Epilogue III
Destined
Selena
Though they were gentler with her due to her advanced pregnancy, if anything, it always seemed to drive the vines to more deviousness, an infernal creativity more and more apparent with each of her visits with the sentient, lust-crazed vines.
Though comparatively gentler as she’d swollen larger and larger, she’d found her time in their domain no less easy to endure.
At the moment, she had plenty of time to recall how things had evolved—for she was, as so often was the case, utterly helpless, in the clutches of an alien, and yet, profoundly lecherous life-form which seemed intimately connected with both Malcolm and the planet itself.
Her arms were pinioned behind her, itchy, cruelly galling vines wrapped about her limbs like a single sleeve, festooned with leaves, imprisoning them from wrist to shoulder.
The vines painted her sex with the sticky fluid, ensuring every inch of her—even where it stretched tight around the violating wooden phallus still pistoning relentlessly inside of her—was coated until it shined with it.
A tormented yelp slipped from her lips, muffled by the living gag depriving her of the power of speech.
The itch was first, then the burn, then the need. It was an insidious unguent, which was why the vines loved it so. She wasn’t sure how she knew that, but the truth of it was beyond debate to her mind.
“Take it…take it.”
More of the glistening fluid was lathered upon her tormented nipples, the tips instantly hardening still more, darkening, engorging with blood, impossibly swollen.
More blue-white beads welled, and dripped.
She pleaded with him in her mind. In his mind.
I can’t. Oh God. I can’t!
But her breasts had visibly swollen, enlarged still more as a result of the surge of the arousal, the substance working relentlessly upon her at the hormonal, chemical level.
You can, and you will. You must. It pleases me, Selena—which is all that matters now.
What gave Malcolm pleasure, what made his huge cock hard as iron, was essentially the focus of her life now—especially once he’d successfully impregnated her.
Now, near the very end of her pregnancy, huge and waddling and sore—and incredibly horny—she didn’t even argue with the premise that her every waking thought should be focused on making her owner and Master come as often, and as copiously, as possible.
For it was the best chance—though never a guarantee—that he would let her come, too.
Being Malcolm’s mate (he liked calling her his brood mare, on occasion) had been full of unexpected realizations.
The first among them, had been Malcolm’s disclosure—after what seemed a rather invasive, and largely unnecessary examination by a pixie shaman—that her pregnancy would be significantly longer than the forty weeks of gestation of humans.
No, in her case, she would be pregnant an additional 6-8 weeks. This was daunting in the extreme, since her body was not at all adapted for that.
Following an animated, lengthy back-and-forth between the pixie shaman—his long, gray locks waving in the breeze as he yammered away at Malcolm in their completely unintelligible tongue—Malcolm had informed her “Your body will adapt. No mate of mine will be harmed by my heir.”
“Define harmed,” had been her acerbic reply at that moment, even as she knew it was likely to cost her a very hot bottom that night.
The baby would be significantly larger than a human, too large to pass through even the most generous birth canal.
“That is not a matter of concern,” Malcolm had said to her, a warning glint in one eye. “It will happen, regardless. Your body will… adjust.”
That hadn’t filled her with reassurance.
Later events would confirm just what he’d meant by “adjustment.”
Malcolm and the vines loved that her pregnancy lasted significantly longer, both of them clearly looking forward to her last weeks carrying his offspring, her ordeal all the more arduous as she swelled ever larger.
That a connection quite separate from the one she had with Malcolm could develop was stunning, surreal – but it had happened, nonetheless.
At first, she could deny it, was sure she could keep that dawning realization in the furthest reaches of her mind such that Malcolm would never learn it.
With time, that was futile. Still, it didn’t stop her from trying. How was it possible that such an intimate connection from him could be so wonderful, and yet, so maddening at the same time?
More than that though, was the… other presence. It was something beyond a mere feeling, instead a force of some sort, growing with each day, as the weeks, then months rolled by.
In time, whether she wanted to admit it or not, the truth was as obvious as the morning dawn.
It was the vines.
Her revulsion at them had, over time… well, it was gone. And something quite the opposite had replaced it.
Somehow, some way, they’d taken on almost…an identity of their own?
Or maybe it’s the insane amounts of hormones you’re bathing in twenty-four, seven?
She’d never been pregnant before, of course, so all of this was new to her. Perhaps she was just more malleable, or fluid, in what aroused her?
Whatever it was, it was profound – and getting more so as time went on.
But that was still not the most shocking of revelations.
That had been… the lactation.
As part of their survival training, every member of the Gambier Bay’s crew received comprehensive instruction on the human body, its processes, and how to care for it. She knew plenty about the reproductive cycle, and how pregnancy was supposed to progress.
But on this strange planet-being… it was quite something else.
Her milk had begun to come in by the seventh month, a persistent tingle behind the nipples, soreness, veins distended, breasts throbbing within days.
At first, she’d assumed it would be merely colostrum.
And for perhaps a week, it was indeed. Malcolm had used that to torment her too, on more than one occasion, holding his cock in his fist as the vines forced her to kneel before him, her eyes at the level of his huge member as he stroked it.
With deft work of his fingers, he massaged the colostrum into the skin of her areolas, painting her breasts in wider and wider circles with it.
The vines, binding her fast, would hold her utterly still as he pumped his cock at his leisure, murmuring to her. “You’re mine, human. Mine. All mine.”
It would go on like that for long minutes, until the hot, sticky semen leapt forth, splattering against the veined slopes of her breasts, dripping down between them, until his come matted in the dark delta of her pubic hair.
Then one day, the leaking had begun.
It increased shockingly quickly. In under a week, but what was fair dripping from her nipples several times per day, was not the thicker, yellow-golden fluid she’d expected. No, it was milk—blue-white beads seemingly always present, or threatening to well up, upon her darkened, enlarged nipples.
He’d spoken in her mind not long after it had begun.
You have nothing to fear, sweet Selena. This is how it will be here, on my planet. As my mate. Your harvest will be bountiful—and we will all enjoy it.
Now, in this moment—as it had countless times in the past weeks—that leaking was the center of his use of her, of how both Malcolm and the vines exploited her, reveling in their power over her body’s reactions.
But most of all, her endless need.
Oh, how it tormented her so, her fathomless desperation.
It only grew worse within her as her pregnancy had advanced, and he seemed to relish both how it benefited him—both in the form of an embarrassingly horny mate, practically begging for his cock at all hours, and in the unexpected boon her early “harvest” had proved to be for the forest itself.
That had been a truly shocking surprise, that the sentient vegetation would take its very own intimate, avaricious, and lustful interest in the progression of her pregnancy, and the profound changes to her body that accompanied it.
And her conflicted half-aroused, half-mortified feelings swirling in her mind about the whole subject didn’t make things any easier either.
Should it have turned her on at all that sentient plants—countless numbers of them—were interested in her, and indeed, using her sexually?
Should…ceased to matter a long, long time ago.
If only in the safety of the quietest reaches of her mind, a part of her was beginning to become resigned to it, at times, learning to crave even that, too.
That’s your insatiable pussy talking, Selena.
Perhaps that was true, at least a little. But it didn’t explain all of it. What had Malcolm done to her? That now she was…beginning to enjoy some of this?
Her deep ambivalence—which she had no doubt she could never truly hide from Malcolm’s awareness—had never stopped him from enjoying every second of her surrender though.
“Let it come, sweet girl. They want all of it.” Malcolm knelt carefully next to her, and the grip of the vines, entwined in her hair, forced her to look down at her huge, hanging breasts. “And you’ll give it to them, for as long as they like.”
Holding her head cruelly still, the hot pain at her scalp flaring, the vines made her watch as Malcolm, with a careful precision, and methodical ease that somehow made it even more degrading, slapped her pendant breasts gently back and forth, making them swing and sway, the welling drops of her yield already visible at her throbbing nipples flying in all directions.
Malcolm murmured in pleasure at the tiny, wild spray of white droplets wetting her skin, the milk dripping to the soil below.
Each droplet where it landed sprouted dozens of green, delicate shoots, an occasional bloom even opening among them, a shock of dazzling purple or lemon color.
The vines sinuously tightened about her, and she moaned, the stricture growing uncomfortable indeed, especially at the loops firmly throttling the base of each of her aching breasts, making them swell still more.
Malcolm chuckled softly at that. “Patience, friends. Patience.”