Slammed against the tree, he expanded his ribcage, tried to keep his chest open and wide against the creeping tightening of whatever was attaching him to the tree.
Tanner Marechal. Bonsoir, my wolf in the night. My apple. My seed.
Bark formed like a warrior’s armor along his forearms and upper arms and capped his shoulders. More formed on the fronts and backs of his calves and up the fronts of both thighs. The outer layer of his skin and covering hairs rose to meld with the bark. The process was both painful and charged with an earthy eroticism he’d longed for his entire adult life.
The area over his heart was left free, as was most of his buttocks, his genital area, and the ladder line of dark hairs rising from the base of his penis to his sternum.
He could move, barely. The bark had formed a plate-like exoskeleton up the front and back of his torso and limbs and created a freeform helmet as it cupped the sides of his neck, the area around his ears, and the back of his skull to the hairline.
The Apple Witch showed herself once he was fully ensnared. She rose from the ground, a nubile sapling speeding through its growth until it hit peak strength. She shed her outer layer of darkened bark, slid her smooth surface against his inner legs and thighs, and positioned herself over his groin. Delicate growths of spring-green branches tipped with delicate leaves reached for him, stroking, calling, arousing.
And then she entered him as she enfolded him, and he was lost to sensations. He was stroked, probed, licked, milked, heated, fed, and sucked dry. He was there purely for her pleasure, and it seemed to pleasure her to no end to discover the empty vessel within him and fill it, empty it, and fill it again until he reached his peak.
Tanner spilled his seed as the tree consumed him. His chest rose, his ribs spread, and he shed his bark-like armor. Little roots and supple vines fell away, leaving him breathless, leaning against the tree, freed.
