Work Text:
May 3, 18—
Home at last. Seven months away is a d—— long time, but the plants I’ve returned with are well worth the trouble. Imagine, an entirely new species of the famed quick-tendriled orchid! Not an orchid at all, of course, but tropical and a parasite in its way, and the flowers are said to be quite beautiful.
I brought home three specimens packed in their native soil. I think the crew thought me mad, insisting on visiting the hold every day to check the moisture levels, but it was quite necessary. And a good thing I did, too, or I’d not have realized how near the largest specimen is to budding. Thank G—d we arrived home in time. I’ll plant them tomorrow.
May 4, 18—
Orchids planted. Again, not orchids. I’d call them by the Latin but to my knowledge they’ve not been classified yet. I am, I believe, the very first to record this particular species. Haven’t decided yet if naming them after myself is too bold, but Tendrilicus percificus does have a nice ring.
For now I’ll call them by their given names: Maude, Mary, and Theodore. Ought to be all female, but Theodore’s the largest, the nearest to budding, and he has such a strong, masculine look to him that I couldn’t help myself. All three now planted on the mossy bank by the frog pond. The location is ideal. They’ll have loose, moist soil, and I’ll have the shade of the gazebo and the willow on the other side. I’ll want it, no doubt.
They all move near-constantly, but gently, as though they were seaweed caught in a tide. Quite remarkable. Theodore is nearly six feet tall stretched to his full height, although he never is. That gives him a twelve-foot tendril span if he should ever choose it.
Not that they choose anything, of course. They only respond to their environment: light, moisture, chemical signals. Sometimes the tendrils move as if gesturing, but that’s only my human imagination, fumbling to assign meaning where there is none.
May 6, 18—
All three are budding now. Theodore’s bud is the largest and quite a good size, about the weight and diameter of a pomengranate. Other species are known to flush a darker green when they’re ready to bloom, but I’ve seen no sign of it on Theodore’s bud. He must be nearly ready, though, as large as the bud is. Perhaps this species doesn’t experience any change of color. I’ll have to be alert for a change in scent, instead.
Maude and Mary’s buds are only just beginning. Based on my observations of Theodore, I estimate they are three to four weeks behind him in development.
May 10, 18—
I have three apparently healthy specimens of Tendrilicus percificus, all budding, still not a bloom in sight. No sign of color change either. Perhaps the change in climate has been too much for them, though our weather’s been quite sultry. Or perhaps this species doesn’t bloom at all? A disappointment if so. Not scientifically, I suppose, for all data on a new species is valuable, but I admit I was anxious to experience that rare event firsthand.
Theodore’s bud is now the size of a small melon. I can no longer fully close my hands around it. If he doesn’t bloom, what will become of the bud? Will it simply rot? What a horrible waste.
May 14, 18—
My concern was premature. Theodore’s bud has begun to flush! Properly flush, in fact, a deep red color I did not imagine him capable of, and not only the bud itself but all along the fronds and tendrils. It’s really a very attractive hue. Were I an enthusiast of birds and not botany, I’d suggest the markings were a mating display.
My previous concern is replaced by a new one, however. I estimate Theodore’s bud is sixteen inches in diameter now. The bloom when it finally occurs will be greater than I expected. Perhaps I should reconsider my plan and resort to livestock as an incubator, as other scientists have for the lesser species.
But no. What can a cow or an aged mare tell me about the experience of a bloom? So much data, lost to insipid bovine consciousness! And I’d not trust anything with hooves near Theodore, Maude, or Mary, not when I’ve gone to such trouble to bring them here. No, I must do it myself. I’ll just have to hope that the bud’s rind is deceptively thick and the bloom less than I think.
Besides, I’m very curious
May 16, 18—
I write these notes a good twelve hours or more after the fact. The details remain quite clear in my mind, however, and so I hope science will forgive me. Forgive and rejoice, for Theodore has indeed bloomed!
How to begin describing the events of the day? I came out first thing this morning to check the specimens, even before breakfast, which I found myself grateful for later. I was anxious to see Theodore’s progress. And progress there was indeed, for the bud had begun to split open! Not like a broken melon, of course, but like a flowerbud, and just enough so that the pollination tendril could unfurl. The tendril was all over crimson, perhaps an inch in diameter, and its walls thin enough to see the morning light through. It wavered freely in the air as I approached, reminding me a viper weaving as it tries to sight its prey.
That made me the prey, I suppose, but despite my earlier apprehensions I was altogether too excited to be frightened. I think I spoke to it, like one would a pet or a child. Unscientific, but even scientists are men, are we not?
Then I caught the bloom’s scent. At first I only noticed how lovely the fragrance was, light and sweet and almost teasing. I breathed in good healthy lungfuls of it, trying to place the exact notes of the fragrance. After a few moments of that, when I’d just about made myself lightheaded, I realized how warm it was there by the pond—or rather, how warm I was. Now Theodore and I were both flushed in our separate ways, and I was beginning to perspire, though I’d thought the morning pleasantly cool when I’d come for the house.
The bloom must already have begun to addle me, for it took longer than it should for me to realize what was happening. Just as well I had discarded the livestock plan, for I was already quite thoroughly in Theodore’s thrall. In every sense, I hasten to add. I felt the bloom’s effects, but I was also so d—— curious, and Theodore so beautiful, so stately in his motions, his fruiting bud so ripe and sweet-smelling. I wouldn’t have walked away even had the possibility occurred to me.
(Although, I confess, fetching a notebook before the proceedings would have been helpful.)
Then it became quite impossible to walk away, for Theodore must have received some chemical signal of my readiness, and he gripped me with several tendrils at once. I’d no idea there was such strength in them! I could perhaps have wrenched free, but not without damaging him, and in any case I’d no wish to. By that point I was thoroughly intoxicated by his fragrance and [ed. note: this part scratched out]
[ed. note: this line also scratched out]
D—— it, I am a scientist. I must record these things precisely or all this is pointless. I mean to say, the fragrance had quite excited me, in every sense. I’d become fully erect. I suppose this response to Theodore’s fragrance is some evolutionary byproduct of past relationship between our species. In any case, I was bound up in Theodore’s tendrils, for they’d wrapped firmly round my wrists and ankles, and he’d laid me supine on the ground, there under the willow tree in the shade, just as I’d planned. He spread my legs apart—again, I suppose in response to some chemical signal. I won’t deny I made some protest to this, but Theodore is of course a plant and has no real awareness, and so he took no notice. I admit this excited me further.
By then I’d discovered a sort of ache deep in my belly. I lack the vocabulary to properly explain how it felt, only that I felt empty, lacking in something vital. That lack seemed to grow sharper with every passing moment until I hardly noticed the tendrils binding me or the fragrance. I was desperate to tears for something to relieve the ache.
At just about that point, I felt the pollination tendril prodding at my anus. The tendril must have slicked itself with some kind of secretion that eased the way, for it entered me smoothly, without chaffing or resistance. For a moment the intrusion felt very strange, even in my altered state, and then the moment passed and it felt entirely natural, even necessary. I was not filled, the ache not yet eased, but body and mind were both assured that my need would soon be met.
I don’t think the tendril pressed very far in, perhaps four inches at most. For a moment all was still except Theodore’s many tendrils, winding and curling around me. God, how I must have looked, sprawled naked across the earth, bound by my own specimens, my whole body flushed and alight with lust. Ridiculous.
At last the bloom began. Here my precision must falter after all, for I can’t tell you how it was, only how it felt: magnificent wonderful enormously satisfying. Theodore’s scent was still doing its work, for I was awash with bodily pleasure as his bloom began to fill me. I felt the course of the bloom inside me for a little ways, for Theodore’s core temperature is cooler than mine. After that, I knew only a distant pressure, perhaps eased by some kind of analgesic effect.
I couldn’t see the bud from my angle on the ground, so I had no way of knowing the rate Theodore’s progress. Nor was I marking time in any meaningful way. I’m not sure I would have been capable of it. Words can’t convey how utterly relaxed I felt, how free from all care and even bodily concern. I felt pleasant and comfortable everywhere except for what remained of the ache in my belly. Even my erection flagged. I lay quite contentedly in Theodore’s hold and let his bloom fill me and fill me. After a while, even the empty ache eased. Every so often I felt a rising pleasure, apparently unprompted, that drew as my muscles as tense as they were currently capable of. Each time the pleasure soon peaked and dissipated, and I was left even more relaxed than before.
For some time I seemed to float in uncomplicated pleasure and contentment. I could still feel Theodore releasing more of his bloom into me, but only distantly, and I felt no concern about either the passage of time or how much of his bloom which might remain.
And then I did begin to feel a twinge of concern, or rather, a twinge in my belly. Where I had ached with emptiness, I now felt the opposite: a growing, insistent pressure. My eyes had fallen shut long before, but I opened them now. This was pointless, it transpired, for I was still too altogether relaxed to lift my head. However, I found that Theodore’s grip on my wrists had relaxed, too—he must surely have known I couldn’t go far—and so with great effort I lifted one hand and laid it against my abdomen.
You’ll think I was quite shocked by what I found, but no, I was too pleasantly drugged to feel more than mild surprise at how greatly distended I was. I remember thinking, Ah, the rind was quite thin, after all. Very nearly the entire volume of Theodore’s bud was now inside me, save only the skin of the thing and the tendril siphoning it all into me.
What’s remarkable is that it took so long for the pain to reach me. Another effect of the scent or the bloom itself, or both. Only there at the very end, when nearly all the bloom had already passed into me, did I start to whimper with discomfort. I thrashed about a bit, weakly, for my muscles were lax as jelly. Theodore bound me again with his tendrils. As at the very first, I felt a rising excitement, and only then did I realize what those other peaks of pleasure must have been. I surely flushed with mortification—I flush even now, imagining how utterly lost to pleasure I must have been to find release multiple times and not even notice—but very soon I was distracted by Theodore thrusting a tendril into my mouth.
I’ve never heard of this. No other species releases twice, or in multiple orifices, or via multiple pollinating tendrils. And indeed I think this must not have been a pollinator but something else altogether, for it was thinner than the one in my anus and seemingly far more supple, and before I could do more than shout in surprise it’d thrust all the way down my throat.
Even as I was accustoming myself to this—whimpering again, trying not to choke, finding that choking or not choking made absolutely no difference—another such tendril pressed to my lips and pushed in, and then another, and another. I believe there were six in all by the time Theodore was satisfied.
I won’t deny that I felt a great anxiety, for I knew full well no research into the quick-tendril orchid has ever uncovered any behavior like this. Nor could I do a thing about it; between the strength of Theodore’s hold on me, the tendrils penetrating me in both front and rear, and my own kittenish strength, I was utterly helpless. I could only lie there, moaning, hoping against hope that whatever was happening would end soon and leave me alive on the other side of it.
The tendrils writhed in a way that was simultaneously painful, frightening, and a threat to my breathing. After a bit, I thought that they were passing something into my stomach. More bloom? But there was only the one bud. After a while it came to me that while my throat ached, my belly no longer did. In fact btoh the pain and those cascading waves of pleasure had faded to a kind of numbness. I can only conclude the tendrils in my throat were feeding me some form of anesthetic.
I stopped trying to wrench free. It seemed Theodore was still caring for me, or rather for his bloom secured in my belly. I willed myself still. It was not so difficult, after all, for I still inhaled his sweet fragrance with each stifled breath. Even the breathing became easier once my panic was gone.
I believe I must have fallen asleep. When I next grew conscious of my surroundings, the sun was sinking in the west, and dusk was upon me. There were no tendrils in me anymore. I shifted, and every muscle in my body seemed to scream. For all my relaxation, it seemed I’d struggled powerfully at points, leaving myself quite sore. It took some time for me to struggle upright.
I found myself as I am now: quite incredibly bloated. Truly I can’t believe my body swelled so far, to take in such a great quantity of bloom. My skin is reddened and sensitive in places, marked with livid stretch marks in others, as if I were a pregnant woman.
But then, I am something very like, am I not? In this great swelling at my middle I carry new life: Theodore’s own buddings, kept warm and safe inside me while they develop into their final form, ready to drill into the earth and take root.
I of course inspected Theodore, once I’d gathered my wits enough to do so. His bud was indeed entirely deflated, the pollination tendril lying on the ground as though dead. Perhaps it is; it has served its purpose, as the great, creaking pressure in my belly can attest. Theodore himself seemed excited by my movements. He brushed all along my sides and belly and even my throat, but in the gentlest possible manner, as though simply assuring himself that I and his progency were well.
I left him to it for a while. At last I simply could not stand any longer, and I said goodbye—one of those little foolishnesses that make us human—and turned to leave.
He caught me by the wrist. For a panicked moment I thought we were to return to some kind of thrusting, choking activity, and I nearly wept, for despite all the day’s pleasures I was quite beyond enduring any more. But no such thing occurred. Theodore tugged me back to face him, and then, still holding my wrist, several of his other tentacles curled teasingly at my belly, one after another. Were I a fanciful man or a poet, I’d suggest the touches were like kisses. Utter rubbish, but the likeness was striking.
At last Theodore let me go, and I returned to the house for a hot bath. I loitered only long enough to clean myself, for otherwise I feared I’d fall asleep in it. Then I came here with all haste, to finally make this account.
I shan’t eat for the duration, of course, with my digestive organs quite thoroughly repurposed. To tell the truth I’m not the least hungry. No doubt I shall be later. I’ll need to drink a great deal of nutritional water to tide me over—and tide the buddings over as well, of course. They must needs be fed as well as housed if they’re to grow as they should.
I quite
I quite like this feeling, to be honest. Surely there can be no scientific value to this admission, so I suppose I record it only for myself: I feel fantastically sated, not only by the day’s pleasures and exertions but by how I find myself now, so obscenely round and swollen. I’ve rubbed soothing lotion over my poor stretched skin, and now I can think of no greater pleasure than to stroke along the swell. I’ve grown quite vain, admiring my size and circumferance. How absurd!
I should find myself ridiculous, but instead I arch my back to feel the way my belly presses into my hands. What a figure I must cut. I half-fear I shall spend the next weeks doing little but flaunt my distended abdomen in the bedroom mirror. It is I, bearer of new buddings! I, swollen with living growth.
Still, I am truly exhausted beyond measure, despite sleeping for a good part of the day and spending nearly all of it on my back. It’s a wonder I’ve kept my eyes open long enough to write these notes. In the interest of scientific disclosure, I admit that I have worked myself into a state of excitement whilst recounting these momentous scientific happenings, and this state has helped me stay awake. I believe the buddings continue to affect me with their secretions, for I’ve become deliciously sensitive to every passing touch. The struggle to keep my attention to pen and paper has been enormous. I’ve held off satisfying myself, for I know I’ll sleep instantly afterwards.
I suppose I’ll see to that need now, for I’ve written all there is to tell. I look forward to seeing how the incubation progresses, especially as the buddings mature. Consider me now, and imagine how large I must grow by the end!