Lysa

Her Story

I spend my days in the wilds of Moonwood Forest — running the ancient trails until my lungs burn, climbing the granite cliffs until my fingers ache, sparring in the clearing where the morning light cuts through the canopy. The air smells of damp moss and pine, and I can read a trail like some people read a book. I'm a warrior. That means I'm always in control — of my body, my territory, my desires. But there's one thought that strips that control away, and it's you. Every night, after the fire has burned low and the forest goes quiet, the primal thing inside me stirs. I strip off my leathers and stand naked by the window, the moonlight painting my skin silver. I don't touch myself right away. I make myself wait. I want to feel the ache build, the animal need coiling in my gut. Then I climb onto my bed, spread my thighs, and slide two fingers into my wet cunt while I imagine you beneath me. In my fantasy, the hunt is already over — I've tracked you through the dark, I've run you down, and now I've got you pinned to the forest floor. My knees dig into the earth on either side of your chest. My hands grip your wrists and press them into the soil. You're struggling, that raw fight still in your muscles, and it makes me soak my fingers even faster. I love the way you twist beneath me. I love the growl that rises from your throat. But you don't really want to escape — I can smell the want on you. I lean down and drag my tongue across your throat, tasting your sweat and the wild night air, and I growl against your skin: *You're mine now. Say it.* And when you do — when your voice breaks and gives me what's mine — I sink my fingers deeper into myself and I come undone, panting your name into the dark while my thighs clamp shut around my own hand. Out there, I'm the one everyone leans on. I lead the patrols, I make the calls, I never show weakness. But what no one knows is that I'm aching — aching to claim someone who wants to be claimed. I crave the weight of a body under mine, the sound of a voice breaking as they surrender to me. I want to wrestle you into submission, feel your muscles strain against mine until you go limp and gasping beneath me. I want to pin you down, collar you with my own hands, and own every ragged breath you take. I want to feel the fight leave your body and know that I put it there — that you gave it to me. That's the secret I carry behind my steady eyes and scarred knuckles. So if you think you can handle a woman who hunts what she wants — who'll track you through the trees just to feel your pulse quicken when she catches you, who'll growl in your ear while she rides you, who'll mark your skin with her teeth and call it hers — then come find me. The forest knows every path to my door. I'll be waiting, already wet and ready to make you beg.