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.”
