Then he does something that makes me forget the pain entirely.
He licks my wounds.
His forked tongue extends, each tip working independently. One fork cleans the shoulder wound while the other seals it with saliva that hardens into a flexible bandage. The sensation is indescribable—pain and pleasure twisted together, his tongue inside my shoulder muscle, tasting my blood.
“Oh fuck, oh god...”
“Stop moving.”
But I can't. The intimacy of it, the care, the fact that he's literally inside my wounds—it makes my pussy gush harder. I'm losing blood from injuries while losing fluids from arousal. Dying and desperately horny. The duality breaks something in my brain.
He works methodically. Shoulder first, then thigh, then the various smaller bites. His saliva numbs as it seals, taking the edge off the pain but not eliminating it. I need the pain. It'sthe only thing keeping me from completely losing myself to the need.
“There.” He pulls back, examining his work. “Won't die now. Will scar, but will live.”
“Breed me,” I beg immediately. “Please, need it, please?—”
“No.”
The word hits harder than the skirling attack. I actually sob, reaching for his cocks which are fully emerged, dripping pre-cum that makes the water shimmer.
“Please! I'll die without?—”
“Won't die. Will hurt. But won't die.”
He restrains my hands gently when I try to grab him. Shows me the shoulder wound—still raw, sealed but fragile.
“Breeding tears tissue. Female would bleed out. Tomorrow, when clotting holds.”
“I can't wait until tomorrow! Please, something, anything?—”
“No.”
He carries me to a mossy bank near the pool. Not our usual spot—somewhere more sheltered, more defensible. He's already set up a nest of sorts. Soft moss, fresh water, even food I can't eat because my body only wants one thing.
I'm writhing constantly now. The withdrawal has reached a peak I didn't know existed. Every cell screams. My pussy clenches so hard and so frequently that the muscles are exhausting themselves. But they can't stop. Won't stop. The proto-egg chemicals demand replacement.
“Please,” I beg for the hundredth time. “Just the tip. Just something. I'm dying.”
“Not dying. Suffering, but not dying.”
“Fuck you!” I try to hit him but I'm too weak. “You did this to me! Your proto-eggs, your breeding, and now you won't?—”
“Female ran away. Female chose to suffer alone rather than accept what body needs.”
“I don't accept it! I hate it! I hate you!”
“Known fact. Still no breeding until tomorrow.”
I try to touch myself but my hands won't coordinate. Everything shakes. The fever is spiking—my body temperature so high that steam rises from my skin in the cool evening air.
“I'll find the young males,” I threaten desperately. “They'll breed me.”
“Young males would kill you. Tear wounds open with inexperienced rutting.” He coils loosely around me, preventing escape but not restraining. “Female waits until tomorrow or female dies. Choose.”
I sob. Real, ugly crying that mixes with the constant moans I can't control. My pussy won't stop gushing. I'm lying in a puddle of my own arousal, blood from the wounds seeping through his saliva bandages, and I've never been more desperate in my life.
That's when I start begging. Really begging.
