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Two Plants and a Woman

by Patrick M. Ohana 12 days ago in fiction

When Plants Are No Longer Enough

Free photo (CC0) from PxHere

COVID-19 can even ruin a story. It has to be considered in any tale since it changed everything. Well, fuck it! There’s no COVID-whatever in this one. This story takes place in a parallel universe where there’s no such virus, except that all countries are ruled by Kings and Queens. ’Tis somewhat similar, in some significant estimate, to what we have here on our Earth. Don’t you think, whoever you are out there in your real world and universe? Don’t mind me! I’m a secondary narrator who may pop out, so to write, from time to time, rarely with spite, but it happened a couple of times. Don’t ask! I won’t tell you. It’s an internal struggle between Patrick, M, and all their freaking narrators. It’s like having a permanent Jack-in-the-Box, except that it’s mostly M popping out like Goddess Athena. She’s everywhere now. But who am I to complain about a goddess pretending to be mortal for our sake?

On top of all this, this story has two tellers. I’m obviously the first. And as the title may suggest, I will tell you about two special plants and an extraordinary woman. At the end of my story, a second teller, namely Ann Marie Steele, may tell you about a prick who enters this story, as most pricks do in any universe. But that’s Ann Marie’s story. I have no idea what she may tell you, but I sense that sensual sex may permeate her story and penetrate mine like a finding-out finger and a tentative tongue. That’s the second story. We need this one to give that one a sensible storyline, a bushy background. Let’s start, then, somewhere in between, where all the real action always is no matter if it begins or slivers along like a snake!

M was a charming woman. It’s not the same M, so relax. The next storyteller may divulge her identity, but in this initial story, she’s simply M, an initial for Marilyn, Marjorie, Melanie, or even Mint. Take your pick! I’ll only use M. M’s charm emanated from every one of her parts, even her fingers and toes. Her head was like Athena with black hair. Her mouth could recite a poem in one breath, even a sonnet. Her eyes had me before I was born. Her breasts were like wild cats catnip-inebriated. Her ass begged to differ no matter that it was more wonderful than any birthday since the Big Bang. Her pussy required a psalm, a pensive meditation, an unrelenting tongue to bring to light the meaning of life. Her hands were weapons of love, instruments of deception, pussy surrogates à la show-me-how-you-did-that. Her feet were sperm makers. I was afraid of their powers but loved them nonetheless.

The first plant was God’s plant, the beautiful and sparkling Marie Juana, another M, but her nickname will suffice, namely Lady Cannabis in all her glory and grace. I hereby bow to you and declare your permanence in my life. I prefer you within dark chocolate, or married with a spice of love. M even wrote her a sonnet and three haiku pluses (6-6-6).

Whether she’s Indica or Sativa

Or a hybrid of this pair of beauties

She is always a delightful diva

Whose loving touch transcends all her duties.

CBD or THC numbs the pain

In heart, in mind, in flesh, in every bone

Sleep eventually takes over the reign

Not before munchies take care of their own.

No nightmares, sweet dreams envelop you whole

From your tingling skull down to all your toes.

You feel every part, now and then your soul.

You write her a sonnet, never use prose.

Can one love this plant in our ruptured world?

Only in heaven can she be unfurled.


Cannabis Canada

hemp Mary Jane my love

marijuana calms


everything a body

can throw at it even

2020 20-


Hey 19 and 16

but 2021

like 1999

The second plant was any god’s herb, the refreshing, soothing, and delectable peppermint, a peppered mint, another M methinks. Her name will always be Lady Peppermint and M also wrote her a poem.

Hybrid mint, in fact, is the Mentha x

piperita; cross between watermint

and spearmint is our loved, prized peppermint.

I love Peppermint and she shows me her

love in return, calming my suffering

and pain, making baths moments of heaven,

soothing digestive arguments, changing

tea into a remedy, declaring

herself a physician, a friend, but I’m

in love with Mentha x piperita;

she’s in love with the world. What can I do

against the world? Peppermint is right. Isn’t

she? Shouldn’t we love the whole world? Not

only our little big piece of heaven!

What can a woman do with two such plants? A ménage à trois comes to a dirty mind. A two-thirds plant-based threesome to be precise. M was the meat in between, the one with the pussy, the two plants acting as potential pricks, though not in their current form of liquid, oil, or extract, unless she rubbed them on dildos or directly on her pussy. She was pussy-high all the way to the clouds of virtual cannabis smoke emanating from God smoking a green joint strong enough for a myriad humans at least. No one was able to give the final count, not even God who was wondering about codes like blue and red. M in the sky with protruding pussies all around.

M also used her fingers dipped in liquid THC to masturbate. At one sought for point, she felt as if she was a prick floating in the air like a led zeppelin. But who was the pilot? God again, smiling with mirth. God may be Santa. Or is Santa, God? The latter could explain some strange things. M enjoyed herself but longed for a real prick, preferably attached to a woman. I’m just kidding. It was begging to be written again. How was M going to get a prick in a country where the King had decreed, no sex whatsoever outside marriage? M was screwed. It’s up to Ann Marie Steele to help M with her search for a decent prick with no strings attached if possible.

Patrick M. Ohana
Patrick M. Ohana
Read next: Confessions of a Foot Domme
Patrick M. Ohana

Medical writer who prefers to read and write fiction and some nonfiction, though the latter may appear at times as the former.

See all posts by Patrick M. Ohana

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