Chapter 75: Public Worship
The silence after my declaration was not empty. It was dense, expectant. The grove’s humid air clung to our new skin, the slow pulse of the fungi seeming to quicken in time with the quickening in my own belly. The potential the hikers had left behind was a low, radiant burn, a banked fire in my womb. The transformation had sculpted our exteriors into monuments, but inside, the need was a wild, writhing thing.
Elara was the first to break the quiet. She ran a hand over the hardened plane of her abdomen, then cupped one of her high, severe breasts. A thread of golden nectar traced a path down its slope. “Waiting’s one thing,” she said, her voice a rough whisper. “But this… this ache doesn’t wait. It commands.”
Cora shifted her immense weight, the movement causing a seismic jiggle through her spectacular form. “She’s right. It’s like… a pressure. A wonderful, terrible pressure.” She looked at the mossy boulder throne, its surface slick and inviting. “The grove listens to you, Amy. Can’t it… listen to this?”
The ache was in me, too. A throbbing, virgin-tightness that felt less like a barrier and more like a bowstring, drawn taut and begging for release. The power to reshape ourselves still thrummed in my veins, a heady, intoxicating current. Why couldn’t it command the grove itself?
I approached the throne. Not as a supplicant, but as its sovereign. I placed my palms flat on the cool, damp stone. The bioluminescent fungi around its base brightened, their pulse becoming a steady, eager throb.
“You serve us,” I said, not asking. The words vibrated in the air. “You please us.”
The response was immediate. From the soft, dark earth around the throne’s base, tendrils emerged. Not the coarse roots of trees, but smooth, living vines of fungal matter, pale and flexible like new muscle. They grew with a soft, rustling sound, questing toward us, their tips glistening with a clear, viscous sap.
Elara let out a sharp, appreciative laugh. She wrapped her hand around one as it neared her thigh. It was warm, yielding yet strong. “Smart little thing, aren’t you?”
More tendrils snaked out, a gentle, undulating forest of them. One coiled around my ankle, its touch like a lover’s breath on skin. Another found Cora’s waist, sliding over the incredible shelf of her hip with a whisper. The sensation was electric, a direct line to the gnawing emptiness inside me.
“That’s it,” I breathed, my command softening into a hushed guidance. “Feel what we need.”
I took a thick tendril in my hand, stroking its length. It pulsed in my grip, thickening slightly. The message was clear, a filthy, silent conversation. We didn’t need gentle caresses. We needed to be filled, breached, used for the purpose thrumming in our fertile wombs.
“Give us more,” Cora moaned, her head lolling back as a tendril brushed the underside of her colossal breast. “Give us what fits. What fills.”
The grove understood. The tendrils retreated momentarily, sinking back into the earth. A deep, subterranean rumbling followed, a sound of immense growth. The ground before the throne bulged, then split.
They rose from the soil: three massive, living columns. They were phalluses, but unlike any human cock. They were carved from polished, bark-like material, veined with glowing phosphorescence. Each was distinct, tailored.
One before Elara was straight as a spear, ridged with pronounced, spiral knots, a thing of brutal, efficient strength. Before Cora, it was a staggering monument of girth, a blunt, fat-headed beast that seemed to promise overwhelming fullness. Mine was regal, long and thick, tapering to a fierce point, its surface engraved with patterns like ancient crowns.
They stood erect, throbbing with a life of their own, each dripping with the same clear sap.
“Holy fuck,” Elara whispered, her warrior’s composure cracking into pure lust. “It made them.”
The command was now instinctual. We didn’t guide the tendrils this time. We ordered them. “Do it,” I said, my voice cracking. “Now.”
The tendrils surged back, wrapping around the bases of the colossal phalluses. With a powerful, organic motion, they guided them forward.
Elara met hers first. She braced her powerful legs, hands on her hips, a challenge in her eyes. The spear-like head pressed against her. Even with her new, warrior’s body, the stretch was immense. The grove’s tendril pushed relentlessly. Her breath hitched, then she let out a guttural, “Yes!” as the first thick knot breached her. She was impossibly tight, her body gripping the invading shaft like a vise. The tendril worked, pulling the phallus back slightly before slamming it home, each thrust driving a choked gasp from her lips.
Cara’s experience was one of overwhelming expansion. The blunt, fat head pressed against her, and for a moment, it seemed impossible. But her body, built for abundance, yielded. The entrance was a slow, shuddering conquest. A high, keening wail tore from her throat as the monstrous girth sank into her, stretching her beyond thought, beyond anything but feeling. The tendril rocked the phallus in a deep, punishing rhythm, each movement making her vast breasts and ass quake in a chaotic symphony of flesh.
Then mine was at my own entrance. The fierce, crowned head nudged my dripping slit. The virgin tightness was a scream of resistance, a final barrier of my old self. I gripped the slick moss of the throne. “Fucking breed me,” I snarled.
The thrust was divine violence. It tore through the resistance, a white-hot lance of pleasure-pain that stole my breath. It buried itself to the hilt in one relentless stroke, the tapered shape impaling me to a depth that should have been impossible. It struck the mouth of my womb, and my vision swam. Every nerve was a live wire.
The tendrils in our hands obeyed our frantic strokes. We weren’t passive. We were active, furious participants, jerking the writhing vines as the grove fucked us with its monstrous creations. The air filled with the sounds of slapping flesh, choked sobs, and raw, unfiltered screams.
“Don’t stop! Don’t you fucking stop!” Elara roared, her muscular body piston-driving back against each thrust.
Cora was babbling, her words dissolving into a chant. “So deep, oh fuck, it’s so deep, filling me up, filling me up!”
My own moans were ragged things, torn from a place of absolute sovereignty and absolute surrender. The phallus plunged into me, its engraved patterns rubbing secrets against my inner walls. The low, radiant burn in my womb erupted into an inferno.
Our leaking nectar had become a flood. Golden streams shot from our nipples, no longer trickles but arcs of liquid heat, soaking our chests, the moss, the very shafts that ravaged us. The scent was overpowering: sweet milk, fertile earth, and the heady musk of raw sex.
I felt the end coming, a tidal wave gathering in the grove itself, channeling through those planted phalluses. The thrusts became erratic, frantic. A pressure built at the base of the cock inside me, a pressure that echoed in Elara’s grunts and Cora’s shrieks.
“Now!” I screamed, my voice no longer my own. “Give it all to us! Fill our fucking wombs!”
The phalluses swelled further, then erupted.
It wasn’t a human release. It was a geyser. A hot, torrential flood of thick, pearlescent cum exploded inside us. I felt my womb bloat with it, a searing, perfect fullness. It overflowed, gushing back along the shaft, dripping down my thighs in great, warm rivulets. I could see it happening to Elara, to Cora—their bodies receiving this impossible inundation, their stomachs visibly rounding for a fleeting second under the deluge.
But it didn’t stop there. The climax continued, a comical, gargantuan eruption that coated our bodies from belly to chin. It soaked Cora’s mountainous breasts, pooled in the valley between Elara’s hardened pectorals, painted stripes across my regal torso. We were drenched, baptized in the grove’s potent, life-giving essence.
Finally, the convulsive pulses ceased. The tendrils went slack. The phalluses, now softened and shriveling, retreated slowly from our spent, dripping bodies, leaving us gaping and overflowing.
We collapsed onto the sodden moss, a tangle of limp limbs and heaving chests. The silence returned, but it was different now—sated, humming with spent energy. I looked at Elara, then Cora. We were slick with our own milk and the grove’s cum, painted in the proof of our command.
Elara let out a breathless, shattered laugh, looking at the mess covering her formidable muscles. “Well,” she panted. “That ought to do it.”
Cora simply sighed, a deep, contented sound that vibrated through her entire massive frame. Her hand rested on her softly rounded belly. “It heard us,” she murmured, smiling dreamily.
We were ready.