Something's different this morning. The air tastes heavier. Muskier. Like ozone and scales and something masculine that makes my nipples harden even more. I've been marked. Claimed territory. He's been here while I slept.
Dawn here comes in shades of wrong. The bioluminescent glow shifts from blue to green as triple suns rise. I need to map this swamp, find water, set defenses. But first I need to get my hand out from between my legs where it's gone without permission.
The neural implant feeds me Vhazian words. Veth'kar —the growing season. Syllith —the empty ache. Mek'ar —the claiming time. My brain processes information while my fingers work my clit, trying for another orgasm that won't solve anything.
I force myself to stop. Information before masturbation. Map the territory, identify resources, then deal with the constant throbbing between my legs.
Climbing down from the root shelter takes focus. Every movement makes my thighs slide together, slick and sensitized. The bark against my palms makes me think about grinding against it again. Everything is texture and possibility and disappointment that it's not what I actually need.
Three parallel gouges mark the tree trunk. Fresh. Deep enough to expose the glowing sap beneath. Claw marks. Deliberately placed where I'd have to see them. He's been watching. Marking. Claiming space around me.
My pussy clenches at the thought, gushing wetness that runs down my thighs.
The swamp varies in color—pools of purple-black, green-silver, soft blue. I need water, but nothing here looks safe. Time for systematic testing, assuming I can think through the haze of desperate arousal.
I tear strips from my uniform, trying to ignore how the fabric feels against my hypersensitive skin. Six test strips. Six chances to find drinkable water before dehydration compounds my problems.
First test: purple-black pool.
The fabric dissolves instantly. Acid. The fumes make my eyes water and momentarily distract from the ache between my legs. Small mercy. I mark the location mentally while grinding my thighs together for friction.
Second test: green-silver water.
The strip comes back stained with metallic residue. Toxic over time. My pussy spasms as I bend to place the next test, empty and angry about it.
A creature emerges from undergrowth—six-legged, translucent, heading for a blue pool. It drinks without dying. Good enough for me.
I test the blue water. The fabric returns unchanged. When my fingers touch the surface, warmth spreads instantly up my arm. Not burning—worse. The warmth hits my core and suddenly I'm gushing, wetness running down my thighs. My clit throbs so hard I actually whimper.
“Of course. Aphrodisiac water. Because I needed more arousal.”
But it's the only safe option. I cup the water, drink quickly. The warmth spreads through my chest, makes my nipples so hard they ache against my ruined shirt. My pussy clenches rhythmically, trying to milk something that isn't there.
The water ripples. Something moved beneath the surface. Something large.
I freeze, hand between my legs where it went automatically. The ripples spread outward from a point maybe twenty feet away. Too big to be the otter-eel creatures. Too deliberate to be current.
He's there. Under the water. Watching me.
My body responds to the knowledge immediately. Fresh wetness, deeper clenching, nipples so hard they actually hurt. The tonic recognizes proximity to what it wants and screams for contact.
“I know you're there,” I say to the water, voice rougher than intended.
No response. But the water stills in a way that feels intentional. Like something holding perfectly motionless. Waiting.
I back away from the pool slowly, fingers still working my clit because I can't stop. Won't stop. Not when I can feel his presence like electricity on my skin.
Purple flowers cluster ahead. I try to avoid them but my coordination is shot from the constant state of arousal. My foot brushes one.
Golden spores explode outward. I inhale before I can stop myself. The world tilts, colors becoming sounds, trees becoming serpentine shapes. Everything looks like scales for a moment—white-gold patterns sliding through my vision.
“Psychoactive compound. Temporary.”
I grip a tree trunk for balance, immediately grinding against it as the hallucination passes. The rough bark catches my clit through my soaked pants and I'm coming again, harder this time, my pussy clenching around nothing while I curse the empty ache that won't go away.
When my vision clears, there's something on the ground near my feet. A scale. Bigger than my hand, iridescent white-gold, still warm. Placed deliberately where I'd find it.
A calling card.
