Welcome to

Hello Megan,

Thank you so much for taking care of my plants while I'm away! It's pretty easy - I've even labeled them so you know which is which.

Monstera Deliciosa: This is the big one in the corner of the dining room. It needs a thorough watering every 1-2 weeks or when the first few inches of soil are dry. IMPORTANT: Don't water after 9 PM.

Prayer Plant: This one lives in the living room, between the armchair and the window. Same as above, but this one tends to be a little more thirsty, so water about every week. It also likes plant food every month added to its pot. Please drain the catch at the bottom of the pot every time you water it.

Krimson Queen: The little one in my office. Please water it thoroughly if the soil is dry – it doesn't like overwatering as it can be susceptible to root rot. For me, this is usually about every week.

Philodendron Brasil: On the window ledge in the kitchen. Same as the Krimson Queen, water about every week until water runs down into the saucer and remove the excess.

As always, if you have any questions at all or if any of the plants aren't doing well, don't hesitate to reach out. See you when I get back!

Thanks!
Tom

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Summer had the city of San Angeles in a sweltering late-July chokehold. As the sun came up the metropolis was already uncomfortably hot and became increasingly so as it was baked to hazy perfection. Excessive heat advisories were so run-of-the-mill it was safer to assume they were perpetually in effect than not. By the time the afternoon rolled around the only places where one could find any human activity were air-conditioned buildings, swimming pools, or the overcrowded beaches.

Megan Arvel was no exception to this rule, arriving on the palm-dotted strip of sand where at least the steady breeze from the sea provided a modicum of relief. The letter from Tom was the farthest thing from her mind as she slid off her cover-up to reveal her latest article of beachwear: a silver micro bikini. The fabric, obscenely priced considering it was best measured in square centimeters, left nothing save her truly private areas to the imagination. Two tiny triangles clung to her nipples, the matching metallic thong threatening a scandal if she spread her legs too wide. Fuck, I'm such a slut, Megan "chided" herself. The truth was that Megan did this every day on her summer break and had never been happier.

As a child she'd been sheltered, growing up in a small town on the other side of the Amarillo mountains. After coming to Anchor University and getting to be on her own she discovered how much sexual attention from anyone excited her. Megan began dressing in less and less modest clothing and overhauling her wardrobe to show as much skin as she could without catching too many nasty looks from the faculty. During the summer there was no shortage of eager viewers with all the young men – and women – around to stare at her curves on the beach.

She started wading into the crowd to find a good spot, giddy with excitement as people turned to watch her. Some showed disgust, others concern, others interest, others arousal, and still others were too far away to tell. Most of them she couldn't notice – there were too many eyes on her to keep track of. All of them excited Megan. The more excited she got, the more her nipples made the bikini top irrelevant and the more stares her pert B-cups got.

A few more minutes spent negotiating the thin strip of sand that wove between towels led her to a good spot – or a tolerable one, at least. Before her was a gap of sand large enough to lay her towel and not rub elbows with her neighbors. She threw her towel to the wind, slowly bringing it to the scorching sand and spending plenty of time bent double as she adjusted the corners. Megan then produced a bottle of suntan oil from her bag. She began at her shoulders and thoroughly worked her way down her sun-kissed body. As she wrapped up the tops of her feet, she cast a glance around her neighbors. Who's my prey today, she thought, smirking as she surveyed her immediate company. A handful of young, single men were eyeing her rather obviously, but those were easy pickings. A few rows down in front of her, however, she caught a hasty glance away from a man sitting next to a woman.

Megan sauntered over to the couple, doing her best to act demure despite her almost comically lewd beachwear. "Excuse me, sorry to bother you all, but would you mind getting my back?" Megan watched as the one-piece-clad lady shot daggers at the strapping young man, caught in the middle as he sheepishly looked back and forth from Megan to her. Red tint crept onto his cheeks as the awkward silence was punctuated by seagulls wheeling overhead. Wife, Megan noted as she spied the rings the two of them were wearing. Jackpot.

"Ah, ha, ah..." his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Sure, yeah, I - I can get your back." he caved, standing up from his beach chair. Megan lived for the crestfallen look on his wife's face, having to do her best not to break out into a fiendish smile.

"Devon," The wife's tone spoke volumes as she tried to hide her surprise and disappointment that he'd accepted the harlot's offer.

"It'll just be a minute, honey."

Megan could feel her stare at their backs as they made their way to her spot. She laid facedown back at her spot, feeling the heat on her chest as it radiated through the towel. Devon's hands began to rub oil onto her back, traveling down her neck to her shoulder blades, working around her straps as he hastily tried to finish up the small of her back and get back without only a mild tongue-lashing.

"Lower, please." Megan cooed. She felt him hesitate, weigh his options, and finally oblige, hands inching down to where her lithe hips began to blossom out. She could feel her fingers tugging at that place in his heart where lust lives, feel his cheeks reddening, his pulse quicken, a bulge begin taking shape in his swim trunks. Again he paused, and again Megan pushed her luck.

"Lower." Oh my GOD, I'm such a little homewrecker, she thought. Megan certainly wasn't immune to the feeling building in her loins either as Devon's hands began to graze the curves of her ass. Her nipples dug into the towel as her thong did its best to absorb the growing excitement between her legs.

"Lower." Too far – the pause was longer this time, and Megan knew he'd had enough even before he spoke.

"I'm – look, I'm sorry, but I don't really think I should. You should be able to take it from here." Megan rolled onto her side to find Devon exactly as she'd pictured: cheeks on fire, conflicted grimace, and a tent between his legs. Megan made a show of noticing that last point, fixing Devon with a knowing look.

"Suit yourself. I'll be here if you wanna enjoy the show." Devon rose as Megan winked, dosing her hands to finish what he couldn't. She took great pleasure in watching him awkwardly waddle back, trying to tuck his boner into the waistband of his trunks. Her hands worked over her ass cheeks as she took a sinful delight in hearing his partner decry what he'd done. Someone's sleeping on the couch tonight.

A buzz in Megan's beach bag pulled her from her thoughts. She adjusted her sunglasses and took a closer look at her phone, struggling to see through the glare as she angled her hand to get at the screen, now displaying a text from Tom.

Hey Megan! I haven't heard from you - how are the plants doing?

Shit. No sugar coating it. Megan had forgotten about that itsy-bitsy favor Tom had asked before he left for his 6-week trip to Spain. Not that Tom had to know about it, and not that he would know about it, Megan corrected herself.

Hey Tom! No worries, they're doing great.

Megan figured her little white lie would just go unnoticed. It was just a month, wasn't it? Surely the plants were fine, and she could stop in tonight before Tom returned to make it look like she'd been taking care of the plants since he'd left. She'd finish up here and then take care of his plants, simple as that.

The hours melted away as Megan drank in the low whistles and blatant stares that sweltering afternoon. It wasn't until the sun met the horizon that she slipped her cover-up back on and headed for home. Streetlights flickered to life, illuminating overly manicured beachside hotels with hedges and grass so lush it either wasn't real or the sole cause of the city's water crisis. Block after block of luxury property passed as it transitioned to generic cityscape, the sidewalks increasingly cracked after years of thermal cycling and neglect. Megan made a right on Orville Street, heading back to the familiar landscape or discount student apartments that surrounded Anchor University. Once inside she breathed a sigh of deep relaxation, kicking off her flip-flops and adding a fine dusting of sand to the grains already deposited from her daily sojourns to the seaside.

Megan might have called her apartment lived-in, but to the average person, it was just messy. Old textbooks and notes obscured much of the table save the little square where she ate her meals. Clothes of every sort lay scattered as if by the wind, the covers of her bed thrown off and twisted into a knot. To Megan, it wasn't truly messy since she knew where everything was. Laptop? Under the coffee table, beneath the pile of magazines. Spare batteries? Under her bed, somewhere in the box that had that half-open pack of fishnets on it. Easy - she had her system, and if someone thought it was still a dump that was their problem, not hers. Besides, she was still sweating even as she pulled a frozen dinner out of the freezer and stabbed the plastic cover. The last thing she wanted to do with her summer vacation was spend it cleaning her dingy apartment. The ancient window unit struggled mightily to keep the space cool but proved far too weak for summer temperatures.

As the equally Mesozoic microwave hummed life into her lo mein, Megan turned to the only plant she kept in her apartment. It had been given to her by Tom when they had both been freshmen: a little succulent, hardly the size of a tennis ball, and consisting entirely of short, squat green leaves. He had told her its name when he first gave her it, but Megan just called him Sunny. It was the lone plant she hadn't killed in her apartment, largely because it could last months without water. While the others had all become crinkly and brown, Sunny seemed fine with Megan's once-in-a-blue-moon caretaking style. Speaking of which, she noted as she felt the dusty soil in Sunny's cup, giving him a little from the sink as the microwave chirped. It was a miracle that Tom trusted Megan to care for his plants, but then again, he didn't have much choice - most of the residents had gone afield for the summer.

Megan made short work of the MSG-laden dinner, snagged Tom's letter - tucked between the toaster oven and the wall, right where she'd left it - and set off to do damage control. It was scarcely a five minute given they lived in the same complex, deserted halls and sidewalks her only company as she crossed the overgrown central courtyard. Insects crooned all around her as they celebrated the coming of the marginally cooler night air.

Tom's apartment was tidy, far tidier than Megan's. The kitchen table was clear save for the watering can, plant food, and a duplicate of the letter. The vacuum had made its rounds before he left, and the place smelled like citrus-scented cleaner. The only items that looked out of place were the plants. The one in the living room looked like it was dying for water, leaves fringed with a worrying amount of brown and yellow. A panicked search of the other locations turned up similar results.

Pulling out her phone Megan contemplated texting Tom and got halfway through drafting an urgent message before realizing it was the crack of dawn in Europe. Besides, she wanted to seem competent. He'd paid her well to do this and, green thumb or not, she wasn't about to let him down.

A bit of Googling assuaged her fears. The plants, although they all looked a little withered after nearly a month of negligence, would be fine if she just added water in the amounts Tom had put in the letter. She skimmed the letter: dining room, living room, office, kitchen. All were past their due date, so Megan just hefted the watering pail over to the sink and got to it. She set to work, starting with the smaller ones and working her way up to the big one in the dining room. Mentally Megan knew that plants didn't have feelings, but she could swear they perked up the minute she added water and breathed a sigh of relief.

The giant plant in the dining room turned out to be a little difficult to water, as it stood a head taller than she did and was planted in a vessel that bore more resemblance to an urn than a flowerpot. Megan had to delve into the foliage to get close enough to locate the bedding. Emptied the last of the contents into the loamy bedding, Megan was taken aback when a tendril reached out and fastened itself around her wrist. It couldn't have been much thicker than a rubber band but felt like a steel cable, the force of its sudden pull causing the watering can to clatter to the floor. Megan pulled on the tendril in a bid to escape the embrace, only managing to rock the urn slightly and rustle the leaves.

It was then that she vaguely remembered something about not watering one of the plants after 9 PM. So much good that's gonna do me now, she fumed, planting a foot against the urn and pulling until she felt like her shoulder was about to dislocate. The plant, a rather special variant of Monstera Deliciosa known as domina prehenderat, made no haste in catching its prey. Another emerald tendril struck a course for Megan's other wrist as she dove into her pockets for keys to try and slice her way free.

Taking advantage of the tropical plant's lackadaisical nature, Megan wasted no time in taking the makeshift blade to the shoot anchoring her right hand to Tom's flora. While she did manage to get through the outer hide and make some progress in sawing through to the white inner fibers, the Monstera took notice. The second vine hastened its approach as it arrested Megan's left wrist. The end seemed to split into hundreds of hairsbreadth appendages, worming between her fingers and forcing her fingers open, the keys joining the watering pail on the floor.

"What the fuck?" Megan snarled under her breath, half in terror and half in frustration. She'd never seen a plant do anything like this before, and the sight of three more ropey fasteners erupting from the dirt only made Tom's warning that much clearer. She'd never heard of a carnivorous plant that ate humans, but perhaps she was the first such victim.

The next ten minutes made Megan feel as though she was a mouse in a glue trap. She continued resisting, planting her feet and pulling, yanking, even biting the tendrils to try to get free. The monstrous plant plodded on at a speed that seemed almost insultingly unbothered by Megan's protests and resistance. Tendrils grew and spread out all over her body, snaking beneath the cover-up and the micro bikini she'd worn to the beach. Filaments wove up her arms, pulling her in until she had to place her feet into the urn to avoid toppling over. Once there her feet got the same treatment, verdant shoots weaving between her toes, fastening around her ankles, and then gliding up her smooth calves and thighs, the force of their steady tightening burying her feet in the rich, tropical potting soil.

By the time vines were entwining her neck and torso, Megan had given up. Her shouts and grunts of effort and frustration were now a mix of whimpering and morbid fascination as she watched each tendril spread out and adhere to her sun-kissed skin. There were probably worse ways to die, she figured. Like burning alive. Or being shot. Hell, who even said this plant was going to kill her? Maybe Tom just kept a guard plant and would have it unhand her when he returned tomorrow night. Fat chance, she thought as she shook her head at the idea. Guard plant – as if! At least the warning meant Tom in some way knew about this odd feature of his plant. Monstera had now covered virtually all of Megan in its vines, binding her arms down in front of her and the tension keeping her standing upright as it began assimilating its new prey.

The plant had begun to do something new, and Megan could feel it. Little icy pinpricks, starting at her feet and working their way up in rhythmic waves bristled against her skin. She craned her neck, looking down at the cobwebs of vines but not seeing any indication of what was going on – they appeared to be resting peacefully on her. The first few waves hurt a little, but after the initial prickles the cooling sensation felt wonderful on her skin.

No. No, I shouldn't be enjoying this, I should be getting out, Megan corrected herself. She wondered momentarily if she could just knock the plant over and escape, but a few fleeting tries went nowhere, the urn barely budging. Whatever, she figured. If this plant is gonna eat me, at least it's giving me what feels like an upscale spa treatment while doing so.

The little pinpricks were beginning to feel hotter – and deeper. Were they? No – Megan could swear they felt like they were in her muscles, giving her the most thorough deep tissue massage she'd ever received. No pair of hands could match this – it'd take 20 pairs alone to equal the dining room ornament's coverage on Megan's body. She couldn't help herself as her shoulders relaxed, her core loosened, and the tightness in her glutes and calves released. Megan let out a deep breath, unaware of the potent dose of muscle relaxants the Monstera was pumping directly into her bloodstream – plus a cocktail of mutation enzymes. Even if she were, there wasn't much she could do.

Just as she was beginning to look back up and close her eyes, Megan spied something that made her do a double-take. Right there, right on her thigh, a little green splotch had begun to slowly bloom. She blinked, but it remained there. A few dazzled moments later, another began to spread out over her midsection, a rough circle that seemed to spread like moss beneath her skin, turning it from a healthy bronze to a shiny emerald texture. She involuntarily squirmed as the restraints held her in place, more patches blooming on her tits, her ass, her shoulders, arms, hands, neck, and even face if she could see it. Nowhere was safe as the Monstera remade Megan in its image, giving her a healthy, glossy, viridescent skin that, if touched, would give one the impression of ripe fruit.

Megan was stunned into silence as she drank in her changes. It was only now that she realized her legs couldn't move. She could move her hips a little, and bend at the knee, but her legs were welded together where they had once touched, save her thigh gap. They still presented as two distinct pillars supporting her, but in appearance only. Her feet, too, were gone. She couldn't feel them anymore – when she wiggled her toes, everything felt stiff and rigid, the closest sensation she could call to mind being when she used to bury her feet in mud as a kid. She carefully bent at her waist and knees to investigate further. Sure enough, as she probed beneath the soil, her feet had morphed into countless intertwining brown roots – or perhaps merged with the Monstera's roots, it was impossible to tell. It was all the same, Megan able to feel the contours of her urn as she got used to the sensation of her new root system.

Pricks of pain bubbled up on Megan's scalp, her hands immediately seeking the source of the sudden pain. The skin of her scalp felt like it was melting, layers peeling away alarmingly quickly. Pulling her hands away made her stomach drop a little: both gripped chunks of her chestnut hair, shockingly untainted given the rest of her body. Well, maybe being bald isn't the worst thing given... this, she thought as she glanced down at her verdant coloration. Megan had to immediately eat her words. She wasn't going bald at all; she felt a familiar weight returning that had been lifted moments ago, growing out from her head and rolling down her shoulders. Whatever it was, it wasn't hair - it didn't feel soft or fuzzy but rather cool and springy. Megan was a little afraid to see what had transpired but forced a hand to her head anyway. Holding it out so she could see, a frond of Monstera Deliciosa loomed over her face, hand-like leaves letting light trickle between their fenestrations. The rest of her hair was the same, long vines studded with leaves that grew right out from her head. No more shampoo, I guess, Megan thought. The fact that, of all things, that was what her stressed-out mind came up with when confronted with what was before her made her laugh, if only at the absurdity of her situation.

To Megan's surprise, the nearly exhausted plant had one last change in store for her. She began feeling a pulsing in the core of her body, just below the ribcage. It was subtle at first but as it grew and began to encompass more and more of her body in waves, each one stronger than the last. Her leaves quivered in anticipation with each passing flux before she began to notice what was taking shape. A tightness developed in her breasts and hips, and with each pulse her body felt like it was about to burst. In minutes the erogenous zones were so tight as to render them immobile, feeling uncomfortable pressure under her jade skin.

All at once, just when it began to border on genuine pain, the pulses stopped – and the release began. Megan felt the pressure ease as her curves began to swell. They were slow at first but gathered steam at an alarming rate. Her tits pushed out well beyond what her micro bikini could handle, the straps digging into her new bosom before it snapped the strings and sent it to the floor in tatters. Her hips followed suit, her expanding ass and thighs first swallowing the thong she had on before tearing it at the seams and spitting it onto the floor.

As Megan was about to reach out and touch her swollen chest, she felt a sensation that made her repeat the motion. There it was - her hand had grazed a leaf, and not one from her head. She had felt it. As she did so again and again, she felt it again and again. She tried with other leaves to her right and back, and it was all the same. Every time she touched them, she felt not only the frond on her hand but her hand on the frond as well. It made sense, in the same way that none of this made sense. When she examined the roots, there wasn't a distinction between what had been her feet, now her roots, and the original plant's roots. They were now the same, intertwined at the physical and, she could only imagine, genetic level.

Thankfully it was over. All she could see before her were her new massive boobs, obscuring the rest of her body. They must have grown at least four or five cup sizes, topped off by puffy dark green nipples that yearned for attention. Craning her neck she could see what had been done to her ass. It appeared to be modeled on beach balls, each one a globe in its own right and connected to a thick, plush thigh. Nestled between these pillowy new assets lay a fat camel toe, Megan's clit turned a matching shade to her nipples and displayed prominently, swollen so large it eclipsed her hood.

Megan's hand felt herself up, unable to believe what had happened in such a short time. To top it off, Tom was returning tomorrow – and what was he going to think when he found her like this? Megan smirked as the naughty part of her mind made a few suggestions as to what he might think – and do – but only time would tell how he'd react to Megan becoming one with his houseplants.

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Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it - feedback is always appreciated.