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.
ZIA
Day Five. Before dawn.
The wetness wakes me. Not rain. My own body betraying me in sleep, hips grinding against the wadded fabric I use as a pillow. The material is soaked through, my arousal having leaked steadily through the night while my unconscious mind sought relief my conscious one denies.
I freeze when I realize what I'm doing. Try to stop. My pelvis continues rotating for three more circuits before I can override the movement. Even then, the muscles in my core twitch and pulse, wanting to continue the friction that brings no satisfaction.
Every part of me aches. Not pain from injury but from constant, unrelenting need. My pussy clenches in steady rhythm now, a heartbeat between my legs that never stops. The lips are so swollen they don't close anymore. Inner flesh stays exposed to air, hypersensitive to every shift of atmosphere. When I sit up, the movement makes everything slide against itself. Fresh wetness emerges, adding to what already coats my inner thighs in a constant sheen.
Standing takes both hands braced against the tree hollow's walls. My legs shake violently, muscles exhausted from five daysof constant tension. Each step makes my thighs slide together, the friction sending signals that my brain can't properly process anymore. Not pleasure. Not pain. Just overwhelming sensation that makes me gasp.
I need to move. Need to do something besides writhe in this tree. My mind still functions, barely, and I know staying still means surrender.
The vine ladder is torture. My hands slip on the first rung, palms slick from when I tried to find relief in the night. Failed again. My fingers aren't enough anymore. Haven't been since day two. My body recognizes them as wrong. Wrong texture, wrong temperature, wrong everything. It wants something specific. Something with scales and four arms and a tail that moves like a separate creature.
Halfway down, my grip fails. Not from weakness but from a wave of need so intense my vision goes white. I fall the last eight feet, landing hard on the moss. My knees take the impact, driving me down to all fours.
The position triggers something primal. My back arches without permission. My hips lift and spread. Presenting. The word floods my mind in his voice, that grinding rumble the translator turns into meaning. I'm presenting myself to empty air, pussy clenching on nothing while my body assumes the position it craves.
“No.” The word comes out cracked. I force myself to standing, though my legs shake worse than before.
The jungle is different this early. Mist clings to everything, turning the world into suggestions of green. Sounds are muffled. Even the ever-present insects seem subdued. But underneath the quiet, I smell something new.
Death.
Not old death. Fresh. The copper and meat scent of recent killing mixed with something else. Phosphorescence.The combination makes my stomach turn even as my pussy clenches harder. Everything makes my pussy clench harder now. Even revulsion gets translated into arousal by my transformed nervous system.
I follow the scent, having to stop every dozen steps when the waves peak. They're not really waves anymore. More like a constant storm with moments of hurricane force. During the worst ones, I have to drop to my knees again. Have to ride out the clenching that makes my whole body convulse.
The clearing appears through the mist like something from a nightmare.
The shadow cat corpse is massive. Easily eight hundred pounds of muscle and claw, its six legs splayed at angles that speak of violent death. The skull is split into those two separate jaw sections the briefings described, both hanging open to reveal rows of teeth designed for shredding. Blood pools beneath it, still wet enough to reflect the early light.
But that's not what makes me freeze.
The corpse has been arranged. Displayed. The entrails pulled out and formed into spirals on the ground. The heart placed separately, elevated on a flat stone. The eyes removed and set in the empty chest cavity. This isn't just a kill. It's a message.
Claw marks score the surrounding trees. Not random slashes but deliberate patterns. I recognized the signature immediately: four parallel gouges carved deep into the heartwood, declaring ownership of the kill. Zkari's marks. His signature written in violence.
The fungi grows thick around the corpse, feeding on the blood. Where the crimson touches the phosphorescent organisms, they glow brighter. Pulse in patterns that almost make sense if I stare long enough. The spores drift on invisible air currents, tiny points of light that stick to whatever they touch.
