You’re addicted to masturbating, and it’s all because of that smug plant!
It just sits there on its nest of wet rocks, silently mocking you. A red column a meter wide and tall, glossy flesh a stark and rosy contrast to the blue-lit water around it. It's waving at you, the red skin lightening to a pink crown of tendrils that flow and undulate as if underwater. Some of their glistening number reach out to you. Coiling. Beckoning.
“Fu - fu -” you gasp for air, “FUCK you.” Your head thumps back onto the wooden decking as you moan and gasp at the feeling of your own hand squeezing your breast, your other hand frantically pumping your shaft, wishing you had more hands - but you’re barely able to take this! You can barely breathe, can’t stop, can’t believe how fucking good this feels. You’re close, again, you can feel the pressure building within you, pulled forth by every relentless stroke and squeeze of your clutching fingers as you frantically work yourself towards another, another, another, oh fuck -
Your legs tense and your back arches from the floor as you cry out again, white hot bliss spurting out of you with each thrust into the air. Waves of pleasure fill you so completely you can’t breathe, each overlapping the last and hitting you stronger and stronger until you can’t think, can barely even hold on, can’t do anything but cry out with disbelieving joy for what feels like an eternity.
You slump back onto the floor, arms thudding heavily beside you. You’re panting hard, sweat slick skin burning and freezing in the open air, body shaking with aftershocks so strong they tense giggling smiles out of you. With enormous effort, you raise your head, struggle to focus as you look down between your legs, and instantly stop smiling.
You’re still hard. And on the other side of your impossibly still there erection, squats the damnable plant, waving at you.
This is all that mocking plant’s fault - and now, you groan as you prop yourself up on your elbow, now you're going to get even.
“And I’ve shown you how to water the balcony plants?” Professor Akume asks without looking up, dark eyes and hands rifling through the contents of her silver briefcase as she checks her holopapers and datapads for the third time.
“Yes, Professor,” you patiently repeat.
“And how to rub down the creepvines? You know they get grabby.”
“Yes, Professor.”
“And how to prune the hydroshrumes?”
“Twice, Professor.”
“And how to water the balcony plants?”
“Professor.”
“Hmm?”
Professor Akume looks up, a lock of black hair falling from her tight bun as she looks slightly to the left of where you’re standing. You reach up, brush aside the hair, and tap the side of her thin hologlasses. The white text that was scrolling past the lenses fades out and she blinks at you, somewhat lost.
“Oh, I, what? What was -?”
“Everything will be okay, Professor.”
“I, um… yes. Yes, it will.” Professor Akume closes her eyes, and does what you’ve only ever seen her do twice before in the three years you’ve known her. She takes a breath.
When she opens her eyes she seems more focussed, pulling her white coat straight and moving to close the briefcase, stopping just before it latches.
“I have told you everything, haven’t I, Miss Sura?”
You reach out and give her thin arm a reassuring squeeze, smiling warmly. “Yes, Professor, everything. And you wrote it all down,” you hold up a datapad scrolling with messily written digital notes.
“Oh, yes.”
“And you emailed me,” tucking the pad in your back pocket, you tap the clear bangle of your wristphone and a white holo-image of scrolling text floats above the device, a sidebar showing several attachments.
“Oh… yes,” she looks down, somewhat sheepish.
You take her arm again, gently, “Don’t worry, Professor. I’ve been your full-time assistant for three years now. I can handle a few weeks without you here.”
“But what if, what if something -”
“Then I’ll call you. Europa and Mars is what, a 30 minute time lag?”
“32 at this time of year.”
“And your shuttle has the best comms unit money can buy, so I can easily call you wherever you are if anything goes wrong. Which it won’t, because I can handle it, okay?”
“I - I know you can,” she breathes out, and you’re starkly reminded how much shorter she is, something she usually makes up for with boundless nervous energy. But not right now.
She awkwardly rests a soft brown hand on your elbow, smiling weakly. “Please don’t think I doubt you. I just… worry, is all.”
“I know Professor, and I don’t want to make you more worried, but if you don’t leave,” you check your wristphone “three minutes ago, you’ll miss your hyper-window.”
“Ah, yes… Yes!” the last word is startled out of her as all her frantic energy returns at once. She looks down at her briefcase, reaches to check it again, and slams it shut instead before bolting for the door.
She stops, rushes back, and hugs you forcefully, mumbling some combination of ‘thank you’ and ‘call if you need me’ before properly bolting out the door, the sound of it hissing shut leading into a long, empty silence.
You’re alone. Suddenly and starkly so, alone in the spacious, ultra-modern, and now much more peaceful kitchen of Professor Akume’s home. Or for the next three weeks, your home, with instructions (in triplicate) to make yourself comfortable in this multi-million dollar, secluded, luxury residence, fully stocked with every comfort money could buy and every fascinating alien plant known to exist.
And there you stand, young Xenobotanist Sura Ci, with three weeks to enjoy it all.
But where to begin?
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