I'm too exhausted to respond. Too broken to beg anymore. I just lie there in a puddle of my own fluids, pussy clenching uselessly, while his tail continues its mercy that feels like torture.
The young males are calling in the distance. They can smell me—blood and arousal carrying for miles. But they won't approach. Not with Vhaz coiled around me, marking territory with his presence.
“Almost dawn,” he says softly. “Female survived the night.”
Survived. That's all this is. Survival.
My pussy clenches again, empty, angry, desperate. The tail continues its circles on my clit, pulling orgasm after orgasm that satisfies nothing.
KASS
The tail stops moving.
After six hours of constant stimulation, the sudden absence of sensation makes me sob. Not a gentle cry—an ugly, broken sound that tears from my throat like shattered glass. My clit throbs in the cool morning air, so swollen it doesn't even look human anymore. It juts out between my pussy lips like a small cock, angry red and visibly pulsing with my heartbeat.
Everything between my legs is beyond drenched. The moss beneath me isn't just damp—it's completely saturated in a three-foot radius, like I've been pissing myself all night. But it's not urine. It's pure arousal, the overflow of six hours of orgasms that satisfied nothing. The smell of it—musky, desperate, tinged with the copper of my blood from the wounds—fills the air so thick I can taste it.
“Dawn,” Vhaz says quietly. His voice rumbles through the coils still wrapped around me, vibrating against my oversensitized skin. “Time to check wounds.”
I try to respond but can't form words. My throat is destroyed—raw from hours of screaming, moaning, begging, cursing. The only sound I manage is a desperate whine that doesn't sound human. More like a wounded animal. Which I suppose I am.My hands reach for him, shaking so violently they look like they belong to someone dying of hypothermia. But I'm not cold. I'm burning up, fever spiking from the withdrawal my body can't process.
He uncoils from around me slowly, and the morning light reveals the damage I did to him during the night. Everywhere I could reach, his scales are cracked and weeping. Lymph and blood mix in iridescent streams down his body. Deep gouges where my nails found purchase during the worst waves. A perfect imprint of my teeth in three places where I bit down to keep from screaming. He let me savage him rather than stop the tail stimulation that was keeping me from complete systematic collapse.
“Shoulder first.” His massive hands are impossibly gentle as they peel back the makeshift bandage of leaves and his dried saliva.
I watch his face as he examines the wound. His pupils dilate slightly—concern? The skirling got deep, tore through muscle down to scrape bone. But his saliva has done something miraculous. The wound is angry red, bruised purple-black around the edges, but closed. The flesh has knitted together under a flexible seal of his dried spit that moves with my skin.
“Good,” he murmurs, more to himself than me. His finger traces around the wound, not touching but close enough I feel the heat from his skin. “No infection. No reopening.”
“Hurts,” I manage to croak.
“Pain means healing. Dead tissue doesn't hurt.”
Comforting.
He moves to my thigh next. The puncture wounds are deep—four holes where the skirling's teeth went through meat to scrape femur. But again, closed. Sealed. The bruising is spectacular, my dark skin painted in purples and blacks and greens, but I'm not actively dying anymore.
“The others?” I gesture weakly at the various smaller bites.
“Surface damage. Already scabbing.” He sits back on his coils, assessing me with those vertical pupils that miss nothing. “Female healed enough.”
“Enough for what?” But I know. My pussy clenches at the thought, gushing a fresh wave of wetness that adds to my puddle of shame.
“Breeding won't tear wounds now. Tissue has bonded enough.”
“Now?” The word comes out as barely a whisper, but my entire body reacts. My nipples, already hard as stones, somehow tighten further. My pussy clenches in that spiral pattern it learned from watching his secondary cock, practicing for what it needs.
“Now.”
He has to carry me to the pool. Not because I'm playing weak or manipulating—I literally cannot walk. My legs are useless. Six hours of constant orgasms exhausted every muscle below my waist. My thighs shake uncontrollably when I try to stand. My pussy muscles have been clenching so hard for so long that they've cramped into permanent semi-contraction. Combined with blood loss that still makes me dizzy, I'm helpless as a newborn.
I don't protest being carried. Can't. Pride is a luxury I can't afford when my body is eating itself alive with need. The proto-eggs dissolved fully during the night, releasing their poison into every cell. My body knows it should have been bred twelve hours ago. The delay has pushed me past normal withdrawal into something that might actually be killing me.
His arms cradle me against his chest, and his scent floods my nostrils—musk and ozone and male. My pussy responds with a convulsive clench that makes me squirt, a humiliating spray ofpure desperation against his scales. He doesn't comment, just adjusts his grip to avoid the wounded shoulder.
The pool is perfectly warm when he lowers me in—he must have been heating it before dawn while I was delirious from the tail stimulation. Always taking care of me even when I savage him for it. The water embraces me like a lover, and the aphrodisiac properties hit my oversensitized pussy immediately.
I scream.
