Tentacle Goes to Dinner
The Continuing Horrific Adventures of Tentacle by Redbud
- Maybe you’re asking yourself: Is she just imagining it or is it real? I’ll never tell.
“So, how do I look?”
“You disgust me.”
“You’re unspeakably hideous.”
“Come to me!” His voice crackles with warning.
You move with a tantalizing flick of your hips. Two steps and you meet him between your closet and his. You kiss. You hold each other. You touch hips. He pinches your nipples through your tube skirt. Your tongues meet. You arch. You lift one ankle. He draws the spike of your high heel back against the dividing rounds of your ass.
You break your kiss. Your husband is eying the babysitter: sixteen, wearing a high skirt with tight stockings and a cute, hooded warm-up jacket. Her breasts perk invitingly. You wag your finger between your lips and his. “We’re going out to eat, Cheri, we’ll order in some other night.”
“I would never.”
“Of course not,” you say. “You’ll ruin your appetite. No snacks. Please, Cheri, our taxi has arrived, and who will babysit our children? Be a gentleman tonight. Behave yourself. This is our fifth wedding anniversary.”
“When have I not?” he asks with his sly, disarming smile.
When you arrive at the restaurant, he opens the taxi door for you, then the restaurant door. He tips the taxi driver twice the fare. Your friends, another couple, is already seated. The maitre d’ guides you to the corner table and promises a waiter. The two husband’s soon break off into their own conversation while you and your friend carry your own.
“I’ve never seen a husband adore his wife as much as yours,” says your friend. “He groped with his eyes when he followed you to the table.”
“Exhausting.” You roll your eyes.
“I know. Maybe I hope my husband looks at me like five years from now, maybe I don’t.”
You hear the husbands laugh, softly but gutturally. What did they say? Your husband glances at you. His eyes pierce you. “No!” You mouth, hoping your friend doesn’t see. “Be a gentleman!” But his tentacles are already sliding around your ankles and upward.
“You’re backgrounds are so different,” your friend continues, studying herself briefly, applying lipstick in a small mirror. You give your husband the look. He doesn’t stop. His twining tentacles reach your knees and you gasp aloud when they abruptly yank your knees and ankles apart, opening you beneath the tablecloth. Your high heels scrape against the linoleum floor. “Are you OK?” your friend asks, startled.
“Yes,” you breathe, “I’m fine.” But his powerful tentacles are wrapping around your waist now. Another pulls aside your panties.
Your friend leans forward, whispering. “I swear to God, the way he just looked at me, I think if he could fuck me in the restaurant right now, in front of you, waitstaff, God and country, he would.” The tip of a tentacles slips between the lips of your pussy as another suctions your clit. You barely hide the flutter of your eyes.
He yanks you forward and to the edge of the bench with the tentacle around your waist.
“Are you alright?”
Only the rear of your ass remains on the bench. You pussy, opened by the parting of you thighs, is defenseless. You start to answer. You feel a slimy squirt, a drawing back, then a thick tentacle drives smoothly, thickly, and commandingly up and into you. Your lips and mouth stretch with the stretching beneath you.
“Honey, you’re red as a beet!” says your friend, hand on your wrist.
The tentacle around your waist tugs. You arch, impaled. Your ass is vulnerably lifted. The waiter appears just in time. Your friend turns. She doesn’t notice your eyes roll as a slippery tentacle threads into your ass. The feelers journey inside you. You could swear the first tentacle has coiled into your womb. The back and forth thrusting of its tip, invisible to all, is a ghostly tickle from your pussy to the back of your throat. You place the flat of your hand on your belly. You’re going to be fucked and inseminated in front of everyone. The first tentacle is already rubbing that place, like another clit, deep in the moist dark of your abdomen. Your friend passes you a wine list. “You know,” she says, “everyone said your marriage would never last. They said you were too different.” You swallow. You want to arch, to close your eyes, to grab the edge of the bench and spread your legs. Your friend continues. “I didn’t. I said if anybody could make a marriage work, you would. I saw the chemistry. I don’t miss a thing, you know. Some people say I can read minds. I saw it the day you laid eyes on him. Other women would have run screaming. Not you. Are you OK? You look like you have to pee. I have to pee.”
“No, just a little–,” you begin to you say, but the waiter distracts your friend. She pats your hand, wrinkles her nose, and gives the waiter her order. You’re holding the menu with white knuckles. “I haven’t decided yet,” you say when it’s your turn.
The waiter turns to your husband.
“Are you going to have anymore children?” your friend whispers. “I always sort of wished I had married someone from another background or culture. Mixed race children are always so beautiful. Your children are so special.”
“I have a toast,” your husband announces. He smiles at you from across the table even as his tentacle thrusts relentlessly inside you. “To the most beautiful and desirable woman on this whole rock.” You bite your bottom lip and try not to scowl at him. He lifts a wine glass. The waiter fills it. Just as the tingling clink of crystal sounds above the table, the tentacle in your ass stiffens, straightening you as though from ass to mouth. Your knees spread wider as tentacles lift your heels off the floor.
Your husband sips the wine.
Serene bliss alters his expression, as though the taste had overcome him. He leans back in the chair, eyes closed, as you feel the first, long, inhuman spurt. The tentacle stops moving, the tip bursting with orgasm. They aren’t short, brief spurts, but long, powerful squirts that you can feel like a warm pressure building inside you.
What can you do? Your pussy is anchored.
“So are you?”
“I’m sorry,” you answer in a daze. “Am I what?”
“Going to have more children?”
The inseminate filling you is making your belly feel tight. “I think–” You exhale. You refuse. You won’t! You won’t let him. A tiny tentacle is suctioning your clit. The tip of another in your ass is pressing and massaging somewhere deeply behind your diaphragm. “I think–” But you can’t stop it. You bite your lip.
If not for the girth of the tentacles plugging your pussy and ass, Tentacles ooze would spurt out of you, would drip over the edge of the bench and spatter the floor. Instead, slight spurts, your own, spray the black and white checker floor beneath your opened thighs. The tentacle in your pussy drips. When you’re done shaking, when you finally let go of the table’s edge, when you can look up from the white porcelain plate, you hoarsely answer, “Yes. Yes, we’re going to have more children.”
“I just knew you would.” Your friend squeezes your hand. “You’re such a wonderful mother.”
The tentacles are withdrawing and you already struggle to contain the stuff. You need to make it to the bathroom without the thick syrup bursting out of you. You lean toward your friend. “You want to know something?” Your friend excitedly nods as if to hear you’re pregnant. “If you’re ever ravished by a Tentacle,” you whisper, “don’t let it make you come. They can’t impregnate you unless you come. It’s a woman’s orgasm that makes their semen work.”
Your friend blinks.
You turn to your husband, then to the waiter. “I know what I’d like.”
“Calamari,” you say.
Your husband’s face darkens. He pouts. He straightens his tie. You narrow your eyes and lick your lips. “With white wine.”
Will Crimson: September 22, 2011
- This gruesome post, by the way, is the inevitable sequel to the sequel.