Fine. West it is. But I'll go slowly. Maintain some control over the inevitable.
The moment I turn toward his territory, the cramping eases. Not gone, but manageable. My body rewards the correct direction with marginally less agony. Positive reinforcement for prey returning to its hunter.
I move carefully through the dawn jungle. Each step is deliberate, testing the ground, watching for threats. But threats seem absent. A shade-bear crosses my path fifty meters ahead, takes one sniff of the air, and retreats rapidly. A pack ofscavenger birds scatter without challenging me for the fresh kill they'd been feeding on. Even the insects seem to avoid me.
I smell claimed. Marked. Taken.
The other predators recognize it even if I'm still pretending otherwise.
My scent trail from yesterday is obvious. Dark spots on bark where I braced myself. Disturbed moss where I fell. The fungi-burnt patches where our confrontation started. I'm following my own path back to him, and my body knows it. Celebrates it. Floods with fresh arousal that makes walking harder.
The journey becomes a catalog of deterioration. First hour, I can maintain steady pace despite the shaking. Second hour, I need to stop every hundred meters when the clenching peaks. Third hour, I'm using trees for support, legs refusing to hold me properly.
The sun rises fully, heat adding to misery. Sweat streamed down my body, adding to the slick mess of arousal that never stopped. I've leaked so much fluid I'm dehydrated. Dizzy. Dehydration was a distant concern; my body prioritized only one thing.
Memories assault me with each landmark I pass. Here, where he first kissed me with that impossible tongue. My pussy clenches remembering how it felt in my mouth, forked and invasive and perfect. There, where he pressed me against bark. My nipples throb recalling the scrape, the pain that became pleasure that became need for more.
The clearing where he claimed me but didn't finish.
I have to stop here. Have to sit in the same moss, now dried and crackling. The phantom memory of fullness makes me keen, a sound I don't recognize from my own throat. My hips rock against air, trying to recreate the sensation of him inside me. Nine ridges. I counted nine ridges dragging against walls that evolution designed to receive them.
But not the knot. He held that back. Denied me the lock that would have ended the empty ache.
My pussy floods at the thought. Actually drips onto the moss, marking territory that's already marked. My body preparing itself for what it expects to receive soon. What it needs to receive. The biological imperative has moved beyond desire into survival necessity. I can feel systems starting to fail. Exhaustion from constant arousal. Inflammation from perpetual swelling. Dehydration from fluid loss.
I need him or I need medical evacuation. And the portal won't open for twenty-three more days.
The admission makes me laugh. Or sob. The sound is ambiguous, torn from a throat raw with sounds I've been making for seven nights. Twenty-three days. Impossible. My body won't survive twenty-three more hours without relief.
Without him.
I force myself to continue. The pull is stronger now, not just directional but specific. My cells know exactly where he is. Can sense proximity like radar in my bones. Another kilometer. Maybe less. The knowledge makes my pussy clench in anticipation, muscles practicing for what they expect to grip soon.
The jungle changes as I near his core territory. The trees are older here, trunks massive enough to build houses in. The canopy is denser, creating cathedral light that filters green through leaves. Phosphorescent fungi grows in patterns that look deliberate. Cultivated. This isn't just territory. It's his home.
His scent saturated everything—that signature mix of ozone and smoke that made my knees buckle. I have to crawl the last hundred meters, body too overwhelmed to maintain vertical. The moss is soft here, tended. It releases different spores when disturbed. Not the burning ones but something sweeter. Something that makes my skin tingle without pain.
I hear water. Three streams converging. The sound makes me realize how thirsty I am, but my body doesn't care about water. Only cares about what waits beyond the water.
The purple moss begins at the stream convergence. Not purple like flowers but purple like bruises. Like deep tissue marks left by someone who grips too hard. It spreads in a perfect circle, fifty meters across. The boundary between unclaimed jungle and his absolute territory.
And there, at the center, he waits.
He sits on a natural throne formed by twisted roots. Relaxed. Patient. Both cocks fully emerged and rigid, but his posture suggests no urgency. He's been waiting. Probably since yesterday. Knowing I would come. Knowing my body would drive me here regardless of my mind's protests.
His amber eyes track my approach. He doesn't speak. Doesn't move. Just watches me crawl through the moss toward the water that marks his boundary. I stop at the edge, hands sinking into soft earth. The position puts me on all fours, presenting myself like an animal. The irony isn't lost on either of us.
My pussy clenches hard enough to make me whimper. This close to him, the need is beyond agony. Beyond desperation. My body recognizes him at molecular level. Every cell oriented toward receiving what he can provide. The emptiness is no longer abstract but specifically shaped. Cock-shaped. Knot-shaped. Him-shaped.
But I don't cross the water. Not yet.
Military pride dies hard. Even on all fours, pussy dripping steadily onto purple moss, body screaming for submission, some part of me resists. The part that survived fifteen years of combat. The part that refuses to break even when breaking would be mercy.
He tilts his head, studying me. Reading the conflict in how I hold myself. Presenting but not submitting. At his boundary but not crossing.
“Choose,” he says finally. Just that. One word that carries the weight of everything.
I crawl forward into the first stream. The water is warm, mineral-rich. The second stream is cooler. The third carries his scent so strongly I moan. Each stream crossed is a boundary surrendered. By the time I'm on purple moss proper, my body shakes so hard I can barely move.
