The Garden of Ivy

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, places, events and incidents in this story are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. The characters are all over 18 years of age.

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I moved to the island at the time of the final frost of winter, when bulging tulip heads thrust up into the air, and all green things germinate in preparation for the coming months, eager to spread their buds and seduce the bees with their pageants of color, and intoxicate them with the scent of their pollen, and in return feel the fat, hairy bodies of their bumbling paramours writhe in drunken ecstasy against their delicate stamens, coating them with their yellow spunk, sending shock waves of delight down their stalks deep into their roots, deep into the earth, until the ground itself vibrates with the explosive potency of spring. We sense all around us, at this changing of the seasons, the tumescence of new energies, of new life, restless, impatient, hungry for the coming feast.

I had thought that here, on this island, I could harness this restless energy to productive use, both in my day job as a advertising copywriter -- in which I furiously churn out cheap words and phrases for faceless corporations so they can blast advertisements from webpage sidebars at distracted consumers -- and in my free time, when I try to write anything but cheap words and phrases, and usually end up writing nothing, and instead go on the internet, where I am blasted by the very same cheap words and phrases churned out by myself and the army of corporate copywriters just like myself, who in another world might have been poets, but in this world peddle bullshit.

The island was in an area I did not know well, an area famed for its large scale agriculture and serviceable inland river port, at which produce was loaded onto ships and distributed to markets around the world. The island was a byproduct of this commerce; initially a slag heap in the river formed when the port was dredged, it was then purchased by a developer, who had a causeway built, and then atop the slag heap erected four stately homes and landscaped gardens. In it's heyday in the middle of the last century, the island was home to the cream of the region's human crop, its industrial managers and corporate lawyers and their ilk, a quiet refuge at the end of a suburban street. But then at the end of the century the market for certain agricultural products in which the region specialized collapsed, a casualty of foreign competition and oversupply, and the port wound down, and as the local crop withered and dispersed, so did its cream. The island's four estates were sold to new people at a fraction of their former cost.

Based on some alluring online photos of overgrown foliage and mid century architecture, I had contracted to rent from one of these new owners, for the spring and summer, the carriage house of her estate. The rental arrangement was brokered by a management company, and so when I arrived at the island for the first time, at the dawn of the new season, I had no notion of who the owner would be, other than that she was a lady, named Ivy, and she would meet me to give me my key.

Ivy greeted me at the carriage house door. She was tall and fit, and modestly dressed in comfortable, loose fitting clothes -- exactly what you would expect from a rich middle aged woman who lives alone in an overgrown estate and spends most of her days tending her garden. I could tell from her clear, pale skin and flowing red hair she minded her appearance, but not out of a desire to please; she was a woman who knew her worth. Her manner was businesslike and direct without being rude. She showed me my rooms, handed me the key, and left me to get settled. All this suited me, for the rooms were clean and bright, and I came here to focus, not to entertain a bored or eccentric patron.

I think my distaste for chitchat was a relief to her as well. As the spring began to burst forth on the island, we would cross paths from time to time when I walked loops around the Island's circular road writing in my head, and she walked her dog. I would nod, and say hello, and continue on my way, not stopping to chat, showing no interest in chatting, and over the following weeks, as this pattern solidified, the curtness of her businesslike demeanor softened somewhat, and I saw her more relaxed when I encountered her on my walks, playfully talking to her dog or picking flowers by the road, and she would greet me with a friendly smile as we passed.

Then came a week of torrential rain that cooped me up in the carriage house, and Ivy in her house; this was no bother to me, for my writing was going well, but by the end of the week I was feeling pent up and longing for the sun, and so when I woke one day and saw the sun shining, I hopped out of bed, dressed, and began my promenade. Oh what a joyous day! The humus of the damp soil mixed with the wet grass in a heavy, pungent aroma, the lawns steamed in the rising heat, and the wet buds and green shoots gleamed in the sunlight as the birds chirped joyously from the trees and hopped upon the grasses hunting for fat worms to devour. Everything was out, was awakening, was basking in the warmth of the new sun. And it was in this spirit that I encountered Ivy laughing at the antics of her dog, who was chasing the birds and yipping for joy as she ran to and fro, furiously wagging her tail. Ivy saw me, and her laughter remained on her face, and she waved at me. Seeing this, her dog made an exuberant yip and bounded over to me, her tongue lolling out of her happy mouth.

I laughed as well, and stretched out my hand, and the dog let me scratch between her ears, and waggled her little butt, she shook her head, and ran around me in a happy dance. But instead of circling me the dog stopped behind me, and I felt her paws on the back of my thigh, and she started humping my leg. I awkwardly tried to shake my leg free but the dog kept going until Ivy's commanding voice called out: "Mistress, down!" and the dog let me go. Ivy walked up to me. "I'm so sorry," she said, "I swear she's never tried to mount anyone before."

"Don't worry, I'm used to it," I said automatically, not realizing what I was saying, the way we say "you too" when a waiter says "enjoy your meal."

Ivy gave me a look of amused surprise, as if to say "oh really?"

"I mean, I'm not used to it," I corrected, laughing, "in fact that was my first time." Oh my god, I thought, what did I just say.

Ivy grinned. "First time for everything," she said, and winked. My face was flushed beet red, but I was laughing at myself as well. "Enjoy the weather," she added, and turned home.

The next morning was the first day of spring. When I awoke I found under my front door a note from Ivy: "Sorry about yesterday, let me make it up to you. Drinks at 5? I'll be busy around back, just shout my name when you come. You'll love my famous cocktail, I promise ;)"

I confess part of me didn't want to go, for I was perfectly happy with our interactions so far, and didn't want to create any expectations or feelings of social obligation. But everything between us had been easy, and it was, after all, the first day of spring. Plus, I had always been curious about Ivy's garden, which lay hidden behind a tall stone wall around the rear of her home. So I would go, I concluded, and get a taste of this famous cocktail she boasted about, probably some fruity concoction. Hopefully it would not get to my head.

Five o'clock arrived, and I was knocking at her garden gate, calling her name. Ivy opened the gate with her hair atustle, in faded overalls and a plaid shirt grimed with garden dirt. She was holding a thick, dripping gardening hose, and I noticed the flexed muscles of her powerful forearms. "I was just watering," she said. Her manner was relaxed and easy, she was happy. "Come in, come in," and she ushered me through the gate.

The scent of the garden hit me first, a sticky-sweet pungency that wafted heavily through the thick air, oozing like the nectar of a ripe peach, an intensely sexual, intoxicating scent. Her garden was like a jungle, the trunks of the trees were smothered in ivy and moss, and their branches linked together with creeping vines. Giant ferns and strange broad-leaved plants sprouted wildly from the ground. The life here was so thick I could not see more than a few feet on either side of the dirt path down which she led me. I felt dizzy, like I had just been transported to a parallel world.

"How is this possible?" I gasped, my breath labored in the rich, misting air.

"There is a retractable glass ceiling," Ivy replied. "It keeps the plants alive in winter."

"Incredible," I enthused, "the garden of Eden."

"No, the garden of Ivy," she corrected, and we both laughed. I felt giddy like a young colt, from this air, the scent, this strange profusion of life, and a wild animality faintly stirred within me.

Ivy led me to to the stone patio at the rear of her home. She deposited me in a teak garden chair, told me she'd be right back, then plunged through the rear door.

I sat in awe, feasting on the sight of the garden that loomed all around. Tendrils of ivy reached down from the overhanging tree limbs, as if desperate to crack open the patio stones, and penetrate deep into the virgin soil beneath. I heard, now, the gurgle of rushing water, a heavy flow, and I thought of Ivy' garden hose. I saw another hose snaking past the patio into the garden down a second path, and thought maybe she had left it running by mistake. Before I realized what I was doing, I had stood up and began following the hose into the garden. At the patio's edge I reached down and gripped the hose, and was surprised by its weight, it's girth, more than any hose I had handled before, my fingers could not enclose it. I followed it, and disappeared into the garden wildness.

The hose led me to a small grove enclosed on all sides by encroaching flora. Here I found the source of the flowing sound: a round, milky white pool ringed by mossy stones, at the rear of which appeared a statue carved out of pale white stone. My cheeks flushed, the dizziness returned, the otherworldly feeling that time had been suspended. For the statue atop the pool was a figure of a woman, seated at the pool's edge in a commanding pose like a queen upon her throne. Her hands were on her knees, and her legs were spread apart, and between her legs hanged an enormous phallus, a priapic member as thick as her wrist and long as her forearm. It was neither flaccid nor erect, but halfway between, frozen mid-pulse in the engorgement of its awakening. From it's bulbous tulip head, petaled in foreskin, flowed the steaming white substance that filled the pool. It might have seemed comically oversized, but the woman who wielded it was so austere in her beauty, and so commanding in demeanor, that I felt no urge to laugh, or to smile. No, something in me began to tremble -- at the power contained in this woman's fearsome appendage, this enchanted weapon she wielded with such natural authority, as if accustomed to receiving supplication, as if she alone of all queens had never needed to command a man to kneel.

I heard a noise behind me, and turned to see Ivy at the grove entrance. She had changed into a flowing white robe belted around her waist, and she wore an amused look on her face, as if she saw right through me, saw the embarrassment and arousal her statue had conjured in me. But Ivy was not judging me -- it was a look of understanding, the amusement of a sage at the fuddling of an acolyte. And I saw in my hostess's gaze the same authority I had seen in the statue, and I felt myself relax, surprisingly, as though my body had already subconsciously offered itself and was urging my mind to follow suit, to accept the thoughtless nirvana of submission.

"Shall we go back, or stay here?" Ivy asked. She was giving me a choice, I knew that much, but I had no notion of what I was choosing. I didn't care.

"Let's stay," I said, "it is so beautiful here."

At this, Ivy took charge. She took my hand in a firm but gentle grip, and steered me back to face the pool. "Sit here," she advised, guiding me to a mossy rock. "It has the best view."

I dutifully complied. It was a low rock, almost on the ground, and Ivy selected a higher rock a few feet away, at the pool's edge, and faced me. She sat with her hands on her knees, in the same commanding pose as her statue, whose enormous phallus I could see just past Ivy's shoulder. Ivy followed my gaze. "Do you like her?" she asked, with the same look of amusement.

"Who is she?" I asked, still gazing at the statue's swollen glans, the engorged shaft down which flowed the throbbing river of a blood-pumping vein. I remembered the garden hose in my hand, about the same girth as the shaft, and wondered if is possible for such a thing to exist in real life.

"She is a ancient water nymph," Ivy replied, "Her name is Achelois, she who washes away the pain. A man made her in my honor, many years ago, before I had this place."

"What happened to him," I asked.

"I washed away his pain," Ivy replied, "and after that, like most men, he lost his mind. I used to encourage men like him, I liked the attention, the power, I could take from them anything I wanted. But it wore off. There were so many who had nothing to offer." She smiled. "I realized that I don't need men, they cause too much trouble."

"But don't you get lonely?"

"There is a reason the ancient nymphs could not live with men," she replied, and in her tone I heard a hint of steel, a warning.

"And equally a reason men searched for them," I responded, "and a reason they revealed themselves only to the men they deemed worthy."

She liked this, and smiled. "And what makes a man worthy," she asked, leaning forward.

My head was level with her knees, just a few feet from her open legs, between which the delicate fabric of her flowing white robe draped to the ground. I looked up at her, at her perfect skin dappled in the the shadows of the canopy overhead, her flowing red hair framing her slender shoulders, the strength of her arms, how poised she sat, perfectly balanced, yet charged with an inner energy like a coiled spring. Her beauty enveloped me, I breathed in the rich scent of the garden, and tasted something new, a salty, musky odor, intense and sharp. Never in my life had I felt so exalted merely to be in the presence of another, never so consumed as I was by her magnetic nimbus. The words flowed from me unbidden, as though something or someone was speaking through me. "A true love of beauty," I replied. "What else could be worthy of the endowment of a god?"

"What else, indeed?" Ivy smiled, and there was hunger in her smile, the hungry smile of a huntress. "You should be careful what you say here," Ivy said, and I watched, as if in slow motion, her hand slide up her thigh, "for in the garden of Ivy there is a snake," and her hand slid to the knot in her belt, and my mouth dried, and my vision blurred, "normally she is asleep," Ivy said, her hand gripped the knot's loose end, "but when she awakens" her hand tugged, and the belt fell, and her robe slid open, "she is always hungry."

I gasped in shock, I forgot how to breathe, how to think, the world collapsed into the vision before me. Here was Achelois incarnate, the goddess unveiled, the divine endowment. Her phallic snake twitched between her legs, pumping and swelling with every surge of her pulse. My god it was huge, like the front end of an uncoiled python, a rippling, flexing muscularity latticed with purple veins. It arced out and down from her pelvis, weighed down by its massive, dense bulk, and then just at the flaring head pointed up, forming a sinuous s shape. Could it even get erect? I shuddered to think how much power that would take, the inner steel to lift such weight, how dense and firm it would have to become, how fierce and urgent the pulse of blood, the wild desire, that would be required to achieve such a massive erection. Her testes were like two ripe plums, huge and taught, faintly purple in color, hanging heavily in their sack, swaying gently between her legs.

Without hesitation or thought, as if guided by an invisible puppet-string, I dropped to my knees. I crawled, my eyes fixated in the swaying member. "Good boy," Ivy cooed, and I longed for nothing more than to please her, to be worthy of her. As I approached, the musk scent became stronger, overwhelming, I felt the heat radiating out of her phallus, and I breathed it in, and lovingly nuzzled the shaft. Her python hung down past the whole length of my face, and measured over half its width. It's surface was ridged with muscularity, sheathed in a taught envelope of soft skin. I softened my lips and kissed, I flicked with my tongue, I gently bestowed upon her all the tenderness I could conjure. I reached up with both hands, and as I kissed her shaft I began to massage. Even with both hands stroking at once, she still had over a hands-length to spare, and each hand could not enclose her girth. Her shaft was warm, it's skin soft and yielding, the muscle beneath it strong and firm. "Good boy," Ivy repeated, and I longed for nothing more than to be good, to hear her say that over and over.

Suddenly I felt two strong hands grip my scalp and guide me down, and my lips brushed the flared ridge of her cock head, which in the flux of her rising erection had swelled past her foreskin, and now emerged proud and glistening, an armored ram's head hued in dark and angry red. A hand moved to the back of my head, and plunged me upon it. I did not resist, I wanted it, I wanted to be worthy, but only now a great fear welled up in me, for my only desire was to be invaded and devoured by her monstrous cock, to be its plaything, it's slave - but as I parted my lips, and stretched wide my jaw, her cock head stretched me wider, and my jaw ached in pain, and still her entering cock head stretched me wider, and I whimpered in fear at the power of what was invading the entrance of my mouth, but the invader gagged even my whimpers.

Then Ivy thrust her hips, just a little thrust, an easy, practiced motion for her, a hint of only a fraction of her muscular power, and just this alone pounded her through the straining gates of my lips and my jaw, and her cock head filled my mouth like a gagball, and I felt the underside of her flared ridge with my tongue, and mewed in delight at what I had done. Oh my god, I thought, I am taking this cock, this monstrous, huge, divine cock, I am taking it, I am taking it.

I bobbed upon it, caressing the head with my tongue, crashing the tip against the rear wall of my throat, preparing for the assault that I knew was coming, that would complete her invasion of my upper body. I wanted her to remake me, to change my shape, to enlarge my mouth and my throat so they may serve their only true purpose, to be the sheathe and home of her cock.

With each bob upon her head, I tried to relax my throat, but every time, at a certain point I tensed and gagged, and coughed, and retreated. My eyes were streaming, my nose wet, yet still I impaled myself in desperation. And with each thrust, my gagging became more predictable, I did not fight it, but accepted it, I realized that when I gagged I expanded my throat, and in that moment I must accept it, and accept the pain that came with it, in order to move past it, and be released from the pain. And so the next time I gagged, instead of retreating, I softened my neck and slammed my throat upon her cock head, and pushed it past the chamber to my throat, and I felt her cock head flare in my throat, felt its ridge slide down my neck, felt her shaft slowly, inch by inch, disappear through my parted lips, felt the throbbing of her cock veins in my mouth, and in my victory I felt a joy and pride in belonging I had never known before, like I had found my true purpose. "Good boy," Ivy repeated.