They said the Heart grove Forest devoured those who strayed too deep.
No teeth, but want. With hunger. soft, slick mouths hidden in shadows, and voices that licked at your thoughts.
Elira was warned, of course. But something inside her—something aching and curious—drew her past the safety of the tree line. She didn’t run. She surrendered. Her dress clung to her like mist, thighs damp with arousal before the first whisper even reached her ear.
“Come closer.”
The voice was wet velvet. Deep. Male, but not quite. It vibrated through her body like a purr.
“I smell your heat. I feel your hunger. Come.”
She stepped forward and the roots parted for her like fingers.
He was waiting there—part man, part god, part impossibility. A mouth where a torso should be: wide, warm, glistening, lined with soft ridges that pulsed in rhythm with her breath. His eyes gleamed like gold sunk in syrup.
“You came to be swallowed, didn’t you?” he murmured, stroking her cheek with something half-hand, half-tongue. “To be kept. To be filled and taken inside. Tell me.”
Elira moaned as she nodded, slipping the strap from her shoulder, exposing her breast to the humid air. “I want it,” she whispered. “I want you.”
He didn’t bite.
He opened.
The mouth spread slowly, reverently. The scent of musk, earth, and magic surrounded her. As she stepped forward, it wrapped around her legs—slick and alive. Warm. Welcoming.
It wasn’t pain she felt as she was drawn in chest-first, it was submission. Her arms pressed to her sides, her nipples teased by the soft folds that tasted her skin, tongue-like walls slick.
Every inch deeper made her wetter.
“Say it,” the voice rumbled, echoing inside her skull.
She moaned it through trembling lips, eyes rolling back.
“Swallow me.”
And he did.
Slow. Worshipful. All of her.