Page 100 of Invasive Species
Her scent wraps around me like tight cords. I seize her luscious, naked backside in my hands and lift her sex up from the edge of the nutrients. I can imagine her being stretched by my cock, how I would widen her further and further with every push. First my fore cock with its heavy scaled head, flaring inside her to the rhythm of our lovemaking, and when she’s limp and loose, my knotting cock. It surges in my pants, growing, pulsing. I need to get it inside her, I need her to surround me, I need to feel her walls straining to contain me, and for my knot to fill her to bursting, binding us together.
What am I thinking? Worse, what am I doing here, so close to her?
I drop her, backing away. “I’m sorry, Arra-bellah. Something’s… something’s wrong with me.”
“No, something’s right with you.” She reaches for me as her body sinks into the nutrient bed. “I need you.”
“You’re overcome with… with the teasing, you’re overwrought, I shouldn’t have suggested?—”
“Gara, stop thinking,” she shouts. “Just feel.”
“Feeling won’t cure you,” I snap back. My treacherous body reacts to her presence. Breathing quickening. Heartrates accelerating. Cocks engorging, scales straining around my knotting cock in particular, swelling to one and a half times its erect size.
What is my body doing? I can’t be so overcome with my own need I ignore the high probability that the bond is hurting her.
But at the same time, my body demands I mate with her, here and now.
I take a step toward her, feet scraping on the floor. I'm going to fill her. I'm going to cure her. I'm going to?—
The door whooshes open, and Ezla crashes to the floor in a heap. “You can’t be in here,” he protests, but he’s kicked aside by three Parthiastocks, their hulking frames blocking the doorway. They’re the same ones from before—or maybe not—but that doesn’t matter. What matters is the murder gleaming in their eyes as all three lock onto me.
I’m on my feet instantly, instinct pushing me to defend Arra-bellah, but her scream rips through the room: "Run!"
Her command echoes through my mind, and every nerve in my body fights the urge to obey. I can’t leave her. Not like this. Not when she's vulnerable. But if I stay, it’ll be over in seconds.
Cold logic takes over and I bolt for the balcony.
I leap over the edge, my fingers scrabbling for the rough bark of the Milagrove tree. The sharpness bites into my palms, but I dig my heels in, trying to slow my descent. I did not think this through, this is far too reckless, and I’ve never done anything this impulsive before.
My grip slips and I drop the last few feet, crashing onto the lower balcony, the impact knocking the air from my lungs. I’m winded, but at least I’m still alive.
Gasping, I glance up just in time to see the Parthiastocks following me in a more circumspect way. Their sharp claws sinking too deep into the bark slow them down. A small mercy, but I can't count on it lasting.
I stagger to my feet and sprint into the recuperation room below Arra-bellah’s, my footsteps pounding against the sensitive floor. It lights up beneath me, mocking my attempt at stealth by broadcasting my every move to the hunters chasing me. The room’s identical to Arra-bellah’s with sensory floors, dark orange Milanutrient bed, and nowhere to hide. I could run for the corridor, but they’ll catch me as soon as they get down here.
The thud of a Parthiastock hitting the balcony sends my hearts into overdrive. He’s close.
I run my hands along the wall, searching for the hidden seam I know is there. My fingers tremble, slick with sweat, as I fumble for the edge. I steal a glance over my shoulder. The Parthiastock is rolling to his feet, shaking off the fall. His eyes lock on me, blazing with a predator's focus.
There—my fingers find the dip in the wall. I heave the panel open and hurl myself into the garbage chute just as the Parthiastock lunges. The panel seals shut behind me, plunging me into total darkness.
I’m falling—fast. My arms shoot out, palms scraping along the slick xylem walls of the tree, trying to slow my descent. The muscles in my shoulders scream in protest as I fight to control the drop.
The walls vanish, and I’m free-falling into nothingness. The shock slams my throat shut—I can’t scream, I can’t even breathe—and my arms flail, desperately searching for something to grab. Butthere’s nothing.
I hit the ground, thudding into something slimy that breaks my fall. The smell hits me like a punch to the face—bitter, sour, sulfurous decay. Gagging, I roll away, my hands sinking into the rotting muck beneath me. Of course, the garbage chute. I’ve landed in the Milagrove's waste collection system, where refuse is left to decompose and feed the tree.
The putrid sludge clings to me as I push to my feet, wading through the mess. Every molecule of methane and rot assaults my finely-tuned senses from all angles. I gag, barely able to stand the stench, and slap a hand over my mouth, but it’s useless. There’s no escaping the foul air.
A loud grunt from above sends my pulse spiking. I whip my head around just in time to see a Parthiastock slam into the heap of rotting waste, landing half a length from me. They’ve followed me. And now they’re here, relentless and single-minded. They’re faster. Stronger. And I’m trapped.
But fear doesn’t cloud my mind—it sharpens it. My options are narrow, but clear. Hide or run. If I bury myself under the garbage, maybe the stench will mask my scent. But they’ll search, and they’ll find me. I can explore this place for an escape route as long as they don't see me.
A loud scraping sound vibrates through the putrid puddles around me. Light cuts through the darkness, strobing across the waste-filled chamber. Three Lautustocks—cleaner clones, obsessed with order and sanitation—enter through a door, pushing a cart piled high with decaying food and refuse. The smell of Milapaste hangs heavy in the air.
This is my chance. I crawl through the filth, edging around the pile as quietly as possible. As they dump their load, I bolt for the door. A shout echoes behind me, but I don’t stop. I can’t.
I burst out onto the walkway, my legs pounding against the narrow bridge surrounding the Milagrove’s trunk. The platform sways precariously beneath me, barely stable enoughto support the weight of the clones who use it. Below, water churns, foaming at the roots of the great tree. The dorms rise in the distance, windowless and gray, but they're a dead end.
