I crouch near the edge of the blood pool, studying the fungi. When disturbed, they release more spores. A defense mechanism maybe. Or reproduction. The spores make my skin tingle where they land, a mild burning that would probably be painful on normal flesh. But my hypersensitive skin interprets it differently. Each point of contact becomes a tiny star of sensation.
An idea forms.
I tear leaves from nearby plants, the broad ones that repel water. Use them as makeshift gloves to gather the fungi. They come away from the ground easily, their root networks shallow in the blood-soaked earth. The organisms pulse brighter when handled, releasing clouds of glowing spores that make my eyes water.
If they burn my transformed skin, what would they do to his scales? Scales that are armor but also sensory organs. Scales that I've watched ripple with sensation when he's aroused.
I wrap several fungi clusters in the waterproof leaves, creating pouches I can tie to my thigh. Close enough to reach quickly but not so close the spores affect me constantly. Though my body wouldn't mind. My body interprets every sensation as foreplay now.
Movement in the mist makes me freeze. Not him. The rhythm is wrong. Multiple sets of footsteps, uncoordinated. Other males drawn by my scent that now saturates this area. I need to move.
But first, I study his kill pattern. The shadow cat was taken from above, spine severed in a single strike. No wasted effort. No playing with prey. Just efficient death. But then he spent time arranging the display. Why? To warn other predators? Or other males?
A deep, internal clench made me gasp, my body preparing for the predator who had killed so easily.
I force myself to leave, taking a different path back. One that crosses water twice, though I doubt it helps. My scent is so strong now that water won't wash it away. I'm marking territory just by existing in it.
The morning heat builds as the mist burns off. By the time I reach the rocky area above my shelter, sweat runs down my spine in constant streams. Between my breasts. Down my belly to mix with the other wetness that never stops. I've given up trying to stay clean. My body produces too much of everything now. Sweat, arousal, pheromones that broadcast my state to every compatible male in miles.
The decoy camp takes shape quickly. I use the materials he left, understanding their purpose now. Create something that looks lived in but isn't. Draw attention away from my actual shelter.
I weave branches into walls, lay out bedding, position water gourds. Then I mark it thoroughly. Rub my arousal on every surface. The amount my body produces makes this easy. I soak the bedding with my scent. Press my body against the walls to leave oil from my skin. Pull out strands of hair to catch in the weaving.
By the time I'm done, the decoy reeks of desperate human female. Any male who finds it will think I've been living here, writhing in unfulfilled need. Which isn't far from the truth, just not the location.
I also leave subtle wrongness. Position things where they shouldn't be. The bedding where morning sun would hit directly. Water storage uphill from the shelter. Small mistakes someone in real distress might not notice but that might make him pause. Make him think.
Another wave crashes through me while I'm applying final scent marks. This one drives me to my hands and knees. My pussy clenched so hard my vision whited out at the edges, theempty spasms visible through my lower belly. My hips buck against air, seeking pressure that isn't there.
The sounds I make aren't human anymore. Whines and moans that echo through the rocks. If males are hunting me, I've just announced my exact position. But I can't stop. Can't control what my body does during these peaks.
When it passes, I'm shaking so hard my teeth chatter despite the heat. I force myself up, force myself to move. Back to my real shelter via routes that cross water, that double back, that might confuse pursuit.
By afternoon, I'm barely functional. The waves come every few minutes, each lasting over a minute. I have maybe ninety seconds between them to think, to move, to try maintaining who I am under what I'm becoming.
I try to eat but can't. My throat closes around anything solid. Water I can manage, but it does nothing for the dehydration caused by constant fluid loss. My body is consuming itself to produce the arousal it thinks will attract a mate. Will attract him.
I strip completely as evening approaches. Clothes are pointless torture against skin that interprets every sensation as sexual. My nipples are so hard they hurt, dark and swollen to twice their normal size. Between my legs is swollen beyond recognition. The lips puffy and dark with blood, spread open from the constant engorgement. My clit is visible and enlarged, throbbing with my pulse.
I try once more to find relief. My fingers slide through the wetness, finding my clit easily. It's so enlarged it doesn't hide anymore. I circle it carefully, building sensation that should lead somewhere.
But it doesn't. My body recognizes the stimulation as wrong. Temperature off by degrees. Texture too smooth. Pressure too familiar. I work myself desperately, two fingers inside while mythumb works my clit. My other hand pinches my nipple, adding pain that might push me over.
Nothing. I can reach the edge but can't cross. My body refuses release from anything but what it's been programmed to crave.
Frustration makes me sob as I continue trying, chasing relief that stays forever out of reach. My fingers cramp. My wrist aches. Twenty minutes of futile effort that only makes the need worse.
When I give up, my pussy clenches harder than before, angry at the false promise. The empty spasms are violent enough to hurt, muscles cramping from the intensity.
Footsteps outside. Multiple sets. The other males have found my decoy. I hear excited sounds, clicks and rumbles the translator can't parse. Then confusion as they discover the subtle wrongness. An argument breaks out. They're trying to determine if it's real or a trap.
Then his scent hits. Musk and ozone, stronger than ever. My body responds instantly, fresh wetness flooding out. My pussy clenches in a different rhythm. Not desperate seeking but preparation. Recognition.
I hear his voice, that grinding rumble that translates to threat. The other males retreat quickly, crashing through underbrush in their haste.
Then silence.
I wait, body trembling. His scent moves toward my actual shelter. He knows where I really am. Has always known probably. The decoy was just a test to see if I could still think through the need.
