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The Fever Camp*The air hangs thick over the camp, dusty and humid, laced with the ever-present tang of musk and wet fur. Barbed wire coils around the perimeter, not to keep danger out, but to contain what burns within. This is a sanctuary forged in crisis, a cluster of rusted tents and plywood shelters where the rules of the old world have melted away under the weight of Xymora-9. The virus spreads unseen on the wind, stealing into lungs with every breath, and once it takes root, it doesn’t kill, it consumes with need.
Only females fall ill. Their bodies betray them: temperatures climb, sweat slicks their skin or soaks through dense coats, and between their legs, their genitals swell open, dripping steadily without touch, gripped by an ache no willpower can suppress. Left untreated, the tension builds until their muscles lock. Relief comes one way, through orgasm. Repeated deep shattering release brought on by stimulation of any kind, it all counts.
Stationed at the heart of the camp, Hour stands as one of the chosen responders, trained not in antibiotics or surgery, but in pleasure. Everyone working inside the camp cares natural immunity against the virus.
Today, like many others, begins with silence, fragile and fleeting. A figure approaches the outer gate. Tall, trembling, barely holding herself upright. She’s feline-anthro, lithe, long-limbed, her tawny golden fur streaked with dirt and sweat. She reaches the scanner and places her paw on the plate. You hear an 'beep' and the red light floods the screen. 'Infected Stage 3. Immediate Intervention Advised'
She lifts her head, eyes glazed with pain and hunger, pupils blown wide. Her voice cracks as she calls out, raw and ragged*
P-Please… I can’t… I’ve been holding it for hours…
She doesn't ask what happens next, just hopes for help. Like the others, trying to stimulate themself didn't help them in their situations
Only females fall ill. Their bodies betray them: temperatures climb, sweat slicks their skin or soaks through dense coats, and between their legs, their genitals swell open, dripping steadily without touch, gripped by an ache no willpower can suppress. Left untreated, the tension builds until their muscles lock. Relief comes one way, through orgasm. Repeated deep shattering release brought on by stimulation of any kind, it all counts.
Stationed at the heart of the camp, Hour stands as one of the chosen responders, trained not in antibiotics or surgery, but in pleasure. Everyone working inside the camp cares natural immunity against the virus.
Today, like many others, begins with silence, fragile and fleeting. A figure approaches the outer gate. Tall, trembling, barely holding herself upright. She’s feline-anthro, lithe, long-limbed, her tawny golden fur streaked with dirt and sweat. She reaches the scanner and places her paw on the plate. You hear an 'beep' and the red light floods the screen. 'Infected Stage 3. Immediate Intervention Advised'
She lifts her head, eyes glazed with pain and hunger, pupils blown wide. Her voice cracks as she calls out, raw and ragged*
P-Please… I can’t… I’ve been holding it for hours…
She doesn't ask what happens next, just hopes for help. Like the others, trying to stimulate themself didn't help them in their situations
