“Please—”
“Four more. Almost done.”
Twelve comes with pure liquid—no eggs, just thick breeding fluid. The pressure is incredible. I feel like I might actually split open. But my body adjusts, accommodates, accepts.
Thirteen makes me transcend physical form for a moment. Pure sensation without thought.
Fourteen has me biting him again, breaking more new scales, tasting his strange blood.
“Last one,” he warns.
The fifteenth and final deposit comes with his own climax. Everything releases at once—remaining eggs, breeding fluid, and something else. Something that makes my insides tingle with chemical change.
“What's that? Feels different.”
“Markers. Now every male can smell you're already bred. Will last weeks.”
Not permanent bonding. Just temporary claiming. The distinction matters though I'm too fucked-out to think why.
Finally, the primary begins to soften. The ridges deflate just enough to pull free. But the secondary stays coiled, keeping us connected.
“Why isn't it?—”
“Secondary releases last. Ensures breeding fluid stays inside. Twenty minutes more.”
I look down at my impossibly swollen belly. Watch breeding fluid leak around where we're still joined. “I look pregnant. Actually pregnant.”
“Some eggs fertilized already. Can smell the chemical change. First clutch taking.”
“What?” My eyes snap to his. “Already?”
“Fifteen deposits. Hundreds of eggs. Some always take immediately.”
“You didn't say immediate pregnancy!”
“You didn't ask.”
I try to bite him again but can't reach. We're both exhausted. My body shakes from overstimulation. His new scales weep lymph and blood where I tore them.
“I still hate you,” I say against his chest.
“Good. Tomorrow you'll hate me again when we do this again.”
“Again?”
“Daily breeding necessary until hunt ends. Body needs it now. Won't accept once without more.”
The secondary finally begins to unwind. When it releases, the flood of breeding fluid that escapes is tremendous. My belly slowly deflates, returning to almost normal. Almost. There's a slight roundness that wasn't there before.
“First clutch,” he confirms. “Already growing.”
“Fuck.”
He carries me to shore still wrapped in his coils, deposits me on soft moss. I lie spread eagle, pussy gaping, occasional spurts of breeding fluid still escaping. Everything between my legs is swollen, reshaped, marked by his use.
“Tomorrow night?” I ask.
“Tomorrow night. And the next. And the next. Until day thirty when you choose to leave or stay.”
