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Christophe wakes with the sun in his eyes, one bright finger reaching through the gap between the curtains to touch his eyelids. Deep breath and stretch. The room smells fresh and green, cool spring air fills his lungs.

He’s late. Usually Aimée would have woken him by now, patting his cheek with one soft paw. Pardon me, lazy, but I require attention. Maybe she’s already up and out, sunning herself on the front steps.

He draws the curtains and opens the window all the way, pausing for another breath. He brushes against the morning glory and it almost seems to turn towards the light.

It’s growing well, even more quickly than he’d expected, a few tentative vines climbing the thin stakes in the soil and tipping down over the edge of the pot. Maybe it’s time to shift it out onto the balcony. But he likes it here, in front of the bedroom window. Seems like the morning glory likes it too.

The peace lily beside the bed doesn’t seem as happy today. A droop in its leaves; maybe he’s not watering enough.

When he heads to the bathroom, Aimée appears and rubs against his ankle. He strokes her, one long pet from head to tail. “Patience, my love. Breakfast soon.”

He yawns in front of the mirror. Despite the sun, the extra sleep, he’s still thick-headed. Too much coffee these days. Now he can’t wake up without it.

There’s a scratch on his shoulder, like a thin stroke of red ink. He draws his finger along it. It hurts, just a little. He doesn’t know where it came from.

In the shower, he turns his face into the water and stands under the warmth. When he breathes in the damp air, a memory stirs him. A dream. He can’t quite catch the details, but he falls back into the sensation of it. Sexual, enveloping, a hint of darkness.

His morning hard-on went away when he pissed but now it’s back. He rubs one out under the spray. He still can’t remember the dream, so he just goes with a tried and true scenario. It doesn’t take long for him to come.


Christophe wakes from a dream, the bedclothes rustling around him. He blinks in the light and the details slip away before he can take hold of them. He takes a breath of the spring-green air and he’s nearly back inside the dream, nearly feeling a touch on his body, the thrust of his back to meet it. The throb of his dick.

But that part is real. He pushes himself up on his elbow first, no Aimée on the end of the bed. She doesn’t care, but he does. Then he lies back, a slick of lubricant across his palm, and strokes himself slowly, eyes closed.

He’s never felt an interest before this, fantasies or practice, but today he thinks about restraints around his ankles and wrists, holding him while he struggles. While someone he can’t see touches him everywhere. Not cruelly, but inexorably. No matter how he pleads, no matter how he thrashes. Making him come whether he wants to or not.

Oh god, he wants to come.

He waits a few moments afterwards, his heart rate slowing and semen cooling on his belly. Has he ever come that hard alone before? He blows a kiss to whatever is fuelling these unremembered dreams, then grabs a handful of tissues.

The peace lily is worse today, dull and drooping. The moisture gauge is fine, he’ll have to search for more info.

The morning glory is vibrant, its leaves green and bright, vines spilling over the edge of the pot. One is twisting around the table leg, another reaching for the window.

Christophe opens the curtains so the morning light falls over it. He draws one finger down the middle of a heart-shaped leaf and it springs up under his touch. “Drink up, little one.”

Aimée is waiting in the kitchen. When Christophe sits down with coffee, she jumps into his lap and kneads his thigh. He rubs her head, behind the ears where she likes it.

He sees an indentation on his wrist, like the impression of too-tight elastic on his skin. He touches the groove. Maybe he twisted the sheet around his arm; he’s an energetic sleeper, or so his lovers tell him.

By the time breakfast is over, it’s gone.


Christophe wakes up damp and gasping, a rush in his ears, back arching like a current is going through him. For those few aching moments, he’s still in the dream. Still bound hand and foot. Still being forced, so slowly, so gently, beyond what he can stand.

Then, half-awake, he comes.

When it’s done, he sags into the sheets, one arm over his eyes to keep the daylight back. His face is wet: perspiration, maybe, or tears. He’s limp, wrung out, used up before the day has even begun.

Used. He lies a few moments more, half expecting that touch to start up again. But instead he surfaces into the day. Wipes himself with the stained sheets, gets up and strips the bed.

There’s no cat hair on the pillowcases. Aimée must still be prowling downstairs at night. In a fold of the duvet cover, he finds a leaf, heart-shaped and smelling of the sun. The days have been breezy.

The morning glory is even more glorious today, healthy and bright, a few buds curling in the vines. If he’s not careful, it will take over the bedroom, creeping along the furniture, climbing over the mirror until he can’t see himself in it any longer.

He shifts a vine along the windowsill so it has a better spot to cling. The leaves flutter. If he stands here long enough, maybe it will grow around him, twining up his limbs, curling around his torso. “Be well, little one,” he tells it and leaves it in the sun.

The peace lily is brown and brittle. Christophe takes it downstairs to throw away.


Shadows of Christophe’s dreams follow him through his day. A cool touch on his skin, cords that tighten around him, whispers from the darkness. He’s keyed up, aroused, nearly in pain.

So different from his usual lazy sensuality, he can’t cope. Skating, training, buying groceries: he can’t think about anything else.

He just needs some relief. One of the junior coaches at the youth hockey program has been giving him looks and Christophe has been starting to return them. A little eye-fucking in the weight room to spice up the day.

So today Christophe asks him for a spot while he lifts. And then for a drink.

They trade stories in the bar, leaning in towards each other. The usual easy trajectory: Christophe raising the mood smile by smile, laugh by laugh. Then they’ll walk up the hill to Christophe’s place. Move closer on the couch, touch by touch, kiss by kiss. Then climb the stairs to Christophe’s bedroom.

Halfway through the second beer, Christophe can’t wait. He reaches across the table, fingers circling the man’s wrist. “Let’s go.”

The man’s eyes widen but he stands and follows Christophe down the hall, into the small bathroom.

They kiss, pull at each other’s clothing, press and rock together. But there’s a hesitation in them both. Normally, no matter how they fit their bodies together, Christophe is the one who takes the initiative in his encounters. And he can feel that expectation in the man’s movements. Like a good follow dancing with an uncertain lead.

Christophe doesn’t want to lead. And he doesn’t want to follow. He’s aching to be pressed against the wall, hands pulled up above him. To be touched and torn at, whether he wants it or not. But he can’t say that.

If he has to ask, it won’t be enough.

He feels a deep pang for this lovely young man with his bright eyes and strong arms who won’t be spending any lazy hours in Christophe’s bed after all. Then he slides down and sucks him off, because that seems like the nice thing to do. And Christophe is a nice man.

Then he leaves, climbs the hill alone, the stairs alone. Steps over a vine stretched out across the floor and lies spreadeagled on his bed. A long breath of the fresh green air.

One hand on his dick, squeezing tight. Eyes closed, he can almost feel the pull on his limbs, the touch snaking across his body. The helplessness, the tremble of fear and of relief.

It’s not enough either but it makes him come.


Christophe wakes in the night. Movement on the bed, a rustle in the sheets, all around him. Not the soft weight of Aimée settling beside him. Something else is here.

And he freezes, face pressed into the pillow, unable to respond. Maybe it’s a night terror. But no, he’s awake, waking up, aware. It’s real.

His heart surges and he starts to move finally, fumbling for his phone, the lamp. Something catches his arm: a cord wrapping around his wrists and ankles, pulling him back. A cord that moves on its own, no hands guiding it. Too dark to see.

But there’s a sharp green smell.

Fear jolts through Christophe, brain to groin. A vine creeping up his arm, cool leaves brushing at his skin. A shout unfreezes in his throat. But tendrils curl between his lips, filling his mouth, stopping his voice but not his breath.

He yanks his arms, thrashes his legs. But he’s bound, ankles and wrists, chest down and the sheets slipping down his back. He’s gagged and he’s blind.

It’s not a dream, it was never a dream. And he feels himself rising to meet it.

The vines move over him as he struggles. Leaves brush the soles of his feet, tendrils creep between his fingers. Winding up his arms, his calves.

He jerks against them, lifting off the bed. Vines snake under his belly and coil around his ribs. Tendrils catch in the hair on his chest, under his arms. Like a hundred cool hands touching him, scratching, squeezing.

And underneath the raw fear coursing through him, a dark thrashing need, galvanizing him. It’s the only thing that doesn’t surprise him.

Please, he wants to say. Tries to say, around the tendrils filling his mouth and stretching his jaw. The stems are rough and bitter as he moves his tongue against them. They move in response, tangling around his tongue and pushing his jaw even wider until he’s strained and over-full, saliva running from his mouth onto the pillow.

Biting pressure on his body as the vines tighten, stretching out his limbs. He tears against them, heaves his body, wrenching in desperation to get free.

Leaves grow across his face, softly, like the caress of a lover. Like a murmur, it’s okay, babe, it’s okay. They cover his back and thighs, until he’s overgrown like a statue in a garden.

Please. He arches against the touch, fights to get away from it. His whole skin is tingling, his heart is pounding. The vines slide up his thighs, down his belly. Please.

They twist tighter, cutting at his wrists and ankles. As he gasps, they pull him further apart, until he’s spreadeagled and straining and completely helpless.

Until he’s so hard, he’s throbbing. Trying to rock in against the mattress, get some friction. But the vines lift his hips so his weight is on his chest and knees, his dick can only graze the sheet while the leaves stroke his skin.

One stem reaches down the cleft of his buttocks. It slides across his asshole and he squirms, towards, away. Please.

When a tendril finally curls around his cock, he cries out, a choking howl. The tendril constricts, a second wraps around him, then another and another, squeezing his cock as tight as a fist. One circles his balls, just close enough to threaten.

Christophe moves against it, struggles to get away. Frantic, his ears ringing with adrenaline. The plant just keeps winding around him, crawling over him, rustling in the dark.

A tendril brushes his asshole again, then burrows into him, a slim finger reaching up inside. Another follows, then more, so cold against his body heat, wriggling inside him like no toy he’s ever felt before. Opening him as he pushes against it, crawling up and rubbing over every nerve ending, a constant soft scrape across his prostate.

He bucks and strains, writhes and moans. And the plant pulls tighter, presses deeper. Its leaves trembling, whispering, filling the air with its fresh spring smell.

And Christophe does what he’s forced to do: he comes. A fierce orgasm that consumes his whole body in a shudder, on and on, deep throbs of pleasure and of joy. The plant holds him, still touching, still squeezing, taking his weight, shivering with him.

He relaxes into the plant’s embrace, empty of everything except the tendrils still invading him. It lowers him to the bed, gently, into the wet mess of his own semen and saliva. It’s going to slip away from him now and he’s going to sink down into sleep, he’s nearly there now, too depleted to do anything else.

But it doesn’t let him go.

A straining twist as the vines shift and flip him over so he’s stretched out on his back, still trussed hand and foot. Still covered with the creeping stems, still filled so that he’s aching.

The leaves brush over his skin, soft as a kiss, but it’s too much now, painful, he’s so over-sensitized. His jaw hurts but the plant won’t let him close it, tendrils shifting in his open mouth, the whole mass like some huge cock he can’t satisfy. The stems wrapped around his flaccid dick and balls, looser but now they’re moving, stroking his smarting skin.

But the worst is inside him, that filled-up strain that’s only bearable when he’s aroused and wanting. Now it’s awful, wrong, it has to go away.

It doesn’t go away. The plant holds him there, with his muscles aching, his skin crawling. Touching him over and over, inside and out, too much, too much.

He struggles weakly, pulls and pushes, but he’s losing. He’s lost.

So Christophe sags against the bed, into the coils of the plant, into the nauseating stimulation of its embrace. Tears leaking from his eyes, saliva drooling from his mouth.

A hundred small caresses over the soles of his feet, the palms of his hands, the insides of his thighs. Threading through his hair, brushing his face. Scratching over his nipples and armpits, no part of him unexplored and inflamed.

And stroke by sickening stroke, the tendrils bring his cock up again, aroused despite himself. He loses himself in that gentle torment, can’t feel the moments pass as he’s touched everywhere, impaled and racked and fondled, pushed blind and weeping to the crest.

He comes at last, awfully, wonderfully, sobbing deep in his throat.

The tendrils slide out of him, leaves rustle back across his skin. Freeing his wrists and ankles, touching his mouth and eyelids gently as they steal away.

Christophe reaches blindly, tries to catch them before they go, but the last few stems slide between his fingers. Nothing more that he can do, he’s wrung out, used up, finished, done.

He heaves himself onto his side, takes one deep breath, and falls asleep.


Christophe wakes tangled in the bedding. He’s languorous, heavy-eyed, sated. He rubs his sore wrists and gives himself a few moments to feel his aching body wake up. The air smells of sex and spring.

He gets up finally and opens the curtains. The morning glory turns towards the sun.

Christophe holds out his hand and a vine twines around his wrist. And while they stand in the sunlight together, waiting, one tall bud blooms into a deep white flower.

He strokes the delicate bell of its petals, soft and beautiful, and it turns towards him. He smiles. “Good morning, little one.”