Chapter 3: First trial
The scratching stopped as suddenly as it began. Silence rushed back in, thick and suffocating, broken only by my ragged breaths and the frantic thud of my heart against my ribs. Sunlight, weak and grey, filtered through the grimy window. Daytime. Whatever it was, it was gone. For now. The memory of the raw, obliterating pleasure still pulsed through my veins, a terrifying counterpoint to the icy fear gripping my spine. I couldn’t stay ignorant. Not anymore. Not if that was lurking outside, drawn by… by this.
The thought was a cold stone in my gut. Testing it on myself was one horrifying thing. But testing it on another? Birch was out of the question – too kind, too… present. It had to be someone transient. Someone passing through who wouldn’t linger. Someone I could observe, then let vanish back into the woods. The immorality of it curdled in my stomach, warring violently with the desperate need to understand my own body’s weapon. Know your enemy. Survive.
The solution arrived mid-morning, stumbling out of the tree line towards my small woodpile. A hiker. Young guy, maybe early twenties, looking lost and distinctly worse for wear. His expensive-looking backpack was smeared with mud, his face pale beneath a sheen of sweat despite the autumn chill. Perfect. Transient. Vulnerable.
"Hey!" My voice sounded unnaturally loud, hoarse. He jumped, startled, turning wild eyes towards me. "You okay? You look… turned around."
"Compass busted," he panted, rubbing a grimy hand across his forehead. "Phone’s dead. Been walking circles, I think. Saw the smoke." He gestured weakly towards my chimney.
"Cold out here. Come in." My palms were slick against the doorframe. "Got tea." The words tasted like ash. Know your enemy. I pushed the door wider.
Inside, the cabin felt smaller, hotter. The scent of pine and woodsmoke couldn’t quite mask the underlying sweetness that seemed to cling to me now. I busied myself at the small stove, my back to him as he sank gratefully onto the battered couch. The kettle whistled, a shrill scream in the tense silence. My hands trembled as I prepared two mugs, the routine motions a flimsy shield. The moment was here. Now or never. With a quick, furtive movement, I pulled aside my thermal top just enough, squeezing my right breast hard, aiming carefully over his mug. A thin stream, warm and clear, arced into the steaming tea, vanishing instantly. The cloying floral-musk scent bloomed faintly, then was swallowed by the earthy aroma of the cheap black tea. Stirred it fast. Deep breath.
"Here." I handed him the laced mug, keeping mine clutched tightly. His fingers brushed mine – cold and damp. "Warm you up."
"Thanks. Seriously." He took a tentative sip, then a longer gulp. "God, that’s good. Needed this."
We sat in silence broken only by his slurps. Ten seconds. Thirty. Nothing. Maybe… maybe it didn’t work on others? Relief warred with a strange disappointment. Then I saw it. A flicker in his eyes. Not confusion. A sudden, intense focus. Fixed on me. He lowered the mug slowly, his knuckles white around the ceramic. His breathing hitched, deepened.
"You smell…" he murmured, voice thick, almost slurred. "Jesus… like… flowers. Wild." His gaze dropped, raking down my body with unsettling intensity, lingering on my chest. The air crackled. The cozy cabin felt like a cage shrinking.
"Just pine sap," I lied, my voice tight.
He surged forward, not towards me, but stumbling towards the small window. "Hot," he gasped, ripping at the collar of his fleece. "Fuck, it’s hot." Sweat beaded on his forehead, tracing paths through the grime. He turned back, his eyes wide, pupils blown so black they swallowed the iris. Wild. Hungry. That same terrifying hunger I’d felt coursing through me last night. But amplified. Raw.
"Tea?" he rasped, a desperate, broken sound. "Fuck tea." He took a step towards me, then another. His movements were jerky, predatory. The mug slipped from his hand, shattering on the plank floor. He didn’t even flinch. His gaze was locked on my breasts, a low groan rumbling from his chest. "Need… need to taste…"
He lunged. Not graceful. Clumsy, driven by pure, chemical compulsion. His hands grabbed my shoulders, fingers digging in painfully, spinning me, slamming my back against the rough-hewn wall by the stove. The breath exploded from my lungs. Panic seized me, cold and sharp. Oh god, what have I done?
His face was buried against my neck, inhaling deeply, groaning against my skin. "Fuck… yes… that smell…" His hips ground roughly against mine, the hard ridge of his erection unmistakable even through layers of clothing. Fingers scrabbled at the hem of my thermal top, yanking it upwards. I shoved hard against his chest, a futile gesture against his drugged strength. "Stop!" The word was a choked whisper.
He ignored it. My top bunched under my breasts. His mouth, hot and wet, latched onto my bare nipple, sucking hard. Not tender. Voracious. A shockwave of pure, unwanted sensation ripped through me – a terrifying echo of my own pleasure, twisted and violated. I cried out, twisting, but his grip was iron. He sucked deeper, greedily, his tongue circling, teeth scraping. The scent of my own secretion, mingled with his sweat and desperation, filled the small space, thick and suffocating.
Then, one hand released my shoulder, fumbling frantically at his own belt buckle. Metal clinked. Zipper rasped. His other hand shoved roughly down the front of my jeans, past the waistband of my underwear, fingers jabbing, seeking. Finding. A thick finger thrust brutally into my cunt. I gasped, arching off the wall in shock, pain and a horrifying, involuntary slickness answering his intrusion. He grunted against my breast, sucking harder, his finger curling, pumping clumsily, savagely inside me. "So wet," he mumbled into my skin, voice thick with the drug and his own rising frenzy. "Fucking soaked for me... knew you wanted it..."
He pulled his finger out, glistening, and grabbed my hip, spinning me violently around to face the wall. My cheek scraped against the rough timber. His weight pinned me, one hand splayed between my shoulder blades, forcing me forward. I heard the frantic rustle of clothing behind me. Then the hot, blunt pressure of his cockhead pressed against my exposed entrance. I braced, every muscle rigid. No. No no no…
With a guttural groan, he slammed forward. Hard. Brutal. Filling me in one tearing thrust. Pain ignited, sharp and deep, radiating through my core. I screamed into the wood grain, the sound muffled, swallowed by the cabin walls. He didn't pause. Didn't care. His hands gripped my hips, fingers digging bruises into bone, and he began to fuck. Hard, relentless, deep strokes. Out. Driving into me with animal urgency, his hips slapping against my ass with wet, rhythmic smacks. The sound was obscene. "Tight… fuck… so fucking tight…" he panted, breath hot on the back of my neck.