There are a handful of people who like rubbing against trees. They’re called dendrophiliacs, and while we don’t like to judge here at Sexy Results Future Agency, we can say, objectively, that these people are fucking gross. You might agree, despite what’s about to happen today.
Today you’re going to be walking through some absolutely terrifying woods. You’ll be whistling, walking along a rough beaten path when you notice a particularly interesting collection of flowers growing in the roots of a particularly horrifying tree. You’ll walk up to investigate them and, look of wonder on your face, start picking them.
This will upset the tree.
Its branches will begin moving of their own volition suddenly, forcefully, creeping up, across, above clothing at first, then into, underneath, below. Your jeans will be ripping from the force of the branches, more properly their movement underneath your clothing, before you even know what’s going on. They’ll wrap themselves around you, hold you just above the ground. A particularly large and thick branch will wrap around your leg, bursting through your clothing, hoisting you off the ground. Terror will run through you. Your bowels will turn to liquid. You’ll worry for a moment that you’re about to shit yourself, but your butthole will clench so violently that it won’t be an issue.
That is, until the tree snakes a smaller, more delicate branch right up your poop chute and flexes it, if that’s the right term, if trees can flex. The skin around your asshole will tear, and feces will leak out almost imperceptibly.
“Sorry about the flow-“ you’ll begin to say, but another branch will snake down your throat, cutting off your words and a goodly portion of your air supply.
The tree will then begin to work like a series of fluid pistons, rushing in and out of your body, making you feel wonderfully full and horribly besieged all at once. Tears will well up in your eyes and your mind will go blank, or try to go blank as sensations, combining pleasure and pain and shame, burst in your brain like citrus bursts on tastebuds.
When the tree is finished with you the branches will lay you down on the ground gingerly, almost tenderly. You’ll lay there, bleeding, tears and mucus seeping out of your face. You’ll want to weep, but all strength will be gone from your limbs, your lungs, your mind. Your heart will barely even beat. The tree will cast a handful of dollar bills and pocket change at you callously, as if the gesture is part of an afterthought of your humanity. It might be the change from your own pockets, for all you know. Then the tree will vanish from the trail, leaving you naked, leaking, alone.
Congratulations on Getting Fucked by a Sentient Tree!