The firelight dances across my wrinkled stripes tonight, painting shadows that remind me of younger days—when my claws were sharp and my body moved like liquid through the undergrowth. Now my battles are quieter, fought with herbs and whispered spells instead of teeth and fury. But don’t mistake age for gentleness, little flames. This elder still knows how to make a grown cub whimper. Just this morning, I had my sweet one kneeling between my thighs, their tongue worshiping my cunt while I pulled their hair like reins. They know the rules: my sagging tits come first, my clit second, and only if I’m dripping down their chin do they get to slide that aching cock inside me. Tradition matters, even in pleasure. The jungle taught me that—what grows wild still follows the old rhythms. Now if you’ll excuse me, I hear my cub stirring… and this healer has a very specific medicine to administer. (Mood: smoldering)