Unnatural Instinct: Blood Run

With a groan, he lies on top of you, releasing your wrists as he grips your face. He's slow now, and gentle. And after a while, it doesn't seem so disgusting. It's almost ... pleasant. His lips kiss yours. Your tongue meets his. It becomes almost rhythmic, slow and delicate. Your heart beats fast. Your body heats up. Every so often, he pulls away to look you in the eyes and brush his fingers through your hair, making affectionate noises in his throat as he does.

Then he's kissing you again, his hard body hot against yours. And soon, you're lost in his mouth and smell and taste and touch. You moan as he nuzzles at your neck. You moan again as he sucks at the tip of your shoulder, knotting your fingers through his hair as you grab his head. He starts to rock against you and you rock with him, spreading your thighs, enjoying the way that hot hardness between his legs slides along your opening. You're wet. You can feel yourself sticking against him.

You ache to have it inside you—that ugly, disgusting thing. But he doesn't do it and you're grateful and frustrated at the same time.

He pulls away, straddling your hips, stretching himself out with a growl. His hair falls down his back. He pushes his chest out. He's still wet from the stream and water trickles down his thick throat and pools between the bones in his shoulders. More drips from his fringe and pools in your bellybutton. Half sitting up you reach out to grab his hips. He pauses, lowering his eyes to yours in surprise. You're surprised too. What made you do that? You're not sure and you don't care. All you know is that your mouth is burning and your hips are aching.

You tilt your face towards him. 'More.'

He raises his eyebrows, but smiles. Taking your face, he lowers his lips back to yours. He pushes you back down and you wrap your arms around his shoulders as you clench his hips with your thighs.

You're lost. You're defeated. You're no longer you. All you are is feeling and emotion and instinct. You gasp. You groan. You whimper. All thought that this might be wrong fades away. It's someone else's mind. Someone else's cares.

His lips are soft and his tongue makes your whole mouth burn. Needing him closer, you wrap your thighs around his waist and thrust yourself against him. He pulls his mouth back with a start. You lay beneath him, panting, hand braced against the muscles of his hard chest. His eyes are dark and he's panting too.

'More,' you say. 'More.'

He pulls back onto his knees, considers you a moment, before reaching between your legs with his hand. His simple touch makes you jump. It almost seems to burn against your skin. You gasp as he eases a finger inside. You half sit up but he pushes you back.

'Good,' he grunts. 'Play.'

'Play,' you nod, still gasping.

He pushes deeper and you give a little yelp. You can't work out whether it's pleasurable or painful. Then he starts stroking you with his thumb, in a spot just above where he's inserted his finger. You grow quiet, staring up at the ceiling, no longer confused about the sensation. It's pleasurable. Definitely pleasurable. It's like nothing you've ever felt before. Back home, the only reason to touch yourself down there is to clean yourself—nothing more.

This is ... this is unexpected.

You suck in a breath, fisting your hands into the pelts. Not only is he stroking you but moving his finger in and out of you at the same time. The two sensations together is something you can't describe. It sets your whole body on fire. It makes you curl your toes. It makes you pant like you're running at a sprint.

The pleasure increases until you're gasping, until your breasts heave and the thatch ceiling starts to spin. You close your eyes, hands fisting tighter and tighter into the pelts. 'Oh, oh, oh, oh! OH!'

You suck in a breath and hold it as your body shudders. Something deep down in the pit of your pelvis seems to clamp down, tighten, then roll, and you open your eyes with a gasp. He's still inside you, moving with the rolling, moving with the hot liquid pleasure.

It's finally over and you drop your thighs into the pelts. You stare up at him in disbelief. A bead of sweat trickles between your breasts. 'What was that?'

'Fun. Play. Good,' he says, withdrawing his finger. He looks at it—it's bloodied and sticky—and wipes it on his leg.

'Is that how it's going to feel, when you ... when you do it?'

'Good. Fun. Play.' He points at himself between the legs. 'Play.'

'Oh,' you say. Now, it appears, he wants you to play with him.

You sit up, bracing your back against the wall. 'I don't know what to do.'

On his knees, he shuffles in close to you, much like he did before when he made you touch him. He grabs himself in the middle of his shaft and slowly rubs himself up and down. 'Good.'

He goes to seize your wrist but you pull away and reach for him yourself.

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 didn't know you were bearing 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 began 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 didn't answer you the last time you asked.

He plaits more grass before tying it all 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. The thought hardens your nipples.

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

You can't help but smile.

15.

Less than two days and you'll be his.

Where once it filled you with dread, now it fills you with a confusing mix of feelings, a mix you can't hope to untangle: excitement, anticipation, horror, fear, curiosity ... even hope.

Hope that this might actually work. Hope that you might get home. Hope that all this drama will turn out to be a distant memory.

Hope that you might get to see him every day.

You can't stop watching him. You try not to show it, trying your best to watch from a distance or from the corner of your eye, but he knows, and he knows you know he knows. The thought makes you laugh.

You don't stay at the shelter. There's nothing to do and he seems eager to get away. After he's marked the perimeter of his home, he takes your hand and leads you into the surrounding terrain, being careful to choose routes that are soft against your sore feet.

Most are routes he's clearly taken many times before; the ground is heavily trodden dirt, with the surrounding bushes, trees and long grasses pushed back on either side. And you realise he must have lived here for quite some time.

The things you see astonish you: the animals, the plant life, the scenery. There are caves and cliffs and rivers. Animals call and shriek and squeal at each other. There are bright flowers and enormous trees and water so clear you can see the fish swimming at the sandy bottom. There are caves that are built of rocks so big they make you feel like a bug.

You didn't really notice any of it before. Not when you were running. Not during your escape. How could you? When you learn about the outside world in the village, all you know is danger and risks and mystery. Not here. Not now. Not in the safety of his presence.

He speaks to you—or tries to, usually grunting and pointing. But sometimes he says words; words you do know and words you don't.

At one point he releases your hand to crouch beside a bush. You look over his shoulder as he plucks a flower. It's pink with yellow edging—and big. It's as big as your palm.

'Pretty,' he says.

'Yes.'

He points at you. 'Pretty.' He stands and turns to you, tucking it behind your ear. He studies you a moment, then begins stroking the length of your nose with his forefinger. 'Beau-ti-ful.'

Biting your lip, you touch the flower.

He takes your chin. Your eyes meet. And there he starts stroking your cheeks with his thumbs. His gaze seems to pin you to the spot and you start to quiver. His hands fall to the sides of your neck as he steps in close, so close you can feel his breath against your ear. You're so close you can see the gold flecks in his eyes. You've never seen those before.

He looks serious. His whole demeanour is serious. As though he's about to say something he needs you to understand. 'Protect. Care. Love.'

Your heart flips in your chest. 'Love?'

'Love,' he nods with a grunt. 'Mine.'

Your chest swells. You grab onto his hands. 'No abandon?'

He frowns. His forehead crinkles up.

'No leave?'

His frown deepens. You bite your lip again. Does he understand? Or is he refusing to answer?

He brushes his thumb over a tear trembling on your eyelid, then leans in to kiss you. And for a long time you both just stand there, wrapped in each other's arms, lips pressed together. It's so nice now, so different to that first kiss. It's not disgusting at all. When he's done, he presses his forehead to yours, smiling. You give a trembling smile back.

He takes your hand and you continue with your little adventure.

He keeps you close, holding your hand firmly. You stop in places to drink from the crystal-clear water and eat from branches and bushes and under rocks and rotting wood. There are berries and seeds, and mushrooms that make you nervous—the wrong kind can kill you—until he shows you there's nothing to fear.

Not when he's by your side, guiding you and helping you.

He kisses you sometimes, the way he did at the bush and back at the shelter, and you kiss him back. He keeps touching you: smoothing his hand down your back, grabbing your hip, holding your hand. A few times he carries you over the more difficult terrain or the more rugged routes that would have stabbed at your feet.

By the time you return to the shelter, the sun has dropped low to the horizon and he's carrying you on his back, your feet aching, your body sore, your mind tired. You've never walked so far in all your life. Strangely, he hardly seems tired at all. With your arms wrapped around his neck, you gaze at the sunset over his shoulder. It's never seemed so beautiful: the way it burns across the forest, as though the trees are on fire.

He shifts you into a more comfortable position, his hands gripping your backside. His big feet thud through the sharp and prickly forest floor. Turning away from the sunset, you press your face into the back of his neck and kiss him there. He gives an affectionate grunt and shifts you again.

Finally, he stops and releases you, easing you to the ground. The shelter is just as you left it. The deer is intact—no bears today. His marking works. You touch your belly where he marked you. It seems he's done a good job on you too, of making you his. The thought makes you giddy. A sharp, hot sensation stabs through your pelvis. And when he turns to look at you and you gaze back into his soft, hazel eyes, you come to a sudden realisation—you don't want to go back.

You don't want to go back home. You don't want to go back to Annie, to your mother or the perfectly decent life that you've built for yourself.

It fills you with astonishment. It fills you with dread. You don't have a chance to process it before he takes your hand and leads you to the edge of the summit. He sits and you sit beside him. The forest stretches out before you like an ocean of green, except for the blazing light which tinges it red.

A burning ocean.

Little wonder he's lived here a long time—with a view like this, along with the solitude and peace.

You rest your hand on his thigh. He drapes his arm around your shoulders. You lean your head against him with a sigh.

16.

It's a night you'll never forget.

You watch the sunset until it burns against the horizon. Like every night past, the monkeys call and shriek and make a big deal of it. A cool breeze brushes through your hair, making you shiver.

His arm tightens around your shoulders. He gestures at the scene. 'End. Beginning. Forever.'

You raise your eyebrows at him. You don't know quite what he means but you understand that he's trying to communicate something deep to you. And you realise, once again, how wrong the women are about him.

You squeeze his knee.

The world darkens. The monkeys quieten. And soon all you have is the heat of his warm body pressing against your side and his grip on your shoulders. You can hear him breathing. His hair brushes against your shoulder.

His eyes are glittering like the stars as he turns to you. 'Come.'

He helps you to your feet and leads you back to the shelter, whereupon he starts to gather the grass for another fire. 'No,' you say. 'Leave it. Can we just have the moon and the stars tonight?'

Looking up at the sky, he nods. Taking his hand, you drag him into the bedding of pelts. He grabs your breast.

'No,' you say. 'Let me.'

Pushing him to the ground, you half sit on your hip as you look down on him. His hands are by his sides, his dark hair fanned out, as he gazes up at you. A muscle in your chest gives a little clench. He's never looked so vulnerable, nor so innocent.

Innocent. A strange thing to think after all he's done to you. But that look in his eyes—it almost reminds you of a child. How can he be so capable of so many things and yet seem so naïve?

You study the full stretch of his body. The moonlight is bright tonight, beaming into the shelter, pooling between the hard muscles of his abdomen and the bones of his broad shoulders. More than ever, it brings out the gleam in his eyes.

His body is so different to yours: at once less beautiful and yet more fascinating. You touch him gently, dragging your finger lightly down his sternum. He sucks in a breath, and instantly, what was once a half-living thing between his legs, turns into something very much alive. You smile. That's all it takes—a simple touch. His fists grip the pelts as he gives a little growl. Leaning over, you kiss him right on that masculine notch in the middle of his throat.

He grabs your head.