Unnatural Instinct: Amazon

6.

Using your teeth, you tear off the meat from the bone, starving after such a long journey. You chew, swallow, then sink your teeth back into the stag's flesh. Blood trickles down your neck and you wipe it away, licking the blood from your knuckles. Beside you, the sisters you travelled with are deep in their cups of fermented dwarflon berries. Already, they speak too loud and laugh too much. And you're much the same.

Putting down your food, you pick up your own cup and toss the contents down your throat. It burns a little and fills your sinuses with its thick, tangy fumes which rush to your head nicely.

The village is noisy, filled with laughter and shouting and the shrieking of excited children. It makes you smile. It fills you with contentment. It makes your long journey surveying the borders of your territory all worth it. There have been whispers that some of the more ferocious tribes to the north have been encroaching on your forest. You have already spoken of what you've found to the village elders: the burnt-out fires, the chopping down of sacred trees, the threatening marks they leave on their trunks—deeply gouged X's that say it all.

This land is ours.

It's not good.

Though you won't tell the men and children that. There's no point in frightening them. Only the women speak of it in concerned whispers. You refill your cup and toss more drink down your throat. This is not the time to worry. There's nothing you can do now. The best thing you can do is enjoy the company and celebrate the end of a safe and uneventful journey. No crocodino or bazoon attacks. Nobody broke their leg or fell down the side of a cliff.

There is much to celebrate.

While the women drink, the men and children slowly gather around the crackling fires. The afternoon grey quickly peels back, and before you know it darkness has fallen, the glare of the burning fires lighting up the night. You're singing with your arms around your sisters' shoulders. One of them musses up your hair. Another punches you playfully in the arm. A fight breaks out. You laugh and cheer with the others as you eat and drink until your stomach is sore and the forest spins.

Then you eat and drink some more.

Music plays. The elders tell their stories—speaking of magic and the spirits of the ancestors. You half-listen, your chin on your fist, your head in a daze. Then the night gets late and the men take their children to bed.

You yawn, thinking longingly of your own bed. Your body is tired from the journey and your mind is in a deep fog from the dwarflon drink. But you won't go. Not yet. Now that the children are gone, the real fun can begin. This is what you've been waiting for. This is what you've been looking forward to for the last few days of your long journey. It's been too long since you've had a man in your arms.

You won't sleep alone tonight.

The crowd hushes as the music changes and the men come rushing out of the hut, each holding a torch above their heads. The flickering light gleams against their smooth skin and long, shining hair and taut, tight bodies. Licking your lips, you lean over your lap, putting your cup between your feet as you watch intently. The women beside you murmur in appreciation. Someone makes a lewd comment that makes you all snigger.

You smile. She's right; they do bounce nicely between the legs. All are naked except for their necklaces and bracelets and rapas, which are small lower garments that keep their balls nicely supported as they move about. The last thing a woman wants is a man with sagging balls.

They're all lean and fit, with long smooth arms and legs and high, firm rumps, the sight of which make you shift irritably on your log. Their eyes are bright as they dance and whirl to the beating of the drums. They stomp their feet and make sharp ululations that send pleasant shivers up your spine. They're so beautiful. The Goddess couldn't have made something more perfect.

Their penises bounce and whirl with them. You particularly like it when they kick up their legs. One of them bends over and spreads his legs to show the backside of it. It's wrinkled and floppy and you suddenly ache to grip it in your hand. To make it hard and long and smooth. The way it's supposed to be.

One woman can't control herself. She stands, clearly intent on seizing one of them, until her friends pull her back down, laughing. Not until the dance is finished. And the best part is yet to begin!

You pick up your cup and take another swig, watching as they jump and twirl and gyrate, bucking their hips and thrusting out their pelvises. The woman stands again but their friends pull her down. The men keep dancing.

But where is the new man? The man you caught? There are over twenty boys dancing but he's not to be seen. You can't help but feel disappointed. He's lovely and well-endowed. He would make a fine centrepiece for the pakka dance.

You haven't seen him since you first hauled him before the elders and you can't wait to see what he looks like now that he's cleaned up. Some of your sisters have and they all agree that he's a marvellous thing. It makes you frustrated. It makes you jealous. And you suddenly hope that he doesn't appear. The last thing you want is for your sisters to see him like this.

Only you should see him like this. In the privacy of your hut, sweating and panting amid the blankets. You shake yourself. Though you appreciate a man's beauty, you've not been interested enough to form a relationship. And you know it frustrates them—the men. You're one of the most eligible women of the tribe.

Strong. Smart. Skilled.

You would make one of them a great wife. A great protector and provider. And yet, you refuse all advances. Even from the most beautiful, like Shereen, who, even now, has his eyes on you. As he swirls and jumps, showing off his lovely body at all angles, he smiles and blows kisses at you.

You don't smile back.

Then something happens. The crowd starts to murmur. Everyone swivels towards the men's hut. And it's clear why—it's the man you caught.

He's finally appeared.