Page 73 of Shroom for Improvement

I planted veg in the veg gardens, and fruit bushes under the cages, and even found time to trim the shrubs out the front of the bed and breakfast, turning them into little topiary sculptures of mushrooms, because what else would I shape them as?

I traipsed the grounds around Stinkhorn Manor and took all sorts of soil and fungi samples to study in my private lab.

And Claude would update me with how he was getting on, though each day he seemed more and more dejected.“I’m pretty sure a leaf moved today, but I did sigh, so it might have been that. The air was moister by the ley lines this afternoon, I think.”

We needed to mix it up a little. Still have Claude practise the weather magic, but break up the days by trying other things. The ritual might not even be the lightning storm. We should test out other theories just in case. I had a few tumbling around in my mind.

The other consistent issue of the past couple of weeks was the searing, agonising need to come. Waking up each morning was getting more difficult. My cock was harder, more painfullyfull with each erection. The urge to climb on top of Claude and put on a show that ended in me striping his chest and face with my cum was getting almost impossible to ignore. I should ask him for consent, before my dick robbed every single droplet of blood from my brain and I simply short-circuited.

Claude had the same issues as I did. I swear every morning the tent he made under the duvet grew by an inch.

“I’m gonna crack,” I would tell him. “I can’t handle it anymore. It’s painful, Claude. Why is it painful? I feel like a fucking teenager again.”

“It’s always watching,” he’d reply, in reference to the house.

“Maybe I don’t care. Maybe I just need... to come.”

“Gods,” he’d said, running two hands down his face. “Me too.”

But I had managed not to touch myself. Somehow. Managed to think of the least sexy thoughts every time I found myself hard. But honestly? I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d last. If Claude didn’t want to wank in front of the house, well, that was up to him. I on the other hand—pun unintended—needed the release more than anything.

I also needed to stop thinking about all of this while taking a piss. I’d get a chub again and crimp the flow.

I finished peeing, tucked myself back into my jeans, and did my fly up, just as Claude came tearing around the corner and into the walled garden.

“Sonny! Oh, good, you’re... here. Jenny said... you would be,” he said, running up to me and grabbing both my arms. He was panting, his cheeks red, sweat beaded on his forehead. “Run. You need to run.”

“Run? Why?”

“She’s . . . she’s . . . looking for you,” Claude said between gasped breaths.

“Who is?”

“Mrs Ziegler! She wants... your pee-bale.” He braced himself, holding his knees, trying to catch his breath. He must have run here from his room, or the paddock.

“What the fuck? Why?”

He held up his hand to indicate he needed a moment. “She said she’s going to... stuff Mr Dupont’s... mattress with your piss hay.”

“No. She can’t do that. That’s my pee-bale—”

“Professor Daye?” called out an unnerving and familiar voice. A haunting, deep, demonic voice. The sound of it echoed through my marrow, chilling my bones.

“Shit! She’s here. Hide,” Claude said. His head spun left and right, looking for somewhere to run.

“Here, this way!” I grabbed his arm and pulled him to the side of the house, into the alley adjoining the tiny courtyard. “Jenny? Disguise the entrance, please.”

With that, a wall of ivy grew over the opening, just as Mrs Ziegler marched into view in the walled garden.

Claude and I peered through the gaps in the leaves. I tried to steady my breathing, tried to make as little noise as possible. Maybe she’d see I wasn’t there, and she’d go away. Give up. Let me keep my pee-bale. I’d been working so hard on that over the past couple of weeks.

I hadn’t realised how small the alley we’d crammed ourselves into was. My back was flush against one wall, Claude’s back against the other, our bodies aligned with only an inch gap between us.

“Professor Daye?” Mrs Ziegler called out again, this time with a little more aggression. She stepped into the space a mere five feet away from us.

Both Claude and I stiffened, scared to move even the smallest muscle in case she heard.

“Where is that insufferable mycologist?”

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