Kass
The tail stops moving.
After six hours of constant stimulation, the sudden absence of sensation makes me sob.
Not a gentle cry—an ugly, broken sound that tears from my throat like shattered glass.
My clit throbs in the cool morning air, so swollen it doesn't even look human anymore.
It juts out between my pussy lips like a small cock, angry red and visibly pulsing with my heartbeat.
Everything between my legs is beyond drenched.
The moss beneath me isn't just damp—it's completely saturated in a three-foot radius, like I've been pissing myself all night.
But it's not urine. It's pure arousal, the overflow of six hours of orgasms that satisfied nothing.
The smell of it—musky, desperate, tinged with the copper of my blood from the wounds—fills the air so thick I can taste it.
“Dawn,” Vhaz says quietly. His voice rumbles through the coils still wrapped around me, vibrating against my oversensitized skin. “Time to check wounds.”
I try to respond but can't form words. My throat is destroyed—raw from hours of screaming, moaning, begging, cursing.
The only sound I manage is a desperate whine that doesn't sound human.
More like a wounded animal. Which I suppose I am.
My hands reach for him, shaking so violently they look like they belong to someone dying of hypothermia.
But I'm not cold. I'm burning up, fever spiking from the withdrawal my body can't process.
He uncoils from around me slowly, and the morning light reveals the damage I did to him during the night.
Everywhere I could reach, his scales are cracked and weeping.
Lymph and blood mix in iridescent streams down his body.
Deep gouges where my nails found purchase during the worst waves.
A perfect imprint of my teeth in three places where I bit down to keep from screaming.
He let me savage him rather than stop the tail stimulation that was keeping me from complete systematic collapse.
“Shoulder first.” His massive hands are impossibly gentle as they peel back the makeshift bandage of leaves and his dried saliva.
I watch his face as he examines the wound.
His pupils dilate slightly—concern? The skirling got deep, tore through muscle down to scrape bone.
But his saliva has done something miraculous.
The wound is angry red, bruised purple-black around the edges, but closed.
The flesh has knitted together under a flexible seal of his dried spit that moves with my skin.
“Good,” he murmurs, more to himself than me. His finger traces around the wound, not touching but close enough I feel the heat from his skin. “No infection. No reopening.”
“Hurts,” I manage to croak.
“Pain means healing. Dead tissue doesn't hurt.”
Comforting.
He moves to my thigh next. The puncture wounds are deep—four holes where the skirling's teeth went through meat to scrape femur. But again, closed. Sealed. The bruising is spectacular, my dark skin painted in purples and blacks and greens, but I'm not actively dying anymore.
“The others?” I gesture weakly at the various smaller bites.
“Surface damage. Already scabbing.” He sits back on his coils, assessing me with those vertical pupils that miss nothing. “Female healed enough.”
“Enough for what?” But I know. My pussy clenches at the thought, gushing a fresh wave of wetness that adds to my puddle of shame.
“Breeding won't tear wounds now. Tissue has bonded enough.”
“Now?” The word comes out as barely a whisper, but my entire body reacts. My nipples, already hard as stones, somehow tighten further. My pussy clenches in that spiral pattern it learned from watching his secondary cock, practicing for what it needs.
“Now.”
He has to carry me to the pool. Not because I'm playing weak or manipulating—I literally cannot walk.
My legs are useless. Six hours of constant orgasms exhausted every muscle below my waist. My thighs shake uncontrollably when I try to stand.
My pussy muscles have been clenching so hard for so long that they've cramped into permanent semi-contraction.
Combined with blood loss that still makes me dizzy, I'm helpless as a newborn.
I don't protest being carried. Can't. Pride is a luxury I can't afford when my body is eating itself alive with need.
The proto-eggs dissolved fully during the night, releasing their poison into every cell.
My body knows it should have been bred twelve hours ago.
The delay has pushed me past normal withdrawal into something that might actually be killing me.
His arms cradle me against his chest, and his scent floods my nostrils—musk and ozone and male. My pussy responds with a convulsive clench that makes me squirt, a humiliating spray of pure desperation against his scales. He doesn't comment, just adjusts his grip to avoid the wounded shoulder.
The pool is perfectly warm when he lowers me in—he must have been heating it before dawn while I was delirious from the tail stimulation.
Always taking care of me even when I savage him for it.
The water embraces me like a lover, and the aphrodisiac properties hit my oversensitized pussy immediately.
I scream.
Not from pain but from overwhelming sensation. Every nerve ending between my legs lights up at once. The warm water feels like a thousand tongues on my swollen clit, like fingers inside me, like everything and nothing and not enough. My hips buck involuntarily, seeking friction that isn't there.
“Shh,” he soothes, holding me upright because my legs won't support me even in water. “Female is safe. Will have what she needs.”
Both his cocks are already fully emerged, have been for hours from the scent of my desperation.
The primary is thicker than I've ever seen it, angry purple-red, ridges standing out in sharp relief like rings of muscle.
Pre-cum beads at the tip, thick and pearlescent, dripping into the water in steady streams. The secondary coils in that pattern that makes my pussy clench in recognition—but faster now, more complex.
I count the loops it makes. Six. Sometimes seven.
It's practicing too, preparing for the most complex lock yet.
“Please,” I whisper. Not angry begging. Not demanding. Just... pleading. Raw need stripped of all pretense. “Please, Vhaz. Need it. Need you. Please.”
“Female will have what she needs,” he promises.
He positions me carefully, accommodating my injuries. One hand supports my lower back, avoiding the bite wounds. The other guides his primary to my entrance. Just the tip touching my pussy lips makes me sob with relief. My body recognizes salvation, knows that emptiness is about to end.
But entry is difficult. My pussy is so swollen from the tail play, from six hours of constant stimulation, that I'm actually smaller than usual. The outer lips are puffy and hot, almost closed. My entrance, usually eager to stretch around him, resists.
“Too swollen,” he observes, working just the tip in carefully. “Female's body is exhausted.”
“Don't care,” I gasp as the first ridge catches on my entrance. The stretch burns differently—not the satisfying ache of previous breedings but something sharper. My body has been pushed beyond its limits. “Need it. Please don't stop.”
“Won't stop. Female needs full breeding.”
He works slowly, patiently. Each ridge requires careful pressure to pass my swollen entrance.
I feel every texture, every bump, every vein.
My pussy floods with wetness, trying to ease the way, but it's still almost too much.
Almost. The empty ache that's been screaming for thirteen hours finally has something to clench around, and it's not letting go.
“Thank you,” I sob as he works deeper, tears streaming down my face to mix with the pool water. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”
“Shh. Female needs this. No thanks required.”
But I can't stop. The gratitude pours out of me like the arousal between my legs. “Saved me. Twice. The skirlings would have... and then the withdrawal... thank you...”
It takes three times longer than usual for him to fully hilt.
My pussy is so swollen, so oversensitized, that each ridge is an event.
The seventh ridge makes me come, pussy clamping down so hard he actually gasps.
The tenth ridge has me biting my own arm to keep from screaming.
By the time the base stretches my entrance wide and locks in place, I'm sobbing with relief.
“Secondary now,” he warns. “Will be tighter. Six loops, maybe seven.”
The secondary threads inside alongside the primary, and I actually laugh through my tears.
Hysteria maybe. Or relief. Or recognition.
The coiling sensation is exactly what my body has been screaming for.
It corkscrews through whatever space remains, threading between the ridges of the primary, through my cervix, into my womb.
Six loops form quickly, then a seventh partial loop.
More complex than ever before, creating a lock that feels absolute.
“Can't withdraw now,” he says. “Even if female passes out.”
“Good,” I whisper against his chest. “Don't stop. Whatever happens, don't stop. Even if I'm unconscious. Body needs it.”
The first wave of proto-eggs releases, and I start crying harder.
Not from pain or protest but from pure, overwhelming relief.
The warm spheres traveling through his primary cock into my womb are exactly what my biology has been screaming for.
I can feel each one—fifteen in the first wave—passing through the primary's channel, pushing past my cervix, settling into my prepared womb.
My belly begins to swell visibly, skin stretching, and I watch it with something like gratitude.
“Thank you,” I whisper again, hands pressed against my expanding stomach. “Thank you for this.”
“Female doesn't need to thank—”