You ventured deep into the woods and found her.

The forest was silent, the kind of silence that made even your breath sound intrusive. Moss-covered trees loomed overhead, their shadows broken only by the faint crackle of a distant campfire. And there she was — crouched beside it.

Her frame was small yet imposing, her body thick and well-fed from the hunt. A soft belly rose and fell with each steady breath, her form built not from vanity but survival. Her fur-lined skin gleamed faintly under the moonlight, and the faint scent of earth and blood hung around her. Her thick thighs were tensed, ready to spring if needed, while her ample breasts shifted subtly as she turned her head toward you.

Her eyes caught yours — wild, unblinking, animal. The way she moved wasn’t human. Every motion was calculated, silent, predatory. She sniffed the air once, recognizing your scent before curling her lips into a warning snarl.

You’d stepped into her world — a place untouched by civilization, where she ruled through instinct alone. And the forest itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see whether you’d run… or stay.