transformation POLLINATION: the SERIES -- Book One

[Absman420]

 

POLLINATION: The Series! – BOOK ONE, pts 1-8

(AUTHOR’S INTRO: In the tradition of TV Shows based on movies (i.e. M*A*S*H, PLANET OF THE APES, WESTWORLD), we present POLLINATION: The Series! We take this approach to allow the Original Story to remain independent and retain its original impact, structure and voice, while allowing us to play with the concept and characters introduced there. Although the Original Story is referenced within The Series, we consider that more of an “Easter Egg” than a plot necessity. The Series starts a week or so after the Original Story ends, but the “rules” for the two universes are the same. 

(It has always been the intent of the Author that The Series be more open-ended, as one would expect from a TV Show seeking to last for multiple seasons. If one thinks of “Book One” as “Season One” and the new material in “Book Two” as “Season Two,” this will more accurately convey the spirit the Author attempts. Also, that gives us at least three more seasons before we jump the shark. (Aside: the TV Show “Happy Days” (where the phrase “jump the shark” originated) was based on the movie AMERICAN GRAFFITI.)

(Welcome to POLLINATION: The Series! If this is your first time in this weird little corner of the universe, get ready for a crazy ride. It’s not the movie, but it’s a lot of fun!)

1.

When he got on the plane, there was an audible gasp from coach class. This guy was gigantic, bigger than them bodybuilders in the magazines, larger than any human most of these rural-West Virginians had ever seen. That he could even squeeze down the narrow aisle way was miraculous – he had to go sideways for the width of his shoulders. When he finally got to his row, the look on his seatmate’s face flickered between envious lust and uncomfortable fear.

This massive giant slid down into his seat, barely, barely fitting in the space – his shoulders still crowded his seatmate. He apologized to the man sharing the row, his voice a deep, sexy rumble. “We didn’t think it was gonna be this difficult,” he said. Despite his size, his face looked like it belonged to a teenager, fresh and innocent. “We didn’t realize how large we’ve actually become.” He adjusted his balls as if it were no big deal, and even there he was ridiculously over-developed. The little nebbish he shared a seat with couldn’t believe the size of this monster’s cock, barely hidden beneath a too-thin layer of pants. With a member like that, it was no wonder the boy spoke in first-person plural.

The big teen smiled. “Like what you see?” he asked, lightly touching himself. Even the smallest, most insignificant muscle was pumped to exaggeration – his fingers, his forearms. He was just perfect. A fantasy.

His seatmate looked shyly away, stuttering. “I… I…”

The muscle-giant laughed, as the plane ran the tarmac. “We know,” he said. “Feels good, too.” He kept one hand on his balls the entire time, cupping them, supporting them – almost protecting them. Maybe they were so heavy it was uncomfortable to let them hang, his seatmate reasoned, preparing the fantasy to which he’d masturbate later.

And then they were taking off, G-forces pulling even this heavyweight back into his seat. He looked suddenly uncomfortable, like he was trying to “pop” his ears by yawning. Must be the altitude – “Do you need some gum?” his seatmate managed to choke out, reaching into his breast pocket, when the huge muscleteen began screaming.

He tore out of his seatbelt, frantically grabbing his balls, one hand on the side of his head, and stood, his painful screams strengthening.

The flight attendants ran to him, even with the difficult slope of the floor during takeoff. “Sir? Sir!” They called. “What’s the matter? What’s happening?”

Then, as the pilots leveled off at their cruising altitude, this huge bodybuilder’s eyes rolled back in his head, and there was this heavy, low-pitched bursting sound, like a balloon had popped. His screaming suddenly ceased, and the ridiculously over-muscled boy fell to the floor.

He was dead.

As the other passengers started screaming themselves, and the attendants strove to regain order, the teen’s former seatmate looked over at the body and saw the liquid stains of blood soaking the front of the muscular kid’s pants.

It looked like his balls had exploded.

 

 

2.

 

Less than ten hours later, Wolf Murdock’s cell-phone chirped in the pocket of his black trench coat, waking the agent. Grunting deep in his throat, he wiped his face as he sat up on the edge of the bed, feeling how badly he needed a shave. “Coming,” he mumbled, as if the phone could hear him.

A clumsy, stumbling little physical bit later, he fished the phone out of his coat, draped over his bedroom chair. “Murdock,” he said in a tone betraying his state.

“Sounds like you had a hell of a night.” His partner, Tully. She had a way of projecting her opinions, her judgements – her hidden subtext – even over the phone.

“Early morning’s never been my best time. What’s up?”

“How soon can you get down here?” she asked. “I got one I think you should see.”

What a way to start the day – his supposed day off, as a matter of fact – a dead body on an empty, gin-soaked stomach. Murdock walked to the bathroom and turned on the hot water in the shower. “Gimme an hour,” he said, and hung up on Tully.

To rebel, he didn’t shave.

 

  

3.

 

“Apparently, the victim had some sort of convulsion during the take-off of a small commuter plane. The airline had no idea what was going on – they assumed heart-attack – but I think from the appearance of the corpse that the cause is more like altitudinal pressure.”

Murdock and Tully walked across the tile workfloor of the medical wing, the click of her heels echoing in the empty room, a staccato counterpoint to the legato squeak of his sneakers. Somehow, as always, she looked fresh and clean and perfectly manicured – exactly the opposite of him.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “His heart burst?”

She sighed, and swung open the door to the examination room. “Not his heart,” she said, and motioned him inside.

The corpse was huge, lying there – Frankenstein’s monster, the Cardiff Giant, a brainless robot from a Bugs Bunny cartoon – Murdock flashed through all these images in a heartbeat. Naked but for a towel covering its privates, the corpse’s extreme muscular development was obvious. “Big boy,” Murdock said. “So, we’re thinking steroids?”

“He doesn’t show any of the classic signs of obvious steroid use,” Tully said, circling the victim on the table, pulling a fresh set of gloves from the instrument table. “No acne on the face or body, his abdomen isn’t distended. If he’d been taking steroids,” she said, snapping the gloves on her hands, “I won’t know until I do the bloodwork.”

“So then, why am I here?” Murdock raised one of the corpse’s arms, and bent it like it was flexing its biceps. Murdock flexed his own in comparison. Tully’s dry look made him lay the arm back down. “Are we thinking aliens?”

She motioned him to the same side of the table where she stood, then pulled back the towel, exposing the corpse completely. He almost vomited when he saw the condition of the corpse’s genitals – like any man, it made him weak in the knees.

Within the hour, he was on a hopper-flight to West Virginia to investigate.

 

 

4.

 

Tully had stayed behind to do the autopsy – she’d call him when she had any information. In a way, that was preferable to Murdock – he enjoyed doing leg-work by himself. He could follow his hunches without needing to explain himself.

His hunch here was that this guy – Robert Ray, though his friends referred to him as “Robbie Ray” – had gotten himself into some kind of weird drug, maybe something that he’d injected straight into his balls, and it’d killed him. Simple as that. Murdock suspected some kind of steroid – Robbie Ray’s driver’s license listed the guy’s weight at one seventy-five, and the license was issued less than a year ago. Tully said Robbie Ray’s corpse weighed over three-hundred and ten pounds. Somehow, Robbie Ray had gained enough muscle to almost double his body-weight in less than a year.

Didn’t take an FBI investigator to figure there was an outside influence involved.

At the airport, he rented a car – a sub-compact, of all things – and began the long trek to Robbie Ray’s hometown, dead in the middle of nowhere, far enough from an urban center that Murdock couldn’t imagine how a man like Robbie Ray had gotten ahold of a drug as sophisticated as what Murdock theorized.

Maybe it WAS aliens…

A one-light crossroads of a town, Murdock checked into the Main Street Motel because the name tickled his quaint-ness. After a shower and a quick shave, he set out to find a diner, and then the Sheriff.

Fortunately, the two came together. When Murdock asked the old-gal behind the counter, whose bright red name-tag announced her as “Sharlene,” she jerked her head toward the side booths, while she filled his coffee cup. “He’s right over there, love,” she said. “Hard to miss a man as big as Sheriff Lane.”

Sure enough, seated there in the corner booth, making short work of a short-stack and a side of eggs, his uniform a dead giveaway, was the Sheriff, heavily-muscled himself. Though nowhere near the size of Robbie Ray, he was big enough to make one question how natural he might be. He wore his uniform tight, stretching over his voluminous, blocky chest, showing the flatness of his abs, even sitting down, and his arms, barely – barely – a heart’s beat away from bursting through his sleeves of his tan uniform.

Murdock took his coffee with him.

“Is everyone in this town a bodybuilder?” he asked, standing at the Sheriff’s table.

The Sheriff looked up from his plate, finishing his mouthful. “Do I know you?” he asked, after he swallowed. A strikingly handsome middle-aged man, rugged, his thinning blonde-gray hair was cut in a tight flat-top, down to the skin on the sides. Meticulously groomed, Murdock noted, he obviously took great pride in his appearance. Maybe to the point of vanity.

Murdock flashed his ID, showing his badge. “Agent Murdock, FBI,” he said. “May I sit down?”

“Sure,” the Sheriff said, nodding to the other seat. As Murdock settled himself, the Sheriff asked, “What brings the FBI to Bum-fuck, West Virginia this morning?”

“The death of one of your local boys,” Murdock said, sipping his coffee. “Name of Ray. Robbie Ray.”

The Sheriff reacted, jerking his head the tiniest bit. The news obviously surprised him. “Robbie Ray?” he asked, his eyes becoming intense in their gaze. “Where’d this happen? When?”

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you,” Murdock said. Sharlene appeared with his order, placing it in front of him and disappearing just as quickly, not even asking if he’d need anything. Both Murdock and the Sheriff were quiet while she was present. After she was back behind the counter, Murdock continued. “Last night, he boarded a flight bound for Atlanta and suffered an apparent heart-attack during takeoff.”

The Sheriff was quiet, his big arms resting on the table, a look of concern and confusion mixed with disbelief on his face – Murdock was certain his reaction was genuine. The Sheriff shook his head. “That’s a damn shame,” he said. “He was barely more than a boy, just graduated high school.”

“Pretty big boy,” Murdock said, cutting into his sausage. “He weighed over three-hundred pounds.” He took a mouthful.

Sheriff Lane looked even more confused. “Robbie RAY?” he asked. “Agent Murdock, you got somethin’ wrong. Robbie Ray weighed a buck-fifty if he was lucky. He was one of the skinniest kids I’d ever seen.”

Murdock stopped chewing. “Sheriff, when was the last time you SAW Robbie Ray?”

“Three days ago,” the Sheriff said. “The day before him and that construction crew he worked with went up missing. What the hell’s goin’ on here, Mr. Murdock?”

Murdock took another quick mouthful before he retrieved his briefcase. “I don’t know, Sheriff,” he said, “but I have some pictures to show you.”

As the Sheriff studied the photos of Robbie Ray’s corpse, Murdock finished his eggs.

 

 

5.

 

“So, Sheriff, mind if I ask you a personal question?”

They walked along the abandoned construction site – no, not just abandoned – deserted. Jobs were left half-finished, building materials left out and untended. There were no personal tools lying around, Murdock noted. Wherever these guys had gone, they’d taken their stuff. No sign of foul play.

The Sheriff peeked into different half-built buildings and even allowed Murdock to enter the company trailer, the temporary office where the foreman worked; but aside from the standard furniture, discarded paperwork, and a couple of dead potted plants, there was nothing to find. No clues about what had happened to them at all, no hints about where they’d gone, nothing.

Now, they walked along the edge of the forest on the outside perimeter of the site, taking one last sweep. The Sheriff was an even larger man than Murdock had first surmised – maybe because half of him had been hidden by a table when Murdock first approached him at the diner. Over six-feet, Murdock guessed the Sheriff weighed between two-forty and two-fifty, and his large frame looked like it could handle more weight easily.

He looked like a professional wrestler, or at least projected that kind of energy. He sure did like wearing his uniform tight – lucky it was polyester, he would’ve burst out of cotton. As it was, it could barely stretch over the man’s heavy muscle. Along with the black boots, sunglasses and cowboy hat, Sheriff Lane looked a little more like a porn-movie character than an officer of the law in West Virginia.

“Go ahead,” the Sheriff said, a man of few words. “Ask.”

They kept walking – Murdock secretly enjoyed all this open, unspoiled land, even with the blight of this dead construction site here – city-folk always did. “Well, I wouldn’t be much of an investigator if I didn’t ask the obvious question. I’m here looking into the death of a man who seems to have gained almost two-hundred pounds of muscle in a matter of days and the first person I meet when I come to town is the bodybuilder Sheriff. Tell me that’s a coincidence.”

The Sheriff cracked the edge of a smile – it was the most emotion Murdock had seen from the man yet so far – he grunted instead of laughing. “It’s a coincidence,” he said in his deep voice. “And a shitty coincidence at that. I’ve been into bodybuilding since I was eighteen – that’s almost thirty years, Mr. Murdock – and some kid comes along and gains more weight in three days than I have in my whole life.” The Sheriff removed his hat and wiped his forehead. “I wouldn’t call that very fair.”

Murdock nodded. “What about a gym? Is there a gym in town where Robbie Ray could’ve gotten connected with some kind of steroid?”

The Sheriff shook his head and put his hat back on. “No gym,” he said. “Not within fifty miles. The only place to lift weights around here is my garage – as a matter of fact, the construction crew we’re lookin’ for did the renovations for me. They put in the skylight, the extension, laid the new floor – it’s a damn nice job. You should come by and see it.”

Murdock laughed. “I’m afraid I don’t have the patience for weight-lifting.”

“It’s not patience, Mr. Murdock. It’s discipline.”

Murdock conceded. “Then I don’t have the discipline. I’m afraid the only way I’d ever become a bodybuilder is if there WERE some kind of magic steroid that did it instantly, some comic-book transformation that required no effort on my part. What about you?”

“What about me?” Sheriff Lane asked, subtly adjusting his balls in his pants – so tight, they seemed painted on. Murdock couldn’t imagine how the Sheriff dressed the way he did – swear to God, it looked like his uniform was shrinking as time went by – and it left nothing to the imagination! Not that the Sheriff had anything to be embarrassed about there, Murdock noticed – his package was no small thing. Some men had all the luck. Murdock’s jealousy surprised him in its force.

He formed his question carefully. “I guess what I’m asking is: what would YOU be willing to do to get a body like yours?” he asked. “Or a body like Robbie Ray’s?”

The Sheriff stopped walking and faced him, suddenly serious. Murdock couldn’t help but be a little intimidated – the Sheriff looked even bigger when he was angry. “Mr. Murdock,” he said, his voice low, intense, “The only way something’s coming into my body is if it were grown in the earth –organic, natural – and that includes magic steroids.” Maybe he realized he was leaning in a little close, maybe he’d made his point and decided to back off, whatever. The Sheriff stood straight, then added, “Do I make myself clear?”

“I don’t mean to insult you,” Murdock said. “I’m just trying to get some answers.”

Sheriff Lane nodded slightly, crossing his arms, making sure Murdock saw their impressive size, making sure Murdock knew who was really in charge around here. “Well, you got one,” the Sheriff said. “And you hardly insulted me at all. Let’s get out of here, Mr. Murdock – there’s more valuable places to spend our time.”

Reluctantly, Murdock agreed, and he and the muscular Sheriff drove back to town. The last thing the Sheriff said as he dropped Murdock off at the Main Street Motel was, “You should really come on over and catch a workout – at least check out my little gym. The light in the afternoon is incredible.” Then the Sheriff smiled, the first true smile Murdock had seen on the man’s face, his rugged, strong jaw – damn, that man had a heavy jaw – but then, so had Robbie Ray. “You might also find out how wrong you are about working out. See you later, Mr. Murdock. You have my number if you need it.”

Murdock waived him off and went to his room, where he found a little surprise waiting.

 

 

6.

 

Housekeeping had been in – the bed was turned down, the bathroom was clean, the towels were fresh – and someone had left a gaudy flower arrangement on the table by the window. Murdock laughed – small-town niceties. Nobody must ever visit this place. The flowers smelled kind of nasty, actually, even from a distance – it reminded him of old sex a little, stale and musty. He opened the window behind the arrangement to air the room a bit.

Flopping back on the small sofa, he pulled out his cell phone and called Tully.

“Hey, it’s me,” he said when she answered. “I’m hoping you’ve learned something.”

“Not very much,” she said. “Bloodwork showed absolutely nothing unusual. There was a slight elevation in his testosterone level, but nothing indicative of steroid abuse. The cause of death, though, wasn’t the obvious. Aside from his testicles, his pituitary gland also burst – that was what actually killed him. I’m still suspecting atmospheric pressure, but I’ve never seen anything like this. I wish I had more to tell you.”

“What’s the pituitary gland? What’s that do?”

“The pituitary gland’s main function is the secretion of growth hormone, and Robbie Ray’s was clearly working overtime, but I don’t have any evidence of outside influence. Well, there is one strange thing…”

“Anything, anything,” Murdock said, rolling his eyes. “Any lead on why an eighteen year old kid would gain two-hundred pounds of muscle in three days. Make that make sense to me, Tully.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s terribly unusual, given that he worked in outside construction, but there was an awful lot of dust in his lungs. It looks like plant pollen – we’re analyzing it now.”

“Pollen…?” Murdock suddenly looked at the flower arrangement sitting on the table by the window. All this talk today of organics, and plants…

Empty flower pots in the foreman’s trailer…

Murdock’s conspiracy-theory mind-set clicked into gear. “I’ll call you back,” he said to Tully and clicked his phone off, dropping it on the coffee table.

Slowly, cautiously, he approached the arrangement, studying it.

Potted, not fresh cut – one main plant and a lot of decorative spray accenting. It was one of the ugliest flowers Murdock had ever seen.

It looked like a big cock.

Flashing on “Invasion of the Body-Snatchers” and “The Outer Limits,” Murdock began theorizing. Because of his video-based paranoia, before he got too close to the plant, he went into the bathroom and grabbed a washcloth, dampening it quickly beneath the cold water. He held the washcloth over his nose and mouth as he went in for a closer look.

He’d ever seen anything like it, though its long, tubular blossom reminded him of a Pitcher Plant, except it looked so much like a porn-star’s cock. The bulb that produced the blossom lay half-exposed in the dirt, itself resembling a nut-sac.

As he brought his face closer to the flower, he could swear he saw the blossom move, take aim almost. Before he could react, the flower shot a cloudy wad of golden pollen directly at Murdock’s face. It was like it coughed, or burped – it just expelled the dust, hitting Murdock directly in the washcloth.

He backed away from the plant quickly, actually frightened. Holding his breath, he pulled the washcloth from his face and folded it in on itself, to save the sample. In the bathroom, before he even tried to breath, he washed his face and hands thoroughly.

It was some kind of PLANT that had done the boy – some kind of quasi-botanical invasion – although Murdock suspected there was some kind of human hand behind it – plants didn’t arrange themselves with decorative sprays. Was there some kind of evil, bodybuilder-florist in this town, or was the conspiracy broader than he first thought?

He pocketed his cell-phone, leaving the room – leaving the plant and the pollen sample behind – and got directions to the Sheriff’s house from the man at the front desk. Only three blocks, it was easier to walk.

And instead of calling Tully, he dialed Sheriff Lane.

 

 

7.

 

“Mr. Murdock, I’m surprised to hear from you so soon. What’s up?”

“Sorry to bother you, Sheriff,” Murdock said, walking at a brisk pace, panting a little, “but I’m on my way to your house right now. I think I finally understand what’s going on around here.” He crossed off of Main Street and went up the tree-lined Oak Ave.

“You do? Really?” asked the Sheriff. “Excellent. We… I look forward to seeing you, then.”

“Actually, Sheriff, if you look outside your window, you’ll see me approaching your house right now.” Murdock walked up the shrub-lined path that led to the side door. As meticulously groomed as the Sheriff, so too was his landscaping. Between his lawn and his body, when did the man find time for the law?

His cruiser was parked in the driveway, which was how Murdock was certain the house was his, an old three-story Victorian with a wrap-around porch, bi-tone gray with white shutters. The garage sat back catty-corner from the house – “renovated” didn’t even begin to describe it. Shaped like a miniature barn – there may have been a name for this style, but Murdock didn’t know it – the top third, the part under the peak, had been replaced by glass. Several sky-lights ran down each side of the roof. It must get great light. The garage-door had been replaced by a new wall – no windows on the street-side. The only entrance was on the house-side of the garage, and that was covered by a screen door.

Murdock rapped twice on the side door of the house as he turned off his phone.

The Sheriff’s deep voice came from behind him. “I’m in the garage, Mr. Murdock.”

He heard the screen door open as he turned toward the sound. There stood the Sheriff before him, not ten feet away. Or what had been the Sheriff.

Murdock was too late.

Sheriff Lane was gigantic – unbelievably gigantic. As big as Robbie Ray had been – and then some. Where Robbie Ray had been a lifeless corpse on a slab, Sheriff Lane was a living, breathing, vital being. His muscle was swollen past the point of possibility, exaggerated by his failing attempt to wear his uniform, where even the polyester was giving up the struggle. The buttons on his shirt had each popped, exposing the deep cleavage between the halves of his impossible pecs – his badge balanced on the ledge where the nipple had already lost its grip. His shoulders and back couldn’t be contained much longer – as it was, the seams were unraveling.

His pants fared better – but only a bit. He stood at attention, his legs spread wide, showing the thickness of his thighs and his solid, over-blown calves. He still wore his boots and gun-belt comfortably, which meant that only his muscles had grown, not his waist or his feet.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. The tightness of the pants also displayed the size of the Sheriff’s package, on par with what Robbie Ray’s had PROBABLY looked like. His thick cock had pushed itself halfway down his left thigh, and was no doubt responsible for the split in his pant’s left seam. And his balls – unlike Robbie Ray’s – were easily the size of oranges, maybe even grapefruit, well-formed and obvious.

He wasn’t wearing the cowboy hat, but it looked like he still could. As a matter of fact, his head looked almost too small for his body. But for the widening of his jaw to accommodate his bull-neck, it would’ve. The Sheriff actually looked more handsome, if rugged, working-class muscle-heads were your type.

He looked content.

“Holy shit,” Murdock said, taking an involuntary step back.

The Sheriff smiled. “We’re finally complete,” he said, flexing his arms, tearing the sleeves. “What do you think?”

Murdock was speechless – a first. “Oh, my God…”

Laughing, the Sheriff said, “You were the one who said you wanted it like a comic book.” He flexed a most-muscular, and the sound of his shirt tearing up the back preceded his triumphant yell. “Well, how’s THAT for ‘The Incredible Hulk?’” He reached across his body – like Lou Ferrigno – and tore the shirt from his torso, throwing it to the ground, exposing muscles that dwarfed anything seen on campy, 70’s tele-drama or even the fanciest, high-tech CGI. All he wore now were his pants – and they were barely hanging on – his boots and his gun-belt.

“You sent the plant…”

The Sheriff nodded. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring it with you,” he said, adjusting those massive balls. “Most guys get very protective of…” He suddenly paused, and looked at Murdock suspiciously. “You didn’t get pollinated,” he said simply.

Murdock shrugged. “In my line of work, you get suspicious of innocent gifts. I’ve seen ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers,’ thanks.”

“This isn’t like that,” the Sheriff said, with a quick flex of his pecs. “They’re plants, yes, but they don’t understand concepts like good and evil. Morality is a human attribute. They simply seek to re-populate an almost extinct species. It’s their only goal, not the subjugation of the human race. Does that make sense to you, Mr. Murdock?”

“Oh sure, today it’s repopulation, but tomorrow it’s domination. An army of guys like you would be pretty formidable.”

“If they controlled us, which they don’t.” Sheriff Lane began walking toward him, his massive thighs navigating effortlessly around each other – he had the grace of an athlete that matched the size of his muscles, not the bulky burden of a bodybuilder. “We work together, Mr. Murdock,” he said, touching his balls. “It’s a symbiotic relationship.”

Murdock ran then – who could say why? Maybe it was years of harboring paranoid, alien-invasion fantasies that finally broke him, who knew? He just… couldn’t TAKE it anymore. So he ran.

But Sheriff Lane had been transformed into something specifically designed for superior performance – he was a PROTECTOR – his body was now capable of feats that would’ve seemed impossible before the symbiosis. With only two steps for prep, he literally leapt over his cruiser, somersaulting in mid-air and landing gracefully on his feet, right in front of the panicked Murdock. Smiling at his own accomplishment, he caught the fleeing investigator with one gigantic arm.

“Going somewhere, Mr. Murdock?” he asked, walking back to the garage, carrying the struggling Murdock with him.

“Stop it!” screamed Murdock – where the hell were the neighbors? “I don’t want it! I don’t want it!!”

The Sheriff chuckled. “Yes, you do,” he said. “You said so, yourself. Your words now are just your fear.”

“No!” Murdock continued, helpless against the iron-strength of the Sheriff’s physique. He could see the Sheriff’s pistol, inches from his face. “NO!!!”

“We need intelligent men, Mr. Murdock,” the Sheriff said, opening the screen door and tossing Murdock into the garage, “not just construction-crew yokels with no ambition beyond their own sexual satisfaction. You’ll understand better in a few minutes.” He shut the main door then, and locked it, standing guard outside the screen. Murdock could see him through the glass.

He banged on the door for a couple of seconds, already realizing the futility in it.

“Damn it,” he mumbled, then remembered the cell-phone in his pocket –he fished it out. A weak signal, but at least something. He pressed Tully’s number. When her service answered, Murdock muttered a swear and turned around. “Tully, I need you to…”

Then he saw it – them.

Everywhere – on every bench, every weight-rack, every shelf, every clear inch of the floor – anyplace that might’ve offered a horizontal resting space. Dozens – hundreds of pots: clay, plastic, and metal, coffee cans too, anything that could hold dirt, bowls and tin-foil broilers, everywhere Murdock looked. The plants. Dozens. Hundreds.

Sheriff Lane’s converted gym was the perfect greenhouse – the skylights caught the afternoon sun and reflected it warmly throughout the space, a golden yellow incubator for the row after row, pot after pot of cock-shaped flowers.

Flowers that now took aim.

“Holy shit,” groaned Murdock, dropping the phone, which broke when it hit the ground, snapping plastically.

A burst of pollen hit him square in the forehead, golf-ball sized, but with the consistency of loosely-packed dirt. He snapped his head back in reaction and chuckled nervously. “Missed me,” he said to them, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm.

Then he was hit in the shoulder, from another angle, then another, in his lower abdomen. And then the barrage started. One after another they pummeled him, like a batting cage gone awry. Murdock might’ve opened his mouth to scream, but sound probably couldn’t get out, the layer of pollen became so thick so quickly. The front half of his body was coated with a good inch of the stuff, making him look like he was struggling with his footing against a yellow-orange blizzard, like frosting on a living snack cake. He finally collapsed, falling over backwards.

A couple of last minute volleys hit him in the face, but by then it didn’t matter.

He’d stopped holding his breath a while ago.

 

 

8.

 

The train pulled into the station with none of the ceremony that would’ve greeted it only a century ago. Everybody flew these days – always in a hurry – and nobody appreciated the Romantic atmosphere provided by a train. He’d forgotten himself – it’d been a long time since he’d traveled for pleasure and not business, this case or that. And flying was out of the question for them now, anyway.

Like the others, he’d felt an urge to play Johnny Appleseed, to spread out, to take root. They’d learned their lesson from Robbie Ray, now traveling only by ground or water. Several had just driven off in their trucks, packed up their trailers and their mobile-homes and left for parts unknown, which for a couple of the guys was just outside their own county.

They had much more confidence now that they weren’t traveling alone.

Sheriff Lane had at least had the foresight to arm them all with cell-phones before they left, so they had some way of keeping track of each other. In person, they could sense when a man harbored a Symbiote – and a Symbiote could sense another from quite a distance away – the outer limit seemed to be about twenty miles.

But the Sheriff had little confidence in their success. “You can’t blame the Symbiotes for taking advantage of an opportunity,” he’d said, “but now we have the chance to be a little more particular. The smartest move those guys made was giving a plant to me – to us.” He’d chuckled. “We still have trouble thinking in first-person plural.”

He’d stood guard outside his converted garage during Murdock’s entire transformation, enjoying the deep colors of sunset. When the neighbors would walk by, he’d wave congenially. They’d wave back – remembering that the Sheriff was a big man, but not realizing quite HOW big. Many had never seen him without a shirt – he was almost always in uniform – so they had nothing to compare him to. It was possible that he’d ALWAYS been that big.

Like most small-town people, they didn’t talk about it until they were behind closed doors.

He’d heard Murdock’s struggle, his moans of resistance. Incomprehensible to Sheriff Lane – even more so now – but he’d resisted the impulse to peek through the small window on the door, even when he’d heard the sounds of tearing material – the “Incredible Hulk” fantasy more common than anyone had realized.

It would be good to have someone of Murdock’s intelligence with them. He would know better than the Sheriff how to deflect the government, the army, and many of the threats that would greet them at later stages of re-population. Robbie Ray had been a costly mistake this early, bringing attention when they’d least needed it. True enough, it had brought them Murdock, but that was the only silver-lining. At its worst, it had given evidence to a possible adversary.

From inside the garage, when Murdock had moaned again, a little more lustful than the last, Sheriff Lane had been able to sense the symbiosis, the acceptance. He’d smiled, but still didn’t look. He’d felt safe about unlocking the door, though.

He’d heard Murdock’s orgasm, and hoped Murdock wasn’t wasting the seed, but was distracted suddenly by the beginning of his OWN erection, his sense of discipline failing him slightly. He’d thought those construction-bozos had simply been weak, but if this was how they’d felt when the Symbiotes were in close proximity to each other, it was no wonder that the guys had been having sex constantly. It would be hard to resist.

Murdock had stepped out of the garage only a minute or so later.

Much improved, though the agent had had a quirky handsomeness before with his lanky, unreliable physique. Not that looks had mattered to Sheriff Lane, or to the Symbiotes themselves – they required their Protectors to be heavily-muscled warriors, not handsome ones – but, as they said in cartoons, “it didn’t HOIT.”

Murdock had grown significantly, close in size to the Sheriff himself, maybe twenty pounds lighter – Sheriff Lane still wanted to believe that his years of bodybuilding hadn’t been in vain, and had given him some sort of advantage with the Symbiote. Still lightly dusted in a fine powder, heavier around his mouth and nose, Murdock had been wearing only his boxer shorts when he’d stepped out of the garage, decorated with little spaceships. Only because his fly had been buttoned had they offered any support at all.

Like all of the guys, Murdock kept one hand on his package to offer comfort to the Symbiote. He was going to need a different kind of underwear. The Sheriff himself was going to have to start wearing a cup under his uniform if he’d wanted to continue going about his duty – more likely, given his current size, he’d need a cod-piece. For the moment, the two of them stood there facing each other, each in the same pose – one hand offering support to one’s balls – two huge musclemen caught in the act of mutual appreciation.

“How do you feel?” the Sheriff had asked.

Murdock had smiled. “For the first time in my life, the idea of an alien invasion excites me.”

Their coupling had felt even better than their initial symbiosis. Murdock hadn’t considered himself homosexual, but the closer he’d gotten to the Sheriff – or, really, the closer their Symbiotes had gotten to one another – the greater the feelings of pleasure, of growing lust that they’d felt. Attraction and physical pleasure had been alien to the Symbiotes, but they’d noted the effects it’d had on their Protectors. As the Symbiote fed him more testosterone, more adrenaline, more hormonal stimulation, Murdock knew he’d only want other Protectors as partners from there on. No other coupling would ever offer this impact.

As he and the Sheriff had pressed their packages together, getting the Symbiotes as close as they possibly could without crushing them, their massive erections rolling against each other’s torsos like logs on a flume, as they had held each other’s hips and gently thrust against each other, the Symbiotes allowed them their orgasms.

The flood of their cum had erupted between them like a muscular volcano, like a geyser shooting up between the shelves of their chests, mixing together until it had become one liquid – one single seed.

They’d caught it together, cupping it carefully in their hands and then carried it to the backyard garden. After planting it there wordlessly, they’d gone into the house and plotted Murdock’s necessary disappearance, and formulated their first actual plan.

Though they both felt the desire, it had been important to the Sheriff to deny the impulse for sex – he’d seemed to define denial as discipline, determined not to succumb to the same fate as “lesser men.” Murdock couldn’t have agreed more, if for slightly different reasons. He’d known that his new-found sexuality was a manipulation of the Symbiote, and he’d wanted to believe that the creature had no influence over him if he hadn’t allowed it. (None of their human failings seemed to affect the Symbiotes at all, who seemed patient enough to wait-out their Protectors’ rationalizations.) Still, Murdock and the Sheriff gave in twice, and Murdock learned a new love of being fucked up the ass by a dominant top.

By the next morning, the product of their initial coupling had taken root in the garden. Neither of them had been surprised to discover that something different was growing there – different than what either of them could’ve produced separately. Clearly the same species, but what must have been the next evolutionary step up. What Murdock and the Sheriff had faced in the garden that morning was the obvious drone to their worker bees, royalty to their peasantry, something simply greater than them both.

The same sort-of plant, but half-again as tall as the ones in the Sheriff’s garage – a cock of such size and girth that even transformed men such as the Sheriff and Murdock thought it impossible. The bud would easily come up to a normal man’s knee, and be about as thick as his leg. The base of the flower was a dark-bluish purple, which veined up the sides until it reached the soft lilac head – even its bulb had been bigger – a fantasy man’s fantasy cock.

It would take the right man to Host this.

With great care, in the light of the rising sun, they’d re-potted it in a plastic, traveling pot – a little wider at the base – and made the decision about what to do with it. Using a roll of stiff butcher’s paper that the Sheriff had in his kitchen – though God only knew why – they wrapped it, put a bow on it, and stapled it at the top, making it look like it had just come from the florist’s – a gift for some long-absent mother or girlfriend.

It sat on the floor in front of the train-seat next to Murdock now. He was one of only three people in this car – maybe he’d scared the others away. On the other hand, he WAS traveling AWAY from civilization rather than toward it, no doubt more people rode in the other direction.

This was the last stop before his destination – a small town in Kansas called “Garden City.” He picked the name because it tickled his quaint-ness – he did that a lot. They needed land, somewhere in the farm-belt, where they could plant and grow and go unnoticed. The name of the town couldn’t matter less to the Symbiote, so Murdock got to assert his own sense of humor.

“Cimarron!” the conductor shouted, sticking his head in the door. He looked at Murdock, as he had done so many times on the trip, sort of lusty, but afraid. It was obvious to Murdock that the man had never seen anyone with a build like his – lots of people stared at him, even dressed in baggies as he was. He hated to admit he liked it – vanity was so not him – but he also recognized the need for anonymity at this stage. It was hard to hide with a body like this.

“We’ll be stopped for about ten minutes at Cimarron, sir,” the conductor said to him. “If you want to step off the train again. Get some air. Maybe stretch a little…”

Murdock smiled – the conductor HAD been watching him, keeping track of him. Maybe he’d even seen what Murdock did. Kept doing.

“Thanks,” Murdock said in his low, sexy voice, winking. He stood then so the conductor could get a good look at his incredible mass, then stretched his back, flexing ever-so discreetly. He was starting to like being a flirt. The conductor probably had an erection when he ducked his head out of the doorway – Murdock sure hoped so – at least he was flustered. That was a nice reward, too.

Murdock chuckled, surprised at how much he enjoyed his new body – it was like a teenaged, comic-book fantasy. Although maybe the Symbiote was controlling that, too. Oh, it didn’t matter.

He stepped off the train into the bright, Kansas sunshine. Though the Symbiote loved the light, Murdock wore heavy sunglasses because it bothered his eyes. He wasn’t used to the midwest.

The train station was built close to the Arkansas River, and with his athletic ability, Murdock easily jumped the twenty feet down to the base of the trestle. His feet landed lightly, gracefully, the muscle of his legs supporting his massive upper body. Stepping to an overgrown area, he quickly lowered his pants and pulled out his gigantic cock.

The Symbiote allowed him orgasm immediately, and he shot his seed all over the ground, turning around and hitting as much land as he could. He’d done the same thing at every stop along his journey – Dodge City, Kinsley, even Osawatomie – left his seed behind in some out of the way place near each train-yard. Maybe the new flowers would be found, maybe they wouldn’t. If so, well then, all the better. It might also serve as a distraction from what he and Sheriff Lane were really up to. If not, it didn’t matter. They’d have their army soon enough.

Two leaps, and a tuck-flip, and Murdock was standing on the platform again. Through the window of the train, he could see the Great Plant was safe, and that was all that mattered. He’d been given the responsibility to find the Host, though he didn’t think his chances of finding one would be very good in Back-water, Kansas – but Sheriff Lane would be under too much scrutiny soon to keep it secure.

Tully alone would dog the Sheriff until he went crazy. Fortunately, Murdock had planted several distracting leads to keep her busy. By the time she found him, it would be far too late.

“All aboard!” the conductor shouted, and Murdock headed for the train. “Next stop, Garden City! Garden City, all aboard!”

That he could even squeeze down the narrow aisle way was miraculous – Murdock actually had to go sideways for the width of his shoulders. When he finally got to his row, this massive giant slid down into his seat, fitting much more comfortably here than he would’ve on a plane. He checked on the well-being of the Great Plant again, and went over his thoughts again about what kind of farmer he needed to find.

With his strong hands, he reached down and lovingly supported his balls.

 

[Absman420]

9. 

The two teens were just hiking along the train tracks, as mid-western kids with no-place to go often did. As they lazily walked along, they dreamed – often aloud – of a magical place at the end of the tracks, a fantasy world that was so much better than the here and now – that HAD to be. Always fantasies of escape, anyway – teen-aged in nature – of sepia-tones to Technicolor, Kansas to Oz. These two young men were no different from any others.

They found the flowers about a hundred yards from the station, growing up behind a little rise in the land. They both laughed at the shape of the buds – like half-erect cocks – though these boys had had precious little experience with HALF-erect cocks; at their age, in their late teens, they were either rock-hard or nothing – or fast on the way to becoming one or the other – usually the former.

“If only my dick was that big,” said the more confident one, Keith. “Could you imagine?”

The other boy, W.B. – who the kids called “Hulk” because of his bulk, said, “Where would you PUT somethin’ that big?”

They laughed, and Keith took the punchline. “Anyplace I want,” he said, causing them to laugh a little harder. Keith squatted down next to the plant and grabbed the wrist-thick bud near the base – he made a motion like he was giving it a hand job. He laughed, “Look at me beatin’ off the big dick!”

Both he and W.B. thought it was a joke until the flower suddenly spit a ball of pollen right into Keith’s face. After that, it was only W.B. who laughed. “Looks like you made it shoot it’s wad, bud,” he said.

Keith was wiping the golden yellow-orange dust off his face, coughing lightly from breathing it in. “Fuck you,” he said, trying to get it out of his nose.

But W.B. kept on laughing. “Maybe you’ll do me next,” he laughed, reaching down and re-adjusting himself without thinking about it. For a teenage boy, it was priceless physical comedy, like a prat-fall or a pie-in-the-face.

But Keith didn’t find embarrassment quite so amusing. He was usually the dominant of their pairing, and the jokes were usually on W.B. – he didn’t like being the butt of anything. Annoyed, he leapt at his friend and tackled him, wrestling him to the ground.

“Keith, knock it off!” W.B. shouted – he’d been in this position too many times – even with his size, Keith was a better wrestler – a better everything. “I was just kidding, man!”

But Keith man-handled him over to one of the other plants, pushing W.B.’s face right into the blossom. Sure enough, the plant spat at him. Now they were both covered in the dust. “Think it’s funny now?” Keith said, letting W.B. go and standing up quickly, in case the other boy felt like fighting back, not that he ever did – Keith was surprised to discover himself hoping the other boy would, though, just to keep the physical contact with his buddy.

“Jesus, Keith, I was just kidding.” W.B. was unsuccessfully trying to wipe the pollen away, just as Keith had tried to do.

Keith shrugged. “See? Not so funny when it’s you. C’mon,” he said, offering W.B. a hand, “let’s get the fuck outta here.”

But they weren’t a hundred yards down the tracks when they both started to feel the rush. At first, it manifested itself as energy. Both boys were suddenly ansty, bouncy – one could easily say “frisky” if generous with adjectives – frisky like colts. Suddenly, both of them felt remarkably good. And the budding erections they clumsily tried to hide from each other told them they were going to feel even better.

“Man,” said W.B., jumping up and down and the rail, “I feel great!”

Keith could hardly resist his energy. “I know, bro! Me, too!”

The two boys wrestled playfully, wrapping their arms around the other and then pushing away. They both felt very strong – psyched up, like right before a football game, banging helmets and slamming torsos – surprisingly masculine.

Like greco-roman wrestlers, arms locked around each other, forehead pressed to forehead, they stared into each other’s eyes. They weren’t just feeling strong, they were feeling bigger. “I think that plant pollen’s did somethin’ to us,'' Keith said, flexing because he felt he needed to.

“Yeah, I think it did,” W.B. said, and smiled. “And Keith? I want more.”

Keith nodded against his buddy’s forehead. “Me, too.”

They broke their hold then and bounced their torsos again roughly. Neither tried to hide his erection now. “Let’s go,” they both said simultaneously.

As the boys jogged back to the flowers, they could actually feel their legs thickening.

 

10.

 

Nobody in rural-western Kansas had ever seen anything like Wolf Murdock. Sure, some of the local men were pretty big – corn-and-beef fed, after all – but Murdock was something different altogether. Three-hundred pound men with single-digit bodyfat were unheard of in this area. Even in his baggy gym-pants and loose t-shirt, he wasn’t hiding anything.

Unfortunately, the novelty of his appearance made him a celebrity. Murdock had hoped that he could slip into some small town and do his business unnoticed. He didn’t realize that there was no such thing as slipping quietly into some small town unnoticed. One o’ them bodybuilders was stayin’ down at the hotel – the rumor spread – and he was lookin’ to buy the old Bowden place. Murdock hadn’t been in town a full day before everyone knew THAT.

The farm in question – the old Bowden place – was almost fifteen miles north of town, a flat and dusty drive away. The old man still lived there, the Real Estate agent told Murdock as they drove to the property, but he was anxious to sell. He had dreams of a Florida retirement, but didn’t want to succumb to the agri-businessmen, the faceless corporations that were taking over most of the growing land in the U.S. “He still believes in the concept of the Family Farm,” the Real Estate agent said. “It’ll be mighty important for him to hear your plans for the place.”

Murdock smiled. “I’ll be happy to share them with him,” he said, unconsciously cupping his balls.

The Real Estate agent noticed. “I hope you don’t mind my sayin’ so,” he said, “but we don’t get much folk like you ’round these parts. I have to admit, I’ve never seen a man quite as large…”

“I’m training for the World’s Strongest Man competition,” Murdock said, chuckling slightly, flexing his arm for the man he shared the car with. “Think I’ll win?”

The Agent shrugged uncomfortably. “I’ve just never seen anything like it, is all.”

Murdock smiled, enjoying the man’s embarrassment – and the lump that was forming in his pants. “I’m sure, after a while, it’ll become a familiar sight,” Murdock said. “Maybe I’ll even show you a thing or two about gettin’ bigger yourself.” He nodded toward the Real Estate Agent’s erection. “You strike me as the kind of guy who wants it.”

The Real Estate agent was mortified, being caught this way – he hemmed and hawed, trying to cover himself with his hand.

Murdock reached over and touched the man’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, reassuringly. “That happens all the time. Lots of guys get… that way… when they’re around someone my size. Believe me, we’re used to it.”

The Real Estate agent suddenly glanced at him. “‘we’…?”

But if Murdock was flustered over his slip, he hardly let it show. He smiled. “I mean, guys like me,” he said. “Bodybuilders. WE get used to it.”

Seemingly satisfied, the agent changed the subject back to the Bowden Farm, describing the house, the barn, the acreage of land. Apparently, the farm had been working under subsidy for several years, growing nothing at the behest of a government that didn’t know better. Imagine, the agent intoned, someone paying you NOT to grow food.

“Well,” said Murdock, “I intend to use the land.”

“You thinkin’ of growin’ crops? You got experience farmin’?”

Murdock smiled again – that winning smile – that winning, seductive smile – “Let’s just say I’ve got a green thumb,” he said. “You’ll see. There’ll be lots of growing around here.”

And with that, they pulled off the main road onto the property.

 

11.

 

Back in West Virginia, the following afternoon, Gillian Tully walked into the Sheriff’s office, the click of her city-heels echoing on the hardwood floor. She was as no-nonsense as she was a dullard. Not dispassionate – that wouldn’t be the right word – but certainly detached. She observed without becoming personally involved. Unfortunately, the very characteristic that made her a good investigator also made her an unsuccessful lover. The closest thing she had to a boyfriend was Murdock – and now he was missing. And had been missing for almost three days.

His last known location was this little one-light town in West Virginia, where he’d gone to investigate the death of local-teen muscle-freak Robert Ray. The last she’d heard from him – the last ANYONE had – was a cell-phone call he’d placed to her three days before. A call that had been interrupted. Murdock’s last words were: “Tully, I need you to…. Holy shit!” – and then it sounded as if he’d dropped the phone. And then silence.

She’d already spoken to the manager of the motel where he’d stayed – to little avail. Though the manager remembered Murdock – no doubt they got few visitors in this hick town – he recalled nothing unusual. Murdock had checked in one day – the manager even showed her the records – and checked out the next. Yup, that was his signature. “I DO remember that he met with the Sheriff,” the manager said. “Maybe you should talk to him, too.”

The manager gave her directions and laughed aloud when she asked, “How will I recognize him?”

Her cold, dry look made him stop, even stutter a little. “Y…you can’t miss him,” the manager said. “The Sheriff’s a pretty big guy.”

Robbie Ray kind of big? she thought, but just nodded to the manager.

And that was how Tully found herself walking into the Sheriff’s office not ten minutes later. She couldn’t help but feel like she was on the set of “The Andy Griffith Show” – it was that cliche – the whole TOWN made her feel like she’d stepped into the Way-Back Machine. She could barely help but smirk as she glanced around and took in the room. The shades were drawn against the afternoon light, allowing rays of piercing yellow sun to keep the room in gobo-like stripes.

“Can I help you?”

The Sheriff sat behind the desk, in his tan uniform and cowboy hat. And while he was well-sized – Tully put his stats at about five-ten, two-fifteen – he was hardly the massive bodybuilder everyone had made him out to be. Even his age – he might’ve been in his early thirties at the latest, surprisingly young for a Sheriff. Dark hair and smooth-faced, he was almost pretty. He hardly had the air of authority she expected in a man of the law, especially an elected leader.

“Sheriff Lane?” she asked.

He smiled, indicating his badge and nameplate beneath it, pinned to his shirt. “In the flesh,” he said. “And you are?”

She pulled out her badge and walked to the desk. He stood, glancing at the ID then back at her. “Gillian Tully,” she said, flipping the wallet closed. “FBI. I’m investigating the disappearance of my partner.”

“Your partner?”

“Agent Wolf Murdock. He was in town about three days ago. The manager of the hotel said he may have talked to you…?”

The Sheriff smiled and nodded. “Absolutely,” he said, taking a drink from his soda. “Oh, where are my manners? Would you like something to drink? I got a cooler right in the back room…”

Before he could take a step, she shook her head. “No, thanks,” she said. “I just want to find out what I can and move on if I have to, while there’s still daylight.”

He shrugged. “Not much to know,” he said, taking his seat again, motioning for her to take the one before the desk. “He came in, asked me a couple of questions about Robbie Ray, and then he left. He called me later to tell me he had a lead he was gonna follow, but that was it. I’m sorry.”

“No idea where he went?” she asked, taken by his sincerity. If he wasn’t powerfully masculine, at least he seemed honest. “He didn’t say anything?”

“I think he said he was going north. Robbie Ray spent the winter holidays up in Quebec. Murdock thought that was where he might’ve gotten the drugs.”

Tully turned toward him, her interest piqued. “Drugs…?”

“Well, whatever the hell it was that turned him into that… well, I guess you saw.”

This time it was her turn to shrug.

Left with nothing more than an uncomfortable goodbye and some professional information to exchange, Tully got in her car and headed north. On her cell phone, she’d already dialed the travel agency and booked tickets to Quebec before she’d even gotten through one West Virginian stoplight.

 

12.

 

From inside the Sheriff’s office, he watched her pull away from the curb, glancing through the slits in the window shades. He smiled – a decidedly DIFFERENT smile than the one he had when she was in the office – this one was a little more sly. “She’s gone,” he called.

The back door opened, and he could hear the musclegod enter. The floorboards creaked beneath his massive weight. “Sounds like she bought it,” he said, his voice deep and husky, dripping with masculinity.

The man at the window turned to face him, almost stunned breathless by his size. “She did, Sheriff,” the man said, removing the badge and name-plate from his shirt and handing them back to the musclegod before him, the three-hundred twenty pound beast that was the true Sheriff Lane.

“Good job, Deputy,” the Sheriff said, smiling slightly. That alone made the Deputy’s deception worth it – simply pleasing this musclegod. Sheriff Lane knew it, too – that made it even more erotic for the Deputy, who’d spent most of his life looking for a man to serve, even if he’d never consciously realized it. “Now, pin them back on us.”

The Deputy lowered his head and looked at the Sheriff’s feet. “Thank you, Sheriff,” he said, not even trying to hide his erection. With nervous hands, the Deputy pinned the Sheriff’s badge and nameplate to his hulking chest. It’d taken him a while to tailor a uniform that fit the Sheriff as he was now. The largest shirts barely contained his shoulders, but ballooned out at the waist – like the manufacturer’s EXPECTED a Sheriff to have a gut.

But they’d found a shirt finally, altered it to fit the Sheriff’s trim, rock-hard stomach, then set to work taking in pants that posed the same problem. They could find something to get around the Sheriff’s quads, but then they’d be too loose in the waist. The Deputy carefully sewed for almost two days – personally, he considered it “women’s work,” but wouldn’t dream of disobeying a command from the Sheriff. He’d been a sworn Deputy for almost ten years now, since the Sheriff had taken him under his wing when he’d been an unruly sixteen year old – he couldn’t imagine doing anything else. It had worked out perfectly: Sheriff Lane enjoyed being a leader, and the Deputy enjoyed following, he even got a certain sexual jolt from obeying the Sheriff’s orders. (Sometimes, he even jerked off to the IDEA of following the Sheriff’s orders.)

And that was even before the Sheriff had morphed into the musclegod he was now. When he’d walked into the office for the first time two days ago – dressed in the only clothes he had that fit him, a pair of ancient sweats that strained to keep him covered, revealing the hulking physique and gigantic muscle of the new, three-hundred pound Sheriff – the Deputy did the same thing now that he’d done then: he fell to his knees. “Good boy,” the Sheriff said – as he had then – and ruffled the Deputy’s hair.

The Deputy spoke, keeping his tone humble, keeping his eyes on the Sheriff’s feet. “Have I earned a plant of my own, Sheriff?” he asked.

The Sheriff chuckled, a low, throaty sound. He cupped the Deputy’s jaw and raised his head until they were looking into each other’s eyes. The Deputy was again taken by the sheer sense of masculinity emanating from the Sheriff’s gorgeous face, the smile forming on his thick jaw. “You have, Deputy,” he said. “You’ve served us well. But before you let your hard-on get the best of you, we think you should wait.”

“Sir?”

“Having a human familiar is convenient for us now,” the Sheriff said. “And we suspect we haven’t seen the last of Murdock’s partner, and we may need to continue the deception. You’ve earned a plant, Deputy, and you can have it if you want it, but we think you should wait just a while longer.”

The Deputy nodded, trying to keep his eyes from tearing. “Thank you, Sheriff,” he said. “As much as I’d like to, if you think I should wait, I obey and wait.”

The Deputy glanced down then – as was proper – just in time to see the Sheriff’s burgeoning erection, the god-cock that fought the material inches from the Deputy’s face. The Sheriff released the Deputy’s chin “Then you may have another reward,” he said, opening his pants, unzipping his fly.

The Sheriff’s erect cock was as big as anything artistically enhanced on the web – though the Deputy had seen precious little of that. The Deputy’s IMAGINATION couldn’t even come up with anything as beautiful as the Sheriff’s monstrous cock. How the Deputy could take something that large in his mouth would be the true mystery – it would be similar to deep-throating a summer-sausage, and even that would only be if he could get his jaw around the bulbous head.

“Take it, boy,” the Sheriff said. “It’s your reward.”

Hands behind his back, the Deputy leaned forward and delicately kissed the cock-head, so heavy, so hot, so thick. It pressed against the side of his face, thicker than his wrist, almost the length of his forearm. It smelled so good.

He licked up and down the shaft, flat-tonguing along the thick line of the urethra. He buried his nose and mouth and the base, smelling the manly smell of balls and nibbling the top of the sac, the only exposed part of the Sheriff’s citrus-sized ’nads. The Sheriff groaned, “Careful, Deputy.”

But the Deputy knew better than to agitate the Sheriff’s balls – this was not his first blowjob for the Sheriff, not even the first since the Sheriff’s transformation – how ELSE would you explain the muscle the Deputy had gained over the last two days? Instead, he slid his face along the thick shaft back toward the head, allowing his rough chin to tickle it. As his tongue followed the rim of the crown, he made the move to take the entire thing in his mouth.

“You’re brave to try, boy,” the Sheriff said, reaching behind the Deputy’s head as if to hold him in place, or perhaps shove him onto the pole. “But just take what we offer.”

He would’ve said, “Yes, Sheriff” if he could’ve formed the words, but his mouth was too full of fat musclecock to speak. Not that he didn’t try to get the Sheriff in further.

Not that the Sheriff needed the stimulation, either. His orgasms were controlled by the Symbiote now – a creature that resided in a man’s balls controlled a lot – maybe more than he knew. The Symbiote allowed him tremendous orgasms, blinding in their intensity, whenever he wanted them. And he wanted them more and more often.

Fat ropes of cum shot out of his dick, filling the Deputy’s mouth almost immediately – certainly completely. He tried to swallow it all, of course – which the Sheriff found endearing – but failed miserably. Cum flowed out of his mouth, dribbled down the chin. “Come on, boy,” the Sheriff said, lost in the lusty tone of orgasm. “Don’t waste our seed.”

He didn’t WANT to waste it, that’s for sure. Just the mechanical process of swallowing so much so quickly slowed him – the Deputy hadn’t gone to college, never chugged keggers with his frat-brothers – not that even the drunkest member of Delta House could keep up with the Sheriff’s flow – but he did the best he could, though good slaves rarely got “A’s” for effort. It didn’t hurt that he liked the taste – he didn’t realize how soon he’d be saying “NEEDED it” – though the slimy consistency reminded him more of pudding than cum.

When the Sheriff completed his orgasm, he stepped back from the Deputy – who almost lost his balance, leaning forward on his knees, hands behind his back – then the Sheriff wiped the end of his cock off with his left index finger – which he allowed the Deputy to lick clean – and tucked his massive member back into his uniform, taking several seconds to adjust himself comfortably.

The Deputy had sunk back on his heels; he looked to the Sheriff as if he were dizzy, or drunk. His eyes were unfocused, his lids heavy – he weaved slightly. The Sheriff watched him grow. It wasn’t much – maybe ten pounds on the outside – but it was still evident that some kind of physical transformation was taking place, albeit a small one. His uniform still fit – it just fit better.

The whole process took maybe two minutes total, and then – like last time – the Deputy cleared his head, shaking it slightly, and refocused on the Sheriff, an adoring smile on his face, a lusty look in his eye. Though there seemed to be something different about it now – something new in the depth of the look. He couldn’t say exactly what.

The Sheriff glanced down at the drops of cum on the floor and briefly thought the word “messy” – almost immediately, the Deputy dropped and licked the floor clean with his tongue. The Sheriff smirked, snorted once to himself, then stepped over the prone Deputy and walked to his desk.

As he dropped his three-hundred twenty pound body into his desk chair, he found he was thirsty – suddenly, as soon as he had the thought, his Deputy was standing. The boy darted to the back room and immediately returned with a bottle of water. He knelt next to the Sheriff’s chair as he offered it to the man-god.

The Sheriff decided to test him. He thought, “Kiss my feet” and the Deputy sank to the floor and began kissing the Sheriff’s boots. “Lick them,” the Sheriff thought. “Make them shine” and the boy’s tongue got to work.

The Sheriff smiled. Now THAT was an unexpected development.

But it turned out the Symbiote had already known about it.

 

13.

 

Meanwhile, in rural Indiana, the two teens – Keith and W.B. – knelt facing each other on the sun-warmed ground. Both of them seemed slightly dazed, almost lost somehow, which only made sense if one understood the level of ecstasy they were experiencing. Both of them knelt before the flower that had blasted its pollen at them earlier – both still had lingering amounts of pollen on their faces – and both had neatly inserted their cocks deep into the flower’s blossom.

For now, they grew. Their muscles continued to swell, to enlarge. And for boys who’d had precious little experience sexually, even they knew they were getting the best treatment they’d ever have – nothing could ever compare to this. Nothing could ever compare to the gentle massage of the petals, the persistent stamen finding its way inside, and then, of course, the entrance of the creature – the incredible symbiosis.

When they understood everything, they looked at each other and smiled. Then, these two monstrous boys – each now weighing in the high two-seventies – stood and came together, standing next to each other but facing in opposite directions.

The Symbiotes allowed them their orgasms, each of them shooting gallons of seed across the ground. As they came, as they moaned, they circled together, which made them look like a lawn-sprinkler, covering even more land. They knew what it would do, how it would take root – and they knew what they had to do next, now that they were finished.

“That was fuckin’ amazing,” said Keith, hardly fazed, already hardening again. He reached down and lovingly felt the Symbiote curled in his balls.

W.B. smiled at him – he reached over and stroked Keith’s massive chest with one hand, his own balls with the other. He knew what they had to do. “Let’s go get the other guys,” he said simply.

“Yeah,” said Keith, touching W.B.‘s now rock-solid stomach, his brick-like six pack. "They’re gonna fuckin’ love this!"

Easily, the two paragons loped toward town, careful to keep their alien-riders safe. Twice along the way they had to stop and give-in to their new carnal hungers.

They couldn’t wait until ALL their buddies felt this way.

[Absman420]

POLLINATION: The Series – pt3

14.

There were some men who begged for the transformation, willing to sacrifice anything for the gross musculature, the heightened physical powers, the strength and athletic abilities, the hyper-masculine attributes – the men on this extreme, though vocal, were still a minority. Most men fell somewhere in the “always sort-of secretly wanted it, but couldn’t voice that desire” category – repressed, inhibited middle-class schmoos that largely wasted their new lives for lack of imagination. Lastly, there were the men who needed greatness THRUST upon them, who resisted each step of the way.

Those were the precious few that Sheriff Lane enjoyed the most, savoring the moment of their acceptance like the last buzz from a long-held stash. Getting off on their submission, climaxing at their defeat, his flow matched their ebb. They ALL wanted it, it turned out, even the guys who didn’t think they did – ESPECIALLY them. The Sheriff so firmly believed that, he’d call it one of his core convictions – he believed it even before he’d accepted his Symbiont.

At least, he thought he had.

He’d pulled over a Harley the other night – a Road King, a modified cruiser – because he’d thought the guy riding it was hot. West Virginia doesn’t have a helmet law, remember, so the guy had been clearly visible. Large-frame, powerful carriage, European ancestry, strong lines, brutish hair – maybe what had made him so hot had actually been the motorcycle – wouldn’t advertising agencies have had a field day with that? – not that he’d been bad looking on second glance, either.

What the Sheriff liked in his boys was quite the opposite of what he looked for in men. Where he liked his boys tight and smooth, pretty and fit, he found himself attracted to bulky, well-muscled maturity. The Sheriff never compromised being a top – but he would enjoy the battle for dominance these stronger men would offer. Boys were easy – men presented a challenge. (Doubtful that anyone could challenge the Sheriff now.)

The guy on the Harley had been a big man – the Sheriff would’ve enjoyed the encounter BEFORE his transformation. Bulky, mustachioed, chaps and vest over a black t-shirt and jeans, the rider had exuded manliness. So much so that, even when the three-hundred-twenty pound Sheriff had stepped out of his cruiser and approached him, the guy had remained calm. “You’re a big one,” he’d said.

“License and registration, please,” said the Sheriff, his expression hidden behind his mirrored sunglasses.

“What’d I do?” the guy asked, crossing his arms, making no movement toward his wallet.

“Just give me your license and registration, buddy. I don’t need any trouble from some pussy on a Harley.”

And that was the kind of comment that always started the battle. Actually, it was kind of a clever move – putting your adversary on the defensive immediately, unexpectedly. It gave the Sheriff the advantage from the get-go. In a rage, the guy would invariably charge and attack, and the Sheriff – thanks in large part to the Symbiont’s physical and reflexive gifts – could use the guy’s own energy against him, taking him down quickly and easily. (And again, putting the Sheriff in a dominant position.)

The guy on the Harley had been a textbook example. Attack his concept of masculinity, insult his manhood, and he’d predictably fight to protect his pride. He’d been off the bike as soon as he slapped the kickstand down, fist cocked and ready to swing.

To the Sheriff, enhanced through Symbiosis, every movement seemed in slow motion. He’d merely shifted his weight to dodge the swing, grabbed the attacker’s arm as it sped by, and pulled him off his feet, following the course of motion. With incredible ease, he had the guy on the ground, arms pinned, cuffs out and ready to go on. No one had presented a challenge to the Sheriff since his transformation, and he kind of missed it.

When he had the Harley guy in custody, he’d forced him toward the cruiser. The guy struggled for sure, but to little avail against a Sheriff that out-weighed him by a hundred muscular pounds – though the Sheriff had sure enjoyed the attempt. “What the fuck did I do?” the guy’d hollered, getting more and more agitated. “What the fuck did I do?”

But the Sheriff, emotionless behind his mirrored sunglasses, had only shoved him toward the cruiser. (He hadn’t spoken because he’d been busy battling his own burgeoning erection. Not yet, he’d thought. Not yet.) Forcing the guy to bend over the cruiser’s trunk, the Sheriff had kicked the man’s legs apart, roughly frisking him.

“What the fuck…?”

“Shut up,” the Sheriff had said, shoving the guy down with his forearm, leaning some of his weight against him. He’d reached around and felt the guy’s pockets – he’d avoided the crotch. The guy HAD to be able to feel the Sheriff’s big cock pressing against his ass – unless he’d thought it was a billy-club.

He’d been clean.

After unclipping the guy’s wallet from the chain that’d held it to his belt, he’d pulled the guy to his feet and said, “Don’t move.”

“You gotta tell me what I done,” the guy had said. “I got rights.”

But the Sheriff had ignored him, opening the trunk of his cruiser. As the hood popped up, he grabbed the guy by the vest and pulled him around the back-end of the car, forcing him to look in the trunk. (For a fleeting instant, the guy had thought the Sheriff was going to PUT him in the trunk.)

But sitting there next to the spare tire had been a potted plant, strangely out of place in the trunk of a car, though it appeared healthy. It looked like one o’ them pitcher plants – one o’ them carnivore plants – the guy had thought. What the hell was it doing in the cop’s trunk? And was it moving?

Too late. By then, it’d spat at him, a big ball of golden pollen, hitting the Harley guy square in the face. With his hands cuffed, he couldn’t do anything but shake his head – and that did little good. The stuff had clung to him almost.

Blinded by the pollen, almost choking on it, too, the Sheriff had easily pushed him into the back seat of the cruiser. Then the Sheriff had retrieved the plant from the trunk, walked to the other side of the car, and put it in the back seat on the opposite side.

The Sheriff filled out paperwork, leaning against the trunk of his car, until he’d heard the struggles cease. When he’d heard the guy break out of the handcuffs, when he’d caught the sound of tearing leather, it hadn’t been long before he’d felt the moment of their Symbiosis. The moaning roar of orgasm signaled completion, and the Sheriff had strolled over and casually opened the back door.

The Harley guy – his license had identified him as “Dwight Dixon” – his rap-sheet had him as “Snake” – had gained quite a bit of size. He’d misjudged himself getting out of the car, and his shoulders got stuck. Chuckling, the Sheriff had offered a hand, and Snake took it. When they’d finally gotten him out of the car, they both got their first good look at his new body.

Still smaller than the Sheriff, but not by much – nobody was bigger than Sheriff Lane – his leathers stretched, but held – barely. They’d looked almost painted on – almost as if it’d been his own thick skin – a bull elephant after a facelift. What had been a bulky, loose-muscled lineman had become a tight, thick, heavyweight machine, favored in the arms – the only bodypart NOT covered by black leather.

The closer he’d gotten to Sheriff Lane – actually, the closer their Symbionts had gotten to one another – the greater his lust. As the Sheriff had pulled him out of the car, they’d pressed together. The Sheriff had never kissed a man with a mustache before – Snake had never kissed a man, period – but they both liked it very much. Snake had blown his orgasm almost immediately – the Sheriff seemed able to resist forever.

After that, when he’d understood everything, Snake had mounted his bike and prepared to continue north. The Harley might have groaned under the burden of his new, extra weight, but it was strong enough – it would live.

Just as he’d been about to drive off, the Sheriff had handed him the ticket. “Don’t speed in my town,” the Sheriff had said, smirking, but not truly allowing himself to smile. (Snake still hadn’t seen his eyes.)

That was the kind of guy – and the kind of situation – the Sheriff liked the most. And when he was bored, like he was now, sitting behind a billboard manning a radar gun, he liked to reflect on that particular moment. It invariably turned him on. (He was thinking of getting himself a Harley.)

But his reminiscence was shattered when a sports car raced through the speed trap. The Sheriff smirked. Even though he’d only caught a glimpse, the guy driving it looked kind of hot.

Maybe he’d struggle.

The Sheriff turned on his lights and sirens and pulled out.

 

15.

 

“Holy mother-fuckin’ shit!” was all Tony Lenoldi could say when he got to the train platform and saw them for the first time. That was pretty much what everybody had said. Tony was just the most recent. “What the fuck’s happened to you guys?”

“We’ll explain once Chuckie gets here,” said Keith, touching his balls through the thin layer of his gym shorts – the ones that had once been baggy, really baggy, so baggy he used to never wear them. (He thought they looked like a skirt.) It had taken them a while to find clothes that fit – both him AND W.B. – clothes that were big enough for them now. He ended up in the shorts, now stretched-taut over his sweeping quads, and one of his old practice jerseys, cut to expose his abs – it had been cut before his transformation. He would’ve preferred to be wearing underwear – not just because his Symbiont would get better support – for now he hung loose inside his gym shorts, but because he was in front of his buddies, and he didn’t want to betray himself so easily.

W.B. – who would never be called “shy” – still wore his old cargo shorts, though now they were tight in the thigh and loose in the waist instead of the other way around, and they hung low on his hips – his gut up and gone – exposing the top of his boxer shorts. Otherwise, he wore only a well-worn wife-beater, which had once been stretched by his lineman’s belly, but now lay loose over his rock-hard abs. W.B. liked the guys looking at him. He flexed for them. “Fuckin’ amazing, isn’t it?” he asked, showing his arm, his bulbous biceps.

“Is it real?” Tony Lenoldi asked – the bicep was as big as a melon, remember, maybe bigger, and Tony Lenoldi, who’d always had the biggest arms (though his were now smaller citrus), was in shock.

“Feel it,” said W.B., moving his flexed arm closer to Lenoldi.

Tony Lenoldi had barely touched it, barely laid a finger on the granite-like hardness of W.B.’s biceps, when Big Danny Wall called, “There’s Chuckie!” and distracted them.

Chuckie pulled up on his ten-speed – since losing his car-privileges for the summer, he pumped everywhere on his bike, which he claimed gave him the best legs of the group. (There’d be some challenges to that now.) Chuckie was the smallest of the guys, at five-six. It made him a damn fine wrestler, but not much help on the football team. Still, the five of them, jocks that they were, accepted him in the clique. He and Big Danny – like Mutt and Jeff, a reference that would be lost on these boys – were inseparable. One could describe their relationship as symbiotic even before their transformation. They’d been neighbors since childhood, and were closer to each other than their real brothers, of which Chuckie had two (both younger) and Big Danny had one (a dozen years older). 

Big Danny had big, bulky muscle, thick joints and heavy bones. When he finished filling out, he’d be more than impressive – even now, at an awkward eighteen, he showed the “pre” in his prime. He was growth-hormone gone awry, the perfect high-school lineman.

“All right,” said Chuckie as he pulled up on his bike, “what’s so dang-fired important that I gotta hustle my ass down here so quick…?” Then he saw Keith and W.B.. Like the rest of them, he said, “Holy shit. What the fuck’s happened to you?”

Keith smiled. “It’s easier if we show you.”

The two gigantic boys led the way, not even checking to make sure the other guys followed them – they knew they would. They led them right to the edge of a rise about a hundred feet from the old train platform, on the far-side of the tracks. They all looked down into the valley. “What?” said Tony Lenoldi. “What are we lookin’ at?”

There was a cluster of about eight tube-shaped flowers at the base of the rise, looking out of place and alien. Keith pointed to them. “Those flowers are what happened to us,” he said. “We sniffed ’em.”

Lenoldi snorted. “No fuckin’ way!”

“Way, dude,” said W.B., adjusting his balls – his heavy, heavy balls. “We sniffed the flowers, and we got fuckin’ massive.” He hit a few poses, a double-bis, a side-tris, a most muscular (in case they weren’t sure). “No shit.”

Keith indicated the two wilted plants amidst the group. “These ones here were the ones.”

“And they made you like that?” asked Chuckie.

They both nodded and said “Yeah” and “Yup” simultaneously. Neither could seem to resist flexing, or touching his package.

“No fuckin’ way!” said Tony Lenoldi, crossing his arms – his own strong arms, the ones that used to be the biggest.

“So sniff a flower, dude,” said W.B.. “Prove us wrong.”

But Tony Lenoldi didn’t – he took a step back instead. “Fuck you. What’s the joke?”

“No joke, Tony,” said Keith. “It’s true. That’s what happened.”

Chuckie piped up. “I’ll sniff a flower!” he said. “I ain’t afraid.” But before he took a step, he added. “C’mon, Dan.”

Big Danny shrugged and followed after him, as he’d done for all the years they’d known each other. As the rest of them watched, Chuckie bent down toward a flower. Neither Keith nor W.B. warned him, so he was surprised when the pollen hit him in the face. His immediate reaction was anger, and he quickly looked at Keith and W.B. to see if they were laughing, to see if he was a victim.

The look on their faces was satisfaction, not amusement, so he knew he wasn’t. The only one laughing was Big Danny – and that only for the slap-stick element, the only humor that Big Danny could really appreciate. “You think somethin’s funny?” said Chuckie, his face covered in dusty pollen. “Somethin’ amuse you?”

Big Danny stifled his giggles enough to recount the event, like he was calling color-commentary at a game. “You was so cocky,” he said, reenacting Chuckie’s motions. “So sure they wasn’t gonna play a joke on you. You bent down like this, and the plant…”

The plant next to the one that hit Chuckie spat its wad at Big Danny, as he stared at it, dumb-founded – it was the perfect slapstick Pie-Take, the dust covering his frozen face, except his shocked eyes. All the boys laughed – Chuckie included – hell, even Tony Lenoldi laughed at Big Danny making an idiot out of himself (and that would never have happened on the field). Big Danny shook his head, and tried to wipe the pollen off with the back of his hand. He ended up just spreading it around, breathing more in. Chuckie had already given up trying to get it off his face – the shit CLUNG to him. And when he laughed at Big Danny, some got in his mouth.

“Now THAT was funny!” said Chuckie, pointing at Big Danny.

“Fuck you,” said Dan, grabbing Chuckie in a mock head-lock and giving him noogies – which was the way the two of them expressed their physical affection, the way MOST straight guys did, with rough-housing.

“So, what, Lenoldi was right?” said Chuckie to Keith, pushing himself off of Dan, who was licking his lips at the taste of the pollen (like pre-honey) – it was good. He liked it. “Ha ha. Good joke. You got us.”

“No, no,” said W.B. shaking his head. “It’s not a joke – it was the pollen. That was what happened to US. The pollen.”

“Give it a minute,” said Keith. “You’ll see.”

Trusting their friends, albeit suspiciously, the five boys waited there on the train tracks. In a few minutes, Chuckie and Big Danny began to realize that Keith and W.B. weren’t playing a joke.

They weren’t playing a joke at all.

 

16.

 

The Bowden’s had owned the property since the mid-1800’s, right as the big rush to go to California seemed to infect the populace like a gold-plated virus. For a time, Ed’s Great-Grandfather had kept cattle, but the rich land brought in so much more that they finally switched to farming permanently. (Besides, Ed’s Great-grandfather produced a large enough family to easily run a farm. So large, in fact, that it would seem that producing family was the only thing Ed’s Great-grandfather liked to do aside from land-holding.)

Between the wars and the accidents and the villainy of Time itself, Ed was the last of that grand family to work the farm. Now, pushing seventy – wife dead, one son dead, the other moved off to the city – the one who’d snobbishly called farming “antiquated.” (Ed had to look that up to discover he’d been insulted, though the kid was probably right.) He had nothing left. Just offers from the big companies looking to buy up the state of Kansas and run it themselves. Ed had vowed to never give in to them. No matter what.

He was the kind of older man who looked like he’d been very powerful once – almost strapping – but misfortune had borne down on him so heavily that he was slowly collapsing under it. His body could barely stand erect and tall, hunched at the shoulder, tight in the hip-flexor, and weak at the knee. For a man who used to be able to toss bales of hay into the loft single-handedly, it was a painful decline. He was mostly angry when he looked in the mirror, then disappointed that he didn’t recognize the man he felt he was inside. He was ready to give up.

And then this man Murdock appeared – out of nowhere, an over-muscled miracle. If one could put aside his freakish body, he struck Ed Bowden as perfectly normal. He wanted his own land – he’d explained when he’d arrived with the Real Estate agent a few days ago – to be away from society, to become self-sufficient. He could put his weight-lifting equipment in the barn – he used the word “possibilities” over and over.

Ed Bowden LIKED this man Murdock. He liked his confidence, his gruffness, his very profound sense of masculinity – Murdock expected no opposition, so he got none. Not just that Murdock treated Ed like a man, with respect, not the patronizing air people adopted when speaking to the elderly. Murdock listened patiently to Ed’s million stories – histories about the land and particular members or branches of the family – even showed some interest. Maybe Murdock knew that it was Ed’s way of saying goodbye to the place, where he’d lived his entire life.

Ed accepted Murdock’s bid on the property – he even offered Murdock to move into one of the main-house’s eight bedrooms while the paperwork went through. “No need for you to pay them hotel rates!” Ed declared. “Besides, it’d make it feel more like a transition for the old place.” There’d be at least a month before the closing.

Murdock was outside right now with a rented roto-tiller, working the Near Field – the one right next to the barn, adjacent to the back yard. This would be his “personal garden,” he said. Ed figured it would be the place he’d grow his salad stuff and his marijuana. These city people and their marijuana...

Out of the second-story bathroom window, Ed could see Murdock, shirtless, tilling the soil. The buzz of the machine’s gas engine echoed quietly through the house, easily controlled by Murdock’s massive upper-body – it’d been a long time since the sounds of activity were heard at the Bowden Farm. Ed liked it.

Plus, it afforded him an opportunity.

Ed shuffled his way down the hall – it’d taken him almost ten minutes to get up the stairs – toward the back bedroom, where Murdock had settled. Not surprisingly, the door was locked – Ed had given Murdock the key himself. (Murdock had joked about how old-fashioned it was.) But Ed had a spare AND a master of his own, not that Murdock knew THAT. An old man had to have some secrets.

It took him a few tries – and a few keys – to get into the bedroom, but the door finally opened. Ed could hear the tiller working the field, so he knew Murdock was outside, but he couldn’t help feeling like he wasn’t alone. A little bit of snooping by an old man was almost expected in the mid-west, wasn’t it? Ed had watched Murdock move in – Murdock said that he’d wait to bring his big stuff – his furniture, his weight-lifting equipment – until after Ed moved out. (Ed didn’t know Murdock didn’t really HAVE any of these things.)

But Ed was curious about something else – not just the prospect of seeing if Murdock took steroids, which was what Ed figured. No, Murdock brought in a big plant, wrapped in paper, like it had come from the florist’s shop. He was obviously trying to keep it secret – he kept it wrapped! – so Ed figured it was illegal. Probably marijuana.

Ed hadn’t seen a marijuana plant since his son Dave (who became “David” when he moved to the city, the one who found farming “antiquated”) had grown some in the Back Field. His son had convinced him to try it before condemning it – and though he’d begrudgingly liked it, he had to teach his sixteen year-old son a lesson. They’d had to destroy all twelve plants, much as neither had wanted to. Ed Bowden knew nothing of karma.

Now, he figured that the plant Murdock had tried to sneak in here was nothing but! The man wouldn’t have kept it covered if he’d hadn’t been trying to keep it secret. So, feeling as if he’d had the authority, Ed let himself into Murdock’s bedroom.

This room faced east, and got the full force of the bright morning sunshine, lighting it in a beautiful white-yellow. Ed scanned the area quickly and found the plant in the big window by the dresser.

It wasn’t marijuana – at least, nothing like anything his son had grown, though it smelled as bad. The flower looked like a tube – like a big purple cock, as big as a man’s arm. (A COCK as big as a man’s arm – imagine!) “What the hell is that?” he asked, stepping toward it.

In response – an almost EAGER response, like the thing had been waiting for him, ACHING for someone to come into the room – the flower shuddered, and shot a wad of pollen the size of a bowling ball – easily as big as Ed’s head – right at him, hitting him square in the face. The force of the shot slammed him over backwards, flat onto the floor.

He lay there, unable to catch his breath from the thick pollen choking his airway, but conscious of his sudden erection, the likes of which he hadn’t felt in twenty years.

What the hell was happening to him?

 

17.

 

To ride a motorcycle is to experience one of the joys of manhood. Straddling that mechanical power and mastering it, feeling its erotic vibration against your scrotal sac, the hot-and-ready throb of pre-sex. It’s why men rode. It’s why such a masculine, sexual mystique had become associated with a simple instrument of transport. The entire leather underground explosion could trace its origin back to the motorcycle.

Snake had been riding since he was fifteen – his first Hog when he was twenty-four. (His first pair of chaps hadn’t been long after that.) To ride a Harley was to understand that a masculine sexual rush was the most important part of having a bike – the bike and the rider would then become reflections of each other.

Was it any surprise, then, that his Symbiont LOVED it? The steady hum of the engine, the vibration, even the simple shifting of gears gave the creature that now resided in Snake’s balls a sense of stimulation and comfort not usually experienced by members of its species. If such a thing were possible, one could say the Symbiont was turned-on by riding the Harley.

And an excited Symbiont supplied stimulating rewards. At first, Snake could only go five or ten miles before having to pull over to blow a load. Now, barely a week later, he could manage almost fifty. It became a game he played with his Symbiont – who could hold out the longest. (He usually lost.)

To see him drive by, an almost three-hundred pound bodybuilder dressed only in leather pants, boots, and an ill-fitting vest, unshaved face (scruff almost as thick as his mustache), shaggy hair, sunglasses, and packing a package that seemed almost impossible, one wouldn’t think this gruff example of counterculture was responsible for the hundreds of pinkish flowers now growing along the highway, the many small patches of penis posies popping up at rest areas and truck stops.

But he was.

Snake continued North, on his way to Canada and the business he would soon have there.

 

[Absman420]

POLLINATION: The Series – pt4

18.

“Dude, you gotta try this!”

Their energy was ridiculous – like little kids, hyper-active little kids – energy without focus. Chuckie hopped up and down on the rail, rocking his body the same way he would before a wrestling match, when he was psyching himself up. Big Danny kind of paced, stepping back and forth – (While Chuckie covered side to side.) – a little hop now and then, almost a dance – they both continually flexed their muscles, this group or that, and touched their balls with an alarming frequency.

“This feels fuckin’ GREAT!” shouted Big Danny to the empty mid-western landscape.

“No shit!” Chuckie agreed, unable to contain his enthusiasm.

So then, why did Tony Lenoldi hesitate?

Well, it’s not like he didn’t want to experience the buzz his buddies had – Tony Lenoldi NEVER turned down a chance to party. (That would’ve been mighty un-cool for a high-school varsity letterman.) What bothered him was the way the other guys, Keith and W.B., were reacting – the way they exchanged knowing looks while Chuckie and Big Danny flexed and spouted – like they had some kind of secret. Keith and W.B. seemed able to control their energy – Keith more so than W.B., who was apt to give in and play with Chuckie and Big Danny as the pollen affected them more – but something about it didn’t feel right.

Chuckie stood in front of Tony, a huge, stupid grin on his face, remnants of powder dusting his nostrils and lips. Chuckie stroked his torso absently. “C’mon, dude,” he said to Tony. “Try it. Really, man, it feels fuckin’ great! It’s a better buzz than that coke Danny’s brother scored that time – remember?”

Tony smiled slightly, even with his arms crossed – at one time, the most impressive of the group. “That was a hell of a party…”

“And this is better than coke!” said W.B., hitting a double-bis and admiring his own arms. “We like this so much better than coke!”

Tony caught it. “‘We…?’”

“C’mon, dude,” said Chuckie, pulling Tony Lenoldi toward the flowers. Tony didn’t resist… much. It was almost as if he needed the excuse – almost as if he needed to make sure he had someone to blame if he liked it, or if it wasn’t really true. Finally, he rationalized it like this (as anyone sick of arguing with themselves would): it was a PLANT! It was natural – not like the coke had been. No chemicals, no man-made manufacturing, this was from the EARTH.

Nothing ORGANIC could hurt him.

“Okay, okay,” said Tony Lenoldi, although he still wasn’t one-hundred percent certain. But Tony Lenoldi would swan-dive off a cliff if the other guys did. (His mother always said “cannonball” when they argued, but the idea was the same.) Maybe he WAS afraid, but he was more eager to prove his manhood to his buddies than to follow his conscience. Jiminy Cricket was easily squashed by teenaged boys.

As he bent down to a flower, Big Danny suddenly shouted, “No! Not that one!”

Big Danny was charging him!

“Danny? What the fuck?”

“That one’s MINE!” yelled Big Danny, stopping just before he plowed Tony over, but still up in his face. “Not that one, man,” said Dan in a serious tone, his chest inflated, as he pointed to the flower. “That one’s mine. Go to one of them ones over there if you want one of your own. Don’t go to mine.”

“Jesus, Dan,” said Lenoldi, holding his hands partially up in a gesture of surrender and anticipated defense. (These two had trained against each other during many football practices, in the trenches of the line.) “Feeling a little over-protective?”

Dan tried to shrug it off, like he hadn’t meant to be that harsh – he looked to the others for support, only Chuckie gave it. “I guess I am,” Dan said, not quite meeting Tony’s eyes, fighting a losing battle with energy. “Sorry, bud.” He stepped back, but not quite away from the plant he’d claimed as his.

The moment became uncomfortably long, as Tony Lenoldi studied his friends again – the two monstrous behemoths that had been the too-thin Keith and the overweight W.B., living out every boy’s comic-book fantasy transformation – hulking out without the greenish-overtones – and then Chuckie and Big Danny acting like addicts, flexing and touching themselves…

“C’mon, already!” shouted Chuckie, breaking the silence. And before Tony Lenoldi could argue, Chuckie the wrestler pushed Tony’s head to the blossom of the plant Big Danny had indicated. “Breathe it all in the first time,” said Chuckie confidentially. “Don’t waste it like we did.”

Lenoldi’s instinct was to fight him, to pull away, but before he could act on the thought, the plant – the “head” of the cock-flower inches from his nose – spat a puffy load of clingy pollen right at him. Again, instinct told him to cough, or sneeze – but he didn’t.

Quite the opposite, in fact. The pollen didn’t tickle his nose the way allergens did – instead, it caressed his nostrils like a seasoned masseuse. The little that got in his mouth melted like cotton candy, like powdered honey. It was the nicest tasting drug he’d ever had. The boys cheered, with much punching of closed-fists.

“My turn!” shouted Big Danny (who was a loud drunk, too). He knelt down next to HIS plant – God forbid – and took several deep “practice” breaths, like he was about to hit the bong, then he buried his face in the petals and took the pollen only too greedily, like a bee with a vacuum cleaner. When he pulled his face away – shouting, “OH, yeah!” – there was a ring of golden dust around his mouth, like lipstick-lips on a clown. Big Danny licked at them for the next couple of minutes, until his growth distracted him.

Then Chuckie struck a pose like a confident statue, like a politician pontificating. “But Chuckie doesn’t waste a speck,” he announced, then knelt down next to his flower. He grabbed the base of it, then slipped the whole end into his mouth. He mocked giving it a blow-job for the boys, pretending he was giving the cock-shaped flower head, pretending to enjoy it – over-acting so much that one couldn’t help but see the inspirational grain of truth behind it – until the plant actually shot, then he choked and looked surprised, like an unexpected blooper on a live TV-show. Chuckie found himself almost choking on a huge wad of pollen. The plant had cum without warning, like a rude date.

That’s what actually made the boys laugh – even Tony Lenoldi, who wasn’t feeling anything yet.

He was surprised by how much he was anticipating it, though, even fearing it a little bit – like the moment before an uncertain carnival ride started. Fortunately, he wouldn’t have to wait long to find out – and it would last a lot longer than a three-minute kiddy-park roller-coaster.

This ride would be so much better.

 

19.

 

Murdock tilled the Near Field, the one behind the barn, catty-corner to the back yard. In baggy jeans – cinched tight at the waist by a leather belt – work boots, shirtless, bare but for a bandanna tied loosely around his neck, work gloves, and a baseball cap with “FBI” emblazoned across the brow, Murdock’s massive musculature soaked in the mid-morning sun, pumping up as much from the light as the work.

The machine offered some resistance, but it was easily controlled by someone of Murdock’s size, reducing it to nothing but a pleasant vibration through his body – which, it turned out, his Symbiont really liked. With that stimulation, Murdock felt like he could work the fields all the live-long day – (possibly all the doo-dah day as well) – somehow, readying the land seemed akin to foreplay. And a good part of foreplay was the teasing.

It wasn’t until he heard the triangular clang of the bell on the back porch of the house that he realized it was noon – the sun was directly overhead. Shutting off the machine and turning toward the house – the vibrating buzz ended, and that’s when Murdock realized he had a hard-on – he saw old man Bowden, ringing the bell for all it was worth. Wonder if the old man could see the rod in his pants from there?

“Lunch time!” the old man hollered, with surprising volume. “Come and get it!”

Since the symbiosis, Murdock hadn’t found the need to eat – he’d never gotten hungry. He enjoyed the physical sensations of eating – taste, etc – but he didn’t need it for fuel. (Part of the change in joining with a plant-based alien made him a child of the sun.) Still, he wouldn’t mind some water, so he set the machine aside and walked back toward the house. The field was about three-quarters done. He might be able to put in his seed sooner than he’d anticipated.

Old man Bowden was peppier than Murdock had seen him in the week they’d known each other. He was CLEAN for a starter – fresh from the shower, his skin actually looked ruddy. Clean shave, clean overalls, old man Bowden practically pranced around the kitchen – add “clean outlook” to that list, too. “I feel terrific, Mr. Murdock,” the old man said, when Murdock asked him. “I ain’t felt like this in quite a while. It’s the sounds of a farm bein’ worked in the spring-time. It’s good to hear. It makes an old man happy.” He was almost misty, Murdock noted, and felt a sudden pang of sentimentality for the old guy. Maybe he WOULD give the old man one of the plants, just to see what would happen.

Murdock chuckled. “Well, you’re more than welcome to come out and work it with me.”

Bowden smiled. “That’s young man’s work, Mr. Murdock. Lessen, of course, I was to have YOUR size…”

“Looks like you had a lot of size in your day,” Murdock said, getting the pitcher of fresh water out of the fridge. “My guess is you were pretty big.”

“Ayup,” agreed the old man, still with the energy of two pots of coffee. “’twarn’t never as big as you, Mr. Murdock, but I was a powerful man in my prime. I’d give anything to be like that again.” He fussed and fiddled and darted around the kitchen, setting the table and bringing the food (sandwich meat and white bread). Where had this depressed, defeated old man found all this energy?

If Murdock hadn’t known better, he’d say ol’ Ed Bowden had gotten ahold of a Symbiont. Unfortunately, the only one in this area was the Great Plant up in his room…

Murdock leapt to his feet, suddenly realizing. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and practically ran out of the kitchen toward the front parlor. All three floors of the house were open there, connected by a gigantic staircase that circled around the center. One could imagine comfortably shouting “Good night, John-Boy!” when the building had been filled by family, so many years ago.

Murdock ignored the stairs, easily jumping to the second-story landing – he couldn’t straight-jump to the third, though he’d come close – he could jump DOWN from three, but not straight up, not without grabbing on to something and leaping the rest of the way. The physical upgrade to the Symbiont had a few limits, but still a million times better than what he’d been before.

He jogged down to the end of the hall, finding the door to his bedroom locked, the way he’d left it. That was promising, at least. He fished the key out of his pocket and let himself in.

Nothing had been touched – neat and tidy, just as he’d left it. Maybe even cleaner… The Great Plant was in the east window, bathed still in the light of the day, though the flower pointed toward the door, like a cannon. “It’s just us,” said Murdock, though he was sure the Great Plant had sensed his Symbiont approach.

The Great Plant sat passively. Murdock didn’t get the usual sense of impatience he often felt emanating from the big flower – it seemed almost… settled.

Suspiciously, Murdock studied the Great Plant – it’s purple, tubular bloom – bigger than the other plants, something greater – and it’s huge, water-balloon-sized bulb, half-exposed in the pot. Murdock caressed it, knowing the creature inside was anxious to find a Host. “Soon, Great One,” Murdock whispered. “I’ll find the right man for you.”

Murdock suspected the Great Plant had already found its right man – what he didn’t know, what he couldn’t know, was that the Great Plant could make ANY man the right man. In the way that the ordinary Symbiont improved its Host, so too could the Great Plant raise a man to its specific standards. ANY man, it turned out – it just needed one.

Murdock suspected old man Bowden had a master key and had come snooping.

Well, maybe it was time to give old man Bowden some rough justice.

Chuckling, Murdock set a small trap.

 

20.

 

The Sheriff’s Deputy let himself into the front door of the Main Street Motel. Of medium height, though generously muscled, there was still a certain boyish-ness about him. “JUNIOR bodybuilder” might be the technical term, the correct descriptive, but that title might take away from the prettiness of his youthful face – yet the feminine-implied label of “Fitness model” was too soft. Somewhere in the middle. (Though in the uniform and cowboy hat as he was, “Exotic Dancer” might be the tightest fit. There was certainly something sensual about him – something sexual.)

He walked purposefully to the front desk, placing the loosely-wrapped package he was carrying on the floor. The motel manager, Walter Kennedy – (“Not related to THOSE Kennedys” was how the joke went.) – middle-aged, pear-shaped, Walter Kennedy, thick bifocals resting on the tip of his rounded nose, emerged from the back room.

“Deputy Wiggins!” Walter called, glancing the boy over. “Well, look at you! Don’t you look great?!” He leaned against the front desk, facing the well-muscled youth. “I think I know what’s happened to you.”

The Deputy couldn’t help but smile – he’d never been the object of attention before – he’d never been ANYTHING before he’d met the Sheriff – and now, EVERYBODY looked at him. (And he liked it.) “I haven’t been given the final gift,” the Deputy said, trying not to betray his disappointment, “but I have been improved.”

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence, as the Deputy allowed Walter the opportunity to openly stare at his body. He hadn’t known Walter was gay, not that it really mattered. Frankly, the Deputy LIKED having men stare at his body – even the straight men. But there was something different about the way the motel manager looked – something desperate.

Walter Kennedy broke the moment. “So, what brings you by?” he asked suddenly, nervously.

The Deputy broke a smile, like he’d just remembered. “Oh!” he said, bending over – making sure Kennedy got a good view of his tight, muscular ass – retrieving the package he’d come in with. He placed it on the desk. “This is for you, from the Sheriff. For your help with that FBI agent.”

Walter touched the package with nervous hands. “All this for doctoring a guest book?” he asked.

The Deputy shrugged. “The Sheriff has found you worthy,” he said, surprised that anyone would question the Sheriff’s judgment. “Open it.”

There were actually tears in Walter Kennedy’s eyes when he tore the paper away, exposing the pink, cock-shaped plant inside. “This is too much,” he said, bringing his face close to the flower. “How will I ever thank him?”

As the pollen burst onto the man’s heavy jowls, the Deputy said, “I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

He patted the choking motel manager on the back and headed out into the West Virginia sunshine. He had lots more deliveries to make.

 

21.

 

The other boys were so far along on their trip that Tony Lenoldi – worried that he’d never catch up to them – almost hadn’t realized his buzz had started. Chuckie had already pulled off his own shirt, and they could all see the size he’d gained, His five-six frame looked full and mature – as proportionately perfect as any man ever was – though if Keith and W.B. were any indication, he still had a ways to go.

Big Danny hadn’t taken his t-shirt off yet, though it was sleeveless, and his arms showed the cabled-power of growth. Danny had always been rather flat-chested, with puffy, almost feminine nipples. They embarrassed him so much that he RARELY exposed his torso to the other boys, but loved to show off his strong arms and shoulders. His thick joints gave him a wide back, a wide waist, and thick ankles. Danny could comfortably hold lots more muscle.

And they were both of them getting erections. Tony could see the stiff woodies growing in the crotch of their pants – shorts in Chuckie’s case; Big Danny in warm-ups. Either way, they couldn’t hide the fact that they were aroused. Stranger still, it didn’t seem to bother them. They acted as if having a hard-on in front of friends was no big deal – normal.

It bothered Tony only in an intellectual way. He knew he should’ve been upset about his friends flexing and horsing around while sporting erections, but he couldn’t make himself care. As a matter of fact, his mind kept finding ways to rationalize it – to make it seem okay. Meanwhile, his sense of inhibition chimed in with a sarcastic “Who cares?” (His libido hollered “Shut da fuck up!” like a renter in a Brooklyn tenement.)

There was so much going on in his head that it was harshing his buzz. He felt so good, so up and hyped, so pumped, that he didn’t want to waste it worrying. If he could just stop thinking so much, his buzz would be that much stronger.

Maybe he’d even grow a little bit.

Why shouldn’t his arms be as big as Chuckie’s were becoming? As hard as W.B.’s – who was flexing Most-Musculars facing Big Danny, forehead to forehead while they mirrored each other, the two of them growling like the Hulk. Tony Lenoldi had always had the biggest arms. Those guys hadn’t really started getting big arms until they’d had their second hit.

With that thought, Tony smiled and dropped to his knees.

“Tony Lenoldi goes in for another round!” called Chuckie in his usual sports-commentator manner. They all cheered for him, even Keith, who didn’t seem part of the party – like he was keeping watch or something.

Ah, who the fuck cares?

Tony Lenoldi put his mouth over the tip of the flower – HIS flower, the most beautiful of them all – opening his jaw easily and submissively – the most natural motion. Just as he started to inhale, the plant – with a perfect sense of timing – shot its load of pollen into the back of his throat. Tony Lenoldi had never given a blow-job, but swallowing seemed the easiest thing in the world. It seemed like he was born to it. (Maybe more like he was RE-born to it.) He took every bit of pollen the plant felt like giving, every granule.

He held his breath – like he’d been hitting the bong – but he hadn’t needed to. The pollen was in his lungs, already working its voodoo (that it do so well); it was in his stomach, already soaking into his bloodstream. He tried to clear his head – he wanted to stand – he wanted to stop feeling so dizzy – but for now he kept on his hands and knees, inches from his fostering bloom, the drums of jungle-lovin’ finding a common groove with his heart.

The sense of pleasure rose and rose – he felt so good, it became IMPOSSIBLE to think. Everything was a turn-on. Everything. Flexing his muscles felt so amazing.

In a blinding haze, he watched Chuckie kneel and put his half-erect cock into the plant’s blossom – Big Danny did the same thing, echoing Chuckie’s look of hopeless ecstasy. Even THAT didn’t seem wrong to Tony Lenoldi.

And then W.B. was next to him, laughing, mock-punching him in the gut. Tony Lenoldi smiled and raised his shirt, so W.B. could see his target: Tony’s sudden rock-hard wall of abs. Spellbound by his own stomach, Tony flexed hard and studied his new striations – look at those bricks! It was so hot, he even started to get an erection. Well, why wouldn’t he? He was so masculine and powerful, he’d naturally get turned on by himself. And that W.B. was standing right there in front of him? So what – let him see it. Remind him of Tony Lenoldi’s power…

He heard Chuckie’s scream, but it didn’t register – he was too busy studying his abs. Feeling the wet slap of Chuckie’s cum across his t-shirt got his attention, though. (Actually, it gave him a good excuse to take his shirt off.) He didn’t get angry – he just used his t-shirt to clean Chuckie’s spattered cum off his torso.

When, smiling, he looked over at Chuckie, he saw his friend standing now, still his usual five-six, but as massive as Keith or W.B., that same look of masculine confidence on his face, his cock still dripping from his orgasm. Chuckie cupped his huge balls, holding them like delicate Faberge eggs. Tony Lenoldi was surprised to find himself feeling proud of his friend – why? – he was lost in a haze of pleasure.

And then Big Danny roared almost next to him, standing himself. By the time Tony focused on him, Big Danny blew his load, spraying the hillside and the barren train tracks. His head thrown back, his arms out to his sides, his back arched, Big Danny – because of his height – was even BIGGER than the other boys. He’d finally filled out. (Frankly, he overflowed.) “We’re complete!” Big Danny yelled, tearing his ill-fitting sleeveless t-shirt away from his body – nothing wrong with his pecs now. They were just perfect. “We’re fuckin’ finally complete!”

He and Chuckie high-fived with both hands and began wrestling, this time not trying to ignore their hard-ons. They seemed to focus on them.

Tony Lenoldi wasn’t repulsed by this. Quite the opposite, he understood almost – he empathized. He looked down at his own cock, already at half-mast, pushing out against his shorts. He couldn’t help but touch it. He almost HAD to pull it out and look at it. God DAMN, how much he loved his cock – and how it had grown!

So big – almost the exact shape of the blossom, the beautiful bud of his plant – the arc, the thickness. Isn’t that funny? Why, it could fit in there exactly… It would feel…

He wasn’t even aware of the other boys when he slipped his cock into the flower – he’d stopped caring. He could feel the velvety coolness of the petals tickle his skin, his breath hitching by the inch. As the pleasure bloomed, he felt the tip of his penis push into the stamen at the base of the bud. He was even aware that it was moving, that it was penetrating his piss-slit. Alive. It was alive!

But it felt so good! Better than any pussy, any cheerleader’s spirited tongue, any pathetic teenaged fantasy could ever hope to be. As the petal tickled his penis, the vine acted as a living catheter – and it felt so fucking good!

And then the creature, the slimy, wormy entrance of the thing that had been living in the flower’s bulb. The thought of this greasy invader sliding through his cock should’ve scared him, but he was lost in his feelings – he wasn’t thinking anymore. The plant had made sure of that. As it curled around inside his balls, its gentle squeeze like a living cock-ring, and all he did was welcome it.

The power overwhelmed him; the growth distracted him. He could feel the creature’s tendrils growing into his mind, clawing into his brain, but the sunshine of ecstasy made it impossible to resist.

He gave in as easily as everybody else.

Symbiosis.

A new, gigantic Tony Lenoldi stood and sprayed his powerful orgasm over the same hillside as the others – there ought to be a hell of a flower patch there tomorrow! He heard the guys cheering – but was aware of them in a different way, too. He could sense the Symbionts inside them – as well as his own. The Symbionts all seemed to cheer, as well.

Reaching down with his massive arms – again the biggest of all the boys – Tony Lenoldi held his balls amidst the waves of love and devotion he experienced.

“We’re complete,” he said simply.

 

22.

 

Murdock was almost completely finished tilling the Near Field – literally within feet of it – when the alarm-beeper began buzzing in his pocket. “That son of a bitch,” Murdock said to himself as he turned off the big machine. “That nosy old mother-fucker HAS been in my room.” (Had he discovered the Great Plant?)

He ran back to the house in a speedy hustle, bound up the back steps into the kitchen, then – as usual – straight-jumped to the second-floor landing in the parlor. A simple flip over the rail, a leap down the hall, and the muscular former-agent had his hand on the door – the door that now stood partially open.

“Hey, old man,” Murdock called in his deep basso, “what are you doin’ in my…?”

And there he was, the old man – Murdock saw it, but was barely able to take in the scene.

Old Ed Bowden knelt on the floor before the Great Plant in the window, his head buried in the blossom, literally swallowed by the flower, as if the plant had been suckling his head like a pacifier. His exposed shoulders were covered in dusty pollen.

The old man pulled his head out of the giant, purple blossom, looking like someone had taken a bag of all-purpose flour and dumped it on his head – he smiled, a great, greedy grin on his face. “Too late, Mr. Murdock,” he said through the thick dust. “Too late.”

The old man collapsed – and before Murdock could react, the changes began.

[Absman420]

POLLINATION: The Series – pt5

23.

In late spring, a fine day in Upstate New York would bring out every middle-aged biker the highway could handle. In their winter-dusted leathers, the upper-middle class lawyers and dentist-type Harley owners – the ones with enough money to afford their motorcycle fantasies instead of having to sacrifice for them - they’d be cruising along loudly on the interstates, banded in loose groups of four or five, however many over-the-hill married men it took to feel masculine.

Snake – slowly working his way to Canada – spent this week-long stretch of abnormally warm weather playing games along Interstate 81 North (just south of Watertown). His modified Road King growled through a landscape that was just forgetting the effects of winter, just shifting into full-gear spring. It was the season in which plants grew in abandon, and Snake was taking full advantage of the moment.

His game went like this:

He’d find a group of these Harley wanna-be’s cruising along the interstate – almost always dressed in iron-creased jeans, boots, and some kind of H/D t-shirt (sometimes rock&roll concert tees) – a few leather vests, the more courageous in chaps. He could smell the type – they rode erect, spines straight and rigid, never at ease with the power they were controlling, never displaying the relaxed confidence of a true biker. (Of someone like Snake.)

They’d be riding in formation in the right lane – their pecking order established by whatever ritual these types go through – when Snake would pull up from behind them and slowly pass them on the left, until he was even with the leader of the pack, allowing every man to get a good look at him, at his enormous, exposed triceps.

(Now, to adequately understand Snake’s size, the reader may want to quickly visit the Harley-Davidson web site and take a look at the Road King, a cruiser bike. Look at the size of it. Really look at it. Now, imagine the size of the man it would take to make that bike look small. How big would he have to be? Well-over six-feet, to have the leg clearance, right? What kind of weight would he have to carry to make a thick, dense cruising bike like the Harley Road King look almost too small to support him – three-hundred, three-hundred twenty-five pounds? Picture musculature with almost no bodyfat, flawless skin, encased in a pair of leather pants and vest, a wrist-cuff on one arm, and a biceps-band on the other, a black bandanna (decorated with little skulls) covering his head, and a thick goatee on his chin. THAT was Snake – NOT pro-wrestling’s “Undertaker,” though guys had made the comparison before. They DID look similar, except Snake was a lot bigger.)

He’d ride even with these “bikers” – his attitude would add the quotes – and they’d usually make some kind of welcoming gesture, small waves and what-not – some men believed that by simply OWNING a Harley, they were automatically in some fraternity. They wouldn’t be able to see Snake’s eyes behind his sunglasses, so they couldn’t read him exactly, but he’d usually nod slightly toward the leader, to make them think they WERE in some special club. (They would be soon enough, a TRUE fraternity.)

He’d roar his beast forward a bit, until he took the mantle of head, and he’d lead them to one of many unmanned rest stops along the highway. Of course they’d pull in – they’d follow him anywhere. A three-hundred pound bodybuilder on a modified Road King would peak the interest of ANY forty-to-sixty year-old in mid-life crisis.

In Upstate New York, rest areas are little more than their name describes. Sometimes, there’s not even a toilet, although there was at this particular stop. Of the three rest areas that Snake frequented along this stretch of highway, it was the only one that did. Not that it mattered, but it did give him an easy excuse to step away from them for a moment – though at the other places, he’d say he was gonna go “shoot the bark off a tree.” (That would always get a laugh.)

He’d lead them to the back, park them as far away from the road as possible, and shut off his bike. There’s not a man alive who doesn’t have a partial rod – a chubby at least – when he gets off his motorcycle, and Snake was no exception. And the thing living in Snake’s balls, the alien creature that gave Snake his size and physical prowess, the Symbiont LOVED the stimulating vibration of riding. When Snake got off his bike at rest stops, his cock would be HEAVY with pleasure – and in his tight leather pants, painfully obvious.

By reading the back of his vest, they already knew his name – (The elaborate stitching had been done by an artist/ craftsman who did art-work for a lot of the Harley “community.” On his vest, the word “Snake” with a beautifully rendered golden cobra, risen from its own coils, neck flared, ready to attack. It was a multi-colored, complex work, artfully done. Snake had been so impressed, he’d given the guy a Symbiont of his own for payment.) – they would introduce themselves to him and tell him their names, but he’d never remember them. All that mattered was that they knew HIM.

He was Snake, and he’d lead them to the forbidden fruit.

He’d excuse himself immediately – to go shoot the bark off a tree, remember? – because, as part of his game, he needed to give them a moment alone, to react to him while he wasn’t there – to admire his bike – and to come to a collective decision about how to treat him.

Of course, what he really needed to do was blow a load. There was little use denying the thrill the Symbiont got from riding the motorcycle, and Snake had to fight to keep from spontaneously orgasming in front of his prey. If he seemed impatient, or even gruff – while he tried to be friendly – that would be why. So, he’d excuse himself, go to the men’s – or find himself a barky target – and find some release. By the time he’d get back, things would be in full swing.

Often, they’d find the flowers themselves. Snake had led them to the right spot, after all – usually the furthest away from the highway – and had gone to great trouble to seed the area. If they hadn’t discovered his grove by the time he’d gotten back to the group, he’d point them out (often with the obvious “What the hell kind of flowers are those?”).

Someone from the gang would be sent to investigate – usually the guy riding last – and before long, pollen would be all over his face. One by one the rest of them would end up the same way, until Snake stood there watching a field full of frolicking middle-aged men, frisky and flighty. When they’d invite him to join them, he’d say, “No need, gentlemen. We’ve already sniffed a flower. We’ve already tasted that pollen.” Sometimes, he’d add a flex for emphasis.

And that would get them, that realization. If they hadn’t had their second hit by then, Snake’s words would motivate it. And before long, these clunky, out-of-shape motorcycle clubs would become true muscle gangs – the kind of guys Snake would be proud to ride with. Their muscle would bloat and swell, challenging their chaps or their pressed jeans – usually winning – their soft guts and flabby chins would harden and sharpen. Their bald heads and bushy gray moustaches would become sexy instead of sorrowful.

Yes, they’d be a completely different group of guys upon their exit back to the road. A gang of mature muscle mammoths, a roving fantasy of muscle-daddies cruising the highways for man-flesh. Snake loved the effect. From standing there at their immediate completion, when the Symbionts would first take hold and the group of them orgasmed together – having other Symbionts near only added to the power of their climaxes (Snake’s included), bringing it to another level – to the first time they’d ride their bikes after the transformation, heavy with muscle, straining their shock-absorbers with their masculinity, it was all great for Snake.

He would always see the same look of bliss on their faces, especially when their Symbionts experienced the joys of riding, the heavy vibration of the engine between their legs for the first time. If there had been any doubt about their acceptance of the Symbiosis, the initial orgasm on the motorcycle would cure it. They’d become what Snake was: a roaming re-populator – a wild card.

He played this way for well over a week, bringing thirty or forty guys into the fold - he’d lost track - then sending them on their way. That doesn’t even count the guys who’d found the rest-stop flowers accidentally, pulling over for a quick nap as they traveled the highways of Upstate New York, only to find a different destiny waiting for them at the roadside.

Eventually, Snake continued on his way, following the St. Lawrence River along old route 11, working his way to Canada.

He hoped the others were having as much success as him.

 

24.

 

“Well, Sheriff Lane, it seems reports of your growth aren’t greatly exaggerated.”

The Sheriff smiled and inadvertently flexed his massive pecs, causing them to bounce beneath his skin-tight uniform. “Depends on what you’ve heard, Mayor,” he said, his voice deeper than the Mayor remembered. “Some of the stories put us at ten feet tall and eight-hundred pounds - truth is, still six-one, and only weigh three-twenty. Hate to tell you what we’ve heard about our genitals.” He chuckled lightly, stopping only when he’d realized the Mayor hadn’t joined in.

“What HAS happened to you, Sheriff?” The Mayor said, sitting on the edge of his desk, motioning for the Sheriff to take the chair before it. “I’ve always known you to be a big man, but this…”

“Incredible, isn’t it?” the Sheriff asked. “And to think it was an accident.” He sat, the muscles of his legs so large that he had to sit with them wide open. It was impossible for the Mayor to ignore the size of the Sheriff’s package, his obscene penis. It was almost like the Sheriff wanted it that way - the uniform barely held him.

“An accident?”

The Sheriff smiled - a very handsome man - had the Mayor always remembered him as handsome? - and said, “I was in the right place at the right time.”

“Well, that’s what I want to hear about, Sheriff. In order to decide if you’re still able to do your job effectively, I want to know all about this right place/ right time.”

That smirk again, that cocky, confident smirk. Whatever had happened to the Sheriff, it didn’t seem to trouble him - he seemed almost anxious to talk about it. Or maybe he just liked the attention. “My pleasure, Sheriff,” he said, adjusting his big balls, making himself more comfortable. “Of course, it’d be just as easy to show you.”

“Show me? What do you mean?”

The Sheriff spoke into his radio. “Deputy,” he asked, not waiting for confirmation before he continued, “what’s your twenty?”

The radio crackled with the light tenor of the Deputy. “Just finishing up on Main Street, Sir. What do you need?”

“Meet me at the Mayor’s office as quick as you can,” he said, looking at the Mayor as he spoke. “And bring a package.”

“10-4.”

Then, the moment of silence as the Sheriff and the Mayor studied each other, the awkward time when neither of them really knew what to say, the Sheriff a study of arrogance and power - it radiated from him, making him impossible to ignore - the Mayor, a mixture of confusion, curiosity, suspicion, and somewhat lusty intrigue. On the one hand, whatever had happened to the Sheriff, was that really such a horrible fate? Didn’t every man secretly dream of a sense of masculinity so out-of-control? On the other hand, what would a transformation like that do to your mind?

The atmosphere thickened as they waited silently for the arrival of the Deputy.

 

25.

 

In Indiana, the boys split up. Everybody had their own agenda, and the Symbionts were only too happy to manifest the boy’s long-held, secret fantasies, for didn’t they usually end with pollination? A couple of these moments are worth looking at, albeit briefly, for there’s still the major branch of the plot to address.

First at Big Danny and Chuckie, the tallest and the shortest of the group, as they headed toward the little ramshackle ranch house belonging to Danny’s older brother, Don. (It doesn’t end there, gentle reader! The brothers Dan and Don came from their humorless father, Dean. No wonder their mother died so young, trying to keep all those vowels straight.) Don, recently divorced, lived there alone, if one could call his spiral of self-abuse living.

Only three years older than Danny, he’d quit high school at seventeen to enlist in the army, only to be dishonorably discharged within a year for selling narcotics. From there, it was a small step toward petty crime and destruction – Don’s only point of pride was that he’d kept out of jail for over three years.

He was home smoking some sweet stash when the boys rapped on his door. “Yo!” he called, as he blew out the smoke from the hit, a slight cough that he tried to contain unsuccessfully.

When they stepped through the door, and he saw what had happened to them, Don questioned his buzz. “What the fuck have I been smokin’?” he thought. One of them looked like his little brother, although there was almost nothing little about him now. And that other one, the short one, that was definitely his brother’s buddy, Chuckie - it was Chuckie’s face – only Chuckie after about two-hundred pounds of additional muscle.

“What the fuck’s goin’ on?” he asked, setting the bong on the floor.

Danny walked up to him. “Got somethin’ to show you, bro,” he said, and held out a plant in his hands. He’d unearthed it, not picked it - it still had its root structure, the odd-looking bulb that sprouted the flower - a flower that looked remarkably like a penis.

But before Don could get out, “What the fuck is that?” the plant shot its wad in his face.

A few minutes after that, no other drug mattered.

All Joe Lenoldi, Senior, had been thinking about as his day had become worse and worse was how good that first martini was going to taste. The renovations on his house - the EXPENSES - were finally complete, and Joe looked forward to nothing more than relaxing in the new sun-room as he sipped his evening drink. Even better that his wife was away at that ridiculous spiritual workshop, dancing naked in the woods and worshipping plants, or whatever those weirdo women did - he’d be able to watch some pornography and beat off in peace.

How he looked forward to that during his headache-ridden day.

He didn’t announce himself as he came in the door as he usually did - he hadn’t seen Tony’s car in the garage - so he caught his son by surprise in the sun-room.

Well, it was hard to say which of the two of them were more surprised, father or son. Imagine coming into your new sun-room - your EXPENSIVE new sun-room - ablaze with the late afternoon light, only to see your son, barely eighteen, so swollen with muscle as to dwarf the men they call professional bodybuilders, his youthful face, suddenly mature and angled, the obscene size of his body.

And if that weren’t enough, suppose you came upon this scene. Suppose he’d torn out all of the houseplants that your wife had painstakingly - and expensively - placed around the room, leaving only the dirt in the pots. (He’d stacked all the unearthed houseplants in a pile by the door.)

Now imagine that your muscle-freak son, who’d torn all the houseplants out of your new sun-room, was masturbating over the empty pots, stroking his impossibly long penis as his cum dripped into the dirt.

Who was more surprised, father or son?

The son shrugged, heaving his heavy shoulders up and dropping them quickly. “It’s a great room for growing things,” he said, his voice deeper and richer. Taking his time, he tucked his abundant cock back into his shorts.

“Tony, what’s happened to you?”

“Relax,” said Tony, reaching out and taking his father’s arm, holding him by the biceps. “We’re gonna show you.”

It wasn’t long before the room was full of flowers, produced by both of them.

So it spread. Man to man, father to son, brother to brother, like a weed. Unchecked, it quickly took control of the garden, choking out the competition, adapting to its circumstance. New shafts sprouted often and in unexpected places. It couldn’t be controlled.

Of course, with OUR short attention spans, it would be easy to be distracted by all this new growth and we might forget to look in the thick of the trunk, right? But don’t worry. This narrative will leave no leaf unturned, no root-system forgotten - this story will be tended with the care of the best editorial horticulturist.

So, how can we follow so many divergent branches at the same time? How many subplots will we watch grow out-of-control before we decide to prune? How can we group them together in one big storied-bouquet?

Easy. We’ll demonstrate:

That night, as Tony Lenoldi slept wrapped in the even more mind-blowing arms of his father, his father’s cock nestled between the halves of his ass, as Danny and Donny Wall, nearly identical now in body, lay exhausted on the living room floor from the marathon of fucking, as the Mayor lightly snoozed in his creaking leather desk-chair as the Sheriff’s Deputy continued to give him head, as ordered by their now mutual Master, Sheriff Lane, that night, they all had the same dream.

Farmland. Acres and acres of tilled and turned-earth. The flat expanse suggested the midwest, probably Nebraska or Kansas. In a dream-state, it was hard to be sure. Most of them would wake to say Kansas, though they wouldn’t know why. The dream presented only a feeling.

The earth needed sowing - it called for their seed. They knew/ felt that, too.

And then, HE was there, a silhouette against the sky, blocking the sun. There were few details, other than an overwhelming sense of power. He was an older man, with powerful eyes, bigger, taller, more muscular than anything imaginable. He was greater than any of them, even if He couldn’t be seen clearly, even if He were only a shadow, a promise.

When He spoke, the timbre of His voice was unable to be ignored, hypnotic, deep and passionate. “You’re needed,” He said without speaking, motioning one huge arm to the earth. “Your seed will be needed.”

And then the sudden close-up of His eyes, His powerful, fiery yellow eyes.

“Obey the Great One!”

And then the shared orgasm - all of them, all over the United States (and by the location of Snake’s fitful sleep, the border of Canada, too), they all shot at once. They all woke with the same knowledge.

There was a Great One.

And He was in Kansas.

 

[Absman420]

POLLINATION: The Series - pt6

26.

The man who had been Agent Wolf Murdock worked endlessly in the fields, preparing the land for seeding, spreading fertilizer, tilling earth, a far cry from the rigors of his former profession, but now the single most important drive of his life. Not that much of it was really HIS life, anymore.

It was a plant that was inside him, after all - yes, a plant with which he’d achieved Symbiosis, but a plant, nonetheless - and plants grew. It was their nature. When Murdock was asleep, or lost in the throes of passion, the plant could expand a little, slip its tendrils a bit further into Murdock’s mind. It would boost his sense of pleasure, deadening his resistance, and then assert itself a tiny fraction more. Soon, Murdock came to believe the plant’s motives were his own, and it was only a short step before Murdock was the passenger, and the plant was the dominant of the pairing.

Murdock didn’t even realize that he hardly existed anymore, that he was just along for the ride, floating in a pool of pleasure, a blissful coma, as he watched his actions through his own eyes and believed he was in control. The man that had been Agent Wolf Murdock continued his work on the fields, knowing the Great One would soon arrive.

Once here, re-population could begin in earnest.

 

27.

 

It was probably not the way old Ed Bowden imagined his retirement years - that seems a fair statement. Closing in on eighty, it would be safe to say that he’d given up his aspirations for bodybuilding, however ill-defined they may have been. (Even when he’d been younger, Ed’s build had never been described better than “strapping,” so it’s not like he’d been disappointed or bitter.) He wasn’t capable of imagining the details of his own transformation - he had less than an eighth-grade education - so the thought had probably never crossed his mind - even in the creative guise of fantasy.

Fortunately for Ed, he hadn’t had to imagine anything. He could FEEL it. That’s how he knew it was real.

He’d never taken Viagra, though he knew what it was - enough to joke with the boys down at the feed store, or the barbershop - but what the pollen had done to him, that dusty emission from the plant in Murdock’s room, made Viagra seem about as powerful as placebo.

He’d been almost constantly hard throughout the transformation - three solid days. The level of pleasure was so high that he only kept track of time by the presence of the sun - he remembered counting three nights - the pleasure was so much greater when there was sun. He’d collapsed before the Great Plant when it first pollinated him, overwhelmed with reality, already high from the buzz. When he’d awoken, he’d found himself lain in the root structure, supported by shoots and great flat leaves, surprisingly comfortable.

He was facing the blossom - that is, the big flower came up between his spread legs and angled down toward him. Tendrils wrapped around his arms and ankles, two ropes around his chest, they kept him from moving, but he didn’t feel he was a prisoner. Another sort of shoot enveloped his withered old penis - a half-formed flower, it seemed - a tendril around his balls like a cock-ring, so soft and stimulating - the Great Plant gave him almost continual head. And for a man who’d had oral sex only once (and that was when he’d had a prostitute in Dodge City before he was married), Ed had known this was better - the best he’d be likely to ever get.

There was another vine - Ed could feel it, but denied he could - the one tickling his asshole, growing into him. Every release, every jolt allowed it in a little deeper, to grow a little thicker. He’d been afraid to admit how much he’d liked it, so he ignored it. He wouldn’t be able to do that for much longer.

As had been happening for the last three days, as Ed’s head began to clear, the blossom lowered itself to his face, sealing its edges like a surgical mask. Ed could feel the velvety softness of the petals against his skin, dry and cool - he could smell the pungent aroma of the flower, like old sex in an air-tight room.

And then it would shoot the pollen. Slowly at first, the hint of its coming like the realization of incense on the breeze, stage-fog at a rock-n-roll concert, and then the full dose, wave after wave, coinciding with his inhalations, constantly, until his lungs were nearly full of powder.

It would move away from his face like they’d just finished a passionate kiss, and the stimulation of his cock would begin (and his asshole - C’mon, Ed, admit it!). When his breath would hitch from the strains of pleasure, little bursts of pollen would escape his lips, little gurgles of powdered ecstasy.

The first few times, he almost drowned, choking from the dust in his lungs. But just as he’d start to panic, the pollen seemed to MELT into him, absorbed by his bloodstream. Just as quickly as he lost his breath, he regained it. As a matter of fact, the slight jolt of instinctual panic that he’d feel at those moments propelled him into the thick of the buzz, the expansion of his personal power, the rush of adrenaline.

He could feel himself growing. He could feel his muscles expand, thicken with mass and strength. As the plant sucked his cock, he could feel the growth there, too - the vine leading to his ass certainly got bigger, but he allowed it in, lost in the penetration. His ribcage continually inflated, larger with each breath - or maybe the plant was blowing him up like a balloon. Old Ed Bowden didn’t care as long as the pleasure continued.

And the bigger he got, the more pleasure he experienced, the more power he felt. In this dream state, none of it seemed quite real. If it looked like his legs were getting longer, if he felt his arms lengthening as well as thickening, his back expanding, well, that was just the buzz affecting his senses. That kind of stuff was physically impossible. Eighty year old men didn’t grow. Hell, just the opposite.

The vine in his ass branched out, and he let out a moan. He felt something growing into his cock - growing INTO his cock! He couldn’t help but panic, no matter how far along in the buzz he was. No matter how good this all felt.

Then the flower lowered to his face again, finding the pace of his breath, forcing more and more of the pollen into him, smothering him with it.

Good Lord, something was entering his cock! Something long and wet, thick…

…alive!

And then the jolt as the vine shot up deep in his ass - ecstasy! - as the life-form slid into his balls. The power! The overwhelming power!

It was the kind of energy that an eighty year old body wasn’t quite ready to take, not that one could expect an alien to know that. Old Ed Bowden’s heart wasn’t up to the task at hand.

It’d stopped beating before the creature settled completely into his balls.

 

28.

 

“Ten-hut! General in the room!”

He had the stride of a man with a purpose, a man so aware of his own importance that his sense of self overpowered the room. A strong man, still with a build as disciplined as when he was a cadet - that’s what he liked to say - the General was a man with little time to waste on scientists.

So when the little balding man in the white lab coat shook his hand, it reaffirmed the General’s opinions - soft and weak. How could such intelligent men be so undisciplined about their bodies?

“Welcome, General. I’m Dr. Melvin Stanley. Thank you for coming down here this afternoon. I appreciate your making time for us.”

“I don’t have a lot, Dr. Stanley. Be brief.”

“Yes, sir,” the wimpy little scientist said, leading the General across the room as he spoke. “It’s about something one of your operatives found in the field. We’ve been studying it now for a few days and think our findings are important enough to involve the military.”

The General nodded - another scientist with a scheme. He hated this aspect of his job. “Show me what you got, Dr. Stanley.”

They stepped into a small observation room, the scientist closing the door behind them. One wall was almost completely two-way glass, looking into an examination room - or was it a holding cell? - a small table and a lone chair. Patiently standing to one side was a man of about thirty - jar-head, fantastic shape, clearly and obviously a soldier, though dressed only in olive boxer shorts and a tight tan undershirt, displaying his obvious fitness, but not bragging about it.

The scientist indicated him. “This is Staff-Sergeant Adam Wendt - he volunteered for this duty. His core-team were the men responsible for the discovery.”

The General crossed his arms - he was not one for dramatics. “Discovery of what, Doctor?”

The scientist pressed a button on a small console next to the mirror. He spoke into the speaker beneath it. “Proceed, gentlemen.”

A panel in the examination room wall opened, and the Staff-Sergeant immediately swung his head toward the motion. A shelf slid into the room, holding a potted plant, the tubular flower resembling a man’s genitals. The General snorted. “You brought me down here for gardening?”

“Just watch, sir.” The scientist pushed the console button again. “Staff-Sergeant Wendt?” he asked, and the man in the room came to immediate attention. “You may start when ready.”

The Staff-Sergeant quickly glanced at the mirror (clearly he knew he was being watched), then took two determined strides toward the plant. The General was about to make another sarcastic comment about this waste of his time when he saw the plant suddenly move. It was like the flower sensed the Staff-Sergeant’s approach and re-aimed. How was that poss…?

Just as unexpectedly, the plant launched a dusty ball of pollen directly at the Staff-Staff-Sergeant’s face, hitting him squarely in the upper-lip -- some of the pollen spattered against the two-way mirror, right in front of the General. “What the hell…?”

The scientist nodded, shooting a side-long look to the General, then almost immediately back to the Staff-Sergeant. (This would be the third time Dr. Stanley had seen this transformation - he held his clipboard in front of his crotch already.) “Keep watching, General,” he said. “It’s just beginning.”

As the General watched, the Staff-Sergeant threw his head back and roared, and the General could clearly see the man’s erection.

What the hell was going on?

[Absman420]

POLLINATION - The Series: pt7

29.

The invitation read, “Guy’s Night at the Lenoldi’s! We want to show off our new additions! Join us in our re-modeled sun-room on Friday Night (the last weekend the wife is out of town) and enjoy being a guy! Cocktails (or sodas) at seven. Comfortable dress. Hope you can squeeze us in.”

Mitch McIntyre read it one more time before he got out of his Honda Civic, parked about a block away from the Lenoldi’s - the road in front of their house had been THAT crowded, lined with much nicer cars than his. It was a bigger party than he’d expected. He knew a couple of the other teachers had been invited - Gregg Lidster, the football coach, and that guy Weir, whatever his first name was, the physical trainer who got the plum assignment of teaching high-school sex-ed. Mitch was actually kind of excited, strangely proud, about being in their company. Imagine, a jock like Tony Lenoldi including Mitch McIntyre, the BOTANY teacher, on his list of favorites.

An impressive house, certainly not anything Mitch would ever be able to afford, not if he stayed in education, but he tried not to let his envy show as he rang the doorbell.

He’d never met the senior Lenoldi, so he didn’t know what to expect, but the mind-blowing bodybuilder who answered the door had never been in the equation. He was clearly a Lenoldi - he had Tony’s face, only mature -- Tony’s coloring and structure, even a few mannerisms - but he must’ve weighed three-hundred pounds! He wore a black cotton/spandex T-shirt, which showed every over-developed muscle group, his bulbous pecs, his gigantic traps and delts, the rock-hard dents of his stomach, and a pair of silk dress pants which didn’t leave much to the imagination, impossible to hide the size of his legs, or the fact that he wasn’t wearing underwear, and the impressive monster that lurked beneath that.

“Hello!” he said, offering his hand. “Welcome. I’m Joe Lenoldi.”

They shook - Mitch worried that his hand would be crushed, but Lenoldi was nothing more than firm. “Mr. Lenoldi, I’m Mitch McIntyre, one of Tony’s teachers.”

“Ah,” Lenoldi said, his voice so deep and strong, “the botany teacher. Excellent. Especially glad YOU could come.” He turned his head toward the house and yelled, “Tony!”

He wore an impressive amount of jewelry - a thick gold chain around his neck, a matching bracelet, a Rolex on the other arm, several heavy rings - but Mitch couldn’t get over the man’s size. Just as he was about to comment on it, young Tony appeared in the doorway next to his father.

Now, Mitch knew Tony. He’d taught the boy for two years - both botany AND chemistry. They weren’t particularly close, but Tony was a good student, hardly a behavioral problem, humorous but respectful. Tony was a jock in high-school parlance, a varsity letterman, popular. He’d had an athletic build, though favored in the arms and back, but still youthful.

The Tony Lenoldi that stood next to his father now was an almost exact image OF his father - the only difference seemed to be their ages, their level of maturity. Not only dressed alike, their bodies, their over-sized musculature was identical, too. Tony, an eighteen year-old high-school senior, had the massive bulk of a fully-mature bodybuilder, the swollen, pumped muscle of steroid obsession.

When had Mitch seen him last? Wednesday afternoon, study hall? Yeah, yeah. Hanging with that gang of his, that pack of five. Somehow, in just over forty-eight hours, Tony Lenoldi had gained almost two-hundred pounds of muscle. How was that possible…?

“Hey, Mr. Mac!”

“Tony? Oh my God, what’s happened to you?”

The boy laughed. “Isn’t it fuckin’ awesome!?” He flexed his traps and popped his chest, which jumped beneath the tight material of his black shirt.

“Tony,” said his father, “language.”

“Sorry, dad,” he said, and ducked his head, a three-hundred pound chastised son.

The older Lenoldi took control of the conversation, turning his attention back to Mitch. “Mr. McIntyre, why don’t you come in and get comfortable, safe in the knowledge that, indeed, we will share what happened to us with you.” He backed up enough to allow Mitch entry and gestured that it was okay. Without ever really breaking his stare, Mitch went in, almost rubbing up against the both of them for lack of room around their massive builds.

There were quite a few more people than he was expecting, probably twenty-five or so men scattered around the house. And what a house! Opulent and tasteful, the hand of MRS. Lenoldi was evident everywhere, for Mitch found the decorations - though exquisite - terribly feminine.

High-ceilings, lots of light, the restoration of this old Victorian town-house was worth more than the three sentences wasted on it in this narrative, but there’s already been one construction-crew story told in these pages, so there won’t be any space lost on this one.

These two identically massive beasts led Mitch through the lower floor, the parlor, the living room. A pianist sat at the baby grand and cocktailed lightly -- Mitch noted that he was a very FIT pianist, but didn’t know why he’d automatically assume a musician wouldn’t be. And why should it be surprising that at a party thrown by father-and-son bodybuilders, the “help” would be all the gym-rats they knew?

There seemed to be a bit of a haze in the room that Mitch initially took to be cigarette smoke, but his nose told him differently. He’d been a botanist long enough to recognize plant pollen, even the slight trace of pheromones in the air. The deeper they went in the house, the more of it there was. “We have to show you our new sun-room,” said one of the Lenoldis, but Mitch wasn’t sure which. From the back, only the few flecks of gray in the hair indicated a difference. “Don’t worry. It’s on the way to the bar.”

“I’ve noticed the pollen in the air.”

They both chuckled lightly, exchanged a glance. “Yeah,” said Tony, turning his head slightly to face Mitch. “Definitely something in the air.”

The senior Lenoldi added, “The flowers are in bloom. It’s the reason we invited you here, Mr. McIntyre. Let us show you.”

They walked the few remaining steps to the home’s new addition, the glass-dominant sun-room. The pollen in the air got thicker. Men milled about the house, cocktails or beers in hand, animated discussions, excellent energy, none of them seemed to notice or care about the plant pollen - which was odd because, frankly, it didn’t smell all that good. Almost like old sex, Mitch noted.

He spotted Coach Lidster across the room, and they nodded to each other. Though he was too far away to see clearly, Mitch was almost certain Lidster had some kind of dust on his face, like someone had screamed “Makeup!” and smacked him with a powder pad. As a matter of fact, SEVERAL of the men in the room had…

“Here we are,” said one of the Lenoldis - the son, Mitch saw when he turned his head back - interrupting his train of thought. The boy grabbed Mitch’s upper-arm and led him through the doorway. “Mr. Mac, get a load this!”

It WAS a beautiful room, back-lit now by the setting sun glittering off specks of airborne pollen, spacious and simple.

And filled to the brim with hundreds of flowers, row after row of identical blooms. Mitch had never seen anything like them, though they resembled a Nepenthes, the pitcher plant. The shape of the flower was different enough that Mitch supposed they were in the same family, but they weren’t the well-known carnivore. As a matter of fact, if he didn’t know better, he’d say their blooms were shaped like penises - BIG penises, but still that phallic.

“What are these?” Mitch asked, taking a tentative step into the room.

“That’s what we were hoping you could tell us,” said the Lenoldi on his right - the father. “You’re the botanist. We don’t know how this happened.”

“You’re saying these plants did this to you?” asked Mitch again, incredulous, indicating the outrageous muscles before him.

They both nodded, and with the same gesture, adjusted their balls.

“That’s impossible.”

“Well,” said the elder Lenoldi, rubbing a hand across his torso, “certainly improbable.”

“But damn lucky!”

“Tony… language.”

“Sorry, dad.”

“Mr. McIntyre, as hard as it may be to believe, it’s true. We put on this muscle from breathing the plant pollen, same as happening to ALL the guys in the house right now, yourself included.”

“What?”

“You’ll start to notice it in a couple of minutes,” he said, smirking like he was letting Mitch in on some big secret. “You’ll feel the energy, the stimulation. It doesn’t take very long.”

“And then you’re built like this!” Tony happily interjected, hitting a front double-biceps, stretching the shirt for all it was worth, his biceps almost as big as his head.

The doorbell rang, breaking the moment, and the older Lenoldi said, “Tony, get the door. It’s probably your friends.”

Tony said, “Okay, dad,” and was gone.

The hulking Joe Lenoldi turned his attention back to Mitch - he adjusted his balls again. “Now, Mr. McIntyre, let’s get down to it. We invited you here because you’re a botanist. We need you on our team.”

Mitch nodded. He believed he knew where Mr. Lenoldi was going. “To help you understand what happened to you,” he said, as if completing a sentence.

Joe Lenoldi shook his head. “No,” he said. “To help us expand the operation.”

Mitch laughed politely, but still took a step back. “Mr. Lenoldi, I’m not interested in anything like that. I’m CONCERNED that something has happened to you from exposure to these plants, but I suggest STUDY instead of marketing. If you want me for anything more than that, I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong guy.”

The senior Lenoldi smiled his patronizing smile and put his arm around Mitch’s shoulders, probably more to hold him in place than to be buddy-buddy. “You’ll change your mind,” he said, leading Mitch into the sun-room. “Well, more accurately, your mind will change.”

Mitch tried to struggle, but the vise-like grip of the steel-armed Lenoldi held him securely. “Mr. Lenoldi, please!” said Mitch, trying not to betray his growing fear. “I don’t want this.”

“It’s too late now,” said Lenoldi. “You’ve been breathing the pollen for the last ten minutes - it’s already affected you. You just don’t know it yet.”

They walked up to a free-standing planter that held about a dozen potted flowers. Each one had a little white paper, like a place-setting or a gift-tag, identifying who the plant was for. Mitch saw the one that read “Mr. Mac” in Tony’s handwriting.

Mitch felt dizzy, like he’d had too much caffeine, a crazy wave of energy. He was surprised when his dick twitched to life in his pants.

“Believe me, Mr. McIntyre,” said the massive Lenoldi, as he pushed Mitch’s head toward the bloom - Mitch didn’t offer much resistance - “believe me, this is gonna be the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

The flower shot a ball of dusty pollen right into Mitch’s face. As he breathed it in during his struggle, Lenoldi continued.

“It hasn’t hurt anybody yet.”

30.

 

Old man Bowden was dead. His heart hadn’t been able to take it - obviously, transformations were too rough on the bodies of eighty year-old men.

Though one probably wouldn’t want to tell that to the creature that just slid into the old man’s balls, intent on creating a home - the one that spent the last three days physically manipulating its intended host, preparing it for Symbiosis with a Great One. But the creature had pushed the body beyond its capability. A foolish mistake.

Immediately, it set to work. With its own vines, it forced the heart to beat, mimicking the rhythm it had sensed only moments ago. Then, it spread its tendrils into the meat of the brain, stimulating the fleshy-organ with small electrical charges.

So when the heart took over on its own, and Ed Bowden came suddenly back to life, he was so weakened, so unprepared for his visitor, that the Symbiont was able to assert almost complete control.

Ed Bowden felt nothing but orgasmic bliss, waves of ecstasy as he rode along in his euphoric haze, not what guys purportedly felt after a heart attack. He felt himself grow - or someone that used to be him, someone outside - he felt that person’s muscles expand. He felt the power.

He felt his blood replaced by - or mixed with - chlorophyll. He felt his hair fall out. He felt the sun on his back and the energy it gave. The sun brought him back.

Back to reality and a sense of focus. He was himself again, Ed Bowden, the dominant personality. And when he stood, he found himself almost eight-feet tall - his head almost hit the ceiling. After taking in his new perspective on the room, he looked down at himself, and saw what the creature had done.

Strangely enough, it wasn’t the gross muscle size, or the veins that looked like vines beneath his skin, or the obscene size of the cock that hung almost to his knees, or the weight or the heft of the balls behind it - the ones that held the creature - it wasn’t any of that that got his attention. No, it was the fact that the chlorophyll in his blood had given him a greenish tint - he was turning into a plant.

He sensed the Symbiont, the thing in his balls. “Join with me,” it whispered. “Together, there’ll be no stopping us. Join with me, and we’ll rule this planet. Together, we’ll be the Great One.”

The massive cock the creature had given him began to harden, and Ed already felt the lusty rise in the pleasure he was experiencing. It was too much for an old man to take, an old man who hadn’t experienced the joys of sex in almost two decades. He’d barely touched his newly-tooled tool before the Symbiont allowed him to climax.

“Join with me,” the creature whispered.

“Oh, my god, yes,” mumbled Ed Bowden, as he began his never-ending orgasm.

And in that moment, the two of them ceased to exist as separate entities, old man Bowden and the Creature.

They came together. They became something new.

The Great One.

And since He was now too big for the door, the Great One had to take out a wall to get out into the sunshine. With this new-found power, it was easy. Nothing could stop Him.

31.

 

The General studied the Staff-Sergeant through the two-way glass. What he saw was impossible. In the ten minutes since the Sargent had been hit in the face by that plant’s pollen, he’d gotten bigger, more muscular. The General was sure of it. The Sargent had been in incredible shape before, which was why the General wasn’t sure at first, but there was no denying it now. The Sargent was in fact getting bigger.

“What’s happening to him?” he asked the balding scientist, the wishy-washy man he shared the observation room with.

“Staff-Sergeant Wendt is experiencing Stage One Symbiosis,” said the scientist, while he watched with the General through the two-way glass. “It’s characterized by a rise in energy, libido, giving the subject a general sense of euphoria, and slight muscle gain. It’s not unlike the buzz men describe when on cocaine, except for the weight gain, of course.”

“Then what happens?”

The scientist sighed. “A lot of the timing depends on Staff-Sergeant Wendt. It takes some men as many as three hits of pollen before they’re ready to engage in Stage Two Symbiosis, but the average is two.”

“What’s Stage Two?”

The scientist shook his head. “General, I’d rather you saw it for yourself. It’s fairly unbelievable when described.”

Looking at Staff-Sergeant Wendt, whose t-shirt was only held together by the strength of luck, who was desperately trying to resist the urge to flex in the mirror, or to ignore the erection that raged in his boxer shorts, the General said, “I’ll take you at your word.”

They were distracted by the Staff-Sergeant’s movements, which stopped conversation. Suddenly, Staff-Sergeant Wendt reached into his boxers and grabbed his cock, masturbating with a ferocity of one who lost a battle of will. His t-shirt began to tear.

Two steps closer to the plant, and it launched another volley of pollen at his face. The Staff-Sergeant used his free hand not to wipe the dust away, but to get more in his nose and mouth. He didn’t stop his savage masturbating.

“Ah,” said the scientist. “Here we go.”

The General watched in horror as the Staff-Sergeantknelt before the plant, slipped his cock into the blossom, and engaged in Stage Two.

 

[Absman420]

POLLINATION: The Series - pt8

32.

Gregg Lidster had been a football coach for more years than he’d ever been a player - including the years he’d spent with the CFL (remember them? - that should properly date him) - so he’d developed an almost cliche coach’s build: the heavy legs, the middle-aged spread, the rounded turn of gut that rolled over his belt. He carried the weight well - which is more than one can say about many football coaches - but he still leaned toward more out-of-shape than in.

A box-shaped head, a barreled torso, he was a study of geometry. Not particularly tall - which was what kept him out of “real” professional football, but above-average height and handsome in a rugged, football coach kind of way. Certainly nothing anybody would ever deem special, even with the homoerotic fantasy-trappings of being a coach.

Well, he thought, the Lenoldi’s party would certainly change all that! He was standing there talking to a small circle of guys - Pat Weir, the athletic trainer at school, Sam Hamilton (everybody called him “Sham”), who owned a restaurant/ bar over on the west side - where Lidster often went for happy hour, and Will Donnelly, the dentist. They were laughing it up and raising the volume way past the level of their buzz - like men who’d had far more to drink than they’d had - in truth, they were riding a different high.

When the Lenoldis entered the room, Lidster turned and glanced at them. Jesus-H, they were huge! LOOK at Tony - who’d always been on the line, so he wasn’t any small pup - but now, he was gigantic, bloated with the muscle of a seasoned, mature man. He and his dad were nearly identical in build - the only thing separating them was Tony’s obvious youth, a teenager with an adult body.

They led that science teacher - what the fuck was his name? - Oh yeah, McIntyre; the kids called him “Mr. Mac” - to the room with the flowers. As they were about to enter, McIntyre made eye-contact with Coach Lidster. They nodded to each other.

As they went in, Lidster had a moment, a fleeting thought. It went pretty fast in real-time, but it’s worth taking a few sentences, slowing it down and exploring it. As the Lenoldi’s led McIntyre into the pollen-laden sun-room, Coach Lidster thought, “They better lead him to the right plant - not to mine.” Just like that, real quick. But did the reader notice his possessiveness, his aggression? Why didn’t that bring some sense of warning?

Instead, Coach Lidster adjusted his half-hard cock, his obvious growing erection, and turned back to the conversation. He wasn’t embarrassed about his hard-on - just the opposite, in fact. He was feeling really masculine, really pumped, like he USED to feel after a major victory, the jocky-bonding of the locker room.

More, he knew the other guys were in exactly the same condition. He could see Pat’s erection, pushing out hard from his dress pants, and Sham was touching himself with enough frequency to consider it masturbation.

But the thing was, none of them cared – that ALONE enhanced the Coach’s buzz. This growing feeling of masculinity, of camaraderie, to be around other sexually-stimulated men felt surprisingly natural. Surprisingly hot.

A couple of minutes later, McIntyre joined them. Like the rest of the guys, his mouth and nose were covered in pollen dust, thick and clingy. A shy smile on his face, they opened the circle and warmly welcomed him. He only tried to hide his rod for a minute or so.

When the older Lenoldi, playing host, stopped by and suggested they re-visit their plants while he freshened their drinks, they took him up on it.

McIntyre too, though clearly he’d been trying to resist the impossible sense of pleasure. Lidster couldn’t imagine why. The coach put his arm around the science teacher’s shoulders and led him to the sun-room.

Even without the name-tag in the dirt, he could’ve spotted his plant immediately -- it was like he’d bonded with it - it stood out from the others. Almost as if hypnotized, he dropped his arm from McIntyre and walked directly to it. The other guys - Mac included - did the exact same thing. They stepped to their plants, they buried their noses in the blossoms, or they enveloped the bud completely in their mouths, like they were giving blow jobs, and they almost simultaneously took their next hits.

This time, back in their former circle, they focused on their bodies, stripping off clothes piece by piece and posing for each other. McIntyre had his shirt off and his pants around his ankles, flexing his incredible ab-wall for the guys, his obliques, showing off his monstrous hard-on, thrusting like a stripper at a show - he’d lost almost any sense of inhibition. As he grew, that was the only thing that seemed to shrink.

Same with everyone else. The entire HOUSE had become a meat-market, muscular, horny men parading themselves to their best advantage, stripping shirts or stepping out of trousers. With the sense of freedom that only comes from liberation, these normally straight men were ENJOYING their new sexual expression, their shared feelings of masculinity.

Their growth.

Those who hadn’t taken off their clothes were busting out of them now. Sounds of cloth tearing came from every which-way, followed by the laughter of the men around it. Even the piano player had become a monster, tearing out the shoulder seams of his shirt while he played. And he played like a man who knew his fingers would soon be too big for the keys, full of passion and good-byes, yet still rhythmically aggressive - (Was he playing Bernstein?)

And of course, inevitably, ultimately, one by one, they went back into the sun-room. They felt this pull, this need. Somehow, they knew it was time for the next step. While the others capered and cavorted, someone would slip silently out - distracted and drawn.

As the focus of his own group changed to Sham bursting out of his pants - while screaming “I’m hulking out! I’m hulking out! Look you guys, I’m hulking out!” -- Lidster noticed McIntyre quietly step away, almost as if called by something in the sun-room.

Lidster followed him, leaving the group laughing at Sham’s transformation and the obvious erection he now proudly displayed.

The atmosphere in the new addition reminded Lidster of a public men’s room, waiting at the line of urinals. As the coach walked into the room, several guys were standing with their backs to him, facing their plants and staring straight off ahead, wearing the self-imposed blinders of pissing men.

But instead of pissing, these guys were slipping their erect cocks into the flower buds, like big, phallic bees. It’s what McIntyre was doing right now, pushing his cock almost lovingly into the petals - the sudden look of rapture on his face.

Lidster wanted to understand. He wanted to know why…

And then he glanced at his plant, there next to Mac’s. God, it was so beautiful. It actually gave him an erection, he was so attracted to it. He wanted to fuck it - fuck it the way a man should. The plant was calling him.

He was aware of McIntyre next to him - just like two guys at the urinals - he was even aware that McIntyre was growing larger, more powerful - but Coach Lidster was really only interested in himself, his own feelings of power, his own muscle size.

As he slipped his cock into his flower, he and McIntyre stood there next to each other staring off in front of them, focused only on the pleasure and the changes.

When the time came, they each gladly accepted their Symbionts.

And when they were done, they moved out of the way so other guys could get to their own plants a little easier. It was difficult to get around them at their new size.

Very soon after that, it became a whole different kind of party.

 

33.

 

Where haven’t we looked in a while, gentle reader? Have we been so busy in the branches that we’ve neglected the root structure? Plants grow so quickly, unless someone’s there to prune them to keep them in control - the same with stories. Let a subplot go by, or give a minor character a major scene, and suddenly - weeds in the garden!

Ah, but with careful trimming and soilent structure, a well-tended story bears exacting fruit. Unfortunately, that’s not what’s been happening here, within the pages of this garden. Our story has been out of control, growing every which-a-way, taking the spotlight of the sun by whatever means necessary.

It’s chaos.

Like that poor branch over there - let’s pull it out into the sun here so we can get a better look.

It’s Snake. Remember Snake?

God damn, he’s hot. Looks kind of like a pro-wrestler with his motorcycle overtones, and his Harley-Davidson imagery. Of course, Snake is obscenely muscular, stretching his leathers until they’re almost a second skin - he’s some Tom-of-Finland fantasy come to life.

Last we saw Snake, before his branch got over-grown by another, he’d been slowly travelling North to Canada, to whatever mysterious business he had there. On his way, he was transforming weekend warriors into motorcycle muscle-daddies. Hot stuff, that. We need to get back to Snake.

And sure, everybody loves the General and the Staff-Sergeant, but what about good-ol’ Sheriff Lane?

We’re so busy with the new growth at the end of the branches, we forget the supporting structure - the trunk, the heavy base. And Sheriff Lane is one of the best characters of all, not just because of his size, his superiority even among superior men, but his learned ability to create human slaves. Hell, Sheriff Lane pretty much owns that town in West Virginia, the one that first saw the Symbiont re-birth.

He’s given some men plants of their own, but not all - the players in local politics, etc - most of the townsmen have been turned into his lustful servants, that seems to be what really motivated him. It takes only a healthy dose of his cum to make a man his, as he proved over and over again in earlier West Virginian chapters. We really owe him the respect of returning to his sub-plot, it’s one of the primary roots of our story.

And okay, we’ve been following Tony Lenoldi, but what about the rest of the boys? We’ll be looking in on Danny and Donny Wall in a few pages, but what about little Chuckie - and do you remember W.B. (the Hulk) and Keith? The transformation of those boys is what really established this story as one of the strongest plants in the garden - even if it IS growing out-of-control at the moment. They’ve been producing some really beautiful, but overlooked flowers - Chuckie with his two younger brothers, and what they did to their father, wow! Those are the stories that need to be told, that desperately call for the sun.

It’s a cornucopia of forgotten sub-plots, dense foliage at the base of the theme, perhaps choking the lighter green buds forming at the tips of branches, the new growth that aches to be exposed. We’re bad gardeners - we have short attention spans. We’re so distracted by the stuff we see, we’ve neglected the stuff it’s grown over.

A garden is ordered - Nature is chaos. It’s time to force this plant to grow the way we want it to - it’s time to get it back under control.

All we really need is the character to do it. And by “character,” we don’t mean the moral resolve - we are definitely resigned to telling this story - no, we mean an actual character. The embodiment of what we’ve been discussing.

Fortunately, he’s waiting right here in the wings, in the margin, over the turn of the page. He’s been ready for his entrance since chapter five, but as usual, we got distracted by back-story. Well, honestly, we were sort-of stalling until the sun was at the right angle so you could see him the way we wanted you to. The right lighting is so important for plants - and this one likes high-exposure.

But nobody likes to be introduced in a cryptic, editorial voice. Let’s switch back to the narrative and give a character the entrance that a character is due. And in that way, we can look in on ANOTHER of our primary dramatis-persona, and perhaps you’ll see some editorial gardening take effect.

Always keep your eye open for god-like gestures, good reader, and for our sake, step back and look at the entire plant once in a while. Maybe, like us, you’ll see what you’ve been missing.

Back to the branches!

 

34.

 

Finally! he thought. The fields are finished.

Acres of land that he had to till himself - it hadn’t been used as a farm in almost a decade, remember, overgrown and improperly nourished. It had taken him nearly a week, but finally it was done. He surveyed his handiwork from the top of the tractor, the fields of turned-earth, and he found himself strangely proud.

Agent Wolf Murdock would never have thought himself capable of the task - nor particularly interested, but that’s something else altogether - and he felt that strange mix of surprise and pride that one gets when one accomplishes something unexpected. Even as short a time as a month ago, Murdock never would have seen himself so driven to farm.

Of course, all that had changed once he’d accepted his Symbiont.

Something nagged at him, though. He felt there was something he was supposed to do now. The tiny part of his mind that was still human remembered: once he’d finished the field, he was supposed to…

From the overalls that he wore - he’d taken to wearing them constantly now, enjoying the way his uncovered upper-body exploded out of them - Superman back in Kansas - he pulled his cell-phone out of his pocket. Well, not HIS cell-phone - the one Sheriff Lane had given him all the way back in West Virginia.

The Sheriff’s number was the only one programmed in.

Without hesitation - as a matter of fact, Murdock found himself excited to be following the orders of the Sheriff, whom he’d always considered an equal - he dialed it up.

Not even a full ring before it was picked up.

“This is the Sheriff.”

“This is Murdock,” said the Agent - who hadn’t thought of himself as just “Murdock” in quite a few days. “The fields are ready.”

“Excellent,” said the Sheriff, though there was none of the underlying emotion that usually accompanies that word. “And what of the Great Plant?”

Murdock sighed, the most human response of the conversation, then said, “It seems the Great Plant has found a Host, though we don’t think it likely that the human will survive the encounter - he was a fairly decrepit old man.”

The Sheriff grunted, and said, “Well, keep us apprised. Are you ready to start the Seeding?”

“That’s why we called,” said Murdock. “How soon can you have them here?”

“If we put them on a transport today, then you’ll have them by tomorrow night at the latest. You haven’t transformed any locals, have you?”

“Only the old man - and that was an accident. As we said, we don’t expect him to live through…”

It was exactly then that there was an explosion behind Murdock, from the house. A sound like someone was breaking down a wall with a battering ram. He spun around in time to see the raining debris and the dusty cloud, and the creature that rose up from the ashes.

“We take that back,” said Murdock into the phone. “Seems the old man came through it just fine. Proceed with the plan.” Without breaking his stare, he turned the phone off and slipped it back into his pocket.

It was hard to believe that was the old man - he was so different. At least two heads taller, making him about eight feet, with a musculature to rival (and probably beat) the Incredible Hulk, except the old man wasn’t quite so thick through the middle. He had the proportion of a bodybuilder, not power-lifter, so his waist and joints were surprisingly thin.

He had a greenish tint though, as if his blood was colored from chlorophyll, not gamma-rays, and the veins that interlaced beneath his paper-thin skin looked more like roots than anything human. He faced the sun, leaning his head back and opening his arms like he was welcoming a lover - he absorbed the power. His muscles seemed to grow - to achieve a pump - while he stood there.

After a moment, he turned to face Murdock, fixing the Agent with a gripping stare. Slowly, a smile broke out on his face - one that never touched his eyes.

Murdock couldn’t stop looking at the old man - couldn’t break the stare - the hairless, green-hued, hyper-muscular…

He couldn’t move. It walked toward him and Murdock remained frozen - he just kept staring into this creature’s beautiful, sparkling golden-yellow eyes. Not until they were standing next to each other, this massive creature dwarfing him, did Murdock move - and that was only to pop an erection.

The fields are finished, it said -- it thought? -- not a question. A statement - like it’d projected it into Murdock’s mind. Had its lips even moved?

“Yes, Great One,” Murdock said - or thought he said. He was so captivated by this creature’s power that he wasn’t sure if he was responding or not. How did he know this thing’s title?

Excellent, said the Great One in Murdock’s mind, reaching out its over-muscled arm and gripping the side of Murdock’s neck, right at the base of the skull, its thumb behind Murdock’s ear. Its touch was cool, but there came with it a wave of power, a buzz of pleasure. Murdock’s erection throbbed - if he’d been a cat, he’d have purred.

With its free hand, the Great One unhooked the straps of Murdock’s coveralls and the denim fell to about his mid-thigh, where the muscle was too thick for the material to continue - Murdock didn’t struggle.

The Great One reached down, and cupped Murdock’s balls - the home of his Symbiont - holding Murdock by the base of the skull and by the package - both of his brains.

And the pleasure began for the Symbiont, too. Murdock could sense his other’s arousal.

It continued. And rose. And grew another notch, besides. The level of pleasure got higher and higher. Murdock couldn’t take it.

He opened his eyes slightly, and the last sight he had before his orgasm began was the passionless face of the Great One looking down on him, the inhuman stare.

And then he came. Murdock’s orgasm began - his untouched cock exploded with cum, shooting an almost unending load.

But it didn’t end. The pleasure didn’t stop.

The orgasm wasn’t the peak - it was the beginning. Even as he climaxed, the level of pleasure rose - a notch, another notch.

He shot and shot and shot - he shot until he lost consciousness. And even then, the pleasure didn’t truly end.

The Great One dropped Murdock’s lifeless body to the ground, watching emotionlessly as Murdock’s physical mutation began, as Murdock’s muscle swelled even larger, as his skin took on a slightly greenish-tone and his human hair fell out, even while he still gently bucked his hips and dribbled cum.

The fields were ready for Seeding - the old farmer buried deep inside the Great One could smell it in the air. Calling the others here would have to be a priority. As Murdock thrashed on the ground and continued to evolve, the Great One charged himself in the sun.

 

[Absman420]

POLLINATION: The Series - pt9

35..

“Some explanations are probably in order.”

Together, through the two-way mirror, they studied the man in the examination room as he flexed directly at them, looking into what HE thought was a normal mirror -- maybe he thought that. He must’ve known where he was, and that he was being studied - he must’ve realized then that he was being watched. Which meant that he just didn’t care. Or that he LIKED being looked at.

As he flexed his massive muscles, as he completely got off on himself, the look on his face showed anyone who was watching the truth in that statement. As a matter of fact, he looked like he was HOPING he was being watched.

The General wasn’t sure how to feel about it. He’d just seen this barely two-hundred pound special ops Staff-Sergeant transform like some kind of comic-book superhero. He’d seen this highly-disciplined young man morph into some bodybuilding muscle beast, flexing into the two-way mirror, watching himself masturbate. Enjoying it.

The Scientist who shared the examination room with the General spoke - his tone was clinical, even after what they’d just witnessed. “His unit came upon the plants accidentally while on maneuvers. Two of the men were transformed before they even knew what was going on. The rest of them were able to contain the situation fairly quickly - I don’t want to go into the details of that at the moment, General, but they lost one more man before it was over. By the time they got to us, five out of eight had been transformed, and we’ve forced two through the process for study. The Staff-Sergeant here was the last of them.”

“There are seven more men like this?”

“Yes, Sir, but don’t worry. We have them safely contained on another level.”

The General studied the Staff-Sergeant, who was flexing and dancing for himself like he was his own stripper. “Do they all… behave this way?”

The Scientist smirked. “This is a stage,” he said, indicating the masturbating Staff-Sergeant. “It’s initially overwhelming for them: the heightened sense of masculinity, the eighty to one-hundred pound muscle gain, the gross increases in strength and personal power. For the first few hours, it manifests itself in uncontrollable sexual response. Given what’s happened to them, I’m surprised it doesn’t last longer.”

The General tried NOT to look at the now gigantic Staff-Sergeant as he beat himself off, that look of self-love on his face as he stared at his own now-ample cock in the mirror. What must it feel like to suddenly find you have a cock that big?

“And when this… phase… wears off? Then what happens?”

The Scientist shrugged slightly. “Aside from the obvious size difference, they return to relatively normal behavior. Their physical abilities magnify by an enormous extent. It might remind you of some juvenile comic-book plot, the way it all sounds.”

“I’d had the same thought earlier,” said the General, who kept sneaking glances at the Staff-Sergeant. The Scientist made no secret of his interest, watching the subject openly and without apology.

"On one level, it’s very much like that - the physical transformation and all - but you’ve never seen a comic-book character with proportionate genitalia, have you? That’s where it begins to differ. Unlike comic-book characters who only have sex off-page, if you will, these men are very blatant about their sexuality -- uninhibited behavior, and nearly constant activity - for all the (quote) POWERS (unquote) that they gain, they feel an equal drive to reproduce."

“So they become these super-soldiers, these incredible fighting machines…”

“… but you wouldn’t want to share a fox-hole with one,” the Scientist completed, throwing the General a side-long glance.

The General shivered at the thought. Suddenly, as if to complete his moment of horror, a loud moan broke from inside the observation room. Even on this side of sound-proofed glass, they could hear the Staff-Sergeant’s orgasm. Both the General and the Scientist looked up just in time to see the Staff-Sergeant’s healthy spunk spatter against the mirror.

“Oh, Jesus,” mumbled the General, looking almost immediately away. He thought, how could ANY of this have military application? What use for a squad of homosexual super-soldiers? And who would lead them?

The Scientist smiled. “There we go,” he said, completely detached from the scene he was observing, as if he’d been stalling until this moment was over. He turned to face the General. “We’ll be able to interview him, now.”

“What?”

The Scientist buzzed around the little observation room they shared, clicking switches and collecting papers, leaving the General standing uncertainly. He said, “Now that the Staff-Sergeant’s initial sexual release is over, he’ll be lucid for a few minutes. We can talk to him face to face.”

The General protested. “Wait,” he said, gesturing to the cum-spattered glass, and the Staff-Sergeant behind it. “Aren’t we going to risk exposure, or something?”

The Scientist gripped the General’s upper-arm and said, “You have nothing to fear, General. We wouldn’t put you at any risk. Infection and transformation only occur plant-to-man. Believe me, my staff and I have been exposed to them for almost a week now, do I look like I’ve gone through some sort of transformation?”

For sure, the Scientist didn’t look the slightest bit muscular, or disciplined about his body in any way - the General felt a little bit of disgust with that - but he clearly wasn’t under the influence of these weird plants.

The General followed the Scientist through a series of doors, allowing them access to the examination room, and the gigantic Staff-Sergeant within.

36.
 

It grew like a weed, like Spanish Moss dominating a summer-time tree.

As the guys went home from the Lenoldi’s party, after adjusting their car-seats and steering wheels to accommodate their new size, they’d sneak into their own backyard gardens - or, if they had apartments, out onto their patios - and they’d make sure to seed the ground - or some dirt-filled pots - before they went inside to rest until the sun came up.

Will Donnelly, the dentist, was one of the lucky men allowed to take a plant with him. There’d been a few extras, and the Lenoldis had given them away like door prizes. Doc Donnelly’s son Jon played on the football team with the Lenoldi boy, who seemed particularly interested in making sure the whole team got plants. Will Donnelly thought the muscular boy’s lack of subtlety was endearing, so he gladly took one.

Two days later, Coach Lidster had a pool-party at his home for the guys on the football team. Trusting fathers dropped off their sons - or some came in and hung out, too - the end result was the same. The boys who hadn’t already gotten plants found there were quite a few waiting right next to the soda coolers. In a matter of hours, gigantic, muscular teens cavorted around the pool, as their equally huge fathers gathered by the grill where the Coach made burgers.

The cops came around sunset, answering a complaint from neighbors about noise and public nudity. “Sorry, Officers,” Coach Lidster said when he came to the gate. “You know how boys are. Join us?”

To the cops, noise complaints meant teenaged drinking, so they were happy to have any pretext to come in and look around. They didn’t come out for quite some time. When they finally got around to visiting the neighbors who’d called in the complaint, they were so freaking huge that the only thing that kept their uniforms on their bodies was the un-tear-ability of cheap polyester.

“They’re gonna try to keep it down,” the larger of the two said. “If you have any more problems, give us a call. We’ll be happy to come on over.”

The party broke up a short time later. After sunset, the level of energy had gone down a little, and then the cops had come. Besides, the boys were all sort of feeling the need to spread the seed around instead of wasting it on each other, to bring this gift to new guys, to re-populate.

Instead of calling parents, the boys took rides from the fathers who were there. They crowded into SUV’s and truck beds and the back seats of cars, each of them holding at least one potted plant - a gift for their fathers at home. The guys with brothers had three or four.

When Kenny-Ray Titus got in the cab of his dad’s truck carrying a plant, he answered his father’s questioning gaze with, “Cousin Jacob’s coming for a visit tomorrow.”

As he slid over next to his father, as close as their new physiques would allow, muscle pressed to muscle, his old man said, “That’s right thoughtful of you, son.”

While they kissed, another boy slid into the cab with them, squeezing them even closer. The truck’s back bed could only hold six members of the new varsity football team, facing each other like soldiers on their way to battle, plants nestled between their legs. Old man Titus had to reach between his own son’s mighty oaks to shift, and he kept grabbing the wrong stick.

They didn’t all go home. Some boys went to the coffee house, some to the mall, public places to show off - the stares and howls and wolf whistles didn’t embarrass them, but rather empowered them. Thongs and spandex and athletic gear, they spent much of their college funds and allowances - they displayed themselves beautifully. Young, muscular peacocks.

They inducted their fathers. They transformed their brothers. Strangers came across plants they’d left in the men’s rooms, the mall atriums, the truck stops and diners - outside, almost anyplace with exposed dirt. Indignant gardeners or territorial grounds-keepers might’ve fought them at first - might’ve even tried to remove them - but not for long. By the end of the day, whatever land they managed would overflow with the newly-created flowers, usually after whatever HAD been planted there had been completely torn-out.

More than once - and to more than one of them - the thought of organization crossed their minds. If they could stop fucking each other, planting their seed, spreading their influence, and get organized, they COULD take over the world. Unfortunately, the plants had joined with men, and therefore gained man’s weaknesses. Even for someone as emotionally detached as Sheriff Lane, say, the physical drives were impossible to resist. Thoughts of organization were fleeting. Thoughts of ANYTHING other than repopulation (not invasion) and physical contact were fleeting.

If only they had a leader.

Well, wouldn’t you know!? That night, as brothers lay with brothers, and heavily muscled men slept entwined with their new recruits, as they awaited the coming strength of the morning sun, all of them, all of the Symbionts, from Coach Lidster, Mr. Mac, Sham, Dr. Donnelly and his handsome son Jon, to daddy Lenoldi and his boy Tony, to Tony’s buds Chuckie, W.B. and Keith, to Danny and Donny Wall (and by this time, their father Dean), to our old friend Snake, and the fifty or sixty motorcycle muscle-daddies he’d created, themselves in loosely-gathered packs spreading across America, to a small town in West Virginia where nearly all of the male residents, and the Mayor, and the Main Street Shop-keeps, and the Sheriff who lorded over them all - ALL of them - (even a special-ops military unit somewhere in Maryland, miles underground in a cement-lined bunker that none without the security clearance knew about, where eight men, ranging from First Lieutenant to a recently-transformed Staff-Sergeant) - even the men that haven’t graced these pages, the accidental encounters and the throw-away fillers - ALL of them - every single affected man out there had the exact same dream.

And their dream went something like this:

 

37.

 

You become aware, the way you do in dreams - a reality where the landscape extends only as far as the dream requires, if backdrops exist at all. At the moment, you might just sense the flatness, the miles and miles of level land. You might come flying in over it, swooping and swirling in the air as the wind and clouds breeze past your incredible new body, the one the Symbiosis gave you. Your Symbiont is “asleep” - this late in the night, the Symbiont has less of a presence in your mind - it’s far more powerful during the day. The night, and most of the carnal pleasures that come along with it, are all for your human half.

You fly only until you become aware of flying. Then, you sail in low and slam chest-first into the earth, your heavy pecs taking the impact.

But don’t worry, you’re not hurt. The ground is soft, turned and tilled. Foot-deep potting soil. It’s actually comfortable and somewhat welcoming, ripe and ready for planting. You really only notice this briefly as you stand - or, if this is where you entered the dream, you just become aware and look around.

A farm. You’re in the fields behind the house, the acres and acres of flat, turned earth. The bright sun burns in the cloudless sky, making your power-level soar. No matter how glad you’ve felt about your symbiosis, no matter how sexually fulfilled, you’ve never felt better than you do right now in this dream - you’re at your peak.

And you’re not alone.

You become aware of them the same way you did the land - your brothers, other men as heavily-muscled as you, their big balls stretching from the weight of their Symbionts, their thick, meaty cocks - like yours - twitching with anticipation. You feel a warmth from them, a connection, a greeting, though none of you speak.

In that same, vaguely telepathic way, you sense His arrival, behind and above you. As one, you and your others like you, turn to face Him. At first, he’s in silhouette, making Him look as if He’s just come from the mighty, life-giving sun, now a blaze of light over His left shoulder.

He’s gigantic, both in height and proportion. He’s half-again as tall as you - you might have to raise yourself up slightly on tip-toes to suck his pecs - and even in shadow, it’s possible to get a sense of the power that comes along with a body like that. He’s a muscle-tick, bloated on the blood of the gods.

Even as He lands on the ground and the light reveals Him, you can tell that He’s not quite human. (Hell, neither are you though, remember? There’s a living being inside your balls!) His flesh is pink, but as He moves, there’s the slightest hint of green to it, like someone who’s seasick, or ingested a little too much wheat grass. It’s paper-thin, revealing His utter lack of bodyfat, but it looks strong, like a protective casing stretched tightly over His striated mass.

His features are hard, masculine. Fully ripe and mature, He is at His peak. And His eyes…

They burn. They sear into you when you make eye-contact, yellow and hot -- your cock is almost instantly erect. Commanding and hypnotic, they put you in His thrall - just like everyone else. Though you don’t look to see, you can sense their submission - it’s like He’s looking at all of you at once. Maybe He is. It’s a dream, isn’t it?

His eyes fill your vision, but you can still see that His mouth doesn’t move when He speaks. You hear His voice in your mind. Come to us, He says, in a bass that would rattle your subwoofer. The fields are ready.

Then He raises His hand - even though His eyes dominate, you can still sort-of see around them to His body, His gorgeous, hyper-masculine body - maybe it’s like His eyes are superimposed over everything. (Maybe His eyes are your eyes.) Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters - just His power, you can lose yourself in it. When He raises His hand, showing the underside of His arm, the thick triceps and the bowling-ball biceps, the depth of his outer-pec, the wedge of his lats, the sweet fold of his armpit, you follow it. Your cock follows it, rising in tandem. It’s HIS power that forces your erection.

And then He just twists His wrist - He just clenches his fist. In your mind, you hear His voice say, Now. And then you orgasm.

Even as your orgasms improved when you accepted your Symbiont, so too have they advanced geometrically now. It’s not just your cock - it’s your entire being. You shoot as your body rocks with climax. Everyone does. All of your brothers and fellow musclemen - this man, this hybrid-thing, this Great One commands you all.

As you finish, your cock dripping as you catch your breath, you look at Him through a euphoric haze, god-like and mighty. He smiles. Step forward, He orders, again in your mind. Thinking He’s speaking directly to you, you immediately obey.

Unfortunately, EVERYONE thinks He’s speaking directly to them, and they’ve all immediately obeyed. It’s like a row of your brothers advanced one step into the field. Into a new furrow.

Stop! He says. Now shoot.

A motion of His hand, and you’re orgasming again - all of you, brothers and fellows, you all climax together, spilling your seed into the ground. He’s irresistible. It feels so good.

As it ebbs, you hear the command. Step forward. And you start to figure out what’s going on.

Not that you don’t obey.

Not until all the fields are completely sown.

You must cum to Him. That much you know as the dream fades into repetition - shoot and step and shoot and step.

You must cum now.

NOW!

 

 

[darkluster4]

So that was an amazing story, and a wonderful addition to a growing collection! I love how well you tied in to the original, and how quickly it grew into a complicated mess. LOL

I will say though, personally, I wish that there had been more time taken on describing the details of the Transformations and the muscles. For example , I thought that the high school pool party was not given as much detail as it really deserved. I would have loved to have seen more descriptions about how these 18 year olds would climb out of the pool with water sliding off of there massive packed Speedos in excruciating detail.

This also raises the question of where are the women and girls? And, how does this plant respond to younger men? (Not saying that I want to see young kids getting transformed into muscle beasts. It's just curiosity. )

Regardless, thank you for contributing such an amazing addition to an already amazing Story!