Wiping the murky water off the heavy brass key against the thigh of her pants, Rebecca tucked the item into one of her vest pouches.
Just one more piece of the Umbrella puzzle that made absolutely zero sense in the context of a pharmaceutical training academy.
She turned around and began the steep climb up the rusted metal stairs to get out of the drainage pit. The adrenaline from the centipede fight was finally wearing off, and her body was making its displeasure extremely well-known. Her calves burned from hours of stomping around in combat boots. Her shoulders ached from the grenade launcher's ridiculous weight. Her lower back throbbed.
But more than that, her heart was still pounding too fast.
Way too fast for someone who'd just been standing still for the last two minutes.
She reached the upper walkway, walked over to a relatively clean corner of the stone floor, and collapsed against the wall with a heavy sigh. She pulled her knees up, resting her forearms over them, and stared blankly at the hollowed-out centipede shell across the room.
Okay. Just breathe. You're fine. You fought a giant bug. That's why your heart is racing.
It definitely had nothing to do with the lingering phantom sensation of a razor-sharp stinger trailing up her inner thigh. Or the way her skin had flushed hot when the tip pressed against her neck. Or the deeply confusing dampness soaking into the crotch of her tactical pants that she was aggressively blaming on the humidity of the subterranean basement.
I just need five minutes to not be terrified or... whatever that was.
"Okay," she breathed out, resting her head against the cool concrete. "We need to figure out where this key goes. Probably somewhere completely logical, like a door hidden inside a painting that only opens when you play the right tune on a pipe organ."
The heavy clicking of chitin on stone signaled Ghosty's approach.
The massive hellhound padded over to her corner and unceremoniously collapsed right beside her. He let out a long, shuddering sigh and rested his gigantic armored skull directly across her thighs.
The sheer weight of his head pinned her legs in place.
Rebecca didn't have the energy to push him off.
He radiated a deep, furnace-like heat that seeped through the canvas of her uniform, slowly unwinding the tightly coiled muscles in her legs. That weird, intoxicating scent of petrichor and earthy musk washed over her, completely drowning out the metallic tang of centipede blood.
"You are an absolutely ridiculous creature," she murmured, absentmindedly resting her gloved hand on the smooth plating between his milky, pupilless eyes.
Ghosty let out a low, rumbling vibration deep within his chest cavity. The mechanical purr vibrated right through her thighs, sending a highly inappropriate shiver straight up to her pelvis.
She pretended not to notice.
He shifted his jaw slightly, nudging his wet, leathery nose against the palm of her hand. Then his mouth opened, and a massive, warm, slick tongue enveloped her entire right hand.
"Ugh, Ghosty, what are you doing?" she groaned, trying to weakly pull her hand back.
He completely ignored her pathetic resistance.
He pulled her gloved fingers deeper into his mouth, swirling his thick tongue around her knuckles and palm with slow, thorough strokes. The texture was bizarrely rough yet incredibly slippery, massaging the aching joints of her fingers with a feverish heat. Saliva soaked through the fabric of her glove, warming her skin underneath.
She swatted lightly at his snout with her free hand. "Seriously, dude, that's gross."
He just let out a muffled hum of contentment around her trapped fingers, his tongue curling between each digit like he was savoring the taste of sewer water and centipede guts.
Rebecca sighed in defeat, letting her head thump back against the concrete wall.
"Fine. Just... clean the glove if you really want to. Weirdo."
Ghosty's jaws clamped down softly. He didn't bite her fingers. He simply pinched the thick canvas material of her tactical glove between his front teeth. With a sharp, backward jerk of his massive head, he stripped the glove completely off her hand.
He casually spat the soaked, saliva-covered accessory onto the concrete floor with a wet smack.
"Hey! I need that to—"
Before she could finish the scolding, Ghosty lunged forward and engulfed her entirely bare hand in his mouth.
Rebecca gasped. The sensation was violently different without the layer of canvas protecting her skin. His mouth was like a humid, feverish oven. The thick, muscular tongue curled intimately around her bare fingers, the rough papillae scraping against her sensitive skin with a slow, agonizingly thorough friction.
This is way too much.
"Okay, that's enough," she stammered, trying to yank her hand back. "Give me my hand back. Seriously, Ghosty."
He didn't let go. He simply clamped his lips tighter around her wrist, his tongue swirling aggressively over her palm. The wet, rhythmic suction sent an entirely unwelcome spike of heat shooting straight up her arm and completely bypassing her brain to pool directly between her thighs. Her breathing hitched. Her heart hammered a frantic, irregular rhythm against her ribs.
She slapped his armored snout with her left hand.
"I said stop! You're acting like a total freak!"
Ghosty finally released her hand. He let out a low, breathy whine, his milky eyes staring deeply into hers.
Then he shifted his massive bulk.
He didn't back away. He crawled further into her personal space, his huge front paws planting heavily on either side of her hips. The sheer size of the beast completely caged her against the concrete wall. His broad chest hovered mere inches from her face, radiating that intense, furnace-like heat that immediately made her start sweating under her uniform.
The petrichor and musk scent rolling off him was suffocatingly thick. It clouded her judgment, making her head spin with a weird, heavy lethargy.
"Ghosty," she warned, her voice dropping to a nervous whisper. "Back up. Right now."
His wet, leathery nose flared. He leaned down, burying his snout directly into the crook of her neck. He took a massive, greedy inhalation, aggressively vacuuming up the scent of her sweat-soaked skin.
Rebecca's right hand dropped instinctively to her hip. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp of her holstered Beretta.
"I—I'm warning you," she stuttered, her thumb resting on the cold steel grip of the handgun. "I will shoot you. I'll do it. Get out of my space."
He completely ignored the threat. His massive, eight-inch-wide tongue shot out of his mouth and slapped directly against the side of her neck.
"Ah!"
He dragged the thick, slimy muscle in a long, wet stripe from her collarbone all the way up to her jawline. The texture was absurdly rough, like wet sandpaper soaked in hot oil. The sheer heat of the saliva seeping into her skin sent a massive, involuntary shudder ripping through her entire body.
"Ew! Ghosty, no!" she shrieked, her hand abandoning the gun to shove uselessly against his solid, bone-plated skull. "Bad dog! Very bad dog!"
Pushing him felt like trying to move a parked tractor. He simply adjusted his angle and swiped his giant tongue directly across her right cheek. He left a glistening trail of thick, warm drool from her jaw to her temple.
"Stop! I'm serious!" she gasped, twisting her head sharply to the side.
He just followed her movement. The giant tongue lapped enthusiastically across her forehead, her nose, her other cheek. He was delivering broad, impossibly thorough strokes that coated her entire face in a thick layer of steaming canine saliva.
"This is—you don't even know where that tongue has been!" she protested, her hands smacking against his chest plates. "You literally just drank a centipede! You're practically a walking biohazard!"
Ghosty didn't care. He pulled back for exactly half a second, his pupilless eyes locking onto her lips with a highly predatory focus.
"Ghosty, I swear to GOD, if you gave me some kind of—"
The massive, slippery muscle lunged straight past her parted lips.
Her words were instantly cut off by a wet, heavy invasion. Ghosty's tongue was massive, hot, and thick, filling her mouth so completely that she couldn't even scream. The sheer, unadulterated weight of it pressed her tongue flat against the floor of her mouth, sliding over her teeth and mapping the sensitive, smooth skin of her inner cheeks with a slow, slimy thoroughness.
Wait—
What is—
Oh my god, no, no, no, stop—!
Rebecca's entire cognitive process fractured into a million useless pieces. Her eyes bulged, staring directly into his milky, blank gaze from mere inches away. Her hands scrambled frantically to find purchase on his solid, bone-plated jaw, her fingers desperately digging into the crevices of his chitin to push him off.
He didn't move an inch. The heavy, muscular bulk of his chest pressed flat against her torso, pinning her back flush against the cold concrete wall.
The contrast was immediate and overwhelming. The stone behind her was freezing, leeching heat from her shoulder blades and spine. But Ghosty's front was an absolute furnace, radiating a feverish, oppressive warmth that seemed to scorch straight through the canvas of her tactical vest. The sheer weight of him pressed heavily against her breasts, squishing the soft tissue uncomfortably against her ribcage. She could feel her chest being flattened, the thick fabric of her sports bra doing absolutely nothing to cushion the pressure.
His tongue swirled. It was a deep, wet, rhythmic roll, curling over her own paralyzed tongue and dragging its rough, sandpaper-like papillae against her palate.
This is a dog. A zombie dog. A biohazard. I am swallowing his spit. Oh god, I'm swallowing—
A thick, warm glob of mixed saliva pooled heavily on her tongue. Her throat reflexively contracted, and she swallowed.
The taste was indescribable. Earthy. Musky. Faintly metallic. It slid down her esophagus like warm honey, leaving a tingling trail of heat all the way to her stomach.
No—I didn't mean to—
A desperate, terrified voice in her head screamed at her to reach down. Her left hand was still hovering near her hip. The cold, cross-hatched grip of her Beretta was right there. All she had to do was unclip the strap, draw the weapon, and press the muzzle directly under his chin. One pull of the trigger. Just one. It would blow his brains through the top of his skull and end this nightmare.
Shoot him. Just shoot him. Draw the gun. DO IT.
But her hand didn't move.
I can't—he saved me. He killed Billy—no, Billy was a zombie, he saved me from Billy. He killed the centipede. If I shoot him, I'm alone in this place. I can't shoot him. But he's—his tongue is—
The internal argument was violently shattered as Ghosty's tongue executed a slow, deep, twisting curl. The tip flicked deliberately against the roof of her mouth, stroking a cluster of nerves she didn't even know existed. The immense heat of his mouth seemed to melt the bones in her jaw. The wet, friction-heavy strokes sent a sudden, devastating jolt of pure, electric warmth straight down her throat, radiating outward until it settled heavily right between her thighs.
Her back, slick with cold sweat, slipped slightly against the smooth concrete. Her head tilted backward, her neck arching as gravity pulled her chin upward. The shift in angle gave Ghosty even deeper access to her mouth.
He took full advantage.
His thick tongue plunged further, the wet muscle stroking along the inside of her cheeks, exploring the gap between her molars, curling around her own limp tongue with a possessive, claiming thoroughness.
N-nggh...
A muffled, vibrating whimper escaped her nose.
Her fingers on his jaw went completely slack, her grip failing as a wave of heavy, dizzying weakness washed over her. Her knees, already trembling, felt like they had completely dissolved into warm liquid. The only thing keeping her upright was the solid weight of Ghosty's chest crushing her against the wall.
Why... why does it feel like this? This is wrong. My body shouldn't—this isn't—
But it's so warm. It's so hot. It feels—
NO. Stop thinking like that. He's a monster. He's a dog. He's—
Thick, viscous drool began to leak from the corners of her mouth. It trickled down her chin in warm, sticky rivulets, dripping onto her neck and soaking into the collar of her tactical vest. She could feel the wet heat seeping between her breasts, pooling in the fabric against her sternum.
Her thighs, pressed tightly together, shifted. Her boots scraped softly against the concrete as her legs rubbed together in a slow, unconscious rhythm. The friction of her tight canvas pants against her aching, oversensitive anatomy sent another sharp jolt of shameful heat straight to her core.
Stop. Stop moving like that. What are you doing?!
Ghosty's mechanical purr rumbled deep in his chest, vibrating directly against her flattened breasts. He leaned his weight even heavier into her, his hips shifting slightly, and his tongue began to move with a new, deliberate intensity.
He pulled back slightly, the thick muscle sliding wetly over her teeth, and then plunged deeper. The wet, rhythmic thrusts of his tongue mimicked something far more obscene, pumping in and out of her mouth with a steady, claiming tempo.
This is—he's—oh god, this feels like—
Her mind desperately tried to form coherent thoughts, but every single neural pathway was being systematically short-circuited by the overwhelming sensory overload. The heat. The pressure. The taste. The wet, slippery friction. The deep, vibrating purr rattling her bones.
I should stop this. I should push him away. Why aren't my hands pushing? Why are they just—just resting there? Move, damn it! MOVE!
But her hands remained limp against his jaw, her fingers weakly curled into the grooves of his chitin plating like she was holding on for balance instead of trying to escape.
Another thick glob of saliva pooled on her tongue. She swallowed again, the warm, viscous fluid sliding heavily down her throat.
I'm drinking his spit. I'm actively swallowing. Oh my god, what is wrong with me?
Ghosty seemed to sense her complete surrender. His entire demeanor shifted from exploratory to possessive. He adjusted his stance, his heavy front paws pressing harder against the stone on either side of her hips. His broad, armored snout pushed forward, and suddenly she felt something new.
The hard, jagged edges of his teeth.
His upper and lower jaw pressed firmly against her face, the bony ridges of his snout bracketing her mouth completely. The sharp tips of his canines grazed the soft skin of her cheeks, her chin, the corners of her lips. She could feel the faint, dangerous pressure of those teeth resting against her flesh—not biting, not breaking skin, but present. A constant, terrifying reminder of exactly what he could do if he wanted.
He could rip my face off. One bite. Just one. His teeth are right there. Right against my skin.
The thought should have sent her into a screaming panic.
Instead, it sent another shameful, traitorous pulse of heat straight between her legs.
What is WRONG with me?!
His tongue plunged deeper. Much deeper. The thick, muscular appendage slid past the back of her mouth, the tip stroking along the soft, ultra-sensitive tissue near the back of her throat. The wet, heavy pressure began to encroach on her airway, making it harder to breathe through her nose.
Too deep—that's too—
Her throat tightened reflexively. Another thick wave of drool spilled from her lips, running down her neck in hot, sticky trails. Her legs rubbed together again, harder this time, her body moving entirely without her permission.
The tip of his tongue flicked upward, grazing the very edge of her soft palate, and then dipped lower, brushing against the sensitive ridge of her tonsils.
The sudden, sharp sensation jolted through her like an electric shock.
Her entire body went rigid. The hazy, warm fog clouding her mind shattered instantly, replaced by a sharp, crystal-clear awareness of exactly what was happening.
He's too deep. I can't breathe. I'm going to—
Her gag reflex triggered violently, her throat spasming around the thick intrusion.
ENOUGH.
With a sudden, frantic burst of pure survival instinct, her teeth clamped down hard on the thick muscle inside her mouth.
She didn't bite hard enough to sever it, but the sharp, desperate pressure of her canine teeth sinking into his tongue was more than enough to deliver the message.
Ghosty instantly recoiled. He pulled his tongue back with a slow, incredibly loud, wet SLURRRRRP that echoed off the stone walls. A thick, glistening bridge of mixed, viscous saliva stretched from his mouth to her lower lip, hanging in the air for a long, obscene second before snapping and splattering heavily against her chin and chest.
Rebecca immediately doubled over, coughing and hacking violently.
"Gah! Cough—ptooey! Hack!"
She violently wiped her mouth with her sleeve, the fabric only serving to smear the warm, thick drool across her jaw and neck. She spat repeatedly onto the concrete floor, her chest heaving as she tried to drag cool air back into her burning lungs.
Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped animal. Her face was so hot she felt like she was standing inside an oven, and her lips were tingling with a raw, electric numbness that refused to fade.
And beneath all of that, deep inside her pants, the persistent, throbbing dampness was completely undeniable.
I... I didn't shoot him. I could have. The gun was right there. But I didn't. I just... I just let him...
No. It was shock. It was just shock. My brain didn't know what to do. That's all. That's the only reason.
She forced herself to straighten up, leaning heavily against the wall for support. Her legs were still shaking, her knees threatening to buckle. She pointed a trembling, saliva-coated finger directly at his massive, drool-covered snout.
"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" she gasped, her voice cracking in a mix of terror, fury, and absolute, humiliating confusion.