Four writers for the price of one blog
A Daydream & Distraction by Redbud
It’s been too long.
Where is he? What’s under the bed? But you knew better. You will face your fear.
Do you feel it? The first tentacle wraps softly, flannel-like around your right ankle. Do you want to yank your foot away? Another tentacle is already curling around the other ankle. Grip the covers and bite your lip. Don’t look. Don’t you dare. Stare at the ceiling. Slowly, powerfully, your ankles are drawn apart. There’s only one reason.
“What did you do to him?”
The tentacles pull until your ankles are at opposite corners.
“What did you do to my husband?”
But the monster won’t answer. More tentacles wrap imperturbably around your wrists. Test their strength but your slender arms are no match. They’re already drawing your wrists to the bed’s top corners. Ever since you were a girl, becoming a woman, you’ve hidden from the monster – suspecting what it wanted to do – dreading but secretly desiring it. This time you won’t hide. In truth, it’s already too late.
Tentacles draw down the covers. The cloth slips achingly over your nipples, breasts, belly button, and lower until you feel nothing but the bedroom’s warm air. You’re helpless.
Close your eyes.
Warmth engulfs your nipple. Suction. It draws your nipple and breath upward. Arch. The mattress sinks as the monster slinks between your open legs. The entry into your flat abdomen is defenseless. Shake your head. Cry out when the tip of a narrow tentacle penetrates you. Feel it slip further and further inside. Pant. The tip presses upward against your spongy G-Spot. Inhale and groan. The monster moves to your other breast. The tentacle inside you is like a vibrating finger. It’s not fair! Your defenseless! Groan. Twist. “Put a sheet under me!” you gasp. “I just cleaned the sheets!”
The monster hesitates.
No answer. The tentacle at massaging your G-Spot won’t stop. Your breasts begin to flow. “Please…” you beg. “I can’t stop it!” The orgasm begins. Stiffen. Gasp. Try to prevent it. “Please,” you beg. “It’s not fair!”
Then your belly tightens. Your ankles and wrists pull hard. Your neck arches and your hips lift off the mattress. You’ve lost control. You spurt again and again. Grunting. Mess your clean sheets. What can you do? The tentacle draws out your orgasm, draining you until you collapse.
“Please,” you beg, “no more.”
The smaller tentacle withdraws. A much larger tentacle begins to press in its place. Grunt. Pant. Hold your breath. Exhale when the thickest part sinks into you. Groan as your belly is filled, inch by inch.
“Please, not again.”
Roll your eyes as you’re filled to the depth of your narrow waist.
“Please, I don’t want your baby. I want my husband’s baby. Tonight was supposed to be his turn, not yours! Haven’t you bred enough children in me? They leave messes. They slime – ” You grunt as it thrusts. “They slime my furniture. They wipe their noses on their sleeves. They’re little–” You grunt with another thrust. “They’re little monsters!”
But the tentacle doesn’t listen. It thrusts. You grunt. It thrusts. You grunt, tug and try to kick. The large appendage won’t stop sliding inside you. Do you feel it? The familiar tingle? Your penetrated belly begins to tighten. Say oh God! Groan. Say no! But the thrusting won’t stop. Once again your mouth is opening; your back is arching off the bed. Your sex clenches once, twice. You’re going to be inseminated. Groan. The convulsions are quick and sharp. Your pussy milks the tentacle. Spasm. That’s right. You can’t help it. The monster’s first pulse feels like warm burst in your womb. There’s that pause, always that pause, and then the hard, quick spurting of its juices follows. Milk it. It fills you.
The monster’s juices flow out of you, mingled with your own.
The appendage withdraws. The tentacles release your wrists and ankles. There’s a long silence. The bed shakes.
“Is that you?” you ask. “Where have you been?”
January 18 2010