This one tastes her from three territories away.
The flavor is exquisite torment. Modified human female, yes, but modified correctly. The tonic has reshaped her chemistry into something that sings specifically to this one's genetics. Each molecule of her arousal that enters the water tells this one everything. Her fertility. Her readiness. Her body's desperate need for the precise breeding this one can provide.
The breeding tentacles have been swollen since she stepped through the portal. Both of them, thick and aching in ways this one hasn't experienced in forty seasons of maturity. They pulse in rhythm to the tide, dripping preparation fluid that makes the smaller fish scatter. This one's body knows what the mind has already accepted: she is the one. The only one whose offspring will be perfect.
But rushing brings poor results. This one has watched too many Hunts fail from impatience.
Other males have already noticed. This one tastes them in the currents, young hunters drawn by her pheromones like reef-bright to corpse-glow. They circle this one's territory borders, tasting her sweetness but not daring to cross. Not yet. They know this one's reputation. Forty seasons of defending territory. Forty seasons of killing rivals. The scars across this one's tentacles tell stories they've heard since hatching.
Reef-Singer approaches from the northern current, his bioluminescence flashing challenge patterns. He is young, perhaps twelve seasons mature. His tentacles are pale green where this one's are deep blue-black. Pretty, but weak.
“Ancient One hoards the sweetest prey,” Reef-Singer pulses in the light-language of our kind. “Perhaps too old to properly breed her.”
This one doesn't rise to such obvious bait. Instead, tentacles spread wide, tasting every trace of the female's chemistry in the water. She tried to pleasure herself in the coral shelter. Failed, of course. The tonic ensures only matched breeding brings relief. Her frustration flavors the water deliciously.
“Young Reef-Singer may try,” this one responds in color-shifts across tentacles. “If he wishes to feed flesh-renders tonight.”
The threat is not empty. This one controls the flesh-renders in this territory, feeds them rivals who overstep. They know this one's taste, avoid this one's kills unless permitted. Reef-Singer knows this. All the young ones know this.
He retreats, but not far. None of them go far. Her scent is too strong, too perfect. By tomorrow there will be six rivals. By the third day, perhaps ten. They'll wait for this one to make a mistake, to leave her unguarded.
This one will not make mistakes. Not with her.
The tide turns, and this one rises to observe. She explores the island this one prepared twenty tides ago. Every coral formation was shaped specifically, grown to channel water where needed. To offer shelter that provides none. To glow brightest where her arousal touches, making her need visible to all who watch.
She is small for a human female. This pleases. Easier to hold. Easier to manipulate in the water when breeding occurs. Her body shows strength though, muscle under soft flesh. A swimmer's build. How ironic that water-competence brought her to a water world where she becomes prey.
This one surfaces just enough to watch her discover the tidal pools. She leans over, studying the bioluminescent creatures within. A drop of her arousal falls from between her legs into the pool. The water explodes in blue-green light, broadcasting her state to everything for miles.
Magnificent.
She doesn't understand yet what she's become. The tonic has transformed her into a beacon, a chemical lighthouse calling to every hunter in twenty territories. But only this one has the correct match. Only this one's breeding will satisfy what her body craves.
The first breeding tentacle extends partially from its sheath, preparation fluid leaking steadily. The second follows. Both are swollen to maximum, painful in their need to plant inside her. This one could take her now. Could surge from the water, wrap her in tentacles before she could scream. Could penetrate her with both breeding appendages, lock inside with the expanded bases, pump her full of seed until her belly swells.
But that would be crude. Wasteful. This one has waited forty seasons. A few more tides to ensure proper submission are nothing.
She turns and sees this one watching. Her fear-scent spikes beautifully, mixing with the arousal she cannot control. This oneshows only eyes above water, but knows she can see the bulk beneath. Can see tentacles spread in display. Let her see. Let her understand the size of what will eventually fill her.
The tide-touched female's scent was a sweet poison in sacred waters. The words vibrate through water and coral, ensuring she feels them as much as hears them. From the depths beyond light, this one could taste the flavor of her need.
She covers her human-soft flesh as if that matters. As if this one cannot taste every drop of moisture her modified pussy produces. The word feels strange in this one's mind, borrowed from human language, but accurate. Her pussy weeps constantly, leaking a constant plea for what only this one could provide.
This one tells her of the tide. Of the flesh-renders. Watches her process the danger. Then leaves gifts, because proper hunting includes provision. The female must survive to be claimed correctly. The fish will nourish. The water will hydrate. The scale marks territory, ensures other males know this one has chosen.
Touching her essence on the coral as this one retrieves the tentacle makes every nerve cluster flare. Her taste is perfection. Chemical compatibility sings through this one's entire nervous system. Both breeding tentacles throb, demanding immediate burial in her depths.
Not yet.
This one retreats but stays close. Close enough to watch her climb when tide rises. The position she must take between the coral spires spreads her legs wide, displays the swollen flesh that begs for attention. Her clitoris is enlarged from the tonic, protruding desperately. This one could wrap it in the smallest tentacle, squeeze and stroke until she screams. Could do so many things.
Instead, this one surfaces to observe. To let her see what waits.
The full reveal seems to break her human mind's ability to categorize. Good. She should understand this one is beyond her experience. Beyond other males who have failed their Hunts through impatience or incompetence. This one has twelve primary tentacles, each able to act independently. Has two breeding tentacles specifically, unusually large even for this one's species. Has patience deeper than the trenches she doesn't know exist beneath us.
“Female displays herself,” this one observes, watching more arousal drip from her spread pussy directly into the water. Each drop is ambrosia. Each drop makes the breeding tentacles leak more preparation fluid. “Spread for ocean to see. Dripping need into sacred waters. Calling to every hunter for miles.”
She tries to close her legs and nearly falls. The movement releases a flood of her wetness. This one's entire body shudders at the taste.
