You fall

You bring up the holy blade to deflect the vines. You cannot summon its holy power, but its edge is keen and steel sanctified. Vines part with every sweep of your weapon to fall to your feet, still writhing like severed snakes. But there were so many, all reaching for you. The air was thick with musk making breathing difficult, warming your body. You felt your arousal keenly but persevere.

You are suddenly on your back. You look down to where vines had reached through the soil and grabbed your ankles. There is a clang as the striga kicks away the holy blade.

“No,” you cry.

“There,” the demoness purrs. “Now then, young sister, we can stop this foolishness.” At a wave of her hand the vines surge out and grab you. You scream and struggle but without the blade you can’t resist their sinuous touch.

“Now,” the Striga begins conversationally, “the first thing you will feel is a slight pain, but don’t worry. It will fade quickly.” You cry out as you feel several vines dig into your flesh, sliding beneath the skin to bulge obscenely. The pain swiftly fades, replaced by a thick numbness where they touch.

“That was only the vines entering your skin. Just relax. They are preparing you.”

Your tears run thick, crying softly as you feel a lethargy seep into your limbs. You cannot resist as both you and Brigette are hoisted into the air by the vines. Brigette is at once returned to the wall, where she slumps as before, the thick fluid continuing to drip from her engorged nipples and into the soil. But the plant has further plans for you. You are tilted back, your knees drawn up and legs spread like a woman giving birth. You raise your head with effort and see through the valley of your breasts the Strigid approach. The tree woman kneels between your legs and examines your gaping pussy lips.

“Hm. Seems you have not been as virtuous as you claimed,” she teases. “That will make this much easier.”

You sob in renewed humiliation, then gasp as you feel her hard fingers trace the skin of your mound. You quiver in arousal, wetness dripping from your superheated pussy. “What’s…what’s happeni-ing,” you keen weakly.

“The nutrients the hasterum is pumping into you is a potent aphrodisiac,” the nature woman explains as her fingers dance tantalizingly across your sensitive skin. “And, of course, the black lotuses perfume acts likewise, weakening you further. Just imagine,” she sighs, pressing her palm against your engorged lower lips. “Imagine forever being enwrapped in pleasure, warm and safe. In a womb of arousal, forever at peace, eternally pleasured. No need to think. To strive. All you need to do is be.” Her red eyes glow with the idea as she gently begins to rub her palm against your moist cooter.

You cry out in frustration but cannot deny your arousal. Then, you see something waving over the strigid’s antler-like branches. A vine like the others, only this one is tipped by one of those solid bulbs you had seen before. The plant demoness senses it and holds out her hand, allowing the bulb and vine to slide into her palm. She removes her other hand from your cunt and lovingly pets the vine.
“Ah. Here we are.” Her glowing eyes return to your own. “Are you ready, little sister, to join with the mother earth once more?”

Sudden realization dawns on you when you see her guide the bulb towards your parted lower lips. “No! No, please. Don’t! I- Noooooo!” You throw back your head and cry out as you feel the bulb **** its way into your pussy. It slides in deep and sensually, deeper than the imp’s cock, seeking out your fertile depths. You sob, feeling it brush against something deep inside of you.

Warmth overtakes you. Your mind begins to grow heavy as you feel the vine in your cunt undulate, throbbing as it pumps something pleasant inside you. Your eyelids droop and your every muscle relaxes. A sigh, submissive, accepting, escapes you. The worries you had before are so distant now, you cannot fathom why they bothered you at first. Your head lolls as the vines gently (so gently, how did you not notice how gentle they were before?) bear you to a wall. You sink among them, dangling from garland chains, but the vines keep you upright. You inhale the thick scent of the black lotus and feel so warm, so sleepy, so safe.

You look up as something comes before you. You smile at the breathtakingly beautiful face of the mother. She smiles back.

“Good, little sister,” she purrs. Her hands find your breasts and begin to massage their hand filling girth. You relax into her touch, a content smile on your face. You do not wonder why your breasts seem to be growing larger, more pert and firm. Everything is right. Not even when the mother rolls a nipple between two fingers, drawing forth a thick, sappy substance do you worry. Everything is right now. Everything is perfect.

You look across the room at Brigette, marvelling at how green her skin has grown. The fluid from her breasts has grown in volume, dribbling like the water of a spring into the soil at your feet. You look down at your own, seeing the faint green cast beginning. How wonderful! You think, sinking deeper into lethargy. There is only pleasure.

You aren’t aware of being awake. The times between grow shorter. You watch as a woman enters the cell. The ceiling has fallen away long ago allowing the sunlight to filter through the perfume of the lotuses, the light turning purple and red where it comes through the great flower’s petals. They reveal the leathers of her huntsman garb. She has a blank look to her eyes and wanders in without seeing. She does not resist as the father flower’s vines lift her from her feet, tear free her clothes and prepare her. She jerks once as the bulb enters her, then relaxes and is drawn to the wall like you and Brigette. You smile at your new sister.

You wake again. Vines cover the whole of the cell, the black lotuses blooming and filling the air with their heavy musk. Brigette is barely visible beneath the carpet of greenery which surrounds her form, leaving only her breasts, face and pussy still bare. Her brown hair has grown darker like loamy soil and her breasts even heavier. A pool has formed at her feet in the green which covers the floor, forever being filled from a continuous stream of fluid from her breasts. You are no longer alone. Several women are in the room. Clad in white cloaks opened at the front revealing their tone naked figures, they kneel before the father flower, their long hair let loose beneath their cowls. Many have the heavy stomachs of pregnancy. They murmur, the sound soothing and lovely to your ears.

One, the tallest, wears a wreath of black lotus which surround her head with a halo of musk, obscuring her features as surely as a veil. She has a slightly greenish cast to her naked skin, her heavy breasts standing out proud and full. Her brown hair is bedecked by flowers which sway about her hypnotically as she kneels at Brigette’s feet and gather the fluid from her pool into an urn. You smile on seeing this woman, watching as she kisses the green toes of Brigette, and wonder which among them is yours? When she rises she turns to the others and lifts the urn high. Their murmuring grows in volume. She approaches one, the youngest of their number, who looks afraid, sitting between the two rows of women. You smile and sink once more into the green sleep, listening to the calming sound of your own milk falling to the pool at your own feet and the gentle murmur as the young girl drinks from the urn.