Zia #2
But moving my supplies takes everything I have. Each trip up the vine ladder is agony. My swollen pussy lips rub together with each movement, sending shocks through oversensitive nerves. My nipples drag against my sports bra, the friction making me whimper.
During one particularly bad wave, I find myself humping the tree trunk. My hips grind against the bark through my pants, seeking pressure that might help. The rough surface provides friction that almost, almost gives relief. But not enough. Never enough.
When I realize what I'm doing, I force myself to stop. But my hips keep moving for several seconds, body refusing to obey.
Day Three - Evening
The storm builds throughout the afternoon. The air pressure drops, making my teeth ache. Humidity increases until breathing becomes like drowning in slow motion.
I've secured everything in the new shelter. Supplies elevated. Weapons within reach. Water collected from the rain that's coming. As ready as I can be while my body destroys itself with need.
The first drops are fat and warm. Then the sky opens.
Rain like I've never experienced. Solid walls of water that turn the jungle into an underwater world. Within minutes, streams form where none existed. Within an hour, my old cave is completely flooded. He was right. I would have drowned.
I strip off my soaked clothes. The fabric is torture against hypersensitive skin, and modesty is pointless. My scent was a beacon, broadcasting my arousal for kilometers.
Naked, I curl in my tree hollow and listen to the storm. Thunder that shakes the ancient trunk. Lightning that turns darkness into brief, blinding day. And underneath it all, the sound of a world reshaping itself with water.
A wave hits during a lightning flash. The combination of sensory overload makes me scream. My back arches completely, every muscle seizing. My pussy clenches in rhythms that match the thunder. Fifty-three seconds of exquisite torture.
When it passes, I smell him.
He's here. Somewhere close. That musk and ozone scent cutting through the rain and vegetation. My body responds instantly, fresh wetness joining what already slicks my thighs.
“You found adequate shelter,” his voice comes from everywhere and nowhere.
“You knew I would.”
“Hoped. Some humans are too stubborn. Die rather than take advice.”
Lightning illuminates him for a second. He's at the base of my tree, looking up. Rain streams over his scales, making them shine like oil. Both cocks are partially visible, pressing against their protective scaling.
“Why help me?”
“Game requires two players. No interest in playing alone.”
Thunder drowns out my response. When it passes, he's climbing. Those four arms making easy work of the ascent. His tail wraps around branches for stability, testing each hold before committing weight.
He stops at my entrance. Not entering. Just watching. Rain runs off him in sheets, but he doesn't seem bothered by it.
“May I?” He gestures to the hollow.
The question surprises me. “Why ask?”
“Your space. Your permission.”
I shouldn't let him in. Should maintain distance. But the storm is violent and I'm naked and my body screams for his proximity.
“Yes.”
He enters slowly, careful not to crowd me. The hollow is large but he fills it with presence more than size. His scent intensifies in the enclosed space, making my head swim.
We sit in silence, watching the storm. His tail rests between us, not touching but available. An offer I don't take.
“Tomorrow will be harder,” he says eventually.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you don't believe. Think human will is enough.” His primary eyes reflect lightning. “Day four breaks most humans. Day five breaks the rest.”
“But not all.”
“No. Some last longer. Week maybe. Two weeks for the strongest.” He turns those alien eyes on me. “None make thirty days.”
“None?”
“Biology wins. Always. Just matter of when you accept.”
My hand moves without permission, reaching for his tail. I stop myself, but he noticed.
“You can touch. Won't change anything.”
“Won't it?”
“Touch isn't claiming. Isn't surrender. Just sensation.”
I shouldn't. Know I shouldn't. But my hand completes the movement, fingers brushing his scales. They're warm. Smoother than expected in one direction, catching slightly when stroked backward.
The contact sends electricity through every nerve. My pussy clenches hard, a fresh flood of wetness emerging. I snatch my hand back, but the damage is done. My body recognizes him through touch now, not just scent.
“Why me?” I ask to distract from the burning need. “Other humans came through the portal. Why not them?”
“They surrendered immediately. No challenge. No evolution.” His tail shifts slightly, not quite touching my thigh. “You resist. Make it interesting.”
“Glad my torture entertains you.”
“Not entertainment. Education. Learn what kind of human survives here. What kind adapts.”
Another wave builds. I recognize the precursors now. The tightening in my lower belly. The way my nipples harden further, if that's possible. The flood of wetness that precedes the clenching.
I try to hide it, but my body betrays me. My back arches. My hands fist in the wood. My thighs spread involuntarily, seeking space for hips that want to rock.
“Don't fight it,” he says. “Makes it worse.”
“Everything makes it worse.”
“No. Fighting makes it worse. Accepting makes it manageable.”
The wave crests. My pussy clenches in violent spasms, so hard I cry out. My hips buck against nothing, seeking pressure, fullness, anything. Sixty-one seconds of pure need that leaves me gasping.
When it passes, I'm sobbing. Not from pain but from frustration that has no outlet.
His tail moves, the tip brushing against my thigh. The touch is electric, making me jerk away.
“I could help,” he offers.
“Could you? Or would you just use it as victory?”
“Not victory. Just reduction of suffering.”
“No.”
He accepts the refusal without argument. We sit in silence as the storm rages. His presence is torture and comfort simultaneously. Torture because my body recognizes what it needs. Comfort because at least I'm not alone.
“Tell me about your world,” I say to fill the silence.
“What about it?”
“Anything. Distract me.”
So he talks. Tells me about the three moons that create complex tides. About the dry season when parts of the jungle turn to desert. About the creatures that hunt here, their patterns and territories. His voice is a rumble that includes subsonic frequencies, making my bones vibrate pleasantly.
I don't remember falling asleep. But I wake to find the storm passed and dawn approaching. He's gone, but evidence of his presence remains. His scent saturated into the wood. Scales he shed, leaving them where I can find them.
And new supplies. Medicine that actually helps. Food that doesn't make me suspicious. Water in containers that will survive storms.
Day Four - Morning
Everything is worse.
The waves come every five minutes now. Each one lasts over a minute. Between them, baseline arousal is so intense I can't think clearly. My pussy has become the center of my universe. The swollen, empty, desperately clenching center.
I try to dress but can't tolerate fabric. Every texture is too much against hypersensitive skin. My nipples were visible points of pain through my sports bra, throbbing with each beat of my pulse. The swelling between my legs had become a constant, throbbing pressure.
Standing is difficult. Walking is agony. Each step makes swollen tissues rub together, sending sensation that's neither pleasure nor pain but something worse. Need that can't be satisfied.
I force myself to patrol my new territory. To maintain some semblance of routine. But I don't get far. A wave hits while I'm climbing down from my shelter. My grip fails and I fall the last five feet, landing hard.
I don't get up. Can't. My body convulses on the jungle floor, hips bucking against nothing. My pussy clenches so hard I scream. Seventy-three seconds of torture that whites out everything else.
When it passes, he's there. Standing over me with eyes that might be concerned.
“Day four,” he says simply.
“I noticed.”
“Can't continue like this. Body will damage itself.”
“I'll manage.”
“No.” He crouches beside me. “Look.”
His hand hovers over my inner thigh, not touching but indicating. I look down and see the bruising. Purple marks from where I've been grinding against things. Trying to find relief that won't come.
“Inflammation,” he continues. “Tissue damage. Without intervention, becomes permanent.”
“So intervene. Give me stronger medicine.”
“Medicine treats symptoms. Not cause.”
“The cause is the tonic you people created.”
“The cause is resistance to natural process.” His tail sweeps the ground in what might be agitation. “Tonic creates need. Fighting need creates damage.”
Another wave builds. I feel it starting and try to brace, but there's no bracing against this. My whole body seizes. Back arching off the ground. Muscles locking in patterns of desperate need.
This time he does touch. His tail wraps loosely around my wrist, just that point of contact. It doesn't stop the wave but changes it. Gives it focus. Instead of random clenching, my body orients toward him. Toward what it recognizes as relief.
Eighty-four seconds.
When it passes, I'm gasping. Covered in sweat despite the morning cool. And his tail is still around my wrist.
“See?” he says. “Contact helps. Reduces duration.”
“That was longer than normal.”
“But less violent. Less damaging.”
He releases my wrist. A raw sound of protest tore from my throat as he pulled away.
“Let me help,” he says. “Not claiming. Just relief.”
“No.”
“Your shelter then. I'll reinforce it.”
I watch, confused, as he moves to my tree. His four arms work in concert, weaving vines and branches into additional support. Creating drainage channels that will direct water away. Building what looks like furniture from shaped wood.
“Why?”
“If you insist on suffering, at least suffer safely.”
He works through the morning while I writhe through increasingly violent waves. By noon, my shelter has been transformed. Still defensive but now actually liveable. Raised platforms for sleeping. Storage that will stay dry. Even what might be a waste management system.
“You're domesticating me,” I accuse.
“I'm keeping you alive while you insist on fighting biology.”
He leaves as afternoon heat builds. But he's made his point. I can't survive day four alone. My body is breaking down. The inflammation is visible now, tissues swollen and angry.
I try to rest but can't. Try to eat but can't. Everything is secondary to the need that consumes me. My world has shrunk to the space between my legs and the emptiness that defines it.
By evening, I'm delirious. The waves come constantly now, one rolling into the next. I've clawed grooves in the wood from gripping so hard. My voice is hoarse from sounds I can't control.
He returns at sunset with something new. A plant I don't recognize, thick leaves that weep clear fluid when broken.
“Cooling gel,” he explains. “Won't stop need but reduces inflammation.”
“How?”
“Absorbs through skin. Numbs surface nerves.”
I should refuse. Should maintain my stance. But the swollen tissues between my legs are beyond pain now. If there's relief, I need it.
“Turn around,” I demand.
He complies, giving me privacy I know is meaningless. He can smell everything. Hear everything. But the gesture matters.
I spread the gel on my inner thighs first. The cooling is immediate, blessed relief from the burning. Then, carefully, on the swollen lips of my pussy. The numbness doesn't stop the clenching but reduces the raw sensation that's been driving me insane.
“Thank you,” I manage.
“Rest. Tomorrow decides things.”
“What happens tomorrow?”
“You accept help or body forces acceptance.” He turns to look at me, those alien eyes unreadable. “Day five, chemistry wins or you break. No third option.”
He leaves me with that warning. I curl in my improved shelter, spreading more cooling gel as the first dose wears off. The waves continue but manageable now. Still torture but survivable torture.
The night stretches ahead. Day four ending. Day five approaching with whatever ultimatum it brings.
My pussy clenches in rhythms that have become my heartbeat. Empty. Desperate. But still mine to control.
For now.