POLLINATION: The Series - Book One pt 18-22
Peer Pressure on Tony Lenoldi; Murdock suspects the old man; the Sheriff’s Deputy makes a delivery; the Great Plant makes its choice
“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, Danny,” 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?”
Danny 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,” Danny 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 our 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.