POLLINATION: The Series - BOOK TWO pt 38-42
ALL NEW MATERIAL STARTS HERE! The continuation YOU demanded! Our cast wakes the morning after a shared dream with a strange, new compulsion.
(AUTHOR’S INTRO: Welcome to POLLINATION: the Series, BOOK TWO, a sequel nearly fifteen years in the making! Although it’s been a while for you, the reader, for our cast, it’s only been overnight. Though, in some weird ways, it’s been longer than a decade for them, too.
(In the real world, there’s been significant technological advances in the fifteen years you’ve waited for this sequel (smartphones to name one), so too for our cast – they exist “now” and their technology reflects that. Expect characters to have gadgets who previously didn’t. In short, you’ve suspended your disbelief for bigger things in this story, don’t let the sudden appearance of cellphones/ tech throw you.
*(It has always been the Author’s intent that POLLINATION: the Series be thought of as a TV-version of a popular movie (ie: MASH or WESTWORLD), where the movie remains intact and pristine, but the series utilizes the rules of the movie’s reality to its own ends. With that in mind, please consider BOOK TWO to be the Second Season of POLLINATION: the Series – except the budget’s been increased and we have better costumes and special effects this year, like GoT. Enjoy!) *
It was the “wet” part of the wet dream that woke him, the orgasm that brought him back to consciousness, as he sat up in bed, the surprised look of a teenager on his face. He hadn’t had a fucking wet dream in nearly thirty years, when his hormones had needed more expression that they did now. He’d fucked his boy so deeply and so often over the past twenty-four hours that he was surprised he had any cum left in him at all – which didn’t stop the product of his wet dream from soaking through the thin cotton of his black jockstrap.
Snake tried as best he could to get out of bed without disturbing the boy, who slept peacefully on, facing the other way – the boy had fallen asleep in his harness and collar, which made Snake smirk. He really did have feelings for this little French-Canadian heart-throb. Well, “little” may not have been the most accurate word, but with Snake being the size he was, everyone seemed little to him lately. His “boy” was in fact a six-foot professional rugby player, built with thick, burly muscle and an ass that could stop a clock.
They’d met a few years before at some Charity Leather Event – Snake had forgotten where – the boy’s Rugby Club had been sponsoring it. He’d “won” the boy in the auction, or a date with the boy, or something stupid like that. The boy’s ass was going to be his, he’d sworn then, date or not.
Before too long, he ended up owning it, just as he’d thought. Rugby Boy turned out to be this muscle-bear-pig who dreamed of finding a Dom Daddy bigger than him to make him a proper slave. He’d trained well – his ass was nothing short of spectacular – and his attitude was disciplined and enthusiastic. He cried for joy when he got his collar.
Rugby Boy’s only problem was rugby. His tournament schedule filled what little warm weather Quebec had, and the Barbarians kept him running so hard from place to place that he rarely knew where he was, much less having time for Snake.
At first, Snake had been understanding, willing to allow the boy his sport, but – even before his symbiosis – he’d made the decision to come to Canada and claim the boy completely. He’d become too lonely on the road – that was the truth of it – and he wanted the boy for companionship as much as for love.
And now, now he was so much more than he’d been the last time Rugby Boy had seen him – now that he’d been transformed by the powerful Symbiont that resided in his balls into this… Host and Protector, this super-muscled superman, this hyper-endowed highwayman – he’d been anxious for the boy’s reaction. Would he be scared or turned on? Horrified or horny?
That the boy lay there worn out and exhausted in his harness while cum dripped slowly out of his ass should answer that question.
And here was Snake, dripping himself through the cotton webbing of his jockstrap, which he wore only to give support to the Symbiont that lived in his balls. He wouldn’t have thought he’d be capable of another orgasm after all they’d done together this last day to the boy – how surprising to discover that Symbionts dream.
He felt a need – almost a compulsion – to hop on his bike and start heading South toward the Voice he’d heard. Toward the dream he’d had.
But what about the boy?
Snake hadn’t wanted to transform him, to give him the gift of a Symbiont, because he was selfish – he wanted the boy to himself. He’d wanted the boy to play his Rugby game and enjoy his passion and then submit to Snake when he was ready, fully ready to commit – that left no doors open for regret. But even then, Snake hadn’t wanted him to be more than human. Snake liked Rugby Boy just as he was.
Still, if Rugby Boy refused, he’d have to do what he’d have to do.
The Symbiont liked that at least, sending him the slightest throb of pleasure.
As Snake’s powerful stream of piss hit the toilet bowl, he decided to leave at sunrise, maybe have a decent breakfast first at that Greasy Spoon he liked so much. As for the boy? Well, the boy was going to come with him, one way or another.
He hadn’t come all the way to Quebec for nothing.
The same wet dream woke Tony Lenoldi, but like most eighteen year olds, he just rolled over and fell back asleep. What was another stain on his tighty-whities, after all? As far as he was concerned, he didn’t bloom until the sun rose, wet dreams or not.
It wasn’t until his father appeared in his bedroom doorway that Tony felt any urgency, and even then, he only half-remembered the dream itself. “Tony?” his father stage-whispered. “We gotta go.” The Senior Lenoldi, roused from sleep, wore a pair of boxer-briefs with a special pouch designed to hold a more generously endowed man – or a man with an alien symbiont living in his balls – or both, in this case – otherwise, only the thick gold chain around his neck, from which dangled his horn and his St. Christopher’s medal.
So heavily muscled that he looked like some kind of comic book superman there silhouetted in the doorway – Tony immediately found himself getting hard.
“Get yourself cleaned up,” his father instructed, “pack a light bag and meet us in the carport in a half-hour. Try not to wake your mother. We’ll stop for breakfast along the way.”
Tony rubbed his eyes with one hand and cradled his nads with the other. “Where are we goin’?”
“You know where we’re going,” his dad said, indicating the wet spot on Tony’s underwear. “You had the same dream as us.” He turned enough for Tony to see the same big wet stain on his father’s boxer-briefs. “So get a move on.”
“Yessir!” Tony said at once, hopping out of bed even as his dad turned to head back to the master suite. Since the renovations had been completed, Tony had never loved the house more! He had his own wing down a floor and on the other side of the house from his parents – with his own access to the pool! (Which had a private entrance to the street, allowing him to sneak potential sex partners in without his parents knowing!) A teenage dream come true – and Lord knows, Tony Lenoldi knew nothing but privilege.
He’d been surprised his parents stayed together upon his mother’s return from that crazy meditation retreat to find both her husband and son transformed the way they’d been, but she seemed far more upset about the condition of the solarium than what was living in their balls. Tony had long suspected that his parents’ relationship was more a business-partnership than a love-entanglement – this just proved it to him. They each had their own master suite on the upper floors of the house and they went about their daily lives as they always had – separately.
Not that it bothered Tony, really. It was way easier to have them together but separate than apart and forcing him to travel between the two, especially because they all three liked the new house so much!
Originally, Tony had planned on living here through college at least, but now that he’d accepted the Symbiont – like his dad – he didn’t know what he was going to do.
Well, he knew in the immediate future that he was going to Kansas – he just didn’t know why.
Just that the Great One had called.
And they had no choice but to obey.
Danny and Donny Wall woke together, on either side of their Daddy, Dean. The king-sized bed they slept in barely held the three of them, much less Dean’s dog Dipshit, curled at their feet. Dean liked nothing better than to fall asleep while his boys suckled his tender nipples, there on the peaks of his massive pecs, his arms wrapped around their broad shoulders as they snuggled together.
That he’d been able to indulge in his darkest fantasies, that this thing in his balls had clearly made him into some kind of faggot homosexual, had made him love it, too, none of that was lost on Daddy Dean Wall – but the power, the masculinity he felt now, the strength and stamina – all this muscle! – this gigantic, dangerous cock – the tradeoffs were completely worth it! Let one of the guys down at the garage mock him as a faggot now! He’d fuckin’ show them a thing or two.
As much as he’d formed a loose plot to bring plants to the boys down at work, his will had been superseded.
He ain’t never had a dream like that, so powerful, so overwhelming – a premonition, he realized. An omen! The three of them sat up in bed almost simultaneously, the family resemblance so strong that someone might have trouble telling one from the next, certainly unable to distinguish whose cum was whose on their three muscular torsos. (Even a DNA scan would have trouble with that.) “What the hell…?” he growled.
“It was a dream,” one of the boys said.
“Daddy, did you dream…?”
The three of them remembered together. “The Great One,” they all said. And in saying it, a shudder of pleasure ran through all of them, including their Symbionts.
“We have to go to him,” Donny said.
Danny agreed. “We have to go.”
Dean shook them off and rolled his massive body out of the bed. “We do, boys,” he said, cupping his big balls. “Get yourselves ready and hop in the truck. We can be in Kansas before nightfall.”
Danny grabbed his phone, even before he began to get dressed.
“What the hell are you doin’, boy?” Dean asked, pulling on a pair of Dickies that stretched barely enough to contain his legs – his Daddy had been a working man his whole life, boots and Dickies were just fine by him. “We done told you to get movin’!”
“We’re texting Chuckie!” Danny spat back. “We’re not going without him!”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. What is he, your boyfriend?”
“What if he was?” Danny shouted, sending his message. “What do you care, anyway? We’re not goin’ anyplace without Chuckie and that’s the end of that!’”
“That ain’t the end of nothin’!” his father yelled, throwing a work shirt on but unable to button it for his mass. Donny reappeared wearing gym shorts, his work boots, and a flannel shirt with the sleeves torn off, his own gigantic arms exposed and pumped – he looked like a bodybuilder on the way to his workout. “We’re leavin’!” Dean said, patting Donny on the shoulder. “Get your ass out to the truck, boy!”
But even Donny was petulant. “C’mon, Daddy,” he said. “I’m hungry!” He smiled. “Horny, too!”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake – what is wrong with you boys? Don’t you feel it…?”
They all felt it, sure enough – the pull, the compulsion, the need…
Suddenly, a text from Chuckie!
“Chuckie’s had the dream, too!” Danny said. “He’s on his way!”
“What do I look like, a damn taxi service?”
“Chuckie ain’t got nothin’ but a bike. What’s he supposed to do, ride his ten speed across two states? We’re goin’ to the same place. Can’t we just give him a ride?”
Dean gave in – the Great One needed them all, ultimately. “You and he can ride in the back of the truck… but no funny business!”
“Thank you, Daddy!”
“Now why don’t you show me some gratitude and suck Daddy’s dick until he gets here?”
Danny was more than happy to comply.
In that town, the plants had firmly taken root, thanks in large part to the Lenoldis and the Garden Parties they had every weekend. Whether it was the senior Lenoldi and his many business associates from the brokerage, or the junior Lenoldi hosting the football/ baseball/ wrestling teams, they themselves nearly repopulated the town.
But then there was the botanist, Mitch McIntyre. Saying that Mitch had a green thumb was more than a bad joke – he’d made his mark growing weed in college, where he’d learned the ins and outs of hydroponics and controlled lighting conditions. Before his symbiosis, he’d had quite an impressive grow room in his basement. Now it was filled with a different kind of flower.
His Symbiont didn’t like getting stoned. Whether it was because the creature itself felt the effects of the drug or because Mitch was slower in reflex and detached while under the influence, he didn’t know. It didn’t stop him – he still smoked, but nowhere near the amount he used to. It helped him be creative while doing genetic grafting and experimentation.
Some of the variants he’d created gave him scientific pride – that the alien species responded as an earth plant would lent evidence to the theory of life-seeding from the stars. What he’d done as a botanist is probably just advanced evolution by a few years, that’s all – these Variants would end up existing eventually, with or without his aid.
That he had a seemingly never-ending supply of jocks provided by Coach Lidster and that Athletic Trainer Weir to experiment on, was a boon! He let them have the football team, the baseballers, the weightlifters – Mitch focused on the wrestlers, the gymnasts, and swimmers. He liked the lighter, tighter, smoother guys. Where was the fun in transforming a big, muscular dude into a BIGGER, muscular dude? No, the joy was in taking a lean, handsome young man and making him irresistible.
He’d even tweaked the splice so that the human host would shed their body hair as part of the transformation, giving their skin the sheen of a stem, the softness of a petal, even if he couldn’t get rid of the slight golden-green hue they’d take on.
There were three types of Variants that he’d perfected thus far: the Scenters – the ones able to manipulate the emission of their pheromones to seduce and control humans; the Dusters – they were covered in a pollen-like dust on their skin, allowing them to directly affect anyone they touched or anyone who touched, licked or kissed them; and the most impressive of all, the Implanters – their seed created an unbreakable bond with the men they fucked, literally impregnating them with a Symbiote of their own, but slaved to the Implanter.
And turning these sweet, smooth teenagers into manipulative seduction machines excited Mitch like nothing ever had – their cherubic innocence balanced by their deviant sexual hunger. Because they were in their late teens and their hormones were already out of control, they enjoyed their plots and games that amplified their already reckless sexuality.
All of that was in the back of his mind as he woke from the dream.
What the fuck was that? Were the Symbionts capable of dreaming, communicating telepathically? All Mitch knew was a sudden compulsion to head SSW toward a half-remembered hyper-muscled man with yellow eyes – the Great One!
Walking upstairs from his lab – where he’d fallen asleep working – Mitch went straight to the boys’ room, adjacent to the Master Bedroom. As he expected, the three of them were awake, wrapped like puppies on top of each other on the King Sized bed, separating themselves as they rubbed the sleep from their eyes. Vance, Vinnie, and Vernon, the redhead, the brunette and the blond, a thong, a jock and some colorful briefs, each stuffed full from their oversized balls.
They were sexy even when they weren’t trying to be – those beautiful, ripped bodies and their smooth, pretty skin…
“Bad dreams?” Mitch asked, turning on the bedside lamp.
“Did you have it, too, Mr. Mac?”
Mitch sat on the edge of the bed. “I did,” he said. Within seconds, the boys were cuddling up to him – he hated to admit that he’d made them addicted to him, too, made them NEED him, but he forced himself to suppress that information. It made the fantasy easier. He held them and kissed them instead as he spoke. “What did you boys dream?”
The playful redhead, Vance, in the lime-green thong, always spoke first. “He was a giant of a man, huge and muscular – bigger than you even, Mr. Mac!” He kissed Mitch’s nose and giggled.
“Yellow eyes,” added Vinnie, adjusting his jock. “Scary and impossible to look away from!” He pressed his forehead against Mitch’s and stared into Mitch’s eyes.
Vernon knelt behind Mitch, leaning over Mitch’s shoulder – Mitch could feel Vernon’s erection pressing into his back. “He wants us to come,” the lithe blond said. “He made us all cum! He’s so powerful – the Great One.”
“The Great One,” they all echoed.
“So, you boys think we should go to him?”
It was like a chorus. “Yes, Mr. Mac!” “Absolutely!” “We have to!”
All of them: “PLEASE?!?”
Mitch smiled, as if indulging them, as if he could resist the pull to head toward the dream himself. “Okay, boys, we’ll go.” He turned to the redhead. “Vance, we’ll need a car – go procure us some sort of SUV, will you?”
“You got it, Mr. Mac!” the red-headed boy said, rushing to quickly dress and get on with his task – he threw a pair of tiny shorts over his lime-green thong and headed out.
“What about us?” asked the brunette, nearly humping Mitch’s thigh. “Can we get a taste, Mr. Mac? That dream made us so horny…”
“You’re always horny,” Mitch said, kissing him. “I made you that way.”
And before he could stop them, the two boys started pleasuring him. They had a few minutes before Vance got back – they’d be okay. Mitch gave in, as he always did, and let the boys have his seed.
It was Kansas or bust!
Quebec had been a total bust!
She’d exhausted all possible leads in the search for her missing partner, Wolf Murdock, even this one given to her by that hick Sheriff in West Virginia. That frustration, plus this piece of shit rental car – she yelped as the clutch caught again, jerking her slightly forward – why had she wasted so much of her time?
It wasn’t uncommon for Murdock to go off-grid when investigating some one of his bizarre theories – the alien invasions and the like – but to go dark for this long was unusual even for him. Still, after nearly two weeks here, Tully realized there were no illegal steroid rings, no super-sized bodybuilders with gigantic gonads, nothing even slightly nefarious going on in the Quebec drug scene. It was time to give up and head back to DC.
She was turning into a Greasy Spoon for a quick breakfast when the rental car’s clutch slipped again, this time bucking her to the right. She was about to curse when she felt the car impact something with the front right fender. Shit.
“Shit!” she spat, throwing the car in park and exiting to see what she’d done. “Shit, shit, shit!”
Just what she needed – an accident – slowing her down.
Stepping out of the car, she looked to see what she’d hit – shit, a motorcycle – one of those really big ones. A Harley – that was the brand, right? And then, just as she’d exited the car and shut her driver’s side door, the motorcycle, as if in slow motion from its impressive weight, fell over on its side.
Immediately, as was her nature, Tully put together a list of things she had to do: 1) call the local police, 2) call the rental car company, 3) poke her head into the diner and see if she could identify the owner of the…
“WHAT THE FUCK?!?” she heard someone scream as the door of the diner slammed open. “My BIKE!!”
(Check #3 off the list.)
Steeling herself, Tully took in a calm breath of air as she turned to face the owner of the motorcycle, but when she saw him, she lost her breath entirely.
A giant of a man, massively muscled, larger even than the corpse that had brought her here – she clinically logged him at 310-320 pounds – buzzed hair, thick mustache, dressed in cliche biker-wear: heavy leather vest over a sleeveless t-shirt, full-sleeve tattoos on his exposed, muscular arms, black leather chaps over painted on jeans that displayed an impossible genital bulge… flopping back and forth as he strode across the parking lot. It was nearly obscene… like it was ready to explode.
Holy shit, she thought in that meager few seconds she had before he confronted her, look at his testicles! Obviously, this guy has done the same to himself that Robbie Ray had! This was her lead!
This very angry 300lb freak was her lead.
But by then, the 300lb man known as Snake was upon her.