Forest

Man’s Fruit

The master of the household is highly interesting, albeit strange. As I entered his service, I had heard any number of rumors concerning strange visions of debauchery and pagan rituals, which at the time had sounded like a bizarre citation of “Dracula” or “Frankenstein”. I didn’t believe any of it, instead opting to remain professional. The sort that needed a manservant on retainer were few and far between these days, and I counted myself lucky to gain employment under the notable man, vaguely homophobic gossip be damned.

Now I look back and laugh at those first few days I spent with the master, discovering every one of the rumors were completely true. My new employer was anything but normal and possessed a talent for what he endearingly called “hocus pocus”. Strange occurrences surrounded him like a clinging fog, and the magical quickly became commonplace the more time I spent with him, though I never quite adapted to the erotic flairs that always seemed to come in company. He was never inherently malicious, and though he never directly affected me in any way with his mystical tendencies, his strange lifestyle did bleed into my daily requirements.

One of his first amazing things the master showed me once I was under his service was his garden of men. Loving few things more than fresh fruit, he grew a bountiful collection of plants on his property. He had explained to me his belief that few things were as potent as the essence of man, a principle he put to work in his garden. Walking among the rows of sprouting vegetables and fruity vines, I began to spot the bodies sprawled about the grounds, writhing and groaning like victims of a forgotten war. I’d been alarmed to see them at first nearly rushing to their aid before the master halted me, suggesting that it might be advantageous to observe further, so I stood my ground, scanning the moaning figures.

The longer I watched, the more I saw. I noticed that not a one of them were still, each slowly flailing as a if they were trying to wake from a nightmare. Their faces bore no fear or pain, however, instead bearing expressions of overwhelming pleasure. Each of them had his hands at their crotch, needily mewling as they pawed and fondled themselves, some even exposing themselves in the open just to fully submit to the pleasure of whatever spell had possessed them all.

The master explained that a sort of magic would call to men, certain men who wouldn’t be missed, drawing them to the garden to see and smell its entrancing beauty. They’d wander into the garden, regarding the vegetation with amorous reverence without noticing their clothes fading away. In quite, joyful contemplation of this surreal garden, their wills would dissipate and their libido would swell. Helpless to the garden’s charms, they’d begin touch themselves with sensual intention, filling the place with the sounds of pleasure not heard past the property grounds, and distribute their masculine essence among the fields, feeding them from that day forth.

Now I enjoy my walks in the master’s garden, taking in the heady sensations as I collect my employer’s bounty with erotic delight.

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