The path curved ahead, shadows pooling beneath the oaks like dark water. Ashley's ponytail swung with each step, the elastic tugging at her scalp in a rhythm she'd known since morning. Her skirt brushed her thighs—light cotton, yellow with small white flowers, the one her mother had laid out before school. The air was thick, humid, pressing against her skin like a warm hand.
She heard the rustle to her left. A bush, dense with dark leaves, trembling.
She stopped. "Hello?" Her voice came out small, a kindergarten voice, the one she used when asking for permission. Probably a dog. Mrs. Patterson's golden retriever sometimes got loose. She took a step closer, squinting into the shadows.
The bush exploded.
Something hit her square in the back—hard, heavy, alive. Her breath left her in a sharp cry as she pitched forward, arms flailing, the ground rushing up. Dirt in her palms. Gravel biting into her knees. She tried to push up, but a weight pinned her down, hot and breathing, pressed against her spine.
She opened her mouth to scream.
A wet, pulsing thing forced its way inside—thick, warm, tasting of earth and something metallic. It filled her throat, pressed against her tongue, slid deeper until she gagged. She couldn't close her mouth. Couldn't bite down. The scream died somewhere in her chest.
Her skirt was pushed up. Fabric tearing—a sharp, ripping sound, the seam of her panties giving way like paper. Cold air kissed the bare skin of her thighs, her bottom, the place between her legs that she'd never touched, never even looked at in the bath. She felt exposed. Open.
Something hot pressed against that place. Thick. Heavy. It nudged, searching, and she felt her body respond without asking her—hips tilting up, thighs parting, a wetness that wasn't hers spreading, welcoming. Her body wanted it. Her body opened for it. She couldn't stop it.
The pressure built. A stretching, a burning, a fullness that pushed deeper than she knew she had space for. Her vision flickered at the edges, white creeping in. She felt herself being filled, inch by inch, the thing inside her growing thicker, pulsing, claiming space that had never been touched.
Her hands clawed at the dirt. Her throat worked around the tentacle, saliva dripping down her chin. A sound came out—not a scream, not a cry, something between a whimper and a moan that she didn't recognize as her own.
It moved inside her. A slow, grinding thrust that sent shocks through her small body, her belly pressing against the ground as something shifted inside—something growing, swelling, pushing against her insides from within. She felt full. Stretched. Like she was being remade around it.
Then the heat came.
A rush of liquid, thick and hot, flooding into her in pulses. She felt it spread, filling her deeper than she thought possible, her belly swelling, tightening, rounding against the dirt. Another pulse. Another. Her body accepted it, drank it, held it. Her tiny stomach bulged, round and heavy, pressing into the earth beneath her.
The thing pulled out slowly. She felt every inch leaving her, a slick, wet slide that left her feeling hollow, empty, leaking. The tentacle withdrew from her mouth last, sliding across her tongue, leaving the taste of salt and soil.
She lay in the mud, trembling. Her body was not hers anymore. Something had been planted inside her—not a seed, not a child, but a hunger. A warmth that pulsed low in her belly, between her legs, in the hollow place where he had been. She could still feel him. Still feel the stretch.
Her hand moved without permission, sliding down her stomach, over the swell of her belly, lower, between her thighs. Her fingers found wetness—hot, slick, his and hers mixed together. She pressed. A shiver ran through her, and she bit her lip to keep from making a sound.
The path was empty. The bushes were still. Above her, the last light of dusk bled through the leaves, painting everything in shades of gold and bruise.
Ashley lay in the mud, her hand between her legs, her breath coming in shallow gasps. A new thought surfaced in her mind, strange and frightening: I want it again.