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 pointsof 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.”
