Until I ask for what only he can give.
Until I let him finish what he started this morning against that tree.
The thought makes me stumble, catch myself against a trunk. The bark against my palm brings sense memory: being pressed against wood while he filled me, claimed me, marked me without completing me.
My pussy floods with fresh arousal. My body prepares itself for him even though he's nowhere near. Every system oriented toward returning to him, toward receiving what biology demands.
I force myself to keep walking. To maintain distance. To preserve the illusion of choice.
But the jungle knows better. The watching eyes of hidden creatures see the truth in how I move. Smell the truth in how his scent mingles with mine. Understand the truth of prey that's been caught and released.
I'm his now.
The rest is just time and pretense.
And my body counts every second until pretense fails and I go to him.
Go to the grove where purple moss grows and three streams meet.
Go to where he waits with amber eyes and patient certainty.
Go to surrender that's been inevitable since the moment he first caught my scent.
The knowledge burns through me, makes my pussy clench, makes my skin remember every place he touched.
I'm marked. Claimed. Owned.
Everything else is just delay.
And delays never last forever.
The game is already over.
We're just playing out the final moves.
ZIA
Day Seven. Pre-dawn darkness.
I wake curled around absence. My arms clutch empty air where my body expects warmth, expects solid presence, expects him. The mock relief from yesterday has evaporated completely. Every muscle locks in renewed agony, pussy clenching in spasms that pull from my spine to my thighs. The cramps are violent enough to make me retch, dry heaving into moss that still carries my scent from six nights of desperation.
His marks have faded from my skin but not from memory. Every place he gripped throbs. My nipples are raw from bark, oversensitive to even air moving across them. Between my legs, the swelling has returned worse than before. The lips of my pussy are so engorged they don't fully close, leaving me constantly exposed, constantly dripping. The wetness runs steadily down my thighs no matter how still I stay.
I try to touch myself, fingers sliding through the mess of arousal. But my body rejects it immediately. Wrong texture. Wrong temperature. Wrong everything. My muscles actually recoil from my own touch, clenching harder in protest. The emptiness has specificity now. It wants his ridges. His width. His knot that he showed me but didn't give.
I had to move, to get water, to do anything besides drown in this shelter that reeked of futile desire.
But the moment I step outside, my body turns west.
Not a conscious choice. My muscles simply orient that direction, drawn by invisible threads. I take a step east toward the water source. My body corrects, pulls me west. I plant my feet, military training asserting control. My thighs tremble with the effort of staying still. Internal muscles clench in waves, each one pulling me toward his territory.
The grove where purple moss grows. Where three streams meet. Where he's waiting.
I force myself north instead. One step. Two. My body fights every movement, muscles trying to redirect me west. The cramps worsen with each step away from his territory. By ten steps, I'm doubled over. By fifteen, I'm on my knees in the moss, pussy clenching so hard I see spots.
The pull isn't just chemical anymore. It's physical. Magnetic. My transformed biology recognizes where it needs to go and rebels against any other direction.
I crawl back to vertical, use a tree for support. Try going south. Same result. East. Same. Every direction except west causes my body to revolt, to punish me with cramping that makes me sob.
