Chapter 5: Desperate Measures
The mirror in the tiny bathroom was flecked with silver, distorting my reflection into something pieced together. I hardly recognized the woman staring back. My face was rounder, cheeks flushed with a permanent, feverish pink. But it was my hair that snagged my attention. It had grown past my shoulders, a riotous wave of bright copper that fell in heavy strands around my face. I hadn’t cut it since before the clearing. It felt like a wilderness growing from my own skull, a marker of time spent in this frantic, biological prison.
My breasts ached dully under my wool shirt, the familiar pressure building again. The golden drip was my clock, my master. It dictated my days into cycles of torment and temporary, shameful relief. I’d drink from myself, spiral into a shuddering, solitary frenzy on the floor, and then collapse into a few hours of numb exhaustion before the need began to coil again.
I couldn’t live inside this feedback loop. It was erasing me. Each time I brought my own nipple to my lips, I felt a part of my old self dissolve—the hiker, the climber, the woman who needed no one. Now I was a creature of desperate appetite, defined only by a hunger I couldn’t satisfy alone.
The idea came to me not in a flash, but as a slow, cold seepage, like groundwater finding a crack.
If the substance was an aphrodisiac for me, what would it do to someone else? Someone normal?
The old Amy recoiled.It was monstrous. But the old Amy was being buried under layers of craving and a belly that moved on its own. This new Amy, the one with wild hair and leaking golden poison, saw a possible solution.An outlet. A way to use a body that was being used.
I turned from the mirror and walked into the kitchen. The morning light slanted across the counter, over my scattered sketches of mountain trails—artifacts from a dead life. I put the kettle on the woodstove, the routine gesture feeling like a pantomime. My hands moved on their own, scooping coarse ground coffee into the French press. But my mind was elsewhere, working the plan like a knot.
I wouldn’t drink it this time. I would harvest it.
When the pressure peaked that afternoon, a tight, hot throb that made my vision swim, I didn’t undress. I fetched a small, clean ceramic bowl from the cupboard. Sitting on a kitchen chair, I unbuttoned my shirt and bra. Holding the bowl beneath my right breast, I squeezed.
The golden stream hissed against the glaze. The scent immediately fogged the air—spice, sweetness, decay. My cunt pulsed in instant, traitorous response. I clenched my jaw, focusing on the bowl. I milked myself until the stream slowed to drops, then switched to the left. The bowl filled with maybe two ounces of shimmering, viscous liquid. The need in my core was a screaming animal, but I refused to touch it, refused to taste. This wasn’t for me.
I covered the bowl with a cloth and hid it on a high shelf, away from the heat.Then I waited.
For three days, I fought the cycle. When the pressure built, I expressed the milk into the bowl, hiding it away. The need became a constant, agonizing shriek in my nerves. I paced the cabin, soaked in cold water from the rain barrel, rubbed my clit raw just to take the edge off, but I didn’t drink. I was stockpiling a weapon. A bait.
On the fourth day, I heard it. The crunch of boots on gravel, too steady to be an animal. A voice, male, calling out. “Hello?Is this place occupied? I’m a bit turned around!”
My heart didn’t flutter with fear or hope. It beat a slow, thick rhythm of purpose. I checked the bowl. The golden milk had thickened slightly, like warmed honey. The smell was dizzying.
I stirred it into the stew I’d been simmering—venison, roots, herbs. It vanished into the broth. I ladled a generous portion into a chipped bowl. My hands were steady.
I opened the cabin door.
He was maybe forty, with the lean build of a distance hiker, a scruffy beard, and a grateful smile that didn’t reach his tired eyes. His name was Leo. He’d come off the high trail, missed a marker, been wandering for hours.
“I’m so sorry to intrude,” he said, wiping his boots. “Just point me to the trailhead and I’ll be gone.”
“It’s getting dark,” I said, my voice sounding strange in my own ears.Too calm. “The weather’s turning. Please, come in. I’ve got stew.”
The hesitation was brief. Hunger and cold won. He stepped inside.
I watched him eat. He made polite talk about the trails, the unexpected early snowpack. I nodded, smiling faintly, my gaze fixed on his spoon. He ate every drop. He complimented the flavor. “Unique,” he said. “Almost… floral?”
Fifteen minutes. That’s all it took.
He stopped mid-sentence about the migrating elk. His pupils dilated, swallowing the blue of his irises. A flush crept up his neck. He shifted in his chair, subtly adjusting himself.
“Warm in here,” he mumbled, unzipping his jacket.
“It is,” I agreed.
His eyes found me across the table.Really found me. They dropped to the swell of my breasts under my shirt, then to my mouth. The politeness melted away, replaced by a raw, focusing hunger. The chemical was working. It wasn’t a gentle persuasion. It was a hijacking.
“You’re… very beautiful,” he said, the words slurred with sudden desire.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
I stood up. I didn’t need to lead him. He was out of his chair, crossing the small space to me in two strides. His hands were on my face, rough and urgent. His mouth crashed down on mine. There was no tenderness, no preamble. It was all heat and need. The taste of the stew was on his tongue.
My own desire, held at bay for days, erupted in a concussive wave. I kissed him back fiercely, my hands pulling at his clothes. This wasn’t about him. He was a tool, a receptacle for my sickness. I needed his skin, his weight, his cock inside me to quiet the scream.
We stumbled towards the bed, a tangle of grabbing hands and torn fabric. My shirt came off. He groaned at the sight of my heavy, swollen breasts, leaking faintly now with excitement. He bent his head, sucking a nipple into his mouth.
“Tastes… amazing,” he grunted, feverish.
That was my poison in him, feeding back to me through his touch. It spiraled me higher. I shoved his pants down, my hand closing around his erection. He was thick, hard as stone, already leaking at the tip. I pushed him onto the rough wool blankets and climbed on top, guiding him into me with one desperate, driving motion.
He filled me completely, a brutal, stretching ache that was exactly what I needed. I cried out, a raw sound of relief. I rode him with a savage rhythm, my swollen belly pressed between us. He gripped my hips, fingers digging into my flesh, meeting my thrusts with brutal upward drives. The bed frame slammed against the log wall in a steady, punishing drumbeat.
“Fuck, yes,” he rasped, his eyes wild, glazed. “So fucking tight.”
I leaned forward, smothering his words with my mouth, rocking harder. The friction was everywhere, obliterating. I could feel the coiled tension in my core winding tighter, fed by his grunts, by the smell of his sweat, by the sheer, mindless physics of him pounding up into my wet, clutching cunt. This was it. Not my own fingers, not my own tongue. This was a real, hard fuck, and my body was singing a dark hymn of release.
“Don’t stop,” I commanded, my voice guttural. “Fucking ruin me.”
He flipped me over onto my hands and knees with a force that stole my breath. His hands spread my ass, and he drove back into me from behind, deeper now. The new angle brushed a spot inside that made stars burst behind my eyelids. I pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, taking him all.
“You’re a fucking animal,” he panted, his thrusts becoming ragged, losing rhythm. He was close.
“Do it,” I snarled, reaching between my own legs to rub my clit in frantic circles.“Come inside me. Fill me up.”
His climax hit him with a shout. I felt the hot, urgent pulses deep within me, and it tipped me over the edge. My orgasm was a seizure, a white-out of sensation that wracked my entire body, my cunt milking his cock in vicious spasms. I collapsed onto the blankets, trembling, sweat and other fluids cooling on my skin.
He pulled out and fell beside me, breathing like he’d run for miles. The cabin was silent except for our panting. The frantic energy left him almost immediately, replaced by a confusion that settled over his face like ash. He looked at me, at my body, at the room, with dawning horror.
“I… I have to go,” he whispered, scrambling up, fumbling for his clothes with shaky hands. He couldn’t look at me.
I just lay there, spent, the terrible hunger finally, blissfully silent. “The trailhead is south past the creek,” I said, my voice flat.
He was dressed in seconds and out the door without another word. The cold night air rushed in, and then he was gone.
The emptiness he left behind was different.It was peaceful. The chemical fire was quenched, for now. I rolled onto my side, my hand resting on the mound of my stomach. A slow, rolling movement answered my touch.
It had been still the entire time.Quiet.
As if it had been listening.As if it approved.
I closed my eyes. The plan had worked. The craving was sated. But as I drifted into a black, dreamless sleep, one cold thought remained.
I had just used a man like a syringe for my addiction.