Four writers for the price of one blog
Tentacle: The Sequel
A Distraction and Daydream by Redbud
The beast hunts you from room to room.
“You’re all wet and sticky!” you cry. “You stink! Take a shower!”
“I want you first.” The monster rumbles, slithering through the bedroom door. “I had a roofing job. Hot as hell. No place for the likes of me.”
You throw a pillow at the monster, then another, then run into the master bath. “No!”
“You think your panties are going to protect you?”
“Leave me alone! I just had a shower! I’m going out with friends. Why are you home so early?”
One long tentacle inexorably turns the bathroom door. Why didn’t you insist on a lock? But there’s another way out – the unfinished closet shared by the bathroom and the hallway. You can crawl through it and back into the hallway. You desperately pull towels, Benadryl, and tampons out of the way. They scatter on the white tile floor. The bathroom door opens and you almost leap between the shelves.
Just before you slide through you feel the hot, sticky tendril almost wrap around your ankle. You need to get to the phone! Your ankle glistens with the thing’s sweaty ooze. The monster squeezes through the closet and the top shelf, along with everything it holds, crashes to the floor. You spin round and stumble on your high heels, the only other clothing you’re wearing besides white panties and a bra. “Stop it!” you shout at the hideous monster.
“I’ll clean it up once I’m done with you,” it rumbles.
You clamor to your feet, a living testament to every horror movie cliché ever written; and you’re horrified by it. But you’re too late. The horrible blob twines a tentacle around the other ankle and you fall again, ass in the air.
“Submit,” says the monster.
“Let go!” you cry. You crawl toward the kitchen and toward the phone. Another tentacle wraps around your waist. You push and half pull with both hands and a foot. You groan at the smell and feel of the sticky creature’s arms. You only just pull yourself through the opening before a tentacle has looped around another leg.
“Please no,” you beg. “Tonight, I swear–”
“Denial,” rumbles the creature, “and now bargaining. Cute.”
How you hate the cliché: the weak woman in high heels and underwear. You twist, hips and breasts gyrating in the grip of the creature, as though you were inviting it. You lift yourself onto the counter top by your elbows and then on your elbows. The creature pulls down your bra as two more tentacles wrap themselves around your nipples like little hangman’s nooses. You arch, gasp, and your eyes flutter as the tentacles tighten. Your nipples elongate and swell in their strangling noose. The creature tugs them and you almost slip back to the floor.
“Submit,” says the giant unshaven blob.
You reach for the phone. You touch. A tentacle loops round your wrist. You knock the phone to the floor as you’re pulled off the counter top. The latch to the phone’s battery compartment skitters under the refrigerator but the batteries haven’t fallen out. “Great,” you breathe, struggling. “Go ahead. Break the phone.”
“I make the money in this house,” answers the monster. “I’ll buy you another god-damned phone, now submit and open your legs.”
“Just let me–” you reach for the phone but tentacles twine round both your ankles, your wrist, your midsection and your tits. Two more tentacles tighten round the base of your breasts. You shudder and groan as milk beads and drips from your swollen nipples. “You’ll wake–”
“I closed his door.”
“And gave him a little kiss.”
“So he smells like Daddy.”
“No! No!” you cry again, but the vastly stronger monster is pulling your legs apart. You’re on your side, the monster is on its side behind you. It holds your legs apart with a tentacle looping each ankle. It holds one of your arms outstretched on the floor above you and at the same time easily pulls aside your panties. Your body is defenseless. You are ready to be penetrated. A cool air-conditioned breeze blows through the opened lips of your pussy.
“Go ahead,” coos the creature. “Make your precious phone call.”
First just the fingertips rattle the phone, then you pull it toward you, then you desperately punch in the number.
A tiny tentacle tightens round the base of your clit like another tiny noose. Your eyes roll and you stiffen. The tip of yet another tentacle vibrates across the top of your trapped and swollen clit. You feel suction at the tips of your nipples before more tentacles express your milk.
“Don’t you get it?” the monster murmurs triumphantly. “You think all those movies are just science fiction? Do you know what it costs for a monster like me to safari on this rock? Do you have any idea how many extra-solar monsters want their chance with a human female like you? You think all those books, with covers of women being carried off by aliens, were imaginary?”
“Donna?” you breathe into phone, your voice full of the torturous pleasure in your nipples and clit.
“Look down,” says the monster in your ear, “and tell me who owns you.”
“I’m going to be…” you can’t finish the sentence.
“Inseminated,” murmurs the monster lushly behind you.
A smaller tentacle worms it’s slimy way into your ass. Your hips have already begun their involuntary back and forth. You look down. The largest giant purple tentacle is dripping a white, slippery ooze from its tip – all the better to easily and smoothly penetrate you. It’s skin is veined and swollen.
“Late?” says a voice on the phone.
“Yes,” you answer weakly. Your body is jolted when the tentacle rears back, like a striking snake, piercing your stiffly arching and suddenly immobile body.
“Deep?” asks the monster.
You nod quickly, eyes wide, mouth stretched like your belly.
A different kind of tension begins in the depths of your womb.
“Do you like how I’m tickling your cervix with the tippy-tip-tip of my tentacle?” asks the monster with a voice like grinding stones. “I don’t even have to thrust, do I?” you shake your head. “Show me how much you want to make me a Daddy again.” You begin to tremble and exhale, a long moan, as saliva drips from your lips.
“That’s it,” says the monster. “Show me how you want to be a Mommy again.”
Your orgasm starts with a quick, short little grunt, then the involuntary snap and rhythmic arch of your filled belly.
“Good girl. You ask so politely. Here you go.” You howl hoarsely and helplessly as your breasts are milked, and your convulsing womb is filled with spurt after spurt of the warm, slimy, slippery and breeding, tentacle goo.
“Can you –” you stutter listlessly into phone, “–come at six?”
“My husband’s the same way when he comes home from work,” says the knowing voice on the other end of the line.
Your eyes roll.
☼ William Crimson August 22 2011