He Who Plants a Tree
by Helen E. H. Madden © 2008

He Who Plants a Tree

"But this is Shady Banks! You can't cut down the trees!"

Mrs. Green wrung her hands while Garth scowled and started up his chainsaw. "Lady, it's my yard. I bought this place. I can do whatever I want."

All further protests from Garth's elderly neighbor were drowned out by the roar of the saw as it ripped through a towering maple. The tree crashed to the lawn; others soon followed. He dealt with the roses next, ripping them out by their roots, then the tulips, the herbs, the ivy, the lawn. All day, Garth sweated and swore. Damn the previous owner and his green thumb!

"I knew I should have stuck with my old apartment," grumbled Garth as he wrestled with the honeysuckle that clung to the picket fence.

That evening, he surveyed the yard. Broken branches and tattered leaves littered the muddy ground. The butchered segments of the maple tree rested on the curb. Everything green was gone. Satisfied, Garth headed to bed. He would buy concrete tomorrow and pave the whole thing over.

That night, though, a tiny sprig of green blossomed from the slaughtered tree. It grew into a vine that raced across the yard and coursed up the house to the bedroom window. Garth awoke to find verdant creepers twining around his limbs. As he writhed in their grip, the plants transformed and a creature bloomed before him.

"What the hell are you?" Garth gawked at the slim, supple body crowned by a leafy head. Long graceful arms sprang from its narrow torso and in the fork of its crotch grew a dark red flower.

"I'm a dryad," the creature replied. It pointed to the felled maple outside. "The previous owner planted that tree for me, and today you killed it. Plant me a new one."

The vines tightened. A single tendril wrapped around Garth's cock, pressing needle-sharp thorns into his flesh. "But winter starts tomorrow!" he lied. "It's too late to plant—"

"Is that so?" Willow branches sprouted from the dryad's fingertips. The vines flipped Garth over and laid bare his buttocks and thighs. He yelped as he felt the first punishing lash. "Then I must stay here with you until spring," the dryad said. "Pray the season comes early."

The next morning, Garth limped to the bathroom, the dryad in his arms. He attempted to confine it to a cactus he kept there, but that only made it prickly.

"You call this a home?!" it demanded, jabbing Garth in buttocks as he tried to use the toilet. "I need sunlight! More water too!"

So Garth transplanted the dryad to the living room and placed it before the north-facing picture window.

"Ah, much better," it sighed as it basked in a golden pane of light. The dryad wriggled and undulated in its terra cotta pot, lithesome hands stroking the ruby-colored flower between its twiggy legs until the blossom grew twice its size. Garth shifted from foot to foot in the corner, suddenly aware of a startling growth in his own pants.

"What are you?" he asked again in a choked voice.

The dryad arched its back, running its hands over silver-green skin. "I told you. I'm a dryad."

"But... I mean, are you male? Female?"

"Ha! Why don't you tell me?"

The blossom between its legs opened, unfurling to reveal a cluster of stamen and pistols sprouting from within the deep well of scarlet petals. Entranced, Garth reached forward to touch the bobbing bulbous head of one of the stamen. It shuddered and sprayed golden pollen all over Garth, who convulsed and released his own seed in return.

"Oh my god," he groaned, crawling away to hide the dark wet stain on his pants. The dryad giggled as he escaped the room. "My, you are an animal, aren't you?"

That night, Garth locked his bedroom door. Even so, the vines crept around the edges and through the key hole. Once again, he awoke to find himself bound by verdant growth, the dryad straddling his hips.

"Fertilize me," it demanded, stroking its whip-like fingers across Garth's stomach. The scarlet flower opened once more to swallow Garth's burgeoning cock and suck it dry.

Day after day, night after night, the pattern repeated itself. Garth tried to avoid the dryad, tried to keep it locked in the living room, but it quickly overgrew the entire house. Runners tripped up his feet, sharp thorns tore at his clothing. And always the willow whips chastised him wherever he went. Then at night, it came to him, bound him and rode him, sometimes taking Garth inside its flowering sex, sometimes thrusting a stamen or two deep inside his ass or mouth. The pollen was everywhere.

"I think you missed a spot," the dryad crooned as Garth scrubbed in the shower.

He felt leafy fingers brush against his backside and looked. Sure enough, yellow-gold dust glittered along the long red welts that cut across his ass.

In the dead of winter, Garth stood outside in his blighted yard.

"I bet you miss those trees now, don't you?" said Mrs. Green as she peered over the fence. "Trees keep a house warm in the winter, you know."

Garth shook his head before returning inside. The old lady had no idea.

Around February, the dryad grew swollen and slow. Garth ran his hands over its bulging belly, felt the fruits of his labor growing inside.

"Spring is coming," the dryad whispered, stroking Garth's hair. "Plant me a tree."

"What kind?"

"The right kind," the dryad teased. "The kind that shows how much you love me."

The next day, Garth went to the nursery and picked out a red birch. It was fine, strong and healthy, and he felt a sense of pride as he planted it in the front yard. He carried the dryad outside and lifted it up into the branches.

"Home at last!" it cried. The flower between its legs burst open and a flood of green spilled forth across the bare dirt yard. Lush grass swept across the ground, chasing away the last of the snow. Crocuses sprang up at Garth's feet. Herbs and roses, honeysuckle and shrubs, all that he had destroyed months before came flourishing back.

Next door, Mrs. Green rushed out of her house, staring at the once dead yard.

"My goodness! This place was a ruin! Where did all these plants come from?"

Garth smiled up at the dryad, who smiled back.

"I guess Spring came early this year," he said.

_______
© 2008 Helen E. H. Madden. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Who is Helen E. H. Madden? Read her bio on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website.

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