Windfall

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A biologist finds unusual puffballs in the forest.
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JukeboxEMCSA
JukeboxEMCSA
3,748 Followers

I really don't know what I would have done, if not for the spores. It wasn't that I was completely lonely; I was stationed close enough to Rock Lake that I made a few friends, mostly women who visited for tips on getting the most out of their vegetable gardens. But a shared interest in sustainable agriculture really wasn't the same thing as a relationship, and I could tell pretty early on that my little trickle of visitors would dry right up if I told any of them that I was a lesbian.

I thought I was handling it, that first year. I came out to the Brumba Wildlife Refuge in the spring, when there was plenty of work to do and plenty of activity to document. I surveyed dozens of fungal colonies, I took snapshots of lichens and mushrooms breaking down old-growth forest and compared them day by day and week by week, and I spent my free time turning my garden into a work of art. I thought I could get by just being social with the church ladies who stopped by. Then the winter hit.

That first winter was...I'm not going to lie, it was bad. Six months with too much free time on my hands, nothing to do but tramp out to the same few spots every day and document snowfall. Six months to think about how cold my bed was with just me in it. Six months of going out to the bar every night just to be around other human beings, knowing that if I so much as touched a woman's hand the wrong way, everyone would know about it by morning. Six months of aching, desperate loneliness that had me thinking about quitting the forestry service and hitch-hiking back to Providence if I had to.

And then came spring. And the wind that brought the spores.

I was tracking the weather that whole time, part of the same five-year study that had me taking samples from every fungal colony in the surrounding hundred miles to discover how they propagated themselves. I know they blew in on a strong gust that came out of the north, perhaps as far as the Northwest Territories. I can only imagine how long the spores were down there in the permafrost, waiting for the ice ages to end, waiting for human beings to quit dicking around with cave paintings and start the Industrial Revolution. Waiting for that one warm spring when the greenhouse gases were good and thick and the frozen earth finally melted around them long enough to eject their spores onto the breeze. Waiting for me.

Okay, maybe they weren't waiting for me personally, but it sure felt that way. I came home late one afternoon from a hundred mile round trip to visit a few dozen dead trees, and here was this little patch of bright red puffballs clustered not twenty feet from my front door. It was like they knew who I was and what I was doing so far away from home, and they wanted to make sure that I wasn't alone anymore. Like they sought me out specifically.

Not that I thought any of that at the time. At first, they were just a species of puffball I didn't recognize. I took pictures of them and sent them off on my creaky dial-up modem back to the home office in Fargo, and then I put on a dust mask and prodded one of them until it belched up a cloud of spores that I gathered into a test tube and took to my little greenhouse to cultivate. I pried the empty puffball out of the ground and set it aside, hoping to examine it later. I was excited, of course. Who wouldn't be, finding something so new and bright and fascinating after a solid year of drudgery? But it wasn't until the next morning that I really began to understand what I had found.

The dissection proved to be the turning point. Keep in mind, I am an expert on wild fungus. I'm not lazy or careless, and I know that inhaled spores can be dangerous. I was wearing my mask, I was wearing latex gloves, and I had squeezed all the dust out of the puffball the night before to make sure I wasn't dealing with a lot of active spores to begin with. I was ready to handle just about anything known to science.

But these spores were beautifully, wondrously unknown. The second my scalpel touched the puffball, it exploded in a cloud of musty-smelling dust every bit as thick as the one I squeezed out of it when I first found it, one that went straight through my filters like they weren't there. I gasped in surprise, so startled by the sudden smoky haze that I didn't even realize I was breathing them in, and that was when I felt it. The communion.

It wasn't communication. I want to stress that. I didn't hear a voice speaking to me, I didn't even get feelings or impressions. It was more of an understanding. A sense of complete comprehension about what the spores were, and what they could achieve. What they could give me, if I opened myself up to the possibilities they offered. It didn't feel like a compulsion to me at all. I just knew exactly what I needed to do, and once I knew, I was eager to begin.

Please understand, my behavior-my mind-it wasn't altered at all. Not like the others.

I went out to the garden. The fungus had already bred over the course of the night, the spores I helped them eject last night scattering on the breeze and fruiting in a spray where they fell. My little cluster in the center was still exactly where I left it, and I made sure to take in a deep breath as I poked each one, sucking up as much of the dust as I could into my lungs. I didn't get it all, but I knew that was alright. The rest of it would blow away and each little speck would make its own little windfall somewhere nearby. That was all part of the process. Now it was time for me to do my part. I got into my truck and went visiting.

I took slow, shallow breaths the whole drive to Ethel's cottage. It wasn't easy; Ethel was a pretty woman, full-bodied and strong in a way that only a farmer's wife can really be. I'd spent six months fantasizing about showing her one morning over coffee just how much she was missing while her husband was out working the fields, and six months reminding myself that she was straight and married and voted Republican every two years like clockwork. The thought of kissing those pretty red lips of hers made me tremble with a desire I'd suppressed too long. But I kept my breathing shallow. That was the most important part of what I needed to do.

I got to her place around about eleven. I knew she'd be getting lunch ready while her husband and their boys were out planting. She saw me pull into the dirt driveway and gave me a wave through the window. "Bethany! Come on in!" she shouted, as I got out of the car. "We've got plenty for a guest, and I need to ask you about how to keep those damn rabbits away from my zucchini!"

I smiled, keeping an eye out for the boys as I came to the kitchen door. I didn't want any interruptions, not until I was done here. I opened the door and went inside, and Ethel said, "So we're having mutton today-we had a few more rams than we needed, and...and..." She trailed off, noticing that I was making a beeline straight for her. "Bethany, are you alright?" I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Then I grabbed her head and kissed her square on the lips.

She gasped, just like I was hoping she would. I exhaled hard just as she breathed in, sending a lungful of spores straight from my mouth to hers. The moist, warm environment inside of my body had primed them, woken them, and I could see in Ethel's eyes the transformation that came over her immediately. It wasn't like it was with me, where I simply understood their true purpose. She required more adjustment than I did. Of course, she says now that her mind wasn't altered at all, but I remember the woman she used to be. She's definitely being compelled to obey.

Not like me.

Once I'd given her a few good breaths, I broke the kiss. I didn't want to, but I understood that our time was limited. Ethel wasn't alone on the farm, and her husband or one of her sons was bound to come in soon. I didn't want them even knowing I was here. I took her hand and nodded, and she nodded right back. Her face broke out in a girlish smile as we ran to the truck and peeled out in a spray of gravel.

It was another seven miles to the next farm, the one run by Betty Nordstrom and her daughter. Betty married young and widowed young, her husband dying in a tractor accident before little Mabel was even a year old. She stayed on the farm, though, and kept it running with her daughter through thick and through thin. The two of them brought in hands to help with the harvest, but they'd be all alone this early in the planting season. I told that to Ethel, but her only response was a moan. Probably because I had my hand down her pants the whole drive. I'd waited a year to touch another woman like this, I wasn't waiting one second more.

When we got to the farm, we split up. Ethel went looking for Betty out in the fields, and me, I went to the barn to see if Mabel had finished milking their dairy cow. I caught her just squeezing the last few drops out of the udders, and watching her tug on those nipples gave me all sorts of ideas for what I was going to do to Mabel herself. But that was later, I knew. First was the important part, the kiss.

Mabel stood up with the bucket, and gave a little jump when she saw me. "Oh!" she said, putting her free hand to her chest. "Sorry, I really wasn't expecting to see anyone today. If you're looking for my mom, she's out on the tractor, and-"

I smiled. "I wasn't looking for Betty," I said softly, not wanting to breathe out a single speck of dust. "I was looking for you." I reached out and embraced her tightly, pinning her arms to her sides. She wriggled in my grasp, but she was young, barely eighteen, and I had the strength that comes with true purpose. I exhaled my load of spores just as she was opening her mouth to shout for help.

She sucked in almost all of them. I could see a few wafts of dust falling to land in the dirt near the barn, but I didn't mind that. They would grow and propagate the colony, and within a few weeks they would join up with the ones near my house if we did our work well. And I was getting so many helpers that day. Mabel's struggles slowed, then ceased as a dreamy smile settled onto her face and the milk bucket fell from nerveless fingers. "Oh," she whispered, as the spores adjusted her understanding. "Ohh..."

We had a little more time here, and I was done waiting. I unbuttoned her thick flannel shirt as fast as my fingers would let me, then pulled up her turtleneck to expose her pert breasts to the chilly spring air. Her nipples went stiff almost instantly as the cool breeze caressed them, and I leaned in to suckle on her tits as I guided her down to her knees.

Her head lolled beautifully as the pleasure overtook her, mingling with the compulsion the spores were creating in her mind to send her thoughts reeling into passive, obedient desire. Her fingers tangled in my short dark hair, pressing me closer and closer into her breasts as I sucked hard on her tight little nips. "Oh, fuck," she moaned, gasping as my hands fumbled at her zipper and undid her fly. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh f-f-fuck..."

She was so wet, wetter than any woman I've ever given her first lesbian experience before, and I knew that the spores were preparing her mind for me. It was part of the same understanding that had guided me to Ethel and Mabel in the first place, a deep and intuitive understanding that the spores would give me what I wanted if I gave them what they wanted. They needed to spread, and I needed love. It was a beautiful symbiosis, and I knew that they shared my purpose just as surely as I shared theirs. And now Mabel would too. I slid two fingers inside her, and she ground against them with desperate lust.

"That's my girl," I said, just before I moved to suck on her other nipple. "That's my pretty girl." I knew the words would sink in, as the pleasure and the swirling spores softened her mind into instinctive obedience. She obeyed me, now, I could feel it. She would do anything I asked, automatically accepting my will as an extension of the tiny little spores that controlled her now. I wouldn't even need to say anything. All I needed to do was know what the fungus wanted, and she would effortlessly accept that as truth.

And of course I already wanted what the spores wanted. They didn't need to control me. Not when our purpose was one and the same.

I felt Mabel shudder on my fingers as her orgasm hit, and that was about all I could take before I needed to feel her tongue on my clit. I wriggled out of my pants in record time and pulled Mabel's face down between my thighs, sighing in ecstasy as she began to lap away at my cunt. She had a blank, blissful expression on her face, a look of pure mindless obedience that told me she understood perfectly what we needed to do next. My pleasure was a reward for bringing her into the control of the spores, but there would be time enough for more when we had finished our work. I let myself climax twice before I forced her head away. "Time to go," I said, my voice drunk with lust. "We've got so much more to do."

We picked up nine more women that day, as many as the truck would hold, and spent the afternoon spreading the spores as far and as wide as the wind would take them. I already had my windfall, of course; an unexpected treasure of beautiful women, all hungry with need and ready to fuck the whole night through. I sent an email back to Fargo before I went to bed, telling them that the puffballs were an ordinary species of fungus dyed red as a prank, and then spent the rest of the night in more bliss than I ever imagined in my wildest dreams.

We knew that the women couldn't stay hidden forever; sooner or later, someone would spot one of us recruiting, and they'd come out to my cabin to ask where my truck had been lately. But we didn't need forever. We only needed a few more days, until the fungus had a chance to spread far and wide across the fields of my garden and the forest beyond. Until the next day with a good, strong wind spreading toward Rock Lake. Until we were ready to give them the understanding we already had. Then we wouldn't need to hide anymore.

They all understand now. They've been helping us too. The men have their own pleasures; I'm not cruel. I just wanted to be loved, that's all. And now I have all the love I need.

Well, almost. But if you're reading this letter, you already knew that. Maybe you noticed the little puff of dust when you opened the envelope, maybe you didn't. But I'm sure that you're paying attention to it now. There's enough in there to start a little colony of your own, and it should grow quite quickly in Providence at this time of year. If it doesn't, though, don't worry. I've sent letters like this to all of my old lovers, and I'm not alone. I'm not alone in anything anymore.

I don't know what I would have done without the spores. But I definitely know what to do with them.

THE END

JukeboxEMCSA
JukeboxEMCSA
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5 Comments
Saphic_succubusSaphic_succubusalmost 6 years ago
nice

another jukebox hit. You're really good at this kinda stuff. Could I get some pointers?

CWillCCWillCabout 6 years ago
Spores in Hollywood

could be the basis of an epic, video, indi, mind shift.

44chicken44chickenabout 6 years ago
Interesting story

Thank you. I really enjoyed it, but was left feeling that it was unfinished. It seems like an outline of a great story, a tantalizing tease of something deeper. Your writing is wonderful, I just wanted more.

FieroGT1988FieroGT1988about 6 years ago
This would fit well in Erotic Horror as well.

well done

AnonymousAnonymousabout 6 years ago
What a wonderful, creative, delightful story!

Loved the concept. Loved the action. Loved the pleasure-giving and receiving. Thank you for a 5-star winner!

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