Unnatural Instinct: Blood Run

14.

You do just as he did, grasping him gently but firmly as you slowly massage him. He rolls his eyes with a grunt. 'Good. Nice.'

He spreads his thighs a little more and relaxes back on his heels as he arches his neck. He's looking up at the ceiling, just as you did, and you wonder if he's feeling something like what he did to you. Perhaps, your bodies are more similar than you think.

You watch him—all of him, as he enjoys his pleasure. His chest swells as he holds his breath. The tendons in his neck tighten and strain. The veins in his forearms fill with blood and bulge through the skin. The hard shaft of his penis engorges, lengthens and flushes a deep red. Dropping his head back down, his eyes blazing, he seizes your hand and has you rub faster. His eyes half-close, his mouth parts, his grip on your hand tightens.

You feel it throb between your fingers just as he gives a shout. You give a shout too as you try to pull away—not fast enough; his seed jets onto you, this time in short, fast spurts. He's gripping your wrist now—you don't even know when that happened—as he empties himself onto your belly.

He growls and gives his penis a shake as he clings to your wrist. He lets you go and once again begins smearing his semen into your skin. You don't stop him. Despite how disgusting it is, it saved you before and it could save you again. So, you lie back down and let him do what he needs to do.

After he's finished that, he moves down to your groin. You open your thighs and he licks you clean. It's a strange feeling now—not that it hasn't always been a strange feeling—but it's different. It feels less filthy and more ... natural. Even right.

When he's done, he pulls back with a grunt and wipes his mouth before shuffling over to the board of meat. 'Eat,' he says.

You join him without a fight and bite into a thick slab, making sure to keep your eyes averted from the deer's head. The skin is tough. Blood and grease run down your chin, which you quickly wipe away. But it's not altogether bad. Better than the rabbit. He must have been cutting and skinning and cooking all morning while you slept. The thought fills your chest with warmth. His hazel eyes gleam at you as he eats and something sags inside you. A wall comes down. A heaviness you don't know you're wearing lifts from your shoulders. And suddenly, whatever fight that's left in you vanishes. You reach over to touch his hand. 'Thank you.'

He looks at your hand, pausing in his chewing. 'Mine.'

You look at him quizzically.

He points at you. 'Mine.'

Your chest tightens at a rush of anger. Throw it back in his face. Swear at him. Beat at him. You're not his possession! But you only swallow. 'Yours.'

He nods and goes back to his food.

You watch him eat, a hard knot in your stomach, your skin pricking with goose bumps. Yours. You can't believe it. What would your mother think? What would Annie think? What would all those women who always told you how terrible and filthy and dangerous these males are think?

You're not a woman anymore. You're not civilised. And yet, somehow, as you continue to watch him gnaw at his meat, it doesn't fill you with horror.

'Eat,' he growls.

You turn back to your food.

Breakfast ends and soon he's back to weaving that netting he'd begun yesterday. It seems you have to keep yourself occupied. But what else is there to do, except do things together?

'What is your name?' you ask. Do they even have names, these males?

He looks at you, confused. Pointing to your chest, you say your name.

He pauses, tries to repeat it, but gives up with a shrug and a shake of his head.

Apparently they don't.

'What are you making?' you say, realising he hadn't answered you the last time you asked.

He weaves another plait of grass before tying it together. He flicks out his little creation for you to see. There are two pieces. He holds one of them up. 'Yours.'

You raise your eyebrows. 'Mine? What is it?'

He points at you.

'I know. You told me it's mine.'

Shaking his head, he reaches over and touches one of your breasts. 'Yours.' He gives it to you.

Your eyebrows shoot up higher. 'To wear?'

He doesn't respond. The fabric/netting is surprisingly stretchy. You pull it over your head and chest and tuck your breasts inside. It's like a bra without straps and without the support, not to mention the coverage; your nipples poke through the gaps in the fabric. It seems he understands enough to know that you want clothes, without understanding the point of them.

But it's the thought that counts. It's taken him many hours to make. You grab at your arms, feeling odd. 'Thank you.'

He hands you over the second piece, which you assume is his attempt at a skirt. Like the bra, it's tight and useless. It's short and uncomfortable and your pubic hair sticks out all over the place. If anything, it's even more embarrassing than being naked. But you leave it on. He scratches his head, obviously wondering what the point of it is.

'Thank you,' you say.

He nods and grunts.

You try to sit back down but the skirt restricts your movements and you end up pulling it above your waist, leaving your bottom half naked. The bra starts to itch.

Grabbing his knees, he eyes you over. Despite the activity of the morning, his cock twitches. He doesn't notice, or doesn't care to notice. He reaches over to squeeze a breast. Then he smooths his hand down the curve of your waist, where he grips your hip. 'Good.'

'What?'

'Good. Big. Strong baby.'

You feel yourself blush. Nobody has really said anything positive about your body before, nor negative either. Bodies are there to work and feed your brain—nothing more. A strange tingly, hot sensation slowly trickles through your body as he shuffles in close. The things he says, more than what he does, reminds you that you are so much more than just a living thing designed to eat, sleep and function.

You're a woman. You feel. You love. You ache.

You look at him as he looks at you. He pushes up your 'bra', watching as your breasts rise and fall. You've never really felt them before—until now, not since puberty: the weight of them, the feel of them.

He smacks his lips. 'Food. Milk. Big baby.'

'Milk,' you repeat in a whisper. And suddenly, an image of you pressing his baby to your breast flashes in your mind. To have his baby. To mate with him. To be a woman, a mother, a proper female. The thought hardens your nipples.

He jabs a thumb into his chest. 'Lucky.'

You can't help but smile.