The vines responded to our desire, weaving themselves into supportive straps that positioned me above him. They created loops that I could grip with my hands, while other vines wrapped gently around my thighs and hips—not restraining, but supporting my weight like a sex swing.
“Oh,” I breathed, understanding the mechanics. “That’s—”
“Perfect leverage,” Kaelren finished, his hands settling on my hips as he lay back into the nest of moss and vines beneath him. “You control the rhythm. The vines will hold you.”
I straddled him, the swing-like support taking most of my weight while still letting me move. From this angle, I could see all of him—the sculpted planes of his chest still gleaming with traces of mushroom paint, his marks pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat, the way he looked at me like I was something sacred and profane all at once.
“Like this?” I asked, positioning myself above him, feeling the head of him pressing against my entrance.
“Exactly like that.” His voice was strained, hands flexing on my hips. “Take your time. Set the pace.”
I sank down slowly, inch by inch, watching his face as I took him. The vines adjusted with me, supporting my weight so I could control the depth, the angle. When I was fully seated, we both groaned at the sensation—deeper than before, the angle hitting something inside me that made stars burst behind my eyelids.
“Fuck,” I gasped.
“Move,” he urged. “Please, Elle, move.”
I gripped the vine-straps with both hands and lifted myself up, then sank back down. The support made it effortless—I could bounce, could control the rhythm completely while the vines held my weight. And the eye contact—god, the eye contact was intense. Every expression on his face, every flutter of his lashes, every clench of his jaw as I moved on him.
“You’re perfect,” he said, watching me ride him. “Absolutely perfect.”
I experimented with the angle, shifting my hips, finding what felt best.The vines adjusted with every movement, tightening or loosening their support to give me exactly what I needed. When I found the right angle—the one that made me cry out—his hands tightened on my hips.
“There,” he said, helping guide me. “Right there.”
I built the tempo gradually, using the vine-straps for leverage, bouncing faster as pleasure coiled tighter in my belly. He thrust up to meet me when I came down, the dual motion driving him impossibly deeper.
“Touch yourself,” he commanded, and the edge in his voice sent shivers through me.
One hand left the vine-strap to slide between us, finding where we were joined. The added sensation made me clench around him, and he groaned my name like a prayer.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his eyes dark with lust as he watched me pleasure myself while riding him. “Take what you need. Use me.”
The combination—the perfect angle, my fingers on myself, the way he filled me completely, the swing support letting me move faster and harder than I could have on my own—it was overwhelming. I could feel the orgasm building, could feel him getting close through the bond.
“I’m going to—” I gasped.
“Yes. Come for me. Let me feel it.”
When I shattered, the vines held me through it—supporting my weight as my body convulsed with pleasure, keeping me positioned perfectly so he could thrust up into me as I clenched around him.
The aphrodisiac plants intensified everything. Every touch was electric, every kiss was consuming, and the bond between us amplified sensation until I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began. I felt his pleasure bleeding through, his wonder at this—at us—at how good it was.
“The leaves,” I gasped, reaching for more. “Try them.”
He understood immediately, creating trails with different flavors—chocolate warming his skin, bubblegum creating tiny bursts of sensation, peppermint cooling and soothing. We painted each other, tasted each other, learned what made the other come apart.
The vines responded to our shared desire, creating new configurations—spinning, adjusting, finding angles that made us both gasp. They held me suspended, allowed movement I’d never imagined possible, rotating me slowly as he moved within me. The sensation was dizzying, overwhelming, perfect.
My hands found his pointed ears—sensitive, I’d learned—and when I traced them he made a sound somewhere between a groan and my name.
“There,” I said, doing it again. “You like that.”
“You’re going to unravel me completely.”
“Good.”
The pleasure built in waves, each one higher than the last. The mushrooms glowed brighter, responding to our mounting arousal, painting us both in ethereal light. Flowers bloomed where my hands gripped the vines—unconscious magic responding to overwhelming sensation—and his corruption marks pulsed in counter-rhythm, creating patterns of light and shadow across our skin.
