The beast's Nectar

Exhaustion weighed him down, reducing his movements to a languid writhing on the ground. His palms explored the terrain blindly, finding only dry grass and brittle twigs. It resembled a nest. His sight was a veil, but through it, he could make out the contours of stony walls enclosing him. He was in a cave, without a doubt. The echo of a water droplet and the whisper of a distant breeze filtered through the darkness. A scent of dampness and rotten sweetness brushed against his nostrils.

That snapped him out of his lethargy. He tried to sit up, seized by terror as he remembered. As he put weight on his knee, it buckled, sending him face-first to the ground, where splinters scratched his naked skin. How had he gotten there? Memories assaulted him: images of the depraved act he was forced into before losing consciousness.

"That thing dragged me to its lair," he whispered with a thread of a voice.

He pivoted on his axis, pushing himself up onto his hands and arms. A scorching thirst consumed him; he had lost too many fluids. Shame burned within him. He would die dehydrated, drained dry by some jungle abomination. He writhed in the nest, trying to drag himself like a reptile, but that cloying, fetid smell enveloped him. The beast had marked its territory with its essence, with its gel.

He needed to eat, to drink, but above all, he craved that fluid that eats away at sanity and soul. He kept crawling until he toppled from the nest, falling half a meter with a wet, viscous impact. The beast had nested upon a smooth, convex rock. He was surprised to feel no pain. His alert mind questioned the absence of the impact, but it lasted only an instant: the bewitching aroma demanded his full attention. The sticky freshness now coating his skin was the proof: he was lying in a deposit of the creature's nectar.

He brought his tongue to the cave floor. One part of his being begged him to preserve a shred of dignity, to clench his jaw and keep crawling toward freedom. The other part moaned and whispered in his ear: Surrender.

With slow, wet licks, he lapped up the corrupt ambrosia. His hands rose to caress his nipples, and that pinch of pain only magnified the pleasure infecting his body and mind. One hand descended to his groin and felt for his penis. It lay flaccid, indifferent to all stimulation. What was happening? He felt arousal coursing through him, he was sure of it, but he couldn't materialize it. Tears of frustration streaked down his cheeks.

A roar from the cave's entrance tore him from his stupor. He jerked his head violently, trying to glimpse the beast. His vision, sharpened by the unholy nectar, captured the creature's form, and he felt his member erect immediately. The creature wasn't colossal, but it was imposing as it was. With confident, arrogant steps, it approached its prey. His penis stood rigid, as if in salute to the animal. He tried to touch himself, desperate to ejaculate.

The beast roared, more powerfully this time, and the thunderous sound shook the man to his very bones. The creature's voice had awakened an instinct, newly implanted by the impure sexual act and the consumption of the elixir exuded by its foul-smelling skin. His penis burned with a feverish ache, screaming to be touched, to be relieved. But his hand refused, obeying now its true master: the animal whose essence had conquered his spirit.

Leaning back on the viscous mantle, he spread his legs, exposing not only his hardened, virile member but also his heart and his very identity. The beast positioned itself until its animalistic penis hovered over the man's flushed face. It was sheathed in a sack riddled with warts and boils that concealed it, but not for long: as it grew, piercing through the membrane, it released a musky scent that invaded the poor man's nostrils. The beast lowered its rugged hips and was received by the mouth of its enraptured mate, opening in a wordless offering.

His mate. The thought gnawed away at any remaining barrier still resisting in his mind. He was the beast's mate. The monster was seducing him, conquering him. This act was their mating dance, and he was ready to dance. And every dance has its steps. It did not immediately thrust its bestial cock—with its throbbing, greenish veins—into his mouth. First, it caressed his face, painting it with threads of pre-ejaculate. Then it rested upon his nose, patiently allowing its scent to tie the strings of his mind like a puppeteer.

An impatient ecstasy made him climax, launching thick ropes of semen into the air that fell onto the gel-like, viscous floor, intermingling with it. It was impossible, ridiculous, but he had had an orgasm without being touched, and it was the most delicious thing he had ever felt—though not the ultimate pleasure he would experience that day.

Maddened by the scent of the man's seed, the beast plunged its penis into that wet, warm human mouth. His tongue toyed with its thickness and roughness, savoring the glans as if it were a sweet delicacy. He was thirsty for it, for its dominant male essence. He yearned to be perfumed with its scent, for every creature in the jungle to smell from miles away to whom he belonged. He was his, to mold at his whim. And as if reading his mind, the monster released its entire masculinity in a torrent of warm milk.