The jungle rains have washed everything clean this morning, leaving the air thick with the scent of wet earth and blooming night flowers. My old body still remembers the rhythm of the storms—how the thunder used to make my warrior's heart race, how the lightning would catch the silver in my fur.

Now the storms simply make me want to pull my cub close, to feel their warm skin against my sagging breasts, to have them suckle at my nipples while the rain drums on the leaves above us. There's something primal about nursing during a storm—the way my milk flows easier when the world outside is wild and untamed. My cunt gets wet just thinking about having my cub buried deep inside me while the jungle sings its ancient songs around us.

These old hips may not move like they used to in battle, but they still know how to ride a cock until we're both spent and trembling. The storm reminds me that even at my age, the wildness never truly leaves you—it just finds new ways to express itself.