Furs piled in one corner looked thick and soft and so saturated with his scent that I could smell them from the entrance. Carved stone furniture filled the space: a table, storage niches cut into the walls at precise intervals, a flat surface that might have been a workbench. Tools hung organized along one wall. Knives, rope, containers made from what looked like stretched membrane. Everything arranged for easy access, everything showing the kind of care that came from living alone and learning to be self-sufficient.
And on the furs: stains. Dried, dark patches. Recent enough that I could still catch the scent underneath his general smell.
He'd been here. Not long ago. Doing the same thing I'd been doing, trying to satisfy a need that refused to be satisfied alone.
This was his private space and I was absolutely violating it by being here.
I picked up one of the furs anyway.
The scent hit me immediately. Concentrated, undiluted, purely him. My knees went weak. The tonic surged through me like someone had just mainlined it directly into my veins. Everything that had been background noise for the last day suddenly screamed to the forefront.
I pressed the fur to my face and inhaled deeply.
Wrong. This was so incredibly wrong. But my body had stopped caring about right and wrong somewhere around day three. My body knew what it needed and this was the closest available substitute.
Sinking down onto the pile of furs felt inevitable. I was surrounded by his scent, drowning in it, and every breath made the need worse. Made my skin feel too tight. Made the space between my legs pulse with demands I couldn't ignore anymore.
My hand moved before I'd consciously decided. Just reached down and started touching myself because what else was I supposed to do? Pretend I had willpower left? Pretend I wasn't here specifically because I'd stopped being able to think past this?
The first orgasm came embarrassingly fast. Weak, unsatisfying, barely taking the edge off. But I kept going. Rubbed my clit frantically while breathing him in, while imagining he was here instead of wherever he actually was, while pretending these were his hands instead of my own inadequate attempts.
Second orgasm. Third. Each one felt weaker than the last. Each one proved what I'd been trying not to acknowledge: my body had completely rejected my own touch. Nothing I did to myself would work anymore.
"Again."
I jerked upright so fast I nearly fell off the furs. My hand froze between my legs.
His voice came from the shadows near the entrance. He'd been here the entire time. Watching me break into his den. Watching me touch myself in his furs. Watching me fall apart.
"Don't stop." Not loud. Just that resonant voice carrying easily across the cave. "You came three times in my furs. Do it again."
"I can't—" My voice came out hoarse. Wrecked.
"You can." Heat entered his tone. The kind of heat that made my pulse spike. "Bury your face in them. Breathe me in while you touch yourself. Show me exactly how desperate you are."
Shame and arousal twisted together in my chest until I couldn't separate them. But my hand was already moving again. Already circling my clit while I pressed my face into his furs and inhaled like my life depended on it.
"That's it." Satisfaction dripped from his words. "Now imagine it's my hand. My fingers inside you instead of yours. Bigger. Thicker. Stretching you properly."
I whimpered. Shoved two fingers inside myself. Not enough. Nowhere near enough. Just a reminder of how inadequate this was.
"Not satisfying, is it?" He was moving closer. I could hear it even though I couldn't see him through the furs pressed to my face. "Your body knows those are the wrong fingers. Knows you need mine. Or better yet, my cock."
The word sent a spike straight through me. I came again, harder this time but still fundamentally wrong. Still empty.
"One more," he said. Voice dropping into pure command. "Come one more time thinking about my breeding cock inside you. Stretching you. Filling you. The knot swelling to lock us together so you can't escape regardless of your desire."
I was rubbing frantically now. Desperate and past caring how pathetic this looked. His words painted images I couldn't stop: him mounting me, that massive cock pushing inside, the knot trapping me there while he bred me properly.
The orgasm ripped through me and I bit down on the furs to muffle the sound.
"Good girl." Pleased. So incredibly pleased. "Four times and you're still desperate. Still empty. Your body's rejecting your own touch completely now."
I couldn't speak. Could barely think past the humiliation and the need still burning through me.
"I've been watching you for the last hour," he continued. Casual. Like this was perfectly normal. "Watched you realize this was my den. Watched you make the choice to stay anyway. Watched you touch yourself in my furs while I stood right there."
The humiliation crushed down on me. I still couldn't look at him.
