The world is beautiful.

In her first moments, this newborn nymph simply drinks in all the new senses she didn't have as merely a garden of flower hedges, and marvels at her newfound ability to reflect on her own experiences.

The stars shine, moonlight falls, and the flowers of her true self gleam in the night. Her toes curl, she has toes to curl, feeling the mulch between. Her legs, she has legs, she knows what legs are, and up between those legs... the most important part of her.

Why that part is more important than any other part of her, she doesn't know. She just knows that it is.

Her body is... she knows it. None of it is unfamiliar, but all of it is new. She understands what everything is, but not what any of it is for. Touch is a fantastic sense, though, and her flesh is fantastically pleasing to that sense. Playing with her body will occupy her for quite a while.

The sun rises. The day warms.

And, as noon passes, the adult theater opens for business, as yet unaware of the living, breathing sex object in their midst.

There are sounds of things moving around outside her hedge.

She likes her hedge, but it is very small. It isn't that surprising that it has an outside! She is excited about there being more to existence than this cozy hedge of hers.

She follows the sounds, finding a hard path to walk on and a few figures moving towards a rectangle of metal in a wall of brick. She recognizes the figures as beings like herself! Who can move around and feel things and experience the world.

Only... they're not exactly like herself. Their bodies are covered up by covering things made of cloth. That is sad. She knows that covering her own body like that would be absolutely horrible, like desecrating rightness with wrongness. But she also instinctively understands that these people are not what she is, and for them it is just sad, not horrible, that they are covered up. Why would they make themselves sad like that, though? She doesn't understand.

The clad beings do something to the metal rectangle, and it moves! There is even more behind the brick! Another place! Intensely curious, she follows the hard footpath to the door and slips in behind them.

It is almost as dark inside as it was outside before the sun came up. Most customers of such a theater as this tend to keep their heads down and their hoods up, skulking about with a furtive air. They certainly wouldn't want to be seen trying to identify their comrades-in-shame. For the moment, the nymph goes unnoticed.

The lobby is small, the rafters bare in the darkness above. Framed images of nude female forms in various erotic poses line the far wall, behind a velvet rope.

To the left, two large doors, with a glass-enclosed booth between them, in which a shadowed employee takes money in exchange for admittance to one of the two screening rooms, as well as a tiled hall with a series of ordinary wooden doors leading to several private, unisex restrooms.

To the right, a single, large shelf, locked behind glass, against the wall, with an unmanned cash register tucked into the far corner.

The first figure she followed inside ducks down the hall with the restrooms. The second is already at the ticket booth.

The erotic posters are kind of nymph-y. They make this nymph feel right at home, anyway.

She smiles and wanders over to get a closer look. Some of those poses look like more fun than others, and some of them make for more appealing sights than others. Maybe she should pose next to the images? That seems like a reasonable place for her to exist? She would certainly like to be looked at in the way that these images seem to be meant to be looked at. Only, no one is looking at them, or her, right now. Hmm.

The man in the ticket booth is looking at her.

For several seconds, he doesn't believe his eyes.

Then he pales, staring in alarm.

He stifles his panic long enough to finish selling a ticket, but he isn't as smooth as he thinks he is. The customer pauses at the door to the screening room, and sees the man in the ticket booth dart out of the ticket booth and hurry over to... a flesh and blood woman, completely nude and too beautiful to be real, standing next to the posters like she has no idea where she is and might be the victim of a prank involving mind-altering potions.

The man from the ticket booth scurries up to her and asks, in a low, strained voice, "M-ma'am? Do you... need help?"

The human is making sounds at her. She doesn't understand the words, but she understands his worried tone, his placating body-language. She smiles to reassure him, and takes a moment to study him.

He wants to watch her pleasure. He needs... to feel desired... greatly... as though slaking his urges is a favor to the one slaked upon.

She can feel a second gaze, across the room, from inside that other man's hood. That one... he needs to... be free... to find release... to take more than he gives... without guilt, without breaking promises.

She doesn't actually know what to do about these impressions. She's too new. She doesn't know enough yet to put them in the context of actions. But she knows they're important. Much more important than anything any of her other senses are perceiving about these two people, especially with them both so covered up that her eyes are nearly useless.

"Ma'am?" the man from the ticket booth prompts. "Do you... know where you are?"

He starts to reach for her. Stops himself. Glances around nervously. The guy who just bought a ticket is still there, staring at the nude woman from under his hood. He knows his job depends a lot on keeping the theater out of the news. The last thing they need is a scandal, flying accusations, nosy moral guardians in an uproar, threatening them and their patrons both.

A few of their patrons are women, but, they typically wish to be seen on the premises even less than the men, and none of them are what he would call beautiful. Not even one of the actual porn stars featured in the theater's presentations would strip naked and walk into a place like this of her own free will, he felt.

She's either a victim or bait, or both, and he has to get her out of here before whatever trap can spring. He shrugs off his cardigan and drapes it over her shoulders.

Ooh! He's removing some of his coverings! That's good!

The fabric touches her skin before she realizes what he intends, which is fine, but then he lets go, and it's covering her and that is not okay. With an outraged yelp, she swats the thing from her shoulders and flings it to the floor.

Glaring at the man, she instinctively projects the simple truth that he should not have done that.

I AM CAMOENSIA! HOW DARE YOU.

It is the gleam of moist petals under vibrant moonlight, the upward creep of dew-laden vines, the furtive rustle of enfolding, protecting leaves...

The man from the ticket booth flinches, his jaw falling open in shock. "W-what?"

The other man, having used it himself several times, recognizes the hollow in the flower hedge. And he understands what it means to 'hear' it in a Name. "Mutherfucker," he croaks, half manic laughter. "She's a nymph."

The man from the ticket booth whirls around at his customer's exclamation. "What, a, a n---a nymph? Hey what are you..."

The other man brushes past, lowering his hood as he puts himself right in the nymph's personal space, close enough to kiss. "A nymph!" he repeats in delighted disbelief, basically shouting it directly into her face. He suddenly seizes the nymph's breasts, sinking his fingers into the sinfully soft flesh.

She still doesn't understand the sounds they make at each other, but second one's desires come to the surface as he moves, exclaiming excitement at her, and this is much more important than her earlier upset. The bolt of sensation when he gropes her is wonderful, fulfilling in a way squeezing her own titflesh wasn't, but that pales in comparison to the glorious rightness of the man's slaked urge. It is only a small nibble of his... him-ness, but that tiny bit is feeding her soul, and being fed in turn by the sensation of touching her body.

This.

This is what her flesh is for.

Her body exists to feed the desires embodied in these other beings.

Understanding this is transcendent. She cannot imagine a more worthy purpose.

She still doesn't know how to go about it, but now she knows what she doesn't know. All she has to do is pay attention to how she is touched and... help. For instance, it would probably help this man do what he was doing to her if she pushed her chest forward, into his hands.

A protest dies on the lips of the man from the ticket booth as he sees the nude woman arch eagerly into the other man's clumsy mauling, with an expression of unnerving, almost religious joy.

"Okay then, but what is it doing here?!" he hisses, frantic. "Who does it belong to?"

The other man laughs. "Didn't you hear her name? She belongs to us!" He pauses, some of his excitement dimming. "Well, she belongs to whoever owns the land here, I suppose."

The man from the ticket booth stares blankly.

"Don't you get it? She's new. Your grounds is her field!"

The man from the ticket booth staggers back as the implications hit him. He doesn't know much about nymphs, but he knows the basics. They incarnate in a Field of Plants, meaning anything from an acre of crops to a household garden, and the body resembling a beautiful woman comes to exist to personify the field. Having sex with the nymph makes the plants healthier and grow better. Nymphs never wear clothes. There's even an exception in the law that says obscenity laws don't apply to them, or anyone with them.

This... this is big. That kind of legal protection would mean he could advertise. Patrons wouldn't have to fear harassment (at least, not from lawmen). This could change everything. Oh gods, he needs to reflect his solicitor.

"Alright! Alright. Do what you will. But it, but she doesn't leave the premises, you hear me?"

Still mostly focused on the nymph's tits, the other man nods absently. "Uh, yeah, sure, sure."

The man from the ticket booth rushes into the back office. The other man finally manages to pull his hands away from the nymphs tits long enough to open his shirt and take his pants off. He's still self-conscious enough that he leaves the cloak on, but everything important is exposed to the nymph.

Her breath catches as her eyes feast on the organ revealed, jutting from the human's crotch, throbbing with concentrated life and touch-hunger.

It is the most beautiful thing she has seen yet, in her short life. She wants it, to touch it, to feel it... and another gasp of revelation leaves her lips as she understands. This is is what she senses, this is what it feels like from the inside. This is desire. If she could look at herself, this is (part of) what she would see.

...and it's in the same place on his body that her own Most Important Part is on her own body, at the junction of the legs. Is this his? Maybe. She doesn't know how to know. What she does know is that her own Part is in the form of a soft set of lips concealing a slippery tunnel that hugged her fingers when she used her hands to explore herself. And his Part is long and pointy and round, kind of like a really big finger.

These facts give Camoensia an idea.

The man in the cloak has the same idea and is way ahead of her.

He takes her by the hips and spins her around, pushing her up against the poster for the porno he'd originally come there to watch. He bursts into giggles at the irony, but that doesn't stop him from forcibly bending the nymph over and yanking her hips back into position.

"Gods, its true. You nymphs, you're all just sluts for any man who whips his cock out. Well get ready, 'cause I'm not gonna hold back." He pauses, and laughs hysterically. "You've never had a cock before, have you. Mutherfucker, I'm about to take a nymph's virginity."

With that, he aims himself, and plunges his cock into hot, wet heaven.

Oh.

This is perfection.

His Part inside her Part, thick, throbbing, sliding shallow to deep to shallow to deep as his hips drive forward, meeting her rear, mashing into her bottom.

This is the purest form of beauty in the universe.

She wasn't wrong, before, about what her body is for, but this is the means to that end, by which all other means are to be judged. This is why her Most Important Part is her Most Important Part.

Pleasure surges through her, and a cry of awe leaves her lips as her flesh quakes.

After he finishes, the man is very tempted to take the nymph with him when he goes. But he knows doing so would be more trouble than it is worth. Legally, the nymph is the property of the theater, and... perhaps he holds to some sense of honor among perverts, but he will not betray the theater like that.

Forgetting all about the movie he paid for but neglected to actually watch, he heads home.

The man from the ticket booth, who is also the day manager, has just had an intense conversation with both the theater's solicitor and the theater's owner. The owner sees much the same opportunity in this that the day manager did, and they've hashed out the bare bones of a marketing strategy to take advantage of it. The manager asks what to do with the nymph in the short term, and is told to "figure something out."

He hurries back to the lobby and the nymph to do what, he doesn't know.

The nymph is not in the lobby.

After being left alone to contemplate the revelation that is sex, she isn't sure what to do. Then she remembers that there was another human, she saw. He went that way, she thinks, and wanders down the hallway with the doors, looking for signs of life.

The manager has a momentary figurative heart attack before locating the nymph and, lacking better options, leading her by the hand back to his office.

The office is cramped and live-in. There's a rickety desk with a stack of books, a crystal ball, and assorted loose paper. There's a water-cooler and a slightly-dusty cot along one wall. A file cabinet and mirror mounted on the other.

Once ensconced, the manager merely stares at the nymph. Maybe he should just close the theater for the day? He can't think of another way to not leave the nymph unsupervised. The door to his office opens from the inside even when locked, so he can't just leave her in there without convincing her to stay...

"Can you stay here? Please?"

She still doesn't know words.

Also, while he's staring at her, she's staring at his crotch. Her hand finds its way to her most important place, rubbing wantonly.

This is only about half strategic. He's still in need of feeling like using her body is doing her a favor. She can still read his very specific need to be wanted, to feel magnanimous as he doles out his pleasure to attractive partners. She's playing up the feeling that she'd appreciate him fucking her, but she's only just had the revelation of what her flesh is for and she would, actually, be grateful if he put her body to use again instead of whatever else he might do in the immediate future.

She may not speak a language, but her nonverbal cues are unmistakable.

The manager swallows heavily, and has a thought. The rest of him rebels at the thought, but it is both compelling and the only practical solution he's come up with, so...

He steals a blanket from the cot, marches the nymph into the ticket booth, and quickly pushes her down onto the floor in front of his seat. He undoes his pants, takes his cock out, and presses it to the nymph's lips. She should get the idea, and then, with the blanket covering his lap, he can both keep the nymph occupied and do his job with no one the wiser.

This is new and interesting!

Stroking his shaft with her lips and tongue isn't as directly stimulating as fucking her between her legs, but if anything it's more intimate, letting her get as close as possible to the fascinatingly sexy male organ between his legs.

And she can tell, this is a hopeful moment for him. Using her mouth to pleasure him puts her in the perfect position to grant his need: that need for his pleasure itself to be desired. And she finds that, she does, in fact, want to see him orgasm, to make him orgasm, just because orgasms are super nifty regardless of who they're happening to.

This will, in fact, keep her occupied until his shift ends.

The manager manages to get through his hours in the ticket booth, no one the wiser, but the nymph is so eager, making him climax again and again, never stopping, even when he goes soft, instinctively nursing him back to hardness each time. There were a few close calls, but otherwise it is a profound and unexpectedly satisfying experience; every time he peeked under the blanket at her face, she seemed utterly enraptured with his dick and his next climax. Every time, the sight would light a fire inside him.

Still, by the end, he's spent.

He lives alone; there's no one expecting him or waiting to question him about the nymph, but it seems safer not to leave the premises. The owner told him to figure something out, and he supposes this counts. He brings the nymph back into his office, and resigns himself to a night on the uncomfortable little cot.

The nymph is bored.

Laying on the human while he sleeps is okay in theory, but all he does is breathe, and he'd even covered up his male sex organ before laying down!

She can doze for a while, but it doesn't last. After a few hours of napping, she squirms out of his grasp and gets up. She's seen him operate the door handle several times now, and lets herself out of the office silently.

The theater is dark, and quiet, and empty.

She wanders around. She remembers which door leads outside, and lacking any other ideas, wanders out to walk among the flowers of her true body and pleasure herself.