I float there, abandoned again. Empty again. Pussy throbbing with oversensitization that feels like need. Between my legs, I'm so swollen and sensitive that even treading water makes me gasp. Eight orgasms and I'm already wanting more, already craving what only he can give.
“Get back here!” I shout at his retreating form.
“Tonight, angry female,” he calls back without turning. “When the moons rise. Be in the pool or be gone. Your choice.”
“I'll find those young males! Let them try!”
“No, you won't.”
He's right. My body shaped itself for him specifically. Accepted the modification but imprinted on his scent, his rhythm, his specific anatomy. Anyone else would be settling.
I float spread eagle in the aphrodisiac water, pussy clenching on nothing, already missing the weight of coils around my waist. The sun climbs higher, and I have hours until the moons rise. Hours to decide. Hours to pretend I haven't already chosen.
“Fuck,” I whisper to the alien sky.
VHAZ
The three moons have barely risen when I smell her approaching.
Fury and arousal bleed from her in equal measure. The chemical signature is unique—not the fear-submission of typical females, not the desperate-need of tonic alone. This is rage mixed with want. She crashes through the undergrowth like a war party of one. Every third step, she stops to curse something. The vines. The water. Me.
“Fucking serpent!” Her voice carries across the swamp. “Eight orgasms and you just leave? You absolute bastard!”
Fascinating. Most females would hide their need. Pretend indifference. She announces her anger to the entire territory.
I remain in the shallows, letting her come. The shed has reached its worst stage. Sheets of old scales hang like torn banners. The new scales beneath weep lymph fluid constantly. Every movement is agony—tissue so sensitive that even water feels like claws. My body picked the worst time for renewal. Or perhaps the best. Her proximity triggered accelerated shedding, my biology preparing for breeding season whether I wanted it or not.
She bursts from the foliage. Naked except for torn fabric at her hips. Her dark skin gleams with sweat and phosphorescent spores. Between her legs, everything swollen from this morning's attention. The scent hits me like physical force—her pussy still carries traces of my tongue, marks me as the one who left her empty.
Both hemipenes throb in their pouch, trying to emerge despite the pain it will cause against raw scales.
“There you are.” She stands at water's edge. Hands on hips. Magnificent in rage. “You left me empty, asshole.”
“Time to choose was necessary.”
“Fuck your time. Fuck your choice.” She wades in, each step deliberate. The water makes her gasp—aphrodisiac properties hitting oversensitized flesh. “Eight orgasms. Eight! And not one filled the ache.”
Truth. I can smell it. The empty ache has worsened despite the pleasure. Her body knows what it needs now. Has tasted the possibility and won't accept substitutes.
“Tongue can't breed.”
“Then what can?” She's waist-deep now. Close enough I taste her hormones without extending my tongue. Complex chemical messages: anger-need-anger-want-fury-desperation. “What will actually satisfy this fucking modification?”
I let both hemipenes emerge fully. The movement tears some new scales, sending lymph and blood into the water. But she needs to see. The primary is swollen thick as her wrist. Ridged. Already dripping breeding fluid. The secondary coils and uncoils in the pattern her pussy has been mimicking for days.
“Those,” she breathes. Then louder: “Those go inside?”
“Both. Together. Create lock that won't release for hours.”
She processes this. I can smell her fury spike. But also... interest. Her pussy clenches in the exact spiral my secondary makes. Biology recognizing compatibility.
“Prove you deserve filling me.”
The challenge confuses. “Deserve? Chemical compatibility determines. Your body already?—”
She launches herself at me.
Teeth find my throat where new scales are most sensitive. Pain explodes through every nerve. She bites harder, tearing through lymph-wet tissue to draw blood. Her nails rake down my chest, finding every gap where old scales lift away.
