Kass
My fingers are pruned like dead things. Been in this fucking pool since yesterday afternoon, skin wrinkled, muscles cramped from constant tension. The aphrodisiac water stopped feeling warm hours ago. Now it's just wet. But I can't leave. Won't leave. Not after what he promised.
Tomorrow.
Well, tomorrow is now today, and so am I. Floating in alien water that makes my clit throb with every ripple, waiting for a serpent who might not even show. My nipples stay hard as stones above the waterline, dark and swollen from seven days of constant arousal.
“Well?” I call to the empty swamp. “Sun's up, asshole. You said today.”
Nothing. Just the usual sounds of this nightmare ecosystem. Chirping things that aren't birds. Splashing things that aren't fish. My own ragged breathing.
I've been fingering myself all night but it's pointless. Like trying to scratch an itch through leather. My body knows what it wants now. Has tasted the possibility through his proximity, his scent, that one scale brushing my leg. Fingers are just mockery after that.
“Coward!” I shout louder. “All that talk yesterday and now—”
The water temperature drops.
Not gradually. Instantly. Like something massive and cold-blooded just slid into the pool behind me. I don't turn. Don't give him the satisfaction. But my pussy clenches hard, gushing fresh wetness into already soaked water.
“Angry female waited.” His voice comes from maybe six feet away. Calm. Amused.
“Said I would.”
“Most don't. Most run. Try to escape what their body demands.”
“I'm not most.”
“No.” The water moves. Slow displacement that tells me he's spreading out, coils unfurling in the pool. Not approaching. Just... occupying space. “You stayed angry. Stayed thinking. Stayed choosing despite seven days of torment.”
I finally turn.
He's magnificent and terrifying in daylight. The shed has progressed further—old scales hang like tattered banners while new ones gleam underneath, so fresh they look wet. His hood is relaxed, neutral. But those eyes. Vertical pupils that track my every movement, miss nothing.
And lower...
Both hemipenes are partially emerged from their ventral slit. Not fully extended but visible, already dripping that clear pre-cum that makes the water around him shimmer with pheromones. The sight makes my pussy spasm desperately.
His coils spread through the pool in loose loops, thirty-three feet of muscle and intent. Not surrounding me. Not yet. Just there. Available. Waiting.
“Why aren't you running?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“Away from me. From this. You could still reach shore. Could try.” His head tilts, genuinely curious. “Why aren't you running?”
I float there, considering. Seven days of hell. Seven days of my body screaming for something only he can provide. Seven days of fighting and losing against biology. My skin is flushed pink despite my dark complexion, blood running hot with need.
“Maybe I'm tired of running.”
Something shifts in his expression. Not quite surprise. Recognition maybe.
“Or maybe,” I add, because vulnerability makes me vicious, “I want to see if you're all talk.”
His laugh rumbles through the water, and I feel it in my bones, in my clit, in the emptiness that defines me now. “Female thinks this is talk?”
A coil brushes my leg. Just the barest touch but my whole body lights up. Not rough scales like I expected. Smooth. Cool. Like polished stone that moves. The temperature difference—his cold blood against my fever-hot skin—makes me gasp.
“That's it?” I try for dismissive but my voice cracks. “One little touch and—”
Another coil slides around my waist. Not squeezing. Just... there. The weight of it. The undeniable presence. I can feel each individual scale against my hypersensitive skin, feel the power in the muscle beneath.
“Tell me to stop,” he says simply. “One word and I leave. You go back to fingers that don't satisfy. Back to empty ache that gets worse each day.”
My mouth opens. The word is right there. Stop. Easy. Simple.
I don't say it.
The coil around my waist tightens slightly. Not painful. Just firm. Claiming space. His body temperature is cooler than the water, making me hyperaware of every point of contact. Where he touches me, my skin prickles with goosebumps despite the heat.
“Why me?” The question escapes before I can stop it. “You said I'm different. How?”
His head moves closer, that long neck bringing his face level with mine. His forked tongue flicks out, tasting the water between us. The water that's thick with my arousal, with seven days of desperate need.
“Your anger tastes like copper,” he says. “Most females taste like fear. Like desperation. Like surrender. You taste like war.”
“That's not an answer.”
“Isn't it?” Another coil joins the first at my waist. “Forty seasons I've hunted. Forty seasons of females who beg or break. Then you arrive, throwing rocks at shadows. Cursing the water itself. Building traps while your body burns with need.”
His tail slides around my right ankle. Gentle. Barely there. But I know I couldn't pull away if I tried. The scales there are smaller, more flexible, almost silky against my skin.
“Is this what always happens?” I ask. “The great serpent hunter sees something shiny and decides to keep it?”
“Nothing about you is always.”
My left ankle gets caught next. The coils pull slowly, inevitably apart.
Not violent. Just inexorable. Like continental drift in real time.
My legs spread in the water, and I can't close them.
The position makes my pussy lips part, exposed to the aphrodisiac water that immediately makes my clit throb harder.
“Let go.” The words come out breathless.
“No.”
“I said—”
“I heard you. Still no.” His coils adjust, and suddenly I'm floating on my back, legs spread wide, arms free but useless.
The position leaves me completely exposed, pussy presented just below the water's surface.
I can see myself—dark lips swollen and spread, clit jutting out obscenely, everything glistening with more than just water.
“You didn't say stop. You said let go. Different words. Different meaning.”
He's right and I hate him for it.
My hands are still free. I could punch him. Could claw at the coils holding me. Instead, I grip the smooth scales at my waist, nails digging in, feeling the way his muscles shift beneath.
“I still hate you.”
“Good. Hate is honest. Better than false submission.” His massive head dips lower, eyes level with my spread pussy. “And your body is honest too. Look how wet you are. How swollen. Seven days of preparation and you're perfect.”
Another coil catches my right wrist. Pulls it out to the side. Then my left. Spread eagle in the water, held by loops of muscle that could crush me but don't. Just hold. Support. Display.
“Fuck you,” I manage, but my hips are already rolling, seeking friction that isn't there.
“Yes,” he agrees. “Eventually. But first...”
His tongue extends. Longer than should be possible. Twelve inches at least, forked at the end into two separate points. It doesn't touch me. Not yet. Just tastes the water around my spread thighs. His pupils dilate as he processes my pheromones.
“So much anger,” he muses. “So much need. Seven days of modification. Seven days of preparation. Your pussy drips for me even while you curse my name.”
“Always fighting.”
“Yes.” One fork of his tongue touches my outer lips, just barely. The contact makes me scream. Not pain. The opposite of pain. Seven days of buildup releasing in that single point of contact.
I come immediately. Violently. My whole body convulses in his coils, pussy clenching around nothing while that one fork of his tongue just rests against my entrance. Not entering. Just there. The orgasm rips through me like electricity, making my vision white out.
“Sensitive,” he observes while I shake apart. “So responsive. The way you clench... your body begs even when your mouth refuses.”
“Fuck... you...” I gasp between aftershocks.
“Such anger even in pleasure.” The second fork of his tongue joins the first, bracketing my clit. “Let's see how long it lasts.”
Both forks begin to vibrate. Different frequencies. One high and quick, the other low and throbbing. The sensation is completely alien. Nothing human could create this specific stimulation. My modified body recognizes it though. Knows this is what it's been prepared for.
“Oh god, oh fuck, what are you—”
He adjusts the vibration, and my words dissolve into wordless keening. His tail slides between my spread legs, the tip using its finest scales to pull my pussy lips wider, completely exposing my clit to his tongue's attention.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, the vibration of his voice carrying through the water to my spread pussy. “Look how you glisten. How your clit throbs. Made for this. Made for me.”
I come again before the first orgasm fully ends. Overlapping waves that make me arch in his coils, water splashing as I thrash. He holds me steady, safe, keeping my head above water while my body tries to fly apart. My nipples ache in the air, so hard they hurt.
“Stop!” I finally scream.
Everything stops. His tongue withdraws immediately. The coils loosen but don't release.
“That word I obey,” he says calmly. “Always.”
I float there gasping, pussy still spasming from aftershocks. Between my legs, I can feel myself gaping open, empty and desperate. “I didn't... I don't...”
“Want to stop? Or want to want to stop?”
“Both. Neither. Fuck, I don't know.”
“Then we continue until you do know.”
His tongue returns but different this time.
One fork slides inside me while the other circles my clit.
The internal fork extends further, impossibly long, reaching places fingers never could.
It curls, finding spots I didn't know existed.
The texture—slightly rough like a cat's tongue but more flexible—creates friction that makes me see stars.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh FUCK!”