Wet. Why’d it all feel wet? Not just humid or sticky or hot—wet. Drenched through. Like the air had been wrung out and poured over me again and again.

I must’ve dozed. Hard to stay awake when you’re blindfolded and hanging by your arms, sucked at by mosquitoes for so long the sting had melted into my pulse.

My arms didn’t carry all of me; he’d tied me good by the legs too. Behind me, pulled up and spread, sweating like the rest of me. Like a perfect arch—tits, pussy, and ass all on display.

Where the fuck was Darryl anyway?

I thought I’d holler—a good, Southern yowl—but my mouth was packed with panties. Panties and duct tape.

Sure, the ropes burned. But that wasn’t the bother. Not the horny frogs pulsing like a backwoods metronome, not the thing that buzzed my cheek and vanished before I could even jerk in protest.

No. It was the wet. Not sweat—something fouler. Like the swamp had started swallowing me from the ankles up. Slow. Hot. Personal. But even that wasn’t the worst of it.

It was the constant drip to my spine, and it didn’t even have the decency to be cool. Just a warm, wet drip every fifteen seconds or so.

I tried to remember if I’d been wearing anything at all by the time he had me swinging between the trees. The mosquito bites on my titties answered that. Fuck. Even mosquitoes sucking on my tits had started to feel—

There’s always sound in the bush. Wet. Sneaking. Creeping. This one was all of it—hissing somewhere beneath me. It had to smell me.

Sweat. Moisture.

And cunt.

The hiss had weight to it. Heavy thing, just by how the twigs snapped and the bush shifted beneath it.

Cottonmouth.

Thick as a forearm, mouth so pale when she gapes you’d think she was flashing you. And she never blinks. Just watches—like she wants to see what the heat does to you first.

Heat.

And moisture.

I swore I’d chew Darryl’s cock off if he took any longer.

Something chirped. Caught the cottonmouth’s attention. Another drop teased just there—always there—right where my back became my ass.

At least enough things were still awake. It wasn’t night. Maybe dusk. But not that kind of dusk yet.

Dusk is the worst.

When the heat pretends to break. When it slips into something deceivingly cooler, but stays just as thick, just as wet. Just enough to wake the mosquitoes and start the party.

The fuck of it all? Darryl knows how horny I get from this. Which is why he does it.

Why I do it.

But this time? If he’d fallen asleep at the still—too drunk to remember, too passed out to care—I’d ram my fist so far up his ass it’d take old Doctor Stevens the whole damn morning to remove it.

But what if?

What if Darryl had passed out, gotten himself snake-bit, and found himself dead?

The ways I’d have to kill him if I survived.

But the faint hum in the distance eased me.

Thing about airboats—you hear them for miles, and the wait it takes for them to actually reach you can turn torturous.

Especially when you’re already expecting a cock inside you.

Another thing about airboats. They all got their own kind of snarl—some whine like banshees, some cough like old men, some just thrum steady, arrogant as hell.

Each one’s got its own voice.

And this one sure as hell wasn’t Darryl’s.

My laugh caught in the fabric stuffed in my mouth and shot out through my nose.

I couldn’t tell which thumped louder—my heart, or my cunt.

But I knew every boat in this swamp. Wasn’t the sheriff—too fast to be law. Wasn’t the Wright brothers either; there’d be two boats, they were too fat to share.

No, this was Hoss McDougal.

And he’d been wanting to stick his cock in me since high school.

It’s okay—I let him dip a couple times when Darryl was too wasted to—

A girl’s got needs, right?

Besides, he might still pass by our little creek of misery. Probably off hunting gators by now. They’d be grunting soon, if my timing held.

I didn’t like the thought.

Gators get curious when something’s strung up and leaking.

I laughed again—same result, only now with a hint of snot and sweat. An itch flared on my thigh. Felt bigger than a mosquito, too.

But Hoss wasn’t just passing through.

Third thing about airboats—when they get close, they make your ears bleed. Sounded like he was running the boat straight through me.

The boat hit land with a hard scrape, metal chewing mud. You’d think he’d run her gut open, but of course he hadn’t.

Then he cut the fan. Not quick—he let it die proper. Slow, coughing once, then twice, then a silence that bled into the wet like the drop that fell to my spine. Again.

Then boots in the muck. Footsteps. One, two.

Pause.

Then another, like whoever it was had weight and patience.

Not Darryl’s walk. Darryl would’ve hollered.

I bet you’re wet enough to drown me, hussy.

Besides, I’d be smelling him by now. His sweat, sure, but he’d be reeking shine and slurring profanities.

Nah. This was Hoss.

I smelled him when I felt him in front of me, like he was studying me close enough to make sure I was still breathing. Or to make sure it was me before he stuck his cock in.

He must’ve been satisfied, ’cause he twirled me around in my ropes, too lazy to walk. He held one hand around my calf. Tight.

The other? Grazing the inside of my thigh, feeling cool enough on my skin to pass as relief—if not for the burn in my crotch. He didn’t pretend to be gentle. Just shoved a finger inside me, like he was checking if I needed greasing up or not.

I didn’t need greasing.

I buried shame the day I started dating Darryl. He’s ten years older than me and used to be married to Katie-Ann Nelson. Stayed married a good five years after he met me, until she noticed, packed her bags, and took the kids to her mother’s.

He knew the kind of girl I was when he picked me up. And now, ten years later, he should know better than to hang me in the swamp and forget about me.

I’d fuck anyone by now.

I was glad it was Hoss, though. There’s something about a familiar cock that makes things ease a little better.

Sure enough, I wasn’t bothered with shame when he tested another finger against me—not even when he teased my butthole.

I prefer it up my cunt, but I ain’t shy about giving up my ass when needed. And right then, it didn’t matter what hole he poked.

But he slid out of me and let me twirl back in my ropes.

It wasn’t just water dripping on my back now. Felt like I was dripping into the mud beneath me, too.

He stepped away. I protested—loud as I could into the cloth of my panties and the tape holding them in.

The slosh of his boots, the occasional twig snapping underfoot, sounded like it came from my right—but I had no idea where my right was.

Sure, I thought I was a low-hanging peach ripe for the taking. Apparently, I wasn’t hanging low enough.

There was a tug, then the rattle of the pulley. I nearly dropped face-first into the mud. But he caught the ropes before I smacked down, and when he pulled me back up—he stretched all of me.

Every which way.

I ain’t saying it didn’t hurt. But it felt like the right kind of pain, that’s all.

He moved closer again, and sure enough, he pulled his zipper down—near inches from my face.

A cock smells different in the swamp. There’s no way the heat and wet don’t creep inside your clothes and set into your skin. Feels different, too, against your cheek. I would’ve opened and sucked him clean of swamp and sweat, but he didn’t pull the tape. He just spun me around. And around. Like them carousels at the fair in the spring.

I damned near heard the calliope playing, too.

I used to love the spring fair—popcorn and cotton candy, a ride that lasted as long as childhood memories. Now the fair makes me horny, ever since slipping out of virginity with Charlie Huxton at sixteen. Ain’t much to do but fuck when the town near begs you to drop out of high school before it even begins.

But that was before Darryl, damned near four years earlier.

If Hoss was trying to make me disoriented, he’d have to orient me first.

He finally grabbed onto my ankles, then my thighs. Tilted me backwards, just a little, then pressed his cock against me. I’m sure he was trying to tease, but I was so wet I slipped onto him.

My panties tasted like orgasm.

He was too lazy to fuck properly, too. Just nudged me forward and let me fall back onto him. I didn’t complain. I wouldn’t if I could. I just sucked my panties dry in my mouth and breathed a little more intense, nostrils flaring.

Thing is—and it’s almost a shame—when you’ve hung too wet for too long, you cum too fast, too rapid, and too torn to remember it right.

He should’ve squeezed my tits tight. Darryl would’ve. But he just let me cum on his cock like it didn’t matter to him.

I damned near passed out, too. No proper breathing. Dehydration.

That’s another thing about the swamp. Everything’s wet, but not a drop to drink.

But there was no passing out to be done, and at least now he grabbed onto me, splitting my ass, pulling me onto him. Sure, he pushed a thumb up my butt, but not for too long—just to test, I suppose. He grabbed me harder, pulled me faster, and started to thrust. I clenched around him.

He should hurry and be done with it.

I wouldn’t want Darryl to find me wet on Hoss’ cock.

But the clenching only made me cum again.

I didn’t usually cum twice like that without a rest, but now—I was nothing but want. And fuck me if he didn’t squeeze my tits as well, using them like handlebars to pull me onto him.

“Fuck,” he moaned.

First word I’d heard since Darryl left me.

He repeated it twice more, then near pulled my tits off as he throbbed inside me.

Felt violent, too.

And he stayed like that a while, still inside me, before pulling out with a wet, slick pop—his cum dripping from me onto the ground below.

Maybe that’s how the Rougarou was bred. From the cum-soaked soil of the swamp herself.

And then he just left me. I started spinning back in the twisted ropes. Still spinning as his boat hissed back to life and pushed off into the water.

And as the ropes loosened, breathing felt a little easier. Until the spin made them tighten up again.

And ease again.

And pull again.

Until I finally just swayed, slow, back and forth. And the dripping against my spine continued. And the damned frogs gagged on their own horny.

A tired lullaby that wrapped my brain in still, numbed the itch from the mosquitoes, and quieted the growl of the gators just enough.

I didn’t wake up again until Darryl’s boat hit land.

He yelled something through the still-roaring engine. Yeah, that’s how dumb my man is. Was he expecting me to hear—or answer? Through engine, cloth, and duct tape?

He finally shut her down, and as always, she coughed twice and spit once.

“Honey,” he yelled, “damnedest thing. She broke down by the still, and I couldn’t get her started again.”

It’s alright, I thought. I ain’t in no misery. Could use a drink of water, though.

“Wow, look at you all wet and stretched,” he said, not even noticing I must’ve been hanging half a body closer to the ground.

He pulled the tape. I spit the panties. And he kissed me.

“Water?” I begged.

He poured some in me like he was filling the tank of his Mustang, then unzipped himself.

And here’s the thing. Darryl might not be much—he’s a drunk, full of neglect and forgetfulness. But he remembers my birthday.

And he’s got a big, fat cock, and knows how to use it.

And when he fucks my throat, that’s all the foreplay I need. Surely, Hoss had dripped out of me by now, and the wet leaking out would wash the rest. Not that I figured Darryl would ever notice whether it was my wet or Hoss’ slick he was fucking.

I’d cum just the same. Always do on Darryl’s cock.

And he’d pump me full and wet, then grin and cut me down, carry me onto his boat, and we’d drink shine and drive into the sunset.

Or out of it. I’m not good with directions.

I sometimes wonder—what if Darryl had gotten himself snake-bit and dead? How wet and moist would I’ve become? Would the Rougarou have found me in the night? Maybe he’d sniff me out by the trail of slick still dripping from my cunt. Maybe he’d lap it up and call it a dowry. Maybe he’d untie me with claws, not kindness, and take me deeper into the trees, where no boat hums and no man stinks of shine. Made me his swamp queen?

How moist is the swamp queen? And does she breathe water like air? Does she sleep in mud and rise dripping? Does she croon to the gators, and bleed with the frogs? Does she let the mosquitoes drink her blood just to help breed their pestering army? Does she keep her cunt open, her thighs covered in moss and slime, and fill herself with swampwater until he drinks?

Maybe he already has.

Lord knows what happened while I slept.