Page 16 of Naga's Mate

"Indeed, but observe the secondary pathway," Nezzar responds, his coils shifting closer as he indicates a subtle pattern I hadn't immediately noticed. "The compound bifurcates under specific pH conditions."

He's right, I realize with reluctant admiration. The observation reveals complexity I might have missed despite my enhanced perception.

As evening approaches, I've compiled preliminary data that would have required weeks using standard research protocols. The efficiency is intoxicating, almost as addictive as the venom itself. When Nezzar finally suggests we return to the main chamber for the evening meal, I'm surprised to feel genuine reluctance to leave the work.

"You may continue tomorrow," he says, clearly reading my disappointment. "The laboratory remains accessible during daylight hours, provided you adhere to safety protocols."

"Thank you," I respond automatically, then freeze, horrified at expressing gratitude to my captor for "allowing" me to work.

His scales ripple with that now-familiar expression of amusement. "Your mind requires stimulation, little scientist. I see no reason to deny what benefits us both."

As we exit the laboratory, the concealed door sealing seamlessly behind us, I recognize the dangerous path I've entered. The work provides meaningful distraction—perhaps too meaningful. How easily I could lose myself in research, focusing on scientific discovery while ignoring the reality of my captivity. Finding purpose within constraints rather than fighting against them.

Stockholm syndrome begins with small mercies, with moments where captivity feels less like imprisonment and more like an alternative existence. Today marked such a shift—subtle but significant.

Later, as Nezzar's coils encircle me in our sleeping bower, his claiming combines the now-familiar venom pleasure with something new—intellectual stimulation that leaves me confused about my own responses. My body yields as it has each night since my capture, but my mind remains caught between resistance and fascination.

"You're overthinking," Nezzar murmurs against my claiming mark, his tongue tracing the permanent scar his teeth left during my heat.

"I'm always overthinking," I respond, surprising myself with the candor. "It's fundamental to who I am."

"It's who we both are," he counters, his coils tightening just enough to remind me of his overwhelming physical dominance. "Perhaps that explains why we're well-matched, little scientist."

I want to protest that we aren't matched at all—that what exists between us is captivity, not compatibility. But as his venom enters my system again, creating that now-familiar cascade of pleasure and heightened perception, I find myself wondering which aspects of my changing biology represent chemical manipulation and which might be something more disturbing—genuine adaptation to my new reality.

The question follows me into uneasy dreams, where botanical research and serpentine claiming intertwine in patterns too complex for my conscious mind to untangle.

CHAPTER8

VENOM ADDICTION

Three weeks into my captivity,and I've become the subject of my own scientific nightmare. The evidence stands undeniable, the conclusion inescapable—I'm addicted to naga venom. Not merely psychologically dependent, not simply habituated, but fundamentally, biochemically tethered to the very substance that symbolizes my imprisonment.

The perfect prison isn't built with bars. It's constructed molecule by molecule within your own nervous system.

My days have settled into a pattern that feels dangerously close to normal. Mornings examining specimens in the laboratory with my venom-enhanced perception. Afternoons documenting results with scientific rigor that would impress my former colleagues. And every evening, the claiming—Nezzar's sinuous length enveloping my unwillingly responsive body, his twin cocks filling me with pleasure so intense it approaches transcendence.

Without heat's overwhelming drive, the dependency manifests differently—a persistent yearning that intensifies gradually throughout the day, creating mounting physical and psychological distress until I receive my evening "dose." By mid-afternoon, my hands develop a faint tremor. My skin grows hypersensitive, each fabric brush becoming almost unbearable. My focus splinters, thoughts scattering whenever I attempt to concentrate on anything beyond the growing need.

The scientist in me finds this horrifically fascinating. The woman in me is terrified.

Today, I'm analyzing a rare flowering vine when the first withdrawal symptoms appear earlier than usual. My hands quiver slightly as I adjust the spectrometer, the readout blurring momentarily before my enhanced vision compensates. I've been tracking the progression systematically—documenting symptoms, intervals, intensity. The data reveals a pattern I can't dismiss: the dependency is deepening, requiring more frequent exposure for equivalent relief.

"Your analysis appears promising," Nezzar observes as he enters the laboratory, his muscular form gliding smoothly across the specialized flooring. His amber eyes with those unsettling vertical pupils track the subtle tremor in my hands with predatory assessment. "But your concentration wavers."

"I'm fine," I lie, forcing steadiness into my fingers as I calibrate the equipment. The deception convinces neither of us. His tongue samples the air between us, tasting my distress.

"Your withdrawal symptoms are manifesting two hours earlier than yesterday," he notes with clinical detachment that somehow feels more invasive than his claiming. "The adaptation progresses."

I resent his observation, resent that he monitors my dependency with the same scientific precision I apply to my botanical specimens. Resent even more his accuracy.

"I'm not scheduled for another claiming until evening," I respond, deliberately focusing on the analysis readout. "I can manage."

He examines me with those unreadable reptilian eyes. "As you wish."

The hours that follow become an exercise in stubborn endurance. My skin feels constricted, nerve endings firing erratically with phantom sensations. Concentration grows increasingly elusive, my enhanced senses betraying me as every stimulus magnifies to nearly unbearable levels. The laboratory illumination seems to assault my retinas. The gentle hum of equipment transforms into drilling against my eardrums. Even subtle air currents from the ventilation system feel like abrasive paper against my hypersensitive skin.

Despite everything, I force myself to continue working. This represents more than comfort—it's about preserving whatever fragments of autonomy remain within my captivity. If I can't even control when I receive the venom, what agency do I retain?

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