm feeling of sleep. You remember, very dimly, the feeling of long tendrils wrapping around your heavy legs, dragging.
You spy your hazard suit, or what's left of it, the white plates and grey patches of the garment strewn amidst the purple undergrowth on all sides of the pink bulb that now holds you upright. How - your question is interrupted by the sight of long, purple tendrils unfurling from around the base of the bulb, the plant's limbs slick with the same oily sheen that covers your nude body.
The plant UNDRESSED you?! The scientific implications of such an intelligent plant excite the xenobotanist in you, your mind mentally taking note of the range of movement and potential strength of the tendrils unfurling around you, rising up like the bars of a cage. It's only when one of them reaches towards you that your excitement catches. Yet some vestigate of scientific curiosity remains, noting that the end of this tendril is different to the rest, not tapered but bulging, the rounded end indented into six segments that open like petals, revealing a pink interior centered by a round, wet opening.
CAUTION: ranged neurotoxin attack - your memory repeats. As if in confirmation, you see a bulge flowing up the tendril's length, the opening clenching with the approach, shaking as the bulge gathers behind it. A drop escapes the opening, not green, but white, vaguely pink. A DIFFERENT chemical to the one that rendered you unconsci - xenobiologist in you notes as the tendril clenches, the opening spitting a ball of milky pink that lands hotly on your chest. You recoil back, the fleshy bulb around your waist constricting slightly to hold you in place as you try to back away from the offending impact. Your hands reach in reflexively, swiping at the chemical, splattering it onto the bulb around you. But it's already too late.
You see pinkish steam rising off the splattered chemical, all around you, off your fingers and off your chest, filling the air with a sweet, rich scent that makes your nostrils tingle as you breathe it in. You feel the tingling down the back of your throat, filling your lungs, expanding outwards. And instead of making you sleep, it makes you very much awake. Your skin tingles with awareness, starting at your chest and expanding outwards, covering your shaking arms, rushing up your neck and over your panting lips. And lower, within the bulb, you feel the tingling awareness reaching like fingers down your abdomen, flowing down your sides and back, down your clenching legs before shooting back up your inner thighs, collecting into a sudden throbbing warmth.
Your breathing is fast, a mixture of apprehension, lingering curiosity, and something else flooding your chest with a sense of mounting immanency. Your fists clench, but for barely a moment before your fingers fly apart again, shaking with feeling. Your hands still drip with the strange pinkish liquid, the sensation of tingling awareness greatly amplified there, so much so that merely touching your fingers together is almost too much to take. You look down at the fleshy bulb around you, trying to wipe your hands on it and succeeding only in making your entire body cringe at the intense feeling of skin on skin. And worse, more of the chemical still is steaming on your chest, your former efforts to wipe it off having succeeded only in spreading it over your breasts. Your very self-aware breasts, your skin shivering in the warm air, your nipples visibly firm, so much so you'd expect them to be aching painfully. Indeed they do ache, but not with pain, just with an excessive awareness of how exposed they are, how untouched.
Hesitantly, you bring your hands inwards. Your movements are slow, nervous, your breath catching as you watch your hands approaching your own chest. Very, very carefully, you hold.
"GAHAAA!" the sound of your voice is utterly unexpected as its wrung out of you, leaving you arched backwards and breathing hard.
Your breasts feel intensely smooth against your oversensitive palms. Your hands spasm reflexively, even before you give a soft squeeze and moan again, the gentle pressure sending a shockwave of pleasure all the way down your spine and deep inside.
Carefully, you straighten up, whimpering a little as the weight of your breasts falls more firmly into your cupped hands. Have they ever felt like this? What kind of chemical - you mind works rapidly, trying to remember if you'd ever read about the Flessikae Vulgaris before, who discovered it, how much they learned? Was it a satellite, a drone? No, definitely a person if they experienced the 'ranged neurotoxin attack', a group of people if they were then able to make it to safety and report it, instead of being captured and stripped and then - then -
Your thoughts crash into an icy wall. What, exactly, is going to happen to you? You look around warily at the plant that has captured you, stripped you naked, drugged you, and now - now is just waiting, its various tendrils curled inwards, as if watching you. No, don't be silly, a plant can't watch, you chuckle, your breath catching as the movement slides your breasts against your cupped hands.
The feeling continues, your breath shaking as you look down to see your thumbs stroking small circles on your skin, quite without you meaning them to. The rush of sensation fractures between your breasts and fingertips, each as sensitive as the other. Experimentally, you let go, an involuntary whisper escaping you as your breasts fall, feeling unbearably exposed and bare, until you touch them against with only your fingertips. You breath, steadying yourself, then slide your fingertips around your skin, your voice coeing as you do. Your not sure which is more sensitive, your fingertips or your breasts as the feeling slides in lazy circles around you, coming to rest with your hands cupping you again without meaning too, giving another reflexive squeeze. You bite you lip to stifle yet another moan.
Nope, can't decide which is more sensitive. Hypothesis requires further testing.
You can feel your heartbeat in your throat as you slide your hands to a new configuration, positioning one fingertip and thumb on either side of your erect nipples.
Gently, very gently, you pinch.
And black out.
No comments:
Post a Comment