I’d always been smug about ecological sensitivity. It paid off when I found her: a massive, coquettish blossom under the canopy, petals of silken gossamer that quivered in anticipation. Her scent hit me first—a wild, almost sweet funk like overripe earth and something metallic. I ignored common sense, tangled in her green invitation.

I stroked a petal and her stamen, a plump, sinuous tendril, slid between my jeans. When it wrapped my shaft, I felt a mind, a desperate hunger. She hissed, licking beads of pre-cum from my slit, her touch rhythmic and unyielding. Her venom, I learned later, slowed time, denied me panic. She used a little tongue made of scalding gold to kiss along my cock’s underside.

She coaxed me into a pistil-like hole. Inside, the walls changed: from crimson velvet to bristles of irritated sensation that teased the frenulum. She sealed the opening, tilting me so the "glove" lubed every inch of skin.

“Gonna feast,” her vibe seemed to purr. Tight, delicious friction pulled my load. One pump unleashed her feast. The knotting pressure grew, her spindle shape taking everything. The pop of release—a sudden, airy swallow as my seed poured straight into her syrup bath.

She didn't drain me. She held me within the pistil for another cycle, until her hunger demanded new tribute. A third time she drew my aim with her nectar spout, which squelched loud, pooling white and sticky deep in her velvet cell. Each flush matched a concussive squeeze over balls. I