Chapter 3 – A Flower Stuck Inside Me

Saturday

The vaginal tingling sort of feels like what I’d imagine it’d be like having a pussy filled with warm vinegar and baking soda–like that and sort of what it feels like when your foot falls asleep, but not as painful and uncomfortable. The sweet torture of pleasant internal fizzing makes me involuntarily Kegel around the plant’s phallus as I’m sitting up. When I see that the coating of yellowish sap between the base of the spadix and the beginning of the petals has become a crystalized glaze, I curl my pointer and thumb around the bit of phallus protruding from my cunt and try pulling it out of me once more. Even though I have a much better grip and my hand doesn’t slip off, the cock-shaped spadix that has finally deflated a bit doesn’t budge. Not even a little…

Maybe if I stand up, that’ll help, I think, shifting onto my hip and planting my palms in the spongy soil.

Holding my skirt up to my belly, I climb to my feet, watching below as the still warm flower petals dangling from my snatch slap against my inner thigh with a clap. Barely a second after standing, what looks like white yogurt with a tinge of pale-yellow pours gushes out from the hole between the petals with a bubbly spurt, sending a glob of goo splashing into the puddle of clear sap with a splat. With the hand keeping my skirt hiked up, I grab three of the long petals and lift them up so I can better see what’s leaking out of the flower.

My pussy involuntarily twitches repeatedly like a heartbeat from the tingling inside, and each Kegel of my vadge squeezes the phallus stuffed inside my cavity, forcing more of the plant’s ejaculate out of the flower’s opening with bubbly spurts. As the seconds tick by, a few drips of white goo become a stream of creamy leakage.

It looks like I’m coming pudding…

After maybe a minute of watching interspersed yogurt-like streams turn into more of a melted white cheddar, clear yellow sap floods out of the flower’s opening. After the syrup stream thins into a trickle, I plunge a finger up into the flower’s pussy-like hole then I stretch the fleshy tube open so I can finger out more of the sap and goo.

After sucking the deliciousness off of my finger, I squat a bit, curl my fingers around the base of the spadix just above where the petals begin splitting, then I pull down on the phallic plant, harder than I ever did before. And, despite being rougher with it this time around, there isn’t even the slightest sensation of the spadix sliding against my vaginal walls. As I’m tugging the plant downward, it does, however, feel like the once slippery phallus is now hot-glued to my inner walls because I feel it pulling every inch of flesh in contact with the spadix, including the tender flesh of my cervix…

“Ah!” I scream, snatching my hand from the flower. “Holy shit… it’s, like, really fucking stuck inside me…” I whisper in disbelief. “Oh, fuck… Fuck, fuck… What did I do?”

The sap must’ve turned to hardened glue after it dried… I look down at the liquid I spent several minutes watching gush out of the flower then my gaze wanders to the yellowish sap puddled around the stalk. But wait… if there is still liquid sap coming from deep inside the spadix, why did the secretions between the plant’s phallus and my vagina turn into glue? And why didn’t the sap and gunk that I swallowed make my throat glue shut?

“Maybe it’s reacting with something in my vaginal juices…” I whisper.

To keep from panicking, I close my eyes, take a deep breath and exhale nice and slowly. Think of a solution… Think of a solution…

Solution… Solvent solution…

The slickness that came out of the skirted arum plant was sweet and sticky, which means there’s sugar in it. Maple syrup contains sucrose from the xylem sap of the tree, that’s why the spout on maple syrup bottles gets sticky and hard when it dries out. But it will dissolve in water over time… All I have to do is hike back to that river I passed on the way here and sit in the water until this sap dissolves.

“But before I leave here…” I say quietly, letting my skirt down before kneeling beside the goo puddle and reaching for the limp white stalk.

The veiny stem feels like a giant overcooked asparagus when I grip it, and it’s warm like one too. No, better yet, it feels like a limp dick wrapped in a banana leaf. The thought makes me snicker.

There’s one wide hole in the stalk’s center and two smaller ones on either side and, when I give the flaccid a squeeze, a white sludge swirled with tan and yellow streaks oozes out of them.

Where is this stuff coming from? There’s got to be another part of it underground…

Holding the limp stem with three fingers, I use my free hand to brush away the soil around the base. Eventually, I uncover another three inches of the stalk as well some kind of small sac that looks like it has testicles inside of it…

Ah, so that’s where you’ve been hiding your fruits, I think, fondling the leathery sac.

The balls inside are about the size of concord grapes and, when I give them a gentle squeeze through the thin, fleshy skin, I find they’re about as squishy as lychee. During my attempt to find a way to get the fruits or seeds out, I accidentally end up tearing the sac away from the stalk, ripping a hole the size of my thumbnail in the fleshy pouch. After grabbing my phone and turning on the flashlight, I look inside and find two white, opaque, oval balls that that look just like lychee.

They look like actual testicles… Of course, a penis-shaped flower has two fruits in a leafy scrotum that looks just like a man’s balls, I think, grinning and shaking my head. Curious as to what they taste like, I stick my tongue in the sac’s hole and give the one I pushed toward the center a lick. The squishy ball feels rubbery like calamari against the tip of my tongue, and it doesn’t taste the least bit sweet at all. It’s just bland. Doesn’t taste like fruit… I wonder what would happen if I planted these in my backyard… Would they sprout a new skirted dick flower? Only one way to find out…

After grabbing the collapsible silicone bowl from my backpack, I gently tear the scrotal tissue away from the stalk. Once the membrane is removed, I find that the rubbery balls are attached to the stalk with thin, fleshy cords. It doesn’t take much effort to rip the first one away from the withered stem. As soon as I yank the second one free, I place both balls back in the sac then place them in the dish for safekeeping.

With the scrotum-like fruit pouch is safely tucked away in my backpack, I continue brushing away more of the soil beneath the stalk. Beneath where the ball sac was, I uncover another inch of stalk before finding the bottom of the plant. Well, not really the bottom, at least I don’t think it is because it’s connected to something bizarre. There aren’t any roots–at least not in the traditional sense. Growing down and out from the base of the underground portion of the stalk are dozens of fleshy white cords that branch into skinny white threads resembling mushroom mycelium.

These threads look just like what came out of the phallus’s tip…

There are also pale pink veins on either side that are thick like arteries. Both types of roots are webbed across a squishy mass that has the color and texture of slimy oatmeal that’s been left out to harden for a few hours, forming fleshy skin.

It looks like a slime mold made of creamy oatmeal…

And the smell that wafts up from the hole I’ve dug… It’s earthy, a bit floral, and kind of musty with faint putrid notes…

My nose curls and I wretch. “What the fuck is this…” I gasp, poking it with a finger.

The subterranean mass feels exactly like I’m pressing into someone’s flabby belly, and it freaks me the hell out. As I continue pressing harder into the surprisingly tough yet squishy rind, my finger pokes something hard beneath the surface that makes me snatch my hand away.

“Eww!”

It was like pressing into an overweight body and hitting bone…

“It was probably just a root or something…”

Now I press my whole palm onto the fleshy rind. As I push down hard on what feels like a waterbed filled with mud, thick white paste with clear brown-amber streaks erupts out of the flaccid stalk like a volcano spewing puss and sewage, sending the gunk dripping onto my hand.

I spring up to my feet and back away from the stalk. “Oh gawd…” I wretch. “Why’s it so warm?” That’s when a horrific realization hits me. “Whatever the flower ejaculated into me came from this gross pod-thing…” The thought of my womb and vagina being pumped full of this filth makes me gag, but I somehow keep myself from puking.

How far does this squishy, underground pod go? I scan the dirt mound I’m standing on as I walk backwards off of it, the petals of the flower between my legs slapping my inner thighs with each step. God walking around with my pussy this stuffed is worse than the time I spent a day with Bok Choy stuffed up there… But at least the spadix’s swelling is going down.

It’s only now that I’m not enthralled by the plant that I notice that the stalk isn’t jutting out of the dead center of the mound like I thought, but, longways, it’s actually closer to one end than the other–about the distance a penis would be from a man’s feet if his body was the length of this mound…

“How bizarre…” I whisper, eyeing the bulge in the earth before me. “Hmm…” The oval dirt mound is about six-feet-long, almost two-feet across, and about six-inches higher than the rest of the soil in this clearing. Since it’s the only mound as far as I can see, it’s safe to assume that this pod or whatever probably spans the entire bulge of soil… And, even though there are no tree roots inside this hollow, I doubt the mass reaches the walls of the trunk.

To test my hypothesis, I kneel just ‘south’ of the stalk, and I dig a small hole until my finger bumps something squishy beneath the soil. When I brush away a bit more dirt, I uncover more roots webbed across the gross, flabby encasing. The same thing happens when I dig a hole at the top of the mound by the opposing bark wall. And when I kneel with my back to either entrance to the hollow to dig holes left and right of the mound, it’s no different. But when I go a foot away from each of the four holes and dig six inches deep, I find nothing.

There aren’t even tree roots this far from the mound, which is odd considering I dug holes close the bark walls inside this hollow trunk…

The curious, nature-loving botanist in me desperately wants me to clear the entire mound of soil away so I can uncover the entirety whatever this squishy mass is that lies beneath.

I want uncover it, cut it open, and find out what’s inside, then I want to take samples back home with me so I can get it tested at the University of Washington…

The thought crosses my mind that I might not be able to find my way back here since I’ve wandered over three-miles through the dense rainforest from the Hoh River trail to get here.

“Screw it… I’m digging it up while I’m here, otherwise I’ll wonder about it forever…”

I drop onto my knees before the hole at the ‘southern’ end of the limp stem. It’s at that moment that I realize the tingling in my vagina has faded significantly. It’s faded, but there is a new sensation spreading from where the plant’s phallus is pressed against my cervix down toward my labia.

“Ah… Ugh… Why does my vagina feel so hot?” Well, maybe not hot, but it’s warm, like a well-hung guy with fever just stuffed me with his toasty cock.

Temperature change is the sign of a chemical reaction, I think, hiking up my skirt and wrapping my hand around the flower’s phallus. To my surprise, the spadix shrunken back to its original size at some point while I was digging holes. Still, when I tug it down with moderate force, it doesn’t slide out even a little. The fizzy tingling that I was feeling for the last twenty minutes or so was also likely a sign of a chemical reaction, I think, squeezing the plant harder than ever before and yanking it downward with a bit more strength.

It still doesn’t budge; it just pulls my inner flesh so hard I cry out in pain. “AAAHH-HAAA-HA-AH!” It takes a moment to regain my composure after that. “Alright,” I huff, panting afterwards. “I think I need to get to the river right the fuck now,” I say, kicking the soil I dug up back into the hole before me. “Once I get this flower out of my vagina, I’m going to grab my shovel from my tent and I’m going to come back here and find out what you are,” I say to the soil mound.

After quickly filling back in all of the holes, I pick up my panties and my cell phone, grab my backpack from the entrance to the hollow, then I race across the clearing. As though I’m running from a forest monster, I charge through the brush, walking hastily in the direction of the sound of the waterfall as the petals dangling from my genitals slap loudly against my thighs. The fever inside my vagina gets warmer and warmer with each passing minute. Then, gradually, the fizzy tingling returns more intense than before.

Panic sets in. My heart races. Oh god… what’s happening down there?

Chapter 4 – Slough

Saturday

Since soaking in the creek at the mouth of the waterfall’s pond didn’t help dissolve the adhesive in a timely matter, I decided to give up and hurry my ass back to the river by my campsite before sunset. That way, if soaking in the river winds up not helping and things happen to get worse down there, I’d at least be close by the ranger station.

About halfway through the three-mile speed walk through dense, mossy forest, the temperature inside my spadix-stuffed cooter seems to have stopped heating up, leveling off to what feels like the temperature of a hot water bladder. It’s very warm and, while it’s quite uncomfortable, it’s not like it’s burning or anything. Also, the fizzy tingling feeling has also waned once again. For now.

This entire hike, my mind has been racing–scrambling to figure out why a plant that’s the perfect shape for a human woman’s vagina would basically glue itself inside of a mammal’s genitals only to detach and leave with her. It makes even less sense considering I ingested both secretions and my mouth or throat didn’t get all glued shut. I try to figure out why that would happen and why it’s making my pussy tingle and increase in temperature.

There are two explanations that I come up with:

One, like the Monotropa uniflora–or the ghost pipe plant–the skirted arum plant that I decided to fuck was completely void of the green phototropic cells needed for photosynthesis. And, since chlorophyl lacking plants are often parasites who steal nutrients from a network of fugus who in turn steal sustenance from other plants, it’s safe to assume that the skirted phallic flower growing in the dark hollow of a giant spruce was drawing energy from that gross, body temperature pod underground. Because if there’s heat, there’s energy.

But the pod didn’t seem like a fungus that the flower was living off of, the underground mass seemed to be a part of it–like a gross taproot where it stored its sap and whatever that white and brown stuff it ejaculated into me…

So, if it’s not a parasitic plant, there’s a chance that it’s likely just carnivorous. Carnivorous plants like the pitcher plant and Heliamphora use their nectar’s sweet scent to lure in insects and small vertebrates, then the smooth wax lining the cupped leaf makes the prey slip into a pool of digestive enzymes that converts them into a solution of amino acids, peptides, ammonium, and urea. But the weird thing about the skirted phallic arum inside of me is that the petals were facing downward when I found it, so it’s not like an insect would feed from the sap gushing up from bulbous tip then fall into the petals where it would get trapped. Also, the underside of the leaves were colorful, not the outside, which is counterintuitive to a plant that wants to attract bugs…

What sort of prey would a plant shaped exactly like a cock need?

A vagina of course. A human vagina, because what other animal would try to mate with a plant other than a perverse woman?

The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. I mean, I was without a doubt lured to that plant by its intoxicating scent, and I started getting aroused before I even saw the thing. The second I stroked it, it throbbed and lubed itself like it was making itself ready for intercourse. And as soon as I started fucking it, it swelled up inside of me like it was trying to keep itself embedded in my pussy. Then it ejaculated warm jets of hot cream into me, flooding my cavity–a cream that likely caused my pussy contract and cramp around it like a vice right after. It expanded in me the same time my sex clamped around it, and by the time I tried pulling it out, the sap and goo rapidly catalyzed into an adhesive that basically glued it to my flesh…

On top of all of that, the flower ejected its stem from the core of the phallus as though it no longer wanted to be attached to the underground pod filled with slimy nutrients. It didn’t want to remain attach to the stalk because it wanted to leave inside of the sex organ it was made to live inside of…

Does that mean my vagina is tingling and warming up because there are digestive enzymes liquefying my flesh so it can feed off of me, it’s new host?

“Oh fuck,” I whisper, going from powerwalking to jogging as the horrific realization makes my heart jackhammer in my chest.

After running the last three-quarters of the third and final mile, I stumble downhill then barrel through the brush onto the trail. From there, it’s only a short walk to the secluded river that’s a few yards off of the trail.

I move through the dense bushes and weave through the fern-covered trees and step onto the squishy bed off moss that leads to the river. There was no one on the tail, and I can’t see anyone in the woods around me, so I drop my backpack against the tree, pull my dress over my head then set it on top of my pack. Looking down past my small breasts, I stare at the five starfish-like petals dangling out of my coochi. Even after being detached from the stalk, they don’t look shriveled or withered at all. In fact, when I touch them, they’re still pretty firm, and the pink, fleshy underside of the petals are all still damp and warm to the touch–the same temperature as my skin. The hole at the center of the flower feels even warmer than before when I finger it. And when I pull my finger out from under the petals, it’s slick with a milky slime that has little pink chunks in it.

I suck my finger clean with a smack. “Tastes like…” I smack my lips again. “Tastes like a slightly sweeter version of my normal vaginal secretions, but with a tinge of bitterness…”

Without further ado, I step into the cold water, sloshing my way through the river until I’m knee deep in it. That’s when I squat down into the rushing waters, shivering as I sit my bare ass on a smooth, flat rock. I’m facing the direction of the current with my legs spread wide so that the force of the river can flow right into the flower’s hole. Seconds after doing so, cold water finds its way to my feverish cervix, and damn does it feels so fucking good.

The minutes creep by. I’ve been sitting in the river so long that my fingers are pruning and my body temperature is starting to drop. When I sat down, the sun was just above the tree line. Now it has disappeared behind the towering trees and the sky is taking on the orange, purplish tinge of evening. To my best estimation, I’ve been sitting here like this for maybe thirty or forty minutes. Even though I’ve been soaking for that long, the fever in my vagina seems to have gone down a bit, but it’s still noticeably warm and a little tingly in there.

More bad news: I still can’t even peel my pussy lips off of the petals nor can I pull this thing out of me.

The water is definitely filling the flower’s canal because my cervix feels nice and cool, but the water doesn’t seem to be getting between the spadix and my vaginal walls at all… Even if it was, it probably wouldn’t make a difference since I can’t peel my labia off of the petals…

“This water isn’t doing shit to dissolve this flower’s adhesive…”

The crazy thing is, when I lift the petals and finger the flower’s flooded canal, it’s still warm to the touch and it still feels slick despite being full of cold water.

If it’s still slick while wet, the lubrication is hydrophobic. But how is it still flower still so warm inside?

“Fuck!” I shout, my jaw trembling. A sigh escapes me as I look to the sky.

It’s going to be dark soon, so I better get back to camp…

After surveying the area and deeming that it’s clear of people, I rise from the river and slosh my way back to shore. With every stride, water pours out of my flower in spurts. When I get to my backpack, I fish out my towel and my fleece jacket, then quickly dry myself off. Once my sundress is back on, I put on my fleece and zip it up all the way to my chin.

My campsite isn’t in the official campgrounds, but hidden in a beautiful, mossy, fern-covered wonderland that’s nestled in a clearing with a stream about a quarter mile from the trail–a mile from the part of the river I just chose to soak in.

I’m shivering during the entire walk, and I’m starting to get really drowsy. The longer I trek, the sleepier I get, the more of a struggle it is to walk, and the colder I feel, despite wearing this warm jacket and sweating.

By the time I spot my tent through the pair of Douglas fir trees, I feel like I’m about to pass out, and I’m not sure if that’s because I haven’t eaten a real meal since I left here around noon or if it’s because this plant inside my cooter is doing something to me.

After getting a fire going, I shed my sundress then put on a long sleeve shirt and a pair of sweatpants. It probably goes without saying, but it’s a bitch putting on pants when you have five thick, hand-sized leaves hanging out of your vagina. The petals keep bunching up in the crotch of the pants so I have to tuck the ones on the left and right into the corresponding pant legs then I lift the one in front up towards my belly button and tuck it in the waistband the way guys do with their boners. The last petal, I leave folded up toward the one I have tucked against my belly.

That’ll do, I think, shivering as I put my fleece back on.

While I warm myself by the fire, I use the hot water I just boiled to rehydrate the last of my Mountain House chicken and mashed potato entrees. Even while I eat all layered up by the fire, I still feel really cold.

Not cold, feverish, I think, touching the back of my hand to the flesh between my neck and chin. I’m definitely having a reaction of some kind to this plant. I don’t know if the reaction in my vagina is giving me a low-grade fever or if this is the result of being poisoned from ingesting the sap…

I sigh hard with an uneven, trembling breath. “Shit… I think I need to get to the hospital…”

Too bad I’m, like, ten-miles from my car or the ranger station. And I barely have it in me to stand, never mind hike that far in the middle of the night…

I check my phone. “And, of course, I still don’t have service this deep in the forest.”

I don’t have a choice but to sleep it off, I think, rising from the log I’ve been using as a seat. and.

Upon disposing my empty food pouch into the waste bag that I hung from the tree, I crawl into my tent, zip it shut, and worm my way into my sleeping bag. The next thing I know, I’m dozing off.

Painful cramping in my womb wakes me in the dead of night. And, as my eyelids snap open, my vagina throbs with a sharp cramp that is accompanied by this bubbly, squirt noise between my legs that sounds like someone is squeezing a lemon with a handful of mac and cheese. It sounds like the flower stuffed inside me just sharted…

“Ah-oooh,” I groan as I sit up with my hand pressed against the base of my belly. “What the shit…”

It’s only after the wave of pain passes that I realize the fever is pretty much gone and my body is drenched in a cold sweat. As I shift in my sleeping bag, I feel something thick squishing between my thighs. Whatever it is feels thick and cold like jelly, so I know the crotch of my sweats aren’t drenched because of the cold sweat…

During my shimmy out of the sleeping bag, my uterus cramps hard, then my vagina cramps right after, making me double over in pain. “Ahhh!” And just like last time, the vagina contraction is followed by a bubbly, squirt. After clicking on the battery powered lantern beside my bedding, I lift my ass off of the ground and yank my sweatpants down. My eyes widen in horror at the sight. “What the fuuuck…”

The petals sticking out of my pussy is blossomed, its petals unfurled like an opened hand with its fingers slightly curled inward. And when I pull the stiff and very warm petal that’s right beneath my clit up and to the side, I find a gelatinous mass of what I can only describe as pink mashed potatoes mixed with chunks of red Jell-O. The gunk is clumped up on the bottom petal and in between my thighs…

It looks like that time I had that weird period where my endometrium sloughed off in one big chunk… It resembles like that, but pink like the flesh of my vagina and not a dark, bloody red…

“Oh my fuck… Is that… is that liquified uterine and vaginal flesh?”

As those words leaves my mouth, my uterus cramps hard again, followed by another painful vaginal contraction. At the same time, the petal pinched between my pointer and thumb flexes hard as the flower blossoms. With a bubbly spurt, slimy pink chunks gush out from the flower’s hole like vomit.

The sight makes me gag hard. “That’s so fucking gross…” The musky, fleshy, slightly metallic and floral smell that wafts up into my nose makes me gag even harder. “It even smells sort of like menstruation…”

In a fit of panicked desperation, I grip the flower between the petals and the inch of exposed spadix then pull the warm, gently throbbing thing as hard as I can. Just like the last few times I tried yanking this plant out, it doesn’t budge, it just pulls my inner flesh so hard that my eyes water and I fold over in pain.

Sobbing, I just sit there in defeat, staring at the chunky stuff still being excreted from my flower’s hole. As grossed out as I am, I’m curious to know if it tastes like me or if it tastes like plant, so I stick my finger into the jiggling, gelatinous glob and bring the pinkish chunks with flecks of deep red to my mouth. Reluctantly, I scrape the gunk off of my fingers with my bottom row of teeth, letting the warm jelly splat onto my tongue. Whatever this stuff is, it has the thickness and texture of cottage cheese. And it tastes just like it smells–it tastes like someone chewed up a flower, a bit of honey, some pork, and a few drops of blood then spit it onto my tongue… The consistency is like a mix between gritty mashed potatoes and gelatinous cranberry sauce.

“Bleh,” I gag, spitting the gunk right onto the glistening horror scene between my legs. It takes everything in me not to hurl.

The cramping and subsequent oozing of pink gunk from my pussy’s flower comes in waves that ripple through me at shorter and shorter intervals. For thirty long minutes, I sit there crying in my tent with my legs spread, watching the filth being ejected. And on that thirty-fifth minute, there’s one really hard cramp that squeezes out the smallest volume of gunk I’ve seen thus far.

With that last cramp, the flower petals all suddenly relax and go limp. After no more cramps follow in the next ten minutes that I sit there staring down between my legs, I decide that whatever was happening is done.

Thank God that’s over, I think, grabbing the empty plastic food container from my backpack. Now I begin scooping up mess in my sweatpants and the gunk on the floor of my tent into the Tupperware.

Once all the flower’s excrement is cleaned up, I emerge from my tent and rinse off the flower’s still warm petals with some water. Then I shove the nozzle of my sports bottle up into the flower’s hole and squeeze a jet of water inside, blasting my cervix. Except the jet of water doesn’t stop at the cervix, it goes much deeper than that as though I’m dilated or something…

When I pull the nozzle out, water rushes out along with a few chunks. It takes two more rounds of douching for the water to come out chunk free. Just to make sure the flower’s canal is clean, I finger the tight and very warm hole in the center of the petals to make sure no more of that filth is still up in there. Satisfied that no more bits are coming out, I pull on my pair of backup sweats and crawl back into my tent.

“I can’t believe all of this is happing to me,” I whisper with a huff as I crawl back into my sleeping bag. “If I ever get this flower out of my coochi, I will never again fuck any weird-ass plants or mushrooms that I can’t identify… I promise…”

I shut my eyes and try my best to think about anything other than what I went through today or what I just watched being expelled from between my legs.

Chapter 5 – Part of Me

Sunday

The second I open my eyes I’m blinded by the glare shining through the white fabric of my tent.

I groan. “Why is it so damn bright?” I say with a groggy voice, peeking through one eye at my Garmin watch. “What? How is it already 12:45 p.m.?” I spring up from my bedding. “I never sleep in this late…” Of the four days I’ve spent camping out here, I always got up around first light. Even when I’m on vacation, I only ever sleep until maybe 9:00 a.m.

I guess I did sort of wake up in the middle of the night to deal with that weird cramping from my flower’s goo expulsion… And I guess it did take me a bit to fall back asleep, but I shouldn’t have slept in this long.

“Speaking of my flower…” I whisper as I scooch back out of my sleeping bag, staring curiously down at my pants-covered crotch when I realize there’s no tingling, warmth, or ever pressure inside my vagina anymore. “Did it finally drop out of me in the middle of the night?”

As I’m pulling my sweats down, the fabric tickles what feels like my pussy lips. It feels so good that I Kegel, and when my vaginal muscles clench, the crotch of my pants bulge with the blossoming flower.

I guess it is still in me… But why don’t I feel stuffed anymore? And why did it feel like my labia just flexed like a starfish?

When I pull my pants down to my thighs, I find that the flower is right where I last saw it, it’s fleshy petals partially blooming outward once they’re free of my pants. It still doesn’t look withered at all. In fact, the flower looks plump and full of life–a bit rosier than I remember, it’s once pale veins now a purplish red.

Maybe I can pull it out now that I don’t really feel it inside of me anymore…

When I curl my fingers around the bit of spadix between my pussy lips and the beginning of the fleshier than ever looking petals, I jump and snatch my hand away…

I reacted that way because, the moment I touched it, it felt like I touched myself. Which doesn’t make sense. Because my fingers were centimeters away from my stretched labia…

As soon as I work up the nerve to curl my fingers around it again, I feel it right away. The bizarre sensation makes my core spasm, which in turn makes the long petals between my legs blossom wide like a hand stretching its fingers, and I felt it. I felt it as though it wasn’t the petals that splayed out like that–it feels like my labia just opened up and flexed…

“What the heck…” I gasp, reaching for the petal curling up towards my belly.

When my finger meets the veiny, beige ‘skin’ of the flower petal, a tickling sensation shoots up to my vagina and tingles its way through my body.

“No way…” Now I reach for the pointy, arrowhead tip of the petal and pinch it hard. “OUCH!” I cry out. “Fuck, it feels like I just pinched my labia… But… how?”

Now that I’m really looking at where my labia are plastered to the petals meet, the light brown flesh curtains of my inner pussy lips no longer look like they’re clung to the petals, it looks like the petals have grown over my skin a bit.

It’s not just glued to me anymore; it’s fused my skin…

Instead of pulling the petals back like I did yesterday, I flex my vagina as hard as I can and, in response, the petals straighten out like a flat starfish.

Did I just… Did I just control it?

I reach both hands underneath the flower and I lightly touch the vibrant pink underside of two different petals. When my fingers press into the warm, soft, wet, vagina-like squishiness, the petals twitch from my caress, sending surges of pleasure racing from the leafy growths up into my vagina.

It feels like I just fingered myself, I think, trembling with sweet agony as I lightly trace my middle finger down the length of the petal’s underside all the way to the slit. And upon I inserting my finger inside the tight, slick hole in the flower’s center, I push all the way into the middle of what used to be the spadix, it feels exactly like I’m just slipping a finger into my vagina.

No, scratch that, I think, pulling my finger out of the tightness only to slide it back in even deeper than before. It feels like I’m fingering a tighter, wetter, more hypersensitive version of my pussy even though I’m not even touching my pussy…

“Or maybe I am touching my pussy,” I moan, the flower’s pussy hole squelching as I finger it hard and fast. I’m feeling what the flower feels because it’s not just stuck in me anymore, it’s fused to my vagina–it’s part of me… “AHHHH! OOHH-AH!” I cry out as I climax.

As a mind-scrambling orgasm–as the best orgasm of my life ripples through my flower, my pussy, my womb, and then my body, the petals flex open wide only to close around my hand over and over with each pleasant contraction, the dripping petals hitting the skin on my arm and hand with wet, sticky slaps.

God this thing is so wet. No, the juices dripping from the petals and the hole are not just from it or from me, it’s from us. We are wet.

As I lay there drunk with pleasure, my body a limp mess of limbs, I think back to the tingling, the vaginal fever, and the sloughed off vagina and womb chunks that came out of me last night with each cramp.

The reason it doesn’t feel like the spadix is stuffed inside of me anymore is because there is no spadix inside of me–the spadix has become one with my birth canal as the petals have essentially become extensions of my labia. The plant wasn’t digesting my pussy so it could consume me for sustenance, it was liquifying itself and me so it could merge its flesh with mine, a symbiotic unification that allows it to draw nutrients directly from my blood rather than digesting me…

I look down at the petals as they’re curling back into a relaxed state and drooping slowly between my legs like five leaf-shaped penises all simultaneously losing their erections.

The veins on the leafy petals have now gone from beige to the color of blood because they’ve connected to my vascular system. But it’s not just its flesh and veins that fused with mine, but also its nerves–because what touches it, I feel.

While plants don’t have neurons, this bizarre plant surely had some kind of nervous system before I even screwed it, because it did react to touch with throbbing and sap gushing. Also, when I masturbated with the phallus to climax, it knew to ejaculate a secondary slime in me before swelling and locking itself inside my vagina after its slime made my vagina clench around it. Then last night, without even being attached to the stalk, it flexed inside of my vagina on its own and throbbed inside of me like a heart so it could spew out that pink mashed potato-looking stuff out of me. And that was before I started feeling whatever sensations the flower was feeling.

That means, at some point during the additional ten hours of sleep following the 1:30 a.m. cramps last night, its nerves rapidly merged with mine, allowing me to feel whatever pain and pleasure it feels–allowing me to control when the petals open and close by flexing and relaxing my vaginal muscles.

“The flower is me and I am the flower,” I say softly, smiling as I caress my way from my flower’s puckered pussy hole to the slick underside of the petals.

But how can a plant merge with an animal?

Between flora and fungi, fungi are the most similar to animal cells, that’s why it’s sometimes difficult to treat fungal infections without harming our own cells–that’s why ringworms and candida can grow in and on us.

I sit up and caress my petals, my core twitching with each sensual tickle. “If this isn’t a special plant that is somehow capable of fusing to human flesh, that means this thing that has grafted itself to my coochi isn’t a parasitic or carnivorous plant at all…” I take off my fleece then I pull off my long sleeve shirt. “That means it is a fungus that not only mimicked a flower’s appearance to lure prey it, but it also mimicked human penis because it needed to find its way into vagina so it could merge with it…”

The question is, why? Why does it need a vagina specifically? And how is this species even alive when most women of sound mind would never masturbate with an unknown penis-shaped lifeform growing out of the ground?

The image of the squishy tapioca pudding-like mass webbed in veins that I uncovered beneath the flower’s soil the mound flashes in my mind.

That pod-mass must have contained a store of nutrients that it stole from nearby plants and fungus in the area to sustain itself while it remained dormant for centuries or possibly eons, waiting until someone like me came along, got aroused by its pheromones, and decided to have sex with it… Maybe that’s why there was nothing growing in the clearing around the tree hollow, not even moss–and this forest is covered in the stuff…

After pulling on the sundress that I had on yesterday, I give my petals an over the skirt rub. “Are you the only one of your kind? Will another one of you sprout from those little fruit things that were growing inside your sac?” During my crawl out of the tent, the flower throbs and blossoms between my legs from the sensation of my dress brushing against it.

Guess I’m going to have to get used to things touching my sensitive flower… And I’m going to have to get used to these petals slapping the inside of my legs for the rest of my life…

For breakfast, I have oatmeal, which is unfortunate that this is the only breakfast I have left because all I can think about as I chew the mush it is the disgusting pod that looked like what I’m eating…

Despite being grossed out by my meal, I devour it because it’s sweet thanks to obscene amount of brown sugar I mixed into it. Normally, I only put a table spoon of sugar into my oats, but I’m really, really craving sugar today, so I ended up dumping in the three to four table spoons I still had left in the baggy.

As soon as I’m finished eating, I finger my flower once more, schlicking my new tight hole until another petal-flexing, sap-gushing orgasm rips through me, scrambling my thoughts. Once I come down from my flower play, I get to work taking down my shelter. It’s takes nearly thirty minutes to breakdown and pack away the tent. And once I get all rolled up and attached to the underside my backpack, I venture through the bush back to the trail.

Now that my vagina isn’t burning and tingling anymore–now that I’m not feverish, I’m not really in a rush to go back home today. All I really want to do is hike back to the clearing where I discovered this skirted dick flower so I can investigate the underground pod. Because I desperately need to know why the jets of goo that erupted from deep underground were so warm when anything under the soil should be cooler than my body temperature.

It’s only after staring up at the sky that I decided against going back. Looks like there are rain clouds on the horizon rolling in from the west–the direction I need to hike to get out of the Hoh Rainforest.

The pod is over an hour in the opposite direction that I need to go to get to my car. If I leave now and walk at a brisk pace, I might be able to hike the fifteen miles to the visitor center where I parked before it rains. If I go back to where the pod is, I’ll probably get rained on before I even finish digging it up. Then I’ll have a four-hour hike ahead of me in a rain storm.

I’d also like to plant those testicle-looking fruits before they rot or dry out…

With a huff, I face left then start walking west. “Home it is then…”

That pod better still be in tact when I venture back out here in a few days…

A preview of what’s to come in the rest of the ebook (22 chapter ebook) [The Yoni Flower by B.L. Overman is out now]:

Chapter 6: Flower Reveal Party — Allie invites her two closest friends over & shows the girls her new downstairs situation. In this chapter, Allie’s new downstairs situation gets its name.

Chapter 7: Through the Looking Glass — Allie pays a visit to her OB/GYN and she learns the changes haven’t stopped at her vagina…

Chapter 8: Penis/GuyTrap (F/M) — Following the upsetting news she received from her doctor, Allie gets drunk then goes home with a random guy so she can finally get her hypersensitive flower hole dicked down nice and good. By the end of the night, she’ll learn that, whether she has a normal pussy or a sap-dripping yoni flower, unprotected sex can have consequences…

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