“Normal reaction. Portal Room Seven. Down the hall, last door on the right.”
I leave before she can say anything else. The hallway stretches forever, each step making my thighs slide together, already slick. My clit throbs in time with my heartbeat. My skin feels too sensitive, clothes scratching like sandpaper against nerve endings that suddenly care about every sensation.
Portal Room Seven used to be a department store. They left the escalators but removed the steps, creating weird metal sculptures that frame the portal itself—a tear in reality that hurts to perceive directly. Energy bleeds from it, purple-white wrongness that makes my teeth ache.
Three other women stand at the threshold. We're all flushed, breathing hard, fighting the tonic's effects with varying success. One has her hand pressed between her legs, beyond caring about dignity.
“Wykoff, Kassandra?” A guard checks his tablet.
“Yeah.”
“Portal's ready. Remember—thirty days. Same coordinates. Don't be late.”
I step toward the tear in space. Through it, I can see glimpses of alien swamp. Bioluminescent trees. Water that glows wrong colors. Three moons hanging in a green-tinted sky.
“Fuck this,” I mutter, and step through.
The transition feels like being turned inside out while orgasming. Every nerve fires at once. The tonic responds to the portal energy, sending waves of need through my body so intense I almost drop to my knees on the other side.
I stumble forward into humid air that tastes like batteries and rotting vegetation. The gravity's wrong—lighter than Earth but not enough to matter. My feet sink into soft ground that glows faintly where I step.
Everything here luminescences. The trees pulse with blue-white veins. Flowers open to reveal centers that burn orange-gold. The water—everywhere water—shifts between green and purple depending on the angle. Even the air shimmers with floating spores that spark when they collide.
The arousal hits harder on this side. Whatever's in the atmosphere amplifies the tonic's effects. An empty, angry pulse starts between my legs, a void demanding to be filled. My nipples ache against my shirt. Every breath brings more aphrodisiac spores into my lungs.
I force myself to think through the haze. Shelter first. Higher ground. Defensive position.
A massive tree rises from the swamp, its roots creating natural caves above the water line. I wade toward it, trying to ignore how the liquid makes my clit pulse with each step. The water's warm, almost body temperature, and slightly viscous. Like swimming through lubricant.
By the time I reach the tree, my hands shake with need. I pull myself up into the root cave, clothes soaked and clinging. The space is big enough to lie down in, protected on three sides. Safe as anywhere will be in this nightmare.
Night falls faster than Earth. The three moons rise—two silver, one that burns red. Their light makes the swamp glow brighter, every surface reflecting wrongly. I can hear things moving in the water. Large things. Hunting things.
My body doesn't care about the danger. The tonic owns me now, every cell screaming for contact. For friction. For something to ease the empty ache that's building toward pain.
I try to handle it myself. Fingers between my legs, working my clit with angry desperation. But it's not enough. The tonic wants something specific. Something I can't give myself. I come three times and it only makes the need worse, like scratching an itch that spreads with contact.
“Fuck!” I slam my fist against the root wall. Then again. “Fuck this place! Fuck these aliens! Fuck their fucking aphrodisiac swamp!”
Something large moves in the water below. Watching. Waiting.
I pull my clothes back on, curl into the corner of my shelter. Thirty days. Seven hundred and twenty hours. I can survive this. I've survived worse. Haven't I?
The three moons stare down at me—alien eyes judging Earth's latest offering. My pussy throbs in time with my heartbeat. My skin burns for touch that won't come from my own hands. Every breath brings more spores, more chemicals, more need.
Twenty-three boxes. One brother's life. Thirty days in hell.
I glare up at the moons, teeth clenched against the sob that wants to escape.
“Fuck this place.”
KASS
Iwake grinding against tree bark, my clit so swollen it hurts. The rough surface catches just right and I'm coming before I'm fully conscious, biting down on my own arm to muffle the sound. Thirty seconds of relief before the need crashes back worse than before.
“Fuck.” I pull away from the tree, leaving a wet mark on the bark. “Biological warfare through chemistry.”
An empty, angry pulse starts between my legs, a void demanding to be filled. The tonic has fully integrated now—every cell in my body screams for cock. Not just any cock. Whatever specific anatomy these serpentine hunters possess that my modified biology now craves.
