By the time I finally see the roof of the cabin through the trees, my legs are shaking and my socks are wet with that cold, squishy kind of regret. They say it’s a four-hour hike… sure, if you’re a damn forest elf. For me, it takes almost seven, with the last hour spent second-guessing every turn and trying not to think about how fast the light is fading.

The air has that brittle, late-October bite, and the trail is littered with soggy maple leaves and the kind of silence that makes you feel watched, even when you know you’re alone. I’m sweaty, sore, and still half pissed about my midterms, about him, about everything. But the second I step onto the mossy porch, drop my pack, and hear nothing but the wind through the trees… I feel it… that click. Like I’ve slipped off the edge of the world. And maybe I like it.

The cabin looks older up close. It tilts a little, like it’s bracing itself against the next storm. The roof sags under a blanket of wet pine needles, and the front steps are slick with moss, half-swallowed by the earth. A rusted horseshoe hangs above the door, crooked. Someone has scratched symbols into the wood beneath it, long faded.

The old woman at the ranger station muttered something when I checked in this morning, her voice raspy and cracked like wet firewood. “Quileute don’t walk there after dark,” she said, glancing toward the hills. “Moon-cursed land. Skin-walkers and shadow-kin, things that mimic voices that don’t belong to them.” Her eyes stay fixed on mine a little too long, like she’s making sure I’m really listening. Then her voice drops lower, like she’s afraid the trees might hear.

I smiled, nodded, and pretended I didn’t care. Just superstition, I told myself. Forest boogeymen to keep kids from wandering too far off the trail.

Still… the key feels heavy in my hand.

Inside, it’s colder than I expected. The air has that sealed, undisturbed feeling. The layout’s simple: a single room with a stone fireplace, a worn leather armchair, and a narrow bed tucked beneath the window. The walls are wood, darkened with age, and smell like old smoke and cedar. A shelf sags with a few dusty books and a mason jar full of matches. No electricity, just a lantern and a pile of dry logs by the hearth. I can work with that.

Silence settles around me again, thick and watchful. I don’t mind it.

The fire takes a few tries to catch; my fingers are stiff, and the matches keep snapping. But once it’s going, the warmth spreads fast. It fills the cabin with this deep, comforting heat: the kind that sinks into your muscles and makes you forget how much everything aches. I kick off my boots, peel off my damp socks, and just sit there for a while in front of it, legs crossed, palms out, watching the flames curl and stretch like they have somewhere better to be. It feels good. Quiet. Real.

Dinner is basic: some instant ramen I stuffed in the side pocket of my pack and a piece of jerky that tastes like leather, but it hits the spot. I wash up with cold water from the pump outside, teeth chattering, feet bare on the porch, but even that feels kind of… right. Stripped down. No phone. No noise. No one asking me what I’m doing next with my life.

Back inside, the fire crackles steadily. I wrap myself in the flannel blanket I found at the foot of the bed and curl up sideways in the armchair. Outside, something lets out a low bird call, long and lonely, and then nothing. Just the shifting wood and the occasional pop of sap in the fire.

For the first time in weeks, I relaxed. I let my eyes close, just for a moment.

--- 🐺 ---

I don’t remember falling asleep. Not really. One second, I’m watching the fire glow through the gaps in my eyelashes, and the next, I’m somewhere else. Not dreaming exactly, but drifting: like my body’s sunk through the chair, through the floorboards, into something deeper.

The forest is there. I feel it before I see it. Damp earth under my feet, the smell of moss and ash and something sweeter, like crushed wildflowers or turned soil after rain. The trees aren’t just tall, they’re watching. Leaning in, like they know I don’t belong here. Somewhere behind them, something moves. Slow. Steady. It doesn’t come closer. It doesn’t have to. It just watches.

And I feel it. Not fear… but heat. Low and slow, winding through my belly like a thread being pulled. My skin prickles.

I wake with a jolt, my heart thudding. The fire’s dwindled to embers, pulsing softly red against the dark. Rain taps steadily on the roof: light at first, then heavier, until it’s drumming. The kind of sound that fills every corner and leaves no room for thoughts. I sit up, blanket slipping from my shoulders, and add a log to the fire. The scent of smoke and charred wood fills the cabin as the flames catch again.

I walk to the window and peer out. Nothing but trees. Just the black wall of the forest and the shine of wet bark catching moonlight. No movement. No eyes staring back. Still, I linger there a moment longer than I mean to, forehead resting against the cold glass.

Eventually, the heat starts creeping back into the room, and with it, a sleepier kind of stillness. I crawl into bed this time, pull the blanket up to my chin, and try not to wonder why I still feel like I’m not alone.

The second dream comes heavier. Deeper. Like I’ve been dragged under, not by sleep, but by something waiting beneath it.

I’m walking barefoot through the woods, but they’re not the same trees. These ones pulse with color: dark reds, deep violets, shadows that shimmer at the edge of vision. The ground is warm beneath my feet, soft and damp like peat, and I can hear water somewhere close: steady, rhythmic, like a heartbeat echoing through the roots. I should be cold in nothing but a thin shirt, but I’m not. My skin burns.

My body feels… off. Not wrong. Just different. Lighter, fuller, more sensitive. Like I’ve been tuned to a frequency I didn’t know I had. Every brush of air over my thighs, every rustle of leaves makes me clench. I can feel the swing of my hips, the sway of my breasts, the dampness slick between my legs with every step I take. I’m aroused, fully and unreasonably, like something’s turned me on and left the dial broken.

The path narrows, hemmed in by low, thorny vines. I don’t stop. I don’t want to. Something’s ahead: calling me without a voice, guiding me without a touch. I feel it more than hear it: the draw of breath at the back of my neck, the suggestion of fingers tracing the inside of my thigh. Every step makes it worse. Better. Like I’m walking into the mouth of a hunger that wants to swallow me whole.

Then I stop.

Because it touches me.

Not with fingers. Not skin. Just heat. Like its breath is solid, pressing against my stomach first, warm and slow, just below my navel. I freeze, breath caught in my throat. The warmth spreads like ink in water, curling across my skin, around my hips, up my ribs in a slow, winding trail. I can’t see it. Can’t name it. But it’s there. It’s touching me like I belong to it.

My knees weaken. I stagger forward a step, but the ground thickens beneath me, soft and deep, like I’m wading through velvet. Or quicksand. Every movement takes effort. Every sensation is sharp, amplified. I can feel the shape of my own breath inside my lungs, the flutter of my pulse low in my belly. My nipples tighten against the thin fabric of the shirt, aching and needy.

The heat returns, stronger now. It cups my inner thighs. Not roughly, but deliberately, like it’s memorizing their shape. I forget to breathe for a moment. It moves higher, inch by inch, until I feel it brush the soft folds between my legs. Just a whisper at first. Not enough to satisfy. Just enough to make me bite down on a moan and shift my hips like I can press against it.

But it doesn’t stop.

It spreads wider. An invisible hand cupping me, dragging upward, stroking through my pussy with maddening, tender precision. My whole body bows toward the sensation. I can’t help it. The pleasure is too much and not enough. My fingers curl uselessly at my sides. I want to touch myself, to finish it, to control it… but I can’t. My arms won’t obey.

The pressure circles my clit. Light at first, teasing, then firmer, drawing heat from a place that feels deeper than nerves. Like it’s unspooling something wound tight inside me, thread by molten thread. My thighs shake. My mouth opens, but I can’t form words. The sounds of my own arousal echo like music in the dreamspace. The shame of it should stop me.

It doesn’t.

I’m being opened. Slowly. Lovingly.

Then I feel it behind me. Not a shape, not yet, just a presence. Heavy and vast, pressing against my back without touching. Its breath coasts along my neck, impossibly warm. My body arches, begging without meaning to.

My lips part. I think I whisper, please.

Mine, it growls.

Not in my ear. Not in my head. In me. The word burns like whiskey down my throat, deep and permanent.

The orgasm comes slowly. Heavy. Like drowning in something sweet. I can’t stop it. Can’t hold on. I just sink.

I try to wake. Try to scream. But the dream holds me.

And even when I finally break through, gasping and soaked in sweat, my body still pulses with the memory of it. Thighs sticky. Heart racing. Skin flushed.

The fire is out again.

The rain has stopped. And in the stillness of the cabin, the only sound is my own breath, ragged and unsure, and the faint, lingering echo of something that doesn’t want to let go.

--- 🐺 ---

I sleep in late, or maybe I just don’t want to move. My limbs feel heavy, like I’ve run miles in my dreams. Or like I’ve been used. Every time I shift under the blankets, I feel the ache between my thighs and the heat that hasn’t quite left me. I don’t want to think about it. But of course I do.

It was just a dream. That’s what I tell myself, over and over. Weird and vivid, yes… but not real. Not real. Still, when I finally force myself out of bed and open the cabin door, I hesitate. The woods are too quiet. No birdsong, just the soft hiss of rain on needles and the occasional creak of trees stretching in the wind. My breath fogs the air. My boots squelch into the muddy path.

The sky is that dull, pewter grey that passes for mid-morning out here. Drizzle mists everything in silver. The sun blinks once, briefly, through a hole in the clouds before vanishing again like it’s had second thoughts. The whole world smells like wet bark and old moss, and my hair starts clinging to my face within minutes.

I keep my walk slow. Casual, I tell myself. Just getting my bearings. I follow a narrow trail behind the cabin, winding through the firs and ferns, trying to focus on the way the ground slopes or how far the creek is from the back porch, anything practical. But I keep glancing over my shoulder. Constantly. The sound of a branch shifting in the wind makes my heart jump. A raven flaps out of a tree, and I damn near drop my water bottle.

It’s fine. I’m alone.

Except… I don’t feel alone.

I walk for over an hour—maybe more. The deeper I go, the denser the trees become. The mist thickens around my ankles. Once or twice, I catch a whiff of something sweet under the usual earth-and-leaf scent. Something warm and wild, like crushed herbs or sweat. It makes me think of the dream. Of that voice. The way my body responded… like it belonged to someone else.

I shake my head and turn around. Fast.

Back at the cabin, I peel off my wet jacket and hang it by the fire. I don’t even realize how tense my shoulders are until I sit down and try to breathe properly again.

Just a dream, I think—just stress and rain and a little too much imagination. I tell myself that again and again.

But I don’t go back outside the rest of the day.

And when the fire finally catches and the cabin warms, I still feel cold at the base of my spine, like something has followed me home.

By nightfall, the rain hasn’t let up.

It’s not loud anymore. Just a steady whisper on the roof and the leaves, like the forest is trying to lull itself to sleep. But in the cabin, it feels too quiet. The kind of quiet that presses in on your ears and makes you hear things that aren’t there. A creak in the wall. The crack of a log in the fire.

I light the lantern early, more for comfort than light, but even that doesn’t help much. Shadows crawl into the corners of the room and stay there, like they’re waiting for something.

The fire is going strong… too strong. I must’ve added one log too many. The heat creeps into every inch of the cabin, thick and dry and too close. My shirt clings to the sweat between my shoulder blades. My leggings feel like they’re trapping the air against my skin. I try to ignore it, try to read one of the old paperbacks I found on the shelf, but I can’t focus.

Eventually, I give up and stand, tugging the hem of my shirt away from my damp stomach. The flannel is heavy with the weight of the day: rain, smoke, nerves. I peel it off, then the camisole beneath, stripping down to just my underwear. Even that feels like too much. The air should be cool on my skin, but it isn’t. It’s humid, dense. Charged, somehow. Like the inside of a car just before a thunderstorm hits.

I don’t want to sleep. Not yet. Not with the memory of that dream still clinging to the inside of my skin. I’ve carried it all day like a bruise I don’t want to admit is there.

But even as I tell myself I’m not tired, I feel it pulling at me. Not gently.

I sit down on the edge of the bed, legs bare, pulse fluttering low in my belly, and stare at the flames until they blur.

The bed is too warm.

The sheets, even thin as they are, cling to my skin. I shift, kick them off, then curl back into myself, one arm thrown over my eyes. My skin tingles. Not in the usual way from heat, but like static. Like the air is full of invisible threads brushing over me, coaxing, pulling.

The fire snaps again behind me, softer this time. Like a sigh.

I tell myself I’m not going to sleep. Just resting my eyes. Just letting my body cool down. But the warmth doesn’t fade. It settles deeper into me, like it has weight, and my limbs begin to feel heavy, like sinking into bathwater after staying out in the cold too long.

I blink slowly. The shadows on the ceiling stretch and slide, no longer still. The sound of the rain has faded into the background, replaced by something else. A low hum. A rhythm I can’t quite place. My breath matches it without meaning to.

My thighs shift, unconsciously rubbing together.

I don’t know when I close my eyes.

The line between thought and feeling blurs… then bends.

My body softens. Unspools. My hand slides over my stomach, fingertips grazing the waistband of my underwear, and I don’t stop it.

Somewhere, distantly, a voice… whispers that I should resist.

But I can’t. I don’t want to.

It’s not exactly sleep. It’s surrender. Gentle. Inevitable. Like a velvet rope around my wrists, pulling me forward. Not harsh. Not cruel. Just final.

And when I finally slip beneath, I swear I feel something brush against my ankle. Not cold. Not threatening. Just a touch.

And then…

Nothing.

Only darkness.

And the slow, pulsing warmth of being wanted.

--- 🐺 ---

I’m running.

The forest bends around me: black trunks crowd close, their bare limbs clutching at the night. Cold air slashes across my skin, my feet slick with mud and pine needles. I don’t remember getting out of bed. Don’t remember the door opening. But I’m outside. Half-naked. A thin pair of panties and a tank, nothing more. The flannel blanket is clenched in my hands, dragging like a wounded flag behind me: wet, tangled, useless.

Moonlight spills through the branches in slivers: liquid silver, pale gray. The mist curls around my ankles like smoke with fingers. Everything breathes. The trees. The ground. The space between. Shadows stretch in the corners of my eyes, then vanish when I try to see them.

The path ahead glows faintly. Not from light. From memory. It pulses like a vein, leading somewhere I don’t remember wanting to go.

The trees groan: long, aching sounds, like old bones shifting under moss.

I glance back. Nothing.

But the air behind me ripples. Warps. Like something just stepped through a fold in the world.

I feel them. Not footsteps. Not breath. Just knowing. 

Like being watched by the dream itself.

Wolves.

Not the kind from stories. Not wild dogs or hungry animals. These are something else. Bigger. Smarter. Blacker than the night itself. Their shapes stay just out of reach: always between the trees, behind the brush, slipping in and out of the fog like shadows with breath. Watching. Tracking. Herding.

There are three.

I don’t know how I know. But I know.

One behind me. Close. Its weight, silent but pressing against my spine like a hand. The other two flanking me, one on either side. Cutting off side trails. Narrowing the path. Pushing me deeper.

They’re not chasing me.

They’re guiding me.

My thighs burn from running. My lungs ache. But worse than that… I was burning.

The heat isn’t from exertion. It blooms lower, deeper, and slower. A pulsing, sticky ache between my legs that makes my knees want to buckle. That makes me forget, for one hazy second, what I’m even running from.

I trip. Catching myself on a tree.

The bark scrapes rough under my palms, grounding, but only just.

Something shifts behind me—a branch snaps.

I bolt again, the blanket slipping off one shoulder, dragging wet leaves behind it. It doesn’t matter. My body’s too hot. The tank clings to my breasts, my nipples stiff, brushing fabric with every frantic step. The night air tastes like wet moss and musk.

My legs rub together with every stride. I’m wet. I know it. I feel the dampness every time I move.

And still… they don’t pounce.

They want something else. They’re playing.

And part of me, some base, trembling part, wants it too.

I clutch the blanket tighter and keep running, but the path is narrowing. I can hear them breathing now. Or maybe that’s me.

My body screams in two directions: survive or surrender. And I don’t know which one will win.

The trees grow tighter, crowding closer with every step. The trunks lean in like witnesses. Like sentinels. The forest doesn’t want me to leave.

But up ahead— there, just past the curtain of fog, moonlight dances silver over something open. A clearing. I catch the glint of water through the mist, the soft rush of a stream beneath the heavy thump of my pulse.

I remember that place. A little hollow near the old fire pit I’d seen hiking in. Maybe a few hundred yards from the cabin.

Almost there.

I push forward, blanket dragging, breath ragged.

Then… snap!

My arms are yanked upward violently.

A scream rips out of me, strangled in my throat.

I stumble, twisting, trying to break free, but the blanket is caught. Snagged in the branches overhead.

No… not caught. Taken!

The limbs above me writhe. They move. Curl. Twist like serpents around the flannel… and then around my wrists, tight and sinewy, pulling them higher.

“No… no…”

I try to drop the blanket, but it’s too late. The branches have me.

The mossy ground slips beneath my feet as I’m lifted slowly and steadily, until I’m on tiptoe. Then off the ground entirely. A full foot in the air.

My wrists ache with pressure. The tank rides up, baring my stomach. My thighs tremble. Hair plastered to my face with sweat and mist. The flannel hangs like a shroud behind me, pinned in place by whatever holds me.

I kick. Lashing out wildly. Blindly.

And then I see them.

The wolves. All three.

Emerging from the tree line like smoke, silent and sure. They don’t snarl. Don’t growl. Just watch with gleaming eyes. Eyes that understand.

They circle, slow and deliberate. One behind, two to either side. They stay just out of reach of my flailing feet. I can do nothing but swing. Suspended. Helpless.

“Get back!” I cry, my voice cracking.

They don’t advance. They don’t retreat. They wait.

Like they’ve done this before. Like they know I’ll stop struggling eventually.

I kick again, but it’s useless. The air offers no resistance. My movements only make the blanket shift, the cool night licking across my thighs, up under my tank, over the soaked cotton between my legs.

I can’t ignore it anymore. The heat is still there. Worse now. So much worse.

My body betrays me, even as panic surges. Between my legs, I’m soaked, the thin fabric clinging, every motion making it worse.

They smell it. I know they do.

The wolves pad closer. Not touching. Not yet. Just breathing in tandem. The rhythm of the forest, the night, the pulsing need in my blood.

Somewhere in the distance, the stream keeps babbling.

But here suspended and exposed, the only sound is my own ragged breathing, and the rustle of leaves whispering things I don’t want to understand.

From the shadows behind me, something stirs. Not the soft pads of paws this time.

Boots.

A figure steps out of the dark. Tall. Broad-shouldered. At first, I think human. But not quite.

His presence hums: like the forest itself has conjured him, like the trees lean in, bending toward his shape.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t rush.

Just moves closer, slowly and deliberately, until I feel the heat of his breath at the back of my neck.

I twist to look, but the branches hold my head just so: chin lifted, throat bared.

“Please…” I whisper. My voice cracks again, swallowed whole by the woods.

He doesn’t answer.

Instead… smack!

A sharp, sudden sting blooms on my ass.

I cry out… half pain, half something else.

The sound echoes oddly, like it doesn’t belong to me.

Heat floods across my skin where his hand struck: burning, tingling, thrumming with something electric. Shame. Arousal. Shock.

The fabric of my underwear does nothing to dull it. Thin as it is, the pain lingers, sweet and cruel. My thighs clench reflexively.

Behind me, he lets out a low sound. A hum. Approval? Amusement?

The wolves stay where they are, guarding the edge of the clearing, eyes trained on us like sentries. Their role is done. For now.

I struggle again, more from instinct than hope. My feet swing uselessly. I try to kick backwards, but there’s only air.

Then he strikes me again. Harder. SMACK!

The sound cracks, louder this time.

My breath hitches. My body jerks. And again, that flood of sensation: pain, heat, hunger. It pulses straight to the ache already burning between my legs.

Tears sting my eyes, but I don’t cry.

Helpless. Barely clothed. Suspended in a dream I can’t wake from.

A nightmare that wants to be something else.

--- 🐺 ---

He circles me slowly. The hunter admiring his catch.

I hang here, weightless and suspended, the blanket bunched around my arms. My toes graze the air, never quite touching ground. The ache in my wrists is real but distant, muted beneath the molten coil low in my belly. My breath flutters, shallow and tight, every inhale a shiver.

His face… I can’t see it. Not really.

Each time I try to focus, the details blur, slip, and dissolve like breath on glass. He’s a silhouette in motion, stitched from shadow and want. A figure born of dream logic, half-forgotten even now.

But I feel him. God, I feel him.

His gaze drags across my skin like smoke tipped in flame. His breath is warm, measured. His presence, undeniable.

And then… his voice.  Not sound. Not words exactly. A pressure. A pulse. Thoughts that arrive fully formed, uninvited. Blooming like black orchids behind my eyes.

You ran.

The syllables land like bruises in my mind. My skin prickles. The woods press in tighter.

You want to be caught.

A tremor rolls through me. My thighs draw tight, helpless. Shame and arousal, snared together in the same breath.

I shake my head. “No,” I whisper. But the word is thin. Brittle. A lie dressed as defiance.

He doesn’t answer. Just steps closer.

Close enough for his hand to drift along my side. No rush, no cruelty. Just a claiming touch, slow and deliberate. Possessive.

Fingers ghost the waistband of my panties. A slight tug. Then another. Testing. And then… snap!

The elastic gives way with a soft, decisive sound. The fabric flutters down my legs, catching for a breath at my knees before slipping to the forest floor like shed skin.

He hums— not aloud, but inside me. A ripple of dark amusement, like smoke curling around a flame.

So soft. So fragile.

A shiver threads through me.

The wolves don’t move. Their eyes gleam, fixed on me. Silent. Reverent. The moon hangs behind gauze, casting silver light across my bare thighs, my belly, my trembling form. I am no longer dressed. I am offered, laid bare in every sense.

Exposed. And beneath that… wanting.

Two fingers lift my chin.

I try to meet his eyes, but there are none. Only that sense of gaze. That endless, depthless pull. Like being seen through by something older than language.

Mine.

Not a threat. A truth. A vow carved in bone.

My body yields in the bindings, a tremor rolling through me. Not from fear. Not from cold. From the ache. The slow, molten ache uncoiling inside me, demanding more.

And he’s only just begun.

All I have left is my tank top. Damp with sweat. Clinging to me like a second skin.

He circles me slowly, drinking in every inch. His touch is light, almost idle. But I feel the calculation in it, how carefully he draws this out. How much he enjoys my waiting. My knowing.

A claw? No… a fingertip. It slides up my spine and stops at the hem of my top. He slips it beneath the fabric and traces.

Not pulling. Not lifting. Just letting me feel him there.

Still hiding something?

I shudder.

He pinches the back of the tank top. Pulls.

The fabric rises, slow and mean, until it bunches just beneath my breasts. Then he lets it go. It flutters back against my skin, damp and useless.

Do you think this makes you less mine?

I can’t answer. Not out loud. My mouth has forgotten how.

He steps close. His hand slides up my thigh, stopping just short of where I need it. Need anything.

My chest lifts with a sharp breath. The bindings above tug my arms tighter. My nipples strain against the cotton, aching to be free, aching to be touched.

Say it, he whispers. You want to cum.

The words slip through my mind like silk through a fist. Smooth. Unstoppable.

I whimper. It’s the closest I can get to yes.

He chuckles.

And then he pushes. Not with his body. Not with his hands. With whatever he is.

A wave of pleasure slams into me, sudden and blinding. My back arches. A cry tears from my throat. I reach the edge in an instant, ready to fall...

And he stops it.

Just like that.

I nearly sob.

Not yet.

My tank top still clings, barely covering anything. A last scrap. A last mercy.

But I know how this ends.

Stripped. Shaking. And unable to hold anything back… not even my mind.

He moves behind me again. Closer now. The heat of him is impossible to ignore, a furnace against my bare back. I can feel the edge of his breath on the nape of my neck. A single fingertip grazes the dip of my spine.

I gasp.

It travels up over the cotton that still clings to me. He pauses between my shoulder blades, then slips beneath the fabric again, dragging it slowly upward. No hurry. No tension. Just inevitability.

All this effort, the voice inside me murmurs, amused. For one thin little scrap.

He raises it higher, bunching the tank just below my collarbones, and then, finally, peels it over my head. Not roughly. Not like a man starved. Like something far older. Far more patient.

The hem catches on my wrists, still bound above, and there it hangs… my only clothing now dangling like an afterthought from the place I’m tied.

Naked.

Bared under moonlight.

My skin feels too tight. Too awake. Everywhere his touch has been is lit with heat. And everywhere he hasn’t, it's worse. Emptier.

His hands brush over the curve of my hips. Up my ribs. Across the swell of my breasts without ever truly touching. Just the faintest whisper of skin over skin.

I shake in the bindings. My legs barely hold me.

I need something. Anything.

But he’s too skilled at this. Too cruel in his precision.

His fingers ghost one nipple. Not pinching. Not cupping. Just a stroke. A flicker. Like he’s marking it.

You’ll ask, he says, not aloud, but inside me again, planted like a root. You’ll beg for it. Before I give you anything.

I whimper. I would say yes. I would say anything. But I can’t speak. Not when every nerve in my body is being plucked one by one.

He brushes over my hip again. Lower. Then back up. Always just around where I need him. Never where it would break me.  Never where I could fall over the edge.

His hand slides over my stomach. A swirl. A press. And then gone. Always gone.

The ache between my legs is unbearable now. I’m wet, trembling, clenching around nothing.

And still, he does nothing. Nothing but tease. Nothing but own.

And above me, the moon drifts through clouds, watching. Cold. Impassive.

Like the wolves.

Like him.

Like the part of me that’s stopped fighting.

--- 🐺 ---

I can’t take it anymore.

The heat. The emptiness. The way his touch always misses: by a breath, by a heartbeat, by some cruel instinct that knows exactly how to undo me.

A sound escapes my throat. Not a word. Just the beginning of one. Then, barely audible… “Please… fuck me.”

He doesn’t answer. Just lets his palm trail up my inner thigh again. Stopping short, always stopping short.

I press forward into the bindings, try to shift toward him, anything, but it only makes his fingers retreat.

Another whimper. Louder this time.

“Please,” I whisper again, shame curling inside me like smoke. “Make me cum.”

And then finally, he responds. Not with words from lips, but with that voice again, inside me. Deep. Amused.

So soon?

The brush of his fingers moves upward, stroking just above my pussy, never dipping low enough. The tip of one finger circles the air just over my clit. A tease. A shadow of a touch.

You're trembling already. So soft. So easy.

I gasp, try to roll my hips toward him, to catch even the edge of his hand, but it’s like trying to grasp mist.

The bindings creak as I writhe. And still… nothing.

His fingertip traces lazy circles in the hollow of my hip, then up over my ribcage. Light, meaningless touches. Every one a taunt.

Then his hand slides lower again. Almost there. My whole body goes still.

He pauses. Smiles. I feel it, even without seeing.

And then… he withdraws.

I cry out. Desperate. Frustrated. Arousal now a raw, helpless thing scraping through me.

You’ll cum, he says, his voice curling through my thoughts like a promise and a sentence. But not like this.

He leans in. His breath was cool against my ear. His body doesn’t touch, but it’s there. So close I could scream.

You begged. That was sweet. But I’m not done playing with you.

And again, he touches me. Not enough. Never enough. Just enough to keep me burning, teetering on the edge.

I gasp.

Something brushes my leg.

Not a hand. Not an animal. Not anything I have words for. It scrambles… no, crawls… but weightless. Like smoke with claws. A sensation more than a shape. Cold and heat, both at once.

I jerk, instinct surging. My thigh flexes, trying to kick it away, but the bindings hold me fast.

It doesn’t retreat. It climbs.

Up my leg. A whisper of motion over my bare skin, like fingers dragging from the inside out. Not pain. Worse than pain. A violation that sinks deeper than touch.

I thrash harder, breath breaking. “No… what… what is tha—?”

The thing reaches my belly, then pauses.

I still can’t see it. Can’t feel weight or heat. Just pressure. Movement. Presence. An oily smear of sensation that slips beneath the surface of my skin, even as it stays outside.

Then, suddenly, it moves again.

It leaps.

Not onto me, but onto him.

I feel the shift in the air—a ripple. A disturbance like breath caught mid-exhale. The thing scrambles upward, weightless and eager, vanishing into his palm like a pet come home.

He chuckles.

That sound again: low, amused. Felt more than heard—a vibration through my bones, not my ears.

Shhh.

His hand presses flat against my stomach now. Warm. Solid. Entirely human in its touch. Nothing sharp or slick. Nothing wrong.

But I know.

That thing is still there. Nestled between his fingers like a secret. Waiting.

I try to look down. Try to tilt my head, to see what’s crawling across my skin.

But my body won’t obey.

My neck is locked. My chin lifted just so, as if held by invisible strings.

No peeking.

The words echo: not whispered, not spoken— but dropped inside my skull like stones into water.

His hand drifts lower again, and this time it brings the thing with it. I can’t tell where his skin ends and it begins. Fingers and phantom heat. Pressure and shadow. A sensation that makes my muscles twitch, my hips buck.

My mouth opens in a silent cry. My back arches.

I’m slick, aching, already so close. Still, he denies me.

The crawling sensation moves again: teasing, circling, dragging my arousal out like a thread wound too tight.

He leans close, mouth at my ear, and whispers, You feel her now, don’t you?

Her.

The thing.

Not just a shadow.

Something alive. And female. And hungry.

And now she knows what I taste like.

And then… It’s gone.

The thing, whatever crawled up my leg, whatever pulsed against my skin like smoke, vanishes. No skitter, no retreat. Just… absorbed. Like it was never separate from me to begin with.

A deep heat blooms low in my belly, then flares outward: violent and all-consuming. It coils up through my core, setting fire to every nerve it touches.

My thighs jerk, useless against the binds. My back arches. A gasp tears out of me, but it’s swallowed by the dark.

The orgasm hits without rhythm or mercy.

Not a climb. Not a wave. A detonation.

It shreds through me, white-hot and endless, not centered in pleasure but in possession. It’s not mine… not entirely.

I feel hijacked, unraveled.

My body spasms in the air, dangling like meat on a hook, every inch of me alight.

My mind claws for breath, for grounding, for anything to hold on to, but there’s nothing.

Just heat.

Just him.

Invisible hands inside me. Pulling. Tearing. Claiming.

My head falls back. I sob, not from pain or joy, but from the sheer magnitude of it.

Of being opened this wide. Of being rewritten.

And all the while, I hear him.

Not through my ears, but behind them.

Slithering between thoughts, curling through my synapses like a predator made of sound.

You begged.

I choke on the echo, still trembling, still pulsing.

You came.

The voice is cold. Pleased. Possessive.

Now you’re mine.

--- 🐺 ---

I wake with a cry.

Not in bed. Not in the cabin. Just earth. Cold, wet earth.

My hands scrabble at the ground beneath me: mud, leaves, broken twigs digging into my skin. The forest is quiet again, almost unnaturally so. No howl. No voice. Just my own panicked breath.

I am naked.

Drenched in sweat, hair clinging to my face and neck, my chest rising and falling like I’ve run for miles. My thighs are slick, trembling. Every inch of me aches, sore in ways I can’t explain.

My wrists throb. Bruised. But when I look down, there are no rope marks, no scratches. Just skin. Pale and shaking.

I pat over my arms, my stomach, between my legs, searching for something… anything… left behind. A scar. A smear of soot. A wound. That crawling thing. That presence.

But there is nothing. Nothing on me. Nothing around me.

Just the trees. Towering and still. Just the morning light starting to slip through the canopy in soft, indifferent shafts.

No wolves. No man. No smoke-things.

Just me, alone, shivering in the silence.

And the ache, still deep inside me, like a bell that has been rung too hard and left quivering in the air.

I see the cabin through the thicket. Maybe a hundred yards away: its shadowy frame nestled between two leaning pines, the windows dark. Distant, but real. A thread to follow back to normalcy, if I can stand.

But then something shifts. A flicker. A ripple in the moonlight.

Movement.

I freeze.

It drifts past my face, slow and silent, then wheels back around and lands on the back of my hand.

A moth. But not like any I’ve seen before.

Its wings pulse softly, paper-thin and impossibly wide, ash-gray and deep bronze. Two eyes are painted there, not symmetrical, not quite natural. Too vivid. The kind of eyes that feel aware. Watching.

The longer I look, the more wrong they seem. I can’t tell if they’re inked on the wings, or pressed from the inside… living.

Dread swells up in me, slow and sick.

The moth flexes once. The wings twitch.

Then it’s gone. Up into the trees, swallowed by shadow.

I stare at the empty space it leaves behind, my skin still tingling where it touched me.

The woods are silent again. But something is watching.

And somehow, I know… It’s not done with me.