She thinks like prey that hunts back.
I crouch on a branch forty feet above her cave, weight distributed to prevent the slightest creak. My tail wraps three times around the trunk, anchoring me while I observe. The female emerged at dawn, naked except for scraps of fabric that serve no purpose. Her body shows the tonic's work: skin flushed with constant arousal, nipples dark and swollen, the place between her legs glistening even from this distance.
But she still maps territory. Still sets defensive positions. Still thinks through the haze of need that should have broken her by now.
Most females who arrive through the portal surrender within hours. The preparation fluid overwhelms them, makes them beg for any relief. They cry. They plead with empty air. They pleasure themselves desperately against anything that might ease the burning.
This one documents the stages of her torture like she's writing field notes.
My primary cock presses against its sheath, has been pressing since her scent first touched my territory three days ago. The breeding organ wants out, wants to bury itself in thewetness I can smell from here. My secondary cock, usually dormant until actual mating, shows interest it has never shown before. Both organs ache with fullness, leak preparation fluid that soaks into my scales.
I grip the branch hard enough to leave claw marks. My body wants to drop down, claim her now while she writhes through another wave. But that would be taking. Not winning.
Movement in the undergrowth catches my attention. Two juvenile males, scales still showing the mottled green-brown of youth. They creep along my territory's edge, drawn by her scent that broadcasts across kilometers. Every compatible male within range knows fresh prey has arrived. Knows she remains unclaimed.
I descend silently, landing between them and her position. The smaller one, barely past his third molting, stumbles backward. His companion, slightly older but still soft-scaled, tries to hold aggressive posture.
The younger one's voice cracks when he speaks my name in our language. Fear-scent floods from his glands.
I respond in the grinding clicks that mean more than simple words. The sounds carry promise of violence, of teaching pain to those who don't learn from warning.
The older one inflates his throat sac. Pitiful display from someone whose secondary arms haven't even emerged. He starts to speak of hunt law and unclaimed females.
My tail whips forward, wrapping around his throat. Not killing pressure. Educational pressure. His eyes bulge as I lift him to my eye level.
The sounds I make now are older than language. Every mature male in three territories knows my name. Knows I've held this territory for twenty seasons. Knows I take what I choose to take.
I release him. He drops, gasping. His companion already retreats, crashing through undergrowth in panic. The older one follows, but slower. Trying to maintain dignity that fled when my tail touched his throat.
They won't return. But others will come. Bolder ones. Mature males who might actually challenge rather than simply poach.
I climb back to observation height. The female has moved to the water source, and I follow through the canopy. My movement disturbs nothing. Forty seasons of hunting have taught me to flow through branches like wind.
She bathes in the pool, and my cocks both surge against their sheaths so hard I have to grip wood to stay anchored. Water runs over her dark skin, highlighting the changes. Her breasts are fuller, heavier. The nipples stand out, dark and swollen. Between her legs, everything is swollen, the lips puffy and spread, revealing pink that contrasts against brown skin.
She knows I watch. Has to know. My scent is thick here where I've marked territory. But she continues bathing, back arched as she pours water over herself. The position makes her breasts thrust forward, makes the empty place between her legs even more obvious.
My primary cock emerges partially, the head pushing past its sheath. Purple-black flesh already dripping with preparation fluid. The ridges along its length are swollen, ready to lock inside a mate. My secondary cock follows, smaller but more flexible, designed to stimulate while the primary breeds.
I press my hand against the base of both, forcing them back. Not yet. She hasn't earned claiming yet.
Movement from the east. Different from juveniles. This presence moves like maturity earned through seasons. The scent reaches me before visual confirmation: Gorthak. Rust-red scales scarred from dozens of fights. My equal in size and strength.We've fought three times over territory, neither winning decisively.
He emerges from shadow between strangler figs, making himself visible to me but not to her. His throat sac inflates slightly. Greeting and threat combined.
We speak in the formal patterns of our kind, sounds that acknowledge both respect and rivalry.
I descend to his level. To refuse would show weakness. We circle each other slowly, reading posture and scent. His primary cock is partially emerged. He's aroused by her scent too.
He switches to simpler sounds, ones she might understand if close enough. “She remains unclaimed. Three days. Others notice.”
“She will be mine.”
“When? After younglings exhaust themselves trying? After mature hunters begin gathering?” His tail lashes, sending leaves scattering. “I smell at least seven males marking boundaries. Testing.”
Seven. More than I detected. My territory is being surrounded by those waiting for opportunity.
“She requires different approach,” I explain because Gorthak has earned truth between us. “Military mind. Tactical. Breaking her wastes potential.”
