Free RisingGreen by Sabrina York Page B

reel. She closed her eyes
against the miasma, the exotic thrill skating through her. Her heart beat,
distinct thuds pounding in her ears among a rushing tide.
    Somewhere through the haze, she sensed movement. She wasn’t
sure if she was moving or if the world moved around her. She felt as though she
were floating, suspended, lighter than air.
    A soft, questing tendril stroked her ankle. She tried to
look at it but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t move at all.
    The tendril tightened and another licked at her, on her
other ankle.
    A nip, gentle and oh so soft. Warmth blossomed at the spot,
blossomed and rose within her until it flooded her being. A feeling of
excitement—and impending doom—swamped her.
    The tendrils at her ankles twined slowly, making their way
up her calves. With each pass, they nipped again and the warmth expanded. A
vague awareness of myriad movements captured her attention. Other tendrils
twined slowly over her body, everywhere. They were on her face, her torso, her
abdomen. They crawled and curled under her shirt, questing.
    One of the tendrils found a nipple. As the soft, furred vine
passed over the sensitive tip, it pebbled. The tendril froze. Returned. Made
another pass.
    Sage moaned and tightened her muscles, trying desperately to
move away. But she was frozen, frozen in place, a statue. A sacrifice.
    She relaxed as the tendril at her breast moved away but then
gasped for breath as it wormed its way under her bra and returned to her
nipple, to stroke bare flesh.
    The vine curled around the nub and tugged. Pinched. A deep
draw. A prick. A flooding warmth. Her breast swelled. Her body wept.
    She longed to wriggle, longed to writhe. But couldn’t.
    Other tendrils joined in the dance, covering both her
breasts and searching for tender spots. Finding them. Taunting them. The
torment made her thrash and moan, though her efforts were impotent, muted.
    The heat burning through her rose to a fever-pitch. She
didn’t know what it was, had never felt like this before. It was a raging
hunger. Her body hummed with…wanting. Her entire being focused on the exquisite
pleasure being drawn upon her.
    The tendril searing her thigh rose higher, questing,
dragging its heavy head back and forth over her skin. It passed across her
mound, swiped softly over dampened cotton, across a budding, aching nub so
engorged it thrust out, past slick lips, pouting.
    Delight shot through her at that casual caress. Sage
whimpered. Every muscle clenched.
    The tendril froze. Froze and tracked back to the cascading
heat of her cunt. It pressed against the cotton, several agonizing attempts
pulling her panties tighter against her clit. Then, with a silky shimmy, it
felt around and eased beneath the elastic of her underpants. Almost cold
against her superheated flesh, a leaf unfurled over her clit. It rubbed her
there. Right there. Thick, bulging veins created a hellish friction against raw
flesh.
    Sage cried out. Her mind reeled. Her womb clenched. She
desperately tried to arch up into the caress but her body would not obey her
commands. She was helpless. Utterly unable to move.
    It teased her, that wicked tendril, scraping against her
sanity, pinching and stroking and tugging the tight bundle of nerves.
Relentless. Determined.
    An agonizing bliss.
    A tiny shoot nudged at her opening. Sage cried out at the
gentle invasion of her urethra and then she sobbed as a feeling of fullness, a
harsh burn, settled in her pulsing clit.
    At the same time, the tendril curling around her other thigh
snaked back and licked at the tight pucker of her ass. Sage howled. Hot shivers
of delight rode her as the slender vine slithered over her flesh like a curling
tongue. Slowly, it eased its way inside her.
    Somehow she found the strength to lurch away, a panicked
attempt to avoid this titillating invasion, but it didn’t matter. The vine
rooted firmly within her. It undulated. Distended. Anchored her.
    All the while, other tendrils plucked at her