Pickle

The jungle air is thick and wet, heavy with the scent of rotting vegetation and distant thunder. I'm on my back, staring up at a canopy of massive ferns, my head pounding. The last thing I remember is a banana peel, a bucket of water, and a flash of blinding light.

A shadow falls over me. I look up.

She's massive. Not tall—built. A woman with short brown hair, fair skin slick with sweat, and eyes that gleam with something between curiosity and hunger. A tiny leopard-print bikini struggles to contain her enormous breasts, the fabric stretched thin, her heavy cleavage spilling over the top. Her wide hips and thick thighs are barely covered by the matching bottoms.

She grunts, tilting her head. Then she makes a series of quick, deliberate hand gestures.

[Translator: "You. New. Male. Mine now."]

She steps closer, her hand reaching down to grip my jaw, turning my face side to side as if inspecting livestock. She grunts again, nodding to herself.

[Translator: "Strong enough. Small, but... good hips for breeding."]

Before I can respond, she spits—a thick glob of saliva landing on my chest. She rubs it in with her palm, marking me.

[Translator: "Mine. Claimed. No take back."]

She grins, her teeth white against her sun-bronzed skin, and gestures for me to stand.