Kass
Iwake to my own screaming.
Not fear. Need. My pussy is clenching so hard it's actually painful, muscles cramping from the constant spasming.
The proto-eggs have fully dissolved during the night, flooding my system with need.
My clit throbs so violently I can see it pulsing in the dim cave light, jutting out like a tiny cock, angry and swollen.
The cave floor beneath me is soaked. Not just damp—completely saturated with my arousal. I've been gushing in my sleep, my body trying to prepare for breeding that isn't coming. The puddle extends three feet in every direction, making the moss slippery.
I try to sit up. The world spins violently. My hands shake so hard I can't grip anything. The fever started during the night—my modified body attacking itself without the breeding it's been trained to expect.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
Each word comes out as a sob. I crawl to my purple fruit stash.
Ten left. I ate five during the night in desperation, but they barely touched the edge of need.
My fingers won't cooperate enough to peel one.
I have to bite through the skin, juice running down my chin, mixing with tears I didn't know I was crying.
The fruit helps for maybe ten minutes. Then the emptiness roars back, a physical thing tearing through me.
Water. I'm out of water. Drank the last of it trying to cool the fever. My mouth tastes like copper and desperation. I'll have to leave the cave. Have to venture out despite knowing the risk.
I can't walk. The realization hits as I try to stand and my legs simply don't work. The muscles refuse to coordinate, too overwhelmed by the constant clenching of my pussy, the radiating need that makes everything below my waist feel liquid.
So I crawl.
The cave entrance is twenty feet away. It takes me an hour.
I have to stop every few feet when the waves of need peak, when my pussy clenches so hard I see stars.
During one particularly bad wave, I find myself humping the cave floor, grinding my clit against rough stone until I come.
It brings only a brief moment of quiet before the screaming need returns, louder than before.
Outside, the morning sun makes me squint. Everything is too bright, too loud. The bioluminescent plants pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat. Or maybe that's hallucination. Hard to tell anymore.
The nearest water is the small pool fifty yards from the cave. Might as well be miles.
I crawl through the undergrowth, leaving a trail of wetness behind me. My pussy is in a constant state of leakage, a systemic failure beyond simple arousal. My whole body screaming for what it's been programmed to need.
Halfway to the water, I hear it.
Chittering.
Soft at first, then louder. Multiple sources. They're communicating, coordinating.
Skirlings.
I try to move faster but my arms give out. I collapse face-first into the phosphorescent moss, ass in the air, the position my body keeps trying to assume. Presenting. Ready for breeding that isn't coming.
The first skirling emerges from the underbrush ten feet away.
It's smaller than I expected—maybe three feet tall, six legs, covered in short fur that shifts colors like oil on water. The head is almost canine but wrong, jaw split into three sections that can unhinge. Eyes that reflect light in ways that shouldn't exist.
It approaches slowly, testing. When I don't move—can't move—it gets bolder.
The nip to my calf is experimental. Testing if I'm alive or carrion. The pain cuts through the sexual haze, gives me enough clarity to grab my knife. But my hands shake so badly I can barely hold it.
The skirling dances back, calls to its pack. The chittering increases. I count voices—seven, maybe eight.
They emerge from all directions. Surrounding me.
“Back off!” I try to shout but it comes out as a whisper. My throat is raw from screaming in my sleep, from the fever.
They circle closer. One darts in, nips my shoulder. I slash with the knife, lucky strike that catches its throat. It drops, purple blood spraying. The others pause, reassessing.
Then they attack simultaneously.
Pain explodes everywhere at once. One latches onto my shoulder, three-section jaw clamping down, tearing through muscle to scrape bone. Another gets my thigh, serrated teeth sawing through flesh. A third goes for my back.
I manage to stab the one on my thigh, but the knife breaks off in its body. It dies but takes my only weapon with it.
Blood. So much blood. Mine is red, theirs is purple, mixing on the phosphorescent moss to create a color that shouldn't exist. The one on my shoulder shakes its head, tearing deeper. I feel tendons snap.
My vision starts going black at the edges. This is how I die—not from breeding, not from portal failure, but torn apart by pack hunters while my pussy still clenches desperately for cock that isn't coming.
Then the world explodes in white-gold violence.
Vhaz hits the pack like a meteor. Thirty-three feet of serpentine rage moving faster than physics should allow.
His hood extends fully—wider than I've ever seen it—patterns blazing with bioluminescent threat displays.
The sound he makes isn't a hiss or roar but something between, something that makes my bones vibrate.
Three skirlings die in the first second. Venom spray that dissolves fur and flesh. Strikes that shatter spine. One gets flung so hard it leaves a crater in a tree trunk.
The others flee. Instantly. No pack loyalty when faced with an apex predator in full rage.
I'm on my back, blood pooling beneath me, watching him move. Even dying, even in agony, my pussy clenches at the sight. My body recognizing its mate through the haze of blood loss.
“Didn't... need... saving...” I manage to whisper.
He drops beside me, and for the first time since I've known him, I see genuine anger. Not amusement. Not patience. Rage.
“Female is dying. Stop talking.”
His hands—massive, clawed, surprisingly gentle—assess damage. The shoulder is worst. I can see white of bone through the tears. The thigh is deep but missed the artery. Various other bites that hurt but won't kill.
“Stupid female,” he mutters while working. “Twenty days alone? Would die in three.”
He lifts me, and the movement makes me scream. Not from pain—though there's plenty—but because his scent floods my nostrils. My pussy clenches with a violence that makes me squirt, a shocking spray of arousal that mixes with the blood on my thighs.
“Please,” I whimper. “Need... need breeding...”
“Female is bleeding out. Breeding comes later.”
“Please...”
But he's already moving, carrying me to the main pool. The aphrodisiac water will make the arousal worse, but it's also clean, free of bacteria.
He washes my wounds with something that burns like acid. I scream, thrash, but he holds me still with his coils. Not restraining—supporting. Keeping me from hurting myself worse.
“Antiseptic,” he explains, though I didn't ask. “From glands in my mouth. Will prevent infection.”
Then he does something that makes me forget the pain entirely.
He licks my wounds.
His forked tongue extends, each tip working independently. One fork cleans the shoulder wound while the other seals it with saliva that hardens into a flexible bandage. The sensation is indescribable—pain and pleasure twisted together, his tongue inside my shoulder muscle, tasting my blood.
“Oh fuck, oh god...”
“Stop moving.”
But I can't. The intimacy of it, the care, the fact that he's literally inside my wounds—it makes my pussy gush harder. I'm losing blood from injuries while losing fluids from arousal. Dying and desperately horny. The duality breaks something in my brain.
He works methodically. Shoulder first, then thigh, then the various smaller bites. His saliva numbs as it seals, taking the edge off the pain but not eliminating it. I need the pain. It's the only thing keeping me from completely losing myself to the need.
“There.” He pulls back, examining his work. “Won't die now. Will scar, but will live.”
“Breed me,” I beg immediately. “Please, need it, please—”
“No.”
The word hits harder than the skirling attack. I actually sob, reaching for his cocks which are fully emerged, dripping pre-cum that makes the water shimmer.
“Please! I'll die without—”
“Won't die. Will hurt. But won't die.”
He restrains my hands gently when I try to grab him. Shows me the shoulder wound—still raw, sealed but fragile.
“Breeding tears tissue. Female would bleed out. Tomorrow, when clotting holds.”
“I can't wait until tomorrow! Please, something, anything—”
“No.”
He carries me to a mossy bank near the pool. Not our usual spot—somewhere more sheltered, more defensible. He's already set up a nest of sorts. Soft moss, fresh water, even food I can't eat because my body only wants one thing.
I'm writhing constantly now. The withdrawal has reached a peak I didn't know existed. Every cell screams. My pussy clenches so hard and so frequently that the muscles are exhausting themselves. But they can't stop. Won't stop. The proto-egg chemicals demand replacement.
“Please,” I beg for the hundredth time. “Just the tip. Just something. I'm dying.”
“Not dying. Suffering, but not dying.”
“Fuck you!” I try to hit him but I'm too weak. “You did this to me! Your proto-eggs, your breeding, and now you won't—”
“Female ran away. Female chose to suffer alone rather than accept what body needs.”
“I don't accept it! I hate it! I hate you!”
“Known fact. Still no breeding until tomorrow.”
I try to touch myself but my hands won't coordinate. Everything shakes. The fever is spiking—my body temperature so high that steam rises from my skin in the cool evening air.
“I'll find the young males,” I threaten desperately. “They'll breed me.”
“Young males would kill you. Tear wounds open with inexperienced rutting.” He coils loosely around me, preventing escape but not restraining. “Female waits until tomorrow or female dies. Choose.”
I sob. Real, ugly crying that mixes with the constant moans I can't control. My pussy won't stop gushing. I'm lying in a puddle of my own arousal, blood from the wounds seeping through his saliva bandages, and I've never been more desperate in my life.
That's when I start begging. Really begging.
“Please, Vhaz. Please. I need it. I need you. I'll do anything. I'll stay. I'll take real eggs. I'll be good. Just please, please breed me. Please...”
He's quiet for a long moment. Then his tail moves.