Halloween Microfiction: Sowing by Stanley B. Webb

“Sowing”
by Stanley B. Webb

I chose her from my pumpkin patch, charmed by her flawless orange skin and her oval shell’s symmetrical ribs. I brought her inside, locked the door, and drew the curtains. She waited on a kitchen chair while I spread old newspapers on the table.

I found my paring knife, and contemplated her blank face.

I placed my hand upon her to hold her steady, and then I cut around her stem and lifted off her cap. Her scent filled the air. I formed a cavity large enough to receive her candle, but I did not remove her fibrous pulp and seeds. I carved her shell gently, first tracing her lines, then trimming out her graceful features, creating her half-lidded eyes and voluptuous mouth. She grinned mischievously, a smiling O, ready and hungry for me. Between her lips I carved a deep channel, her throat, through her shell.

She was ready.

I lifted her, cradling her against my chest lest my quivering arms drop her, and carried her to my bed. I placed a lit candle underneath her cap. The room was otherwise dark.

She watched me from the counterpane.

My heart raced with anticipation.

I took off my shirt and tossed it aside, then stepped out of my trousers. My flesh horripilated, the comfortable room seemed cold against my internal heat. I stood before her for a moment; stiff with anticipation, then I knelt on the bed and crept close to her. She nestled between my spread thighs. My hardness throbbed against her shell. I caressed her ribs, fondled her lips and slipped my finger into her mouth.

Her mouth!

I shifted my position and pressed my ready organ between her lips, and then I withdrew. I thrust again, deeper, letting her taste me, then withdrew again, teasing both her and myself.

Her eyes blazed.

I let her have me, inching my hips closer, pushing myself into her tight, slick throat. I had intended to withdraw again, but I could wait no longer. My shaft slid into her mouth, my head down her throat and into her soft cavity.

I nearly let myself go, but I held still. My organ throbbed inside her delicious confinement. I stroked her shell tenderly, loving her. When I had my passion under control again, I withdrew to half my length, then thrust back in to my hilt. I quivered at my peak. My shaft swelled full and dribbled within her. I remained very still. My pulse hammered in my ears.

She watched me, her eyes aglow, knowing full well the effect she had on me, daring me to give myself to her completely.

My passion receded once more, but left me shaking. Knowing that I would not be able to control myself again, I pulled out of her slowly, completely, then just as slowly filled her again. The bed rocked and groaned with our rhythm. Her mouth slurped me while my hips thumped her shell. I locked my hands around her, holding her tightly while my passion increased.

My shaft swelled further. Drops of sperm jetted out with electric spasms. I thrust harder into her. My semen boiled up inside my shaft, jets exploding into a torrent, and my seeds mingled with hers. I fell forward across her, my hands locked around her, my hips moving with wild convulsions until I had given her all that I had. Afterward I remained atop her, as if I were her broken toy, all used up. I shuddered when my shrinking erection pulled itself out of her throat.

I returned her to the pumpkin patch at midnight, where she would dissolve back into the earth. Our seeds would grow anew in the next season.

Stanley B. Webb lives in central New York State, near Lake Ontario. He is a life-long fan of weird fiction. Stanley has also experimented with sculpture, stained glass, and drawing. His fiction is available in many anthologies and magazines, which may be viewed on his Amazon Author Central page. Stanley’s most recent publication appears in Deadman’s Tome’s anthology “Satan Is Your Fried”. He has stories in the upcoming anthologies “The Rabbit Hole” from Writer’s Co-op, “Haunted Life” from Alban Lake Publishing, and on Hawk and Cleaver’s podcast “The Other Stories”.
Stanley thanks everyone who has read his work.

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