The Garden And You

An experiment in erotic fiction told in second person.

It’s almost too good to be true, you think. A dream job. An opportunity for seclusion, to step away from society and the burden of your life. No more electronics. No more computers. No more jam-packed roads, no more multitudes of faceless, soulless people jostling and raging. No more concrete and plastic. Only you.

You and the garden. A walled wilderness, once beautiful, now wildly so. You’ve cleared away the dense growth of weeds and grasses, cut back the ageing bushes and trees, discovered ancient pathways that have been torn apart by gnarled roots that run riot, strangling the soil and rock like a vast cobweb. At the very heart of it all, a giant bronze phallus that you have polished until it gleams.

The garden was given to you to tame, and for months you have sweated and laboured, with the joy of the newly liberated. Not once has another intruded on your space during the day. At night there are others, and you have sat with them in comfortable silence, enjoying a simple meal together in the great dining hall of the mansion. Some smell of varnish and paint, others of sawdust or oil. They have their own tasks, just as you have yours. United, on the surface, by a grand mission to restore this house and its estate to glory – and by a deeper desire to be severed from the modern world.

Each day the shadow of the great phallus makes a sundial of the garden. Each day you clear away more roots and repair the broken paths. Each day you are ruthless with the weeds that peek above the earth, and you tend to the bright scarlets and azure blues and pure whites that you have planted, so that the circle of order in the middle grows larger, pushing against the outer chaos that seems darker, thicker and ever more twisted in contrast.

But in time you will tame that too. This is your work, your mission. This is your garden, your life.

All is well until Spring. Progress is steady despite the cold winter, the circle widening almost to the walls. There is sadness in your heart that you will soon have finished. The task that has come to define you will soon be complete – and what will be left of you then?

And yet a day comes when colour returns to the garden, and not merely snowdrops and daffodils. The whole garden blazes with life, magical and impossible. Such is your awe that you do not notice the gate closing behind you, or the rapid growth of branches and leaves that conceals the path. Such is your wonder that you do not see order destroyed in your wake, the weeds that burst through the stones of the path that you laboured so hard to restore. Such is your overriding joy as you lie on the grass laughing in bewildered delight, you do not see the roots that wind through the grass, the very thinnest tendrils wind about you, while monstrously thick roots creep like snakes ever closer.

You scream as your clothes are torn from you. You struggle to move but a lacework of slender bindings holds you fast. You cry for help, even knowing that you will not be heard. Tighter and tighter your flesh is held, crushed in a way that – strangely – is not unpleasant. Tiny roots wind about your nipples making you cry out now with pain as well as fear, but they harden nevertheless, and you are startled by a tickling arousal that makes you very aware suddenly that your pussy is exposed between thighs that have been pulled steadily wider. Indeed, your whole body has been pulled round until the great phallus, bright with the early morning sun, seems almost to protrude grotesquely from your crotch.

More of the delicate tendrils tease your tender lips and wind slowly, firmly, about your clit. More slender roots spread your lips apart, stretching them wide, painfully wide, and you cry out again even as you push back reflexively seeking to intensify the beautiful agony of that exquisite torture. It’s humiliating to have your body manipulated in this way, terrifying to be helpless in the grip of an impossible creature, and yet exhilarating also because this is the garden you love. This is your garden. Claiming you. Owning you.

So when the thick roots finally invade you, plunging between your wide-stretched lips, pushing through the tight ring of your ass, thrusting through your mouth into your throat, you allow it. You welcome it. You encourage it to the limited extent your restraints allow. Deeper and deeper the thick roots drive, faster and faster they fuck, coated with a sweet, lubricating sap that you lick and suck even as your own sweet lubricant flows from your pussy.

The shadow of the great phallus sweeps the garden but you have lost all track of time, lost in an ecstasy that you have never known before. Orgasm after orgasm tears through your flesh. You should be exhausted, dehydrated, but instead you discover a source of limitless strength – the strength to come again and again.

The earth is cool against your hot skin as you sink slowly through the grass, until with nightfall only your face is exposed, but the roots attacking you so blissfully are relentless, untiring, and you would scream with frustration if they were ever to stop.

But they never will. You are part of the garden now, eternally in its embrace, and one day another will come to tend to it, to clear away the weeds once more, to fix the paths and strip away the roots, until Spring comes and then it will be your turn to bind, to tease, and to penetrate…

About Frank

A Sci-Fi & Fantasy author and lyrical poet with a mild obsession for vampires, succubi, goddesses and Supergirl.
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2 Responses to The Garden And You

  1. monocochlearmutineer says:

    Ah yes, the garden ‘comes’ alive… very nicely penned

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