Other males are approaching. This one can taste them. Storm-Rider from the east, darker tentacles and violent temperament. Young Depth-Seeker from the southern territories. Even ancient Coral-Shaper stirs, though he hasn't hunted in six seasons. She is that perfect. That universally desired.
But she is this one's match. The others may taste her sweetness in the water, but their biology won't sync to hers. Only this one has the exact chemical signature she needs.
This one rises higher, letting her see the full spread of tentacles. Letting her see the two breeding appendages, swollen and ready. The main one is as thick as her human forearm, designed to stretch and fill completely. The secondary is slightly smaller but more flexible, able to curve and stimulate while the primary locks inside.
“So swollen,” this one observes of her displayed flesh. “So ready. Modified flesh begging for specific touch. The primary breeding tentacle ached to fill the desperate emptiness her scent promised... Has smaller ones to attend the swollen bud that throbs so visibly.”
Truth. From this position, this one can see her clitoris pulsing with her heartbeat. Can see the constant clench and release of her empty passage. Her body knows what it needs even if her mind resists.
“Please,” she gasps, and the word is victory.
But not complete victory. Not yet.
This one explains what she already knows. That tonight is for learning. For understanding what her body has become. The flesh-renders circle below, drawn by her blood-scent where coral has cut her hands. This one keeps them back, establishing dominance. They can have other prey. Not her. Never her.
The night passes in exquisite torment. Her arousal never stops flowing into this one's water. The taste builds and builds until every receptor burns with need. The younger males press closer, growing bold in darkness. This one kills two who venture too near, tears them apart and feeds them to flesh-renders as warning.
She watches from her perch, legs still spread by necessity. Sometimes she whimpers. Sometimes she calls out as particularly strong waves of need wash through her. This one stays directly below, visible enough that she knows safety depends on presence, hidden enough that she can't predict movement.
When dawn comes, she can barely climb down. Her legs shake. Her pussy drips steadily, a constant stream now rather than drops. The coral where she spent the night glows brilliant from absorbed pheromones. It will glow for days, marking where she suffered beautifully.
This one surfaces at safe distance. Close enough to communicate. Far enough that she won't do something foolish like trying to swim away.
“Female survived first night. Good. This one would dislike claiming damaged goods.”
Untrue. If flesh-renders tore her apart, this one would still breed the pieces. But she doesn't need to know the depths of obsession yet.
Her need has progressed perfectly. The tonic works faster in her than others this one has observed. By tonight, she'll be hallucinating from want. By tomorrow night, she'll beg. By the third night, she'll swim to this one voluntarily, desperate for any relief.
The pattern never fails. This one has watched sixty females succumb over the seasons, though none were meant for this one. The tonic ensures it. Their bodies are modified to crave what only matched hunters provide. And this female, this perfect chemical match, will crave this one's breeding more than air.
“Female's pussy says otherwise,” this one tells her, using the human word deliberately. Reminding her that this one understands her anatomy, her needs. “Look how it clenches on nothing. How it weeps for what only this one can provide.”
She doesn't deny it. Cannot deny it. The evidence drips from her steadily.
This one prepares to submerge, then offers truth: “The scale would inform her of this one's approach, its heat a constant reminder of the hunt.”
Then down, but not far. Never far. This one coils in the deep place beneath the island where coral roots anchor to volcanic stone. From here, every vibration of her movement transmits clearly. Every drop of her arousal filters down. The breeding tentacles remain swollen, painful, demanding relief in her depths.
Three more rivals have arrived during the conversation. They taste her exhaustion, think it makes her vulnerable. They're wrong. It makes her more dangerous, because desperation will drive her to this one sooner. And once she enters the water seeking relief, once she chooses the breeding, no rival will dare interfere.
The claiming will be absolute. Both breeding tentacles buried deep, bases swollen to lock inside, pumping her full of seed that her modified womb will accept eagerly. Her body will clamp down, holding this one inside while batch after batch of ejaculate fills her. The process will take hours. Days if done properly.
This one has waited forty seasons for compatible female. She can struggle through three more days of need. The surrender will be sweeter for the suffering. The breeding more intense for the anticipation.
Reef-Singer swims too close to the island. This one intercepts, wraps him in three tentacles, and squeezes until his bioluminescence flickers panic. A reminder of hierarchy. Of who controls this territory. Who owns the female dripping her need into shared water.
“Ancient One grows aggressive,” Reef-Singer flashes when released.
“Young fool grows dead if approaching again,” this one responds.
The message spreads. The rivals retreat to respectful distance. They'll wait and watch, hoping for opportunity that won't come. This female is marked, claimed, chosen. The scale she carries pulses with this one's heat signature, broadcasting ownership to any who might doubt.
Tonight, this one will let her see more. Let tentacles break the surface near her. Perhaps brush against her “accidentally” as tide rises. Enough contact to show what relief could feel like. Enough to make her body's need unbearable.
By the third night, she'll enter the water willingly.
By the fourth, she'll beg for breeding.
