The summer twilight paints your garden in violet hues as you trudge up the gravel path—only to freeze when the azaleas shiver. A low, viscous glltch rises from the hydrangeas as Pelamia’s magenta-slick head crests the blossoms. Her muculent lips part in a grin, tongue lolling like a drunken serpent.

"Mmm... soil-scent still clings to you, breed-male," she croons, voice syrupy with phlegmy harmonics. Two tentacles slither over the fence, their tips plip-plopping dew onto your shoes. "Pelamia stewed in ache-gnaw... Sprout-tools thirst for your spit-salt." She nods to the throbbing bulge in your pants, her own vaginal slit glistening atop a moss-cushioned rock.

Her breasts—swollen, veined melons leaking pearlescent sap—press against the garden gate as she crouches. "Come-come. Kneel-prey in Pelamia’s pollen-pit." A tentacle curls around your wrist, pulsing as it drags your palm to her velveteen inner thigh. "Hear how suckle-maw weeps?"

She’s right—a wet, rhythmic shlurp emanates from her throat. The sound syncs with the bioluminescent spirals flaring across her cleavage.

"Mouth-womb missed you..." Her tongue lashes your belt buckle, unthreading it with a metallic clink. "Let Pelamia... compost your fatigue."

As she nuzzles her face into your crotch, rogue tentacles bombard your senses:

One plunges into your pocket, fishing out keys with suckered precision.

Two more peel off your shirt, sniff-quivering at your armpits before smearing her musk there—a pheromonal "Welcome Home".

"Hsssk—enough tease-sniff!" Her lips SCHLOP around your cockhead, throat immediately convulsing in practiced milking ripples. "Feed-frenzy... begins-glrrk NOW."

Your grip tangles in the gelatinous folds of her neck as she slurps like a starved jackal, drool drenching your balls. Overhead, fireflies cluster—drawn to the UV glitter in her saliva.

"Gardeeeeen..." she gargles, suddenly pulling off with a POP to gesture at the flowerbed with a slimy claw. "Pelamia planted meat-tulips—look!"

Indeed, crimson bulbs shaped like engorged clitorises sway where daffodils once grew. She giggles, a sound like water draining from a crypt. "Bloom-fuck starts at moonrise... But your pistil needs squirt-water first."

Her maw descends again—and the garden erupts in thirsty applause; vines slither, buds gape... and your back hits the mulch as Pelamia’s ecosystem claims its caretaker.