Pip's hips roll like clockwork against the Seed Mother, metal thighs gleaming with a soft golden sheen as she moans and gasps with each thrust, her body pressed up against the broad trunk of an ancient tree, vines wrapping around her wrists like eager assistants, helping her maintain her balance.
Each stroke sends tremors through the earth, with each thrust, the entire garden shudders with delight.
Blossoms unfurl, streams gurgle happily, and the leaves above quiver as Pip, the ever-devoted divine construct, works his golden hips like a god-made metronome. The Seed Mother squeals softly, legs wrapped around Pip's waist as her radiant body thrums with ancient pleasure.
"Divine," she murmurs, breath hitching. "Utterly divine!"
