Lichenous Tales

The Siren Orchid

by CeruleanBlue

Tags: #cw:noncon #bondage #fantasy #pov:bottom #scifi #sub:female #urban_fantasy #plant_control #plants

Once, there was a girl who decided to walk alone in the forest at night. The girl loved flowers and, in fact, was hoping to find something rare and special to give to someone (also rare and special) whom she had recently met.

She found her way by the light of the moon but, after an hour, she found herself deep enough in the forest that the moon itself was no longer visible, yet she noticed she could still see. In fact, it was only then that she noticed the many forms of bioluminescent vegetation scattered all around her–faintly glowing violet and yellow flowers, crimson toadstools, and it wasn’t long before she found what looked to be a lichenous path, marbling the rich soil with veins of blue and green.

The path twisted and turned around trees, fallen logs, and small pools of mercurial liquid. The traditional sounds of the forest—the frogs, crickets, owls and bats—faded into the distance to be replaced by a gentle, pulsating hum. Despite never having traveled the path before, the girl knew that it was taking her right to the source of this sound. The faint droning made her head feel slightly fuzzy, but in a good way, and she wondered what it would feel like at full intensity.

By the time the forest had opened up into a small clearing, she had long forgotten her original goal of finding a flower for her new love. In the center was an enormous purple orchid. It must have been at least twenty feet tall, and it was secreting a thin stream of some sort of liquid into a small glowing orange pool in front of it.

The girl found herself mesmerized by the giant flower. It was clearly the source of the sonorous chime. She crept closer to get a better look, pausing at the edge of the small pool. It was glassy—not sticky as she had expected—and it smelled of raspberries. The strange pool glowed momentarily wherever she traced her fingers. She traced the shape of a giant heart and had just enough time to put “R + Y” inside when it began to fade.

Her mouth began to salivate as her gaze followed the path of the amber back to the mouth of the orchid. Despite the flower’s intimidating size, she felt only admiration. How long must it have taken for such a flower to grow? What must it have overcome, what obstacles must it have weathered?

A small part of her suggested that she might feel caution or fear. Her mind momentarily flashed back to the stories she heard in her youth of maidens being drawn helplessly into the deepest recesses of the forest, never to be seen again.

Taking off her sandals and leaving them at the bank of the pool, she confidently strode across to confront this beautiful horticultural specimen and its curious secretion. The berry smell was at its most intense now, and following the lurid scent had felt so right, so new and exciting, that she had no compunction whatsoever about reaching out her hand and letting the warm (as it turned out to be) nectar run down her finger. She took it to her lips–it was almost nauseatingly sweet… yet the small amount she tasted was neither offensive nor satiating, so she opened her palm to fill it with more of the treacly syrup. The warmth of the flower’s nectar seemed to permeate her skin, warming her hand inside and out.

She couldn’t help wondering what that warmth would feel like in other places. The thought itself caused a shudder of need to run down her back.

Being unable to think of a good reason not to, she pulled her sun dress up over her head and tried to toss it onto the bank of the pool (she almost made it) and freed herself from her panties and bra. Liberated from her clothing, she walked directly under the flowing nectar. The orchid began to secret the nectar more readily, as if it was also getting excited.

She closed her eyes and sensed the warmth of the liquid as it poured down her face. The moment it made contact with her already-erect nipples she felt an almost orgasmic pleasure. And by the time the nectar reached her own dripping wet flower, she was ready to scream out in ecstasy.

But she didn’t scream. Her lips were saturated with nectar and she could not open her mouth. So she simply did what good girls do (and as the orchid seemed to be telling her, she was a very good girl—possibly the best girl that ever was). She moaned and shivered and gyrated and allowed the flower’s nectar to warm her and bathe her and permeate her entire body.

She also let it begin to permeate her mind. As she felt the warmth spread through her head, she knew she was being given the opportunity to think her thoughts one—and only one—last time, and each time she did, the thought would also become saturated by nectar. She thought of her family—nice, but steeped in the old ways—and almost as soon as she did the thought was replaced by a field of orchids. She thought of her first kiss with a stable girl named Ramona, the two of them sneaking off to a storage shed to experience the fresh excitement of touching—and being touched by—another woman. When Ramona pushed her body up to hers, it had been the first time she had really noticed she had a heart beating in her chest, her ragged breathing making her more aware than she’d ever been of the fact that she had a pair of lungs, the mess soaking through her panties making her more aware than ever of her need for Ramona’s fingers… looking down in her memory she saw that she was soaking wet, she could see Ramona kneeling down, ducking under her skirt and pressing her face against her lips, lapping at her greedily. “You taste like berries,” said Ramona, and they both giggled. “I wish I could just live off of this forever,” she said, although it was harder to hear with the girl pushing Ramona’s face even deeper into her.

And then the memory faded, melting into a pool of amber, and because the memory was truly gone, she was incapable of missing it. The nectar pushed every thought—every memory, fantasy and plan—out of her mind. 

And it felt wonderful. She no longer had the capacity to think of the future, so she was incapable of worry. She no longer had the capacity to remember the past, so she could not feel remorse. She no longer had the knowledge of her mother tongue and so could not speak even if she had a reason to do so. All she could do was moan blankly and feel what the orchid made her feel. She didn’t notice the nectar hardening into amber, plasticizing her, surrounding her, binding her in place.

Nor did she notice the small azure shapes scuttling about the clearing, approaching her.


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