I climb the ridge above it, muscles trembling with each movement. The fungi pouches bump against my hip. Phosphorescent spores that cause hypersensitivity on contact, collected from the deep caves where even Vorthak hunters avoid going. My only advantage against someone built to dominate prey.
His scent reaches me first.
That ozone and smoke musk that makes my body answer with a hot rush of arousal. My body recognizes him at a cellular level now, every system oriented toward what he can provide. The empty ache sharpens into actual pain, muscles clenching so hard I double over.
He emerges from the green shadows below, moving differently than his usual fluid prowl. His gait is shorter, sharper. Aggressive. Four arms flexed, ready. His tail doesn't sway with its usual measured rhythm but lashes side to side, betraying agitation.
Both cocks strain visibly against their protective scaling. The breeding cock distends the plates around it, too large to remain properly sheathed. The smaller pleasure cock writhes beneath its covering, its independent motion visible even from my elevation.
He circles my decoy camp, nostrils flaring. Reading the story I've written in scent and placement. His head tilts, those amber eyes scanning, processing. Understanding.
“Clever,” he says to the empty clearing. The translator makes it a grinding rumble that I feel in my bones. “Female sets trap for hunter.”
He knows. Of course he knows. But he enters anyway, moving to my abandoned bedroll. He crouches, running clawed fingers through the damp fabric. Brings them to his face, inhales deeply. His cocks both pulse, the breeding one emerging another inch from its sheath.
Now. While he's focused on my scent.
I drop from my perch, landing behind him. My legs barely hold but I throw the first fungi pouch before he can fully turn. It explodes against his shoulder, releasing a cloud of glowing spores. He spins, faster than anything that large should move, but I'm already throwing the second pouch.
This one he deflects with his lower left arm. The spores scatter between us, drifting like toxic snow. Some land on his scales, immediately absorbed through the micro-gaps between plates.
“Phosphorescent fungi,” he observes, no anger in his tone. Almost... approval? “Dangerous choice. Makes skin hypersensitive. Every touch becomes overwhelming.”
“That's the idea.” I circle opposite him, staying light on my feet despite legs that want to collapse. “Even the field between us.”
“Female thinks fungi makes her stronger?” He mirrors my movement, maintaining distance. “Only makes everyone more vulnerable.”
“Good.” I throw the third pouch directly at his face.
He ducks, rolls, comes up ten feet to my left. Too fast. I spin to track him but my coordination is shot. Six days of constantarousal has destroyed my reflexes. I stumble, catch myself against a tree.
The bark against my palms sends sensation shooting up my arms. The fungi is affecting me too, residual spores absorbed through skin. Every nerve suddenly aware, suddenly screaming. My nipples harden to the point of pain. My pussy clenches harder, if that's even possible.
“Female exposed herself to gain advantage,” he says, moving closer. Not rushing. Stalking. “Clever.”
“Stay back.” I press against the tree, trying to keep it between us.
“No.” He flows around the trunk, using all four arms to navigate the space. “Game ends now.”
I dodge left but he's already there. His upper arms catch my shoulders, spin me, press me face-first against the tree. The bark scrapes against my oversensitized nipples through the remains of my sports bra. The sensation makes me cry out, part pain, part something else.
“Clever prey still prey,” he rumbles against my ear.
His tail wraps around my left thigh, pulling it aside. Opening me. The position makes my pussy lips spread, exposing the swollen entrance that hasn't stopped clenching for days. Cool air against hot flesh makes me whimper.
“Wait—” I try to push back but his lower arms catch my wrists, pin them to the bark above my head.
“No more waiting.” His breeding cock presses against my entrance. Just the tip, but it's massive. The ridges catch on my opening, each one distinct against tissue made hypersensitive by fungi and need. “Six days of patience. Ends now.”
He pushes forward. Just an inch. The stretch burns, my body struggling to accommodate something so much larger than human anatomy should accept. But the tonic has changed me,made my pussy capable of taking what it shouldn't. The walls stretch, reshape, accommodate.
Another inch. The first ridge pops inside. The sensation makes me scream, not quite pain, not quite pleasure, something between that has no name. My pussy clenches around him, trying to pull him deeper while also trying to push him out.
“Female's body knows what it needs,” he says against my neck. His secondary cock emerges fully, wrapping around my waist. The muscular appendage pulses against my skin, leaving trails of precum that the fungi turns into lines of fire. “Been empty too long. Time to fill.”
He thrusts. Not gentle. Not careful. One brutal motion that seats him halfway inside me. Three ridges stretch my entrance, each one triggering nerves I didn't know existed. My pussy spasms around him, not orgasm but something more fundamental. Recognition. This is what my body has been craving, what the tonic programmed me to need.
“Fuck!” The word tears from my throat as he withdraws to the tip, then slams forward again. Deeper this time. Four ridges. Five. Each one dragging against walls made hypersensitive by days of deprivation and fungi exposure.
