Unnatural Instinct: Blood Run

17.

The next day is cool and cloudy, at least from what you can see as you peek around his shoulder. A cold breeze brushes through your hair but you're warm. Warm and cosy.

The ground outside the shelter is wet and you recall hearing the rain hammering against the wood of the shelter as you slept. The leaves of the closest trees glisten with drops of water. A sharp wind sends their leaves waving and a shower of water falls to the ground. You glance up, surprised you're still dry. No matter its simple structure, the thatch roof did the trick: no leaks and it's somehow kept in the warmth.

Or maybe it's just him. He's still asleep, half his face swallowed up by the pelts. You've both been lying in the same position for most of the night: on your sides, pressed up against each other, your face curved into the arch of his throat. His arm rests heavily over your waist. You're so close your breasts squash up against his chest.

He says something. You try to listen, but he's just murmuring incomprehensibly in his sleep. It's cute. It makes you smile. You slowly stroke his nose, pulling away with a chuckle as he wriggles it with a grunt.

His eyes crack open, revealing that sparkling hazel.

'Good morning,' you say.

He smiles. Wrapping his arm tightly around your waist, he pulls you even harder against him, then his mouth is on yours.

For a long time you're quiet, your eyes closed, as you kiss him back, revelling in the smell of him, the feel of him, revelling in his simple presence. It's such a novel experience; until now, you've always slept alone.

Finally, he pulls away, raising himself up on one arm as he looks down on you. He smacks his lips, then looks along the full stretch of your body. You know what he's thinking; after all your fun together last night, he'd forgotten to do it.

He pulls away and you roll onto your back, spreading open your thighs. He's down there an unnecessarily long time. You can't be bleeding too heavily anymore; you're too close to the end.

You grip your throat at a wave of excitement and dread: Is today the day? Or will he wait until tomorrow?

Or maybe tonight?

His tongue is wet and warm. Using his fingers, he spreads you open so he can get deep inside you. You close your eyes, fully relaxed, as the pleasure of his touch sends the entire length of your body prickling. Resting your hands on your breasts, you stroke your nipples. His seed has turned into a crust. You can smell him all over you.

And you like it. You really like smelling like him.

He pulls back with a growl. Pushing yourself up on your arms, you gaze at him between your open thighs. 'Taste good?'

He flicks his tongue in response. You sit up fully, grasping your belly with a grimace, desperately needing to urinate. A cold gust of wind blows into the shelter, making you shiver. It's great to be so high up—the view of the forest is spectacular—but it can get cold so suddenly. Pulling a pelt around your shoulders, you hustle out of the shelter.

Another cold blast of wind almost blows your pelt away. You grip onto it with a startled yelp. The wind is more than cold—it's icy. It isn't quite raining, barely spitting, but water beads against your skin. You'd best hurry. The clouds are grey and heavy. A thick fog shrouds the trees below. The monkeys are silent today, the forest eerily quiet.

You turn to look at the sound of a thud. He's chopping through more deer meat, preparing breakfast, his hair hanging around his face, his cock flopping between his legs as he shifts on his knees. The muscles in his shoulders and chest bulge as he lifts his knife again.

'I'll be back,' you say and hurry away. In the beginning he never gave you any privacy, and the thought that he now trusts you makes you happy.

You conceal yourself behind a tree, lift your netted skirt and squat. The sprinkle of rain quickly turns to a shower. You shiver against the cold, making it harder for you to empty yourself. At a sudden noise you freeze. It isn't loud but it's obvious enough that it makes your heart race. It's the crack of a breaking stick—or that of a thin branch. Not completely out of the ordinary. Maybe it's just a curious monkey?

But you know better. There's something about it which makes your skin prickle. If it were a monkey, it would be making much more noise. It would be rushing its way up the tallest tree, wary of your presence. But there is nothing. It's almost as though something's trying hard to remain concealed. The bear springs to mind but you quickly discount it.

This is no predator. This is no animal.

You know what it is. You know with certainty even before you hear his quiet, eager growl. Your mate has marked his territory but it's been raining off and on all night. His urine and seed would have washed away by now. But what of you? What about your smell?

All you can smell is rain. You feel it streaming between your breasts and trickling around your hips. If there's any smell of him left, it's almost gone.

Slowly, you turn your head. He's there—you can see him—peering between the branches, eyes an icy blue, not the warm hazel you're used to. You should scream, you should run, but all you do is squat there.

You look up as he steps between the trees. He's big, bigger than your mate, with thighs almost as large as your waist and arms covered in long, ropey veins. If you thought you knew what a lot of body hair was—you're wrong. He's covered in it: chest, groin, legs, face—thick and matted and tangled. His shoulders are the worst. He's older: grey in his beard, lines around his eyes and nose, but it doesn't make him appear any less fearsome.

The forest floor crunches beneath his feet as he steps towards you. A strange noise escapes your throat—a part squeak, part cough. He sniffs and wrinkles his nose. Your heart lifts; so there is some smell to ward him off! He pauses to glance over his shoulder, before quickly looking around him, studying his surrounds carefully. When he finds nothing of concern, he turns back to you.

He sniffs again, curling his lip, but doesn't retreat.

What are you doing? You can't just stand here!

Finally something snaps in your head: your throat opens up, blood rushes through your legs, your heart pounds. You stand and turn with a cry, only to stagger and lurch as you try to get away, your legs stiff with terror. It doesn't matter in any case; he's much too quick. All you manage is a muffled shriek as he grips you around your waist and slaps a big, sweaty hand against your mouth. Then you're in the air and the world turns topsy turvy as he throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing at all.

And suddenly you're on the run, draped over him like an empty sack. Your hair falls around your face in a curtain as the ground rolls beneath his big, ugly feet. At every heavy footstep his shoulder jars into your gut. Your mate must have heard you scream. Surely, he's close on your heels. But when you raise your head to look behind, all you see are quiet trees.

God help you—this is the day; the last day of your bleed.

Your mate has to get to you soon: your time is almost up.