The Erotic Writer

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Tentacle Eats In

Tentacle Eats In
Another titillating Tentacular travesty by Redbud

  •  The fourth story in the continuing, terrifyingly twisted travels of Tentacles (look here for the others). Some of my readers (male) tell me it’s harder to sink into the story when it’s written in the second person singular: you. But, boys, allow your faithful erotic writer his petty flirtations. These stories are written for the gals – and they know who they are. I notice some searches for consensual tentacle stories. I won’t tell you how to read this story — it could be consensual or — it could be non-consensual. So — you tell me.

You struggle but the two scientists are strong.

“How could you?” you cry.

“You all ask the same question,” says the larger one.

“I trusted you!”

“Of course you did,” says the smaller one. “Hence our disguise.”

“You mean – ”

Yes,” says the second scientist. “All of us!”

“But we trusted you!”

“Of course you do.”

“But we’ve been best friends since I was a little girl!”

“We’ve always known what was in store for you.”

“I swear!” you scream. You try to kick at them, bite, anything. “As soon as I get free – “

“You never will,” says the stronger one.

“And besides,” adds the other, “if you do, you won’t talk. None of them do.  You won’t be any different.”

“I will be”

“No you won’t.” They force your hands over your head and tie them, by the wrists, to the closet pole.

“How long are you going to leave me in here?”

“Until you’re inseminated.”

Your stomach flips. The words are spoken so clinically, so matter-of-factly. “What do you mean – inseminated?”


“Look around you,” says the smaller one.

She looks as if a blindfold had been removed. She hangs from a pole above a black and opaque pool of water in a strange, overgrown cave. Sunlight pours through a jungle-like canopy of leaves, just visible through a chasm-like crack at the top of the cave. The slender beams of the sun’s light are like brilliant bars cutting through the eerie darkness. The tips of leaves, vines climbing the cave wall, striate the light in sharp-edged alternations of light and shadow.

She hears dripping, then sees the other women. They hang next to her by the wrists. Each is a little more pregnant than the other. The clear, syrupy goo of orgasm trickles from their wombs, from the swollen lips between their thighs. The stringy fluid slowly drips down their inner thighs, down the backs of their knees, their calves, until it drips from their toes into the pool below. One hangs with her head forward. Her long auburn hair is dampened by the dripping milk of her swollen nipples. Her eyes are half-closed with the blindness of ecstasy. She groans. Her fingers and toes stretch and curl as another slow orgasm squeezes milk from her swollen nipples. She stiffens, arches, lifting her pussy behind her, then grunts as her thighs newly glisten and run with another seizure. She goes slack and moisture drips from her bottom lip. You recognize her. She worked in your office. She had had a promising career.

Just beyond her is another girl, but even more pregnant. She only graduated from high school two years ago and now her head hangs back and her breasts are full and swollen. Her nipples are pierced and two silver rings hang from the lips on each side of her tumescent pussy. Every so often she stiffens and spasms. The black pool sounds with the juices of her milk and pussy. Semen drips from the corner of her mouth, streaks her throat and flows between her breasts. Her eyes are also half-lidded.

To her right is another woman who shows the least. She’s your neighbor, two houses down. Unlike the others, her legs are held apart by a spreader bar. She stares straight ahead as though intent on some inner pleasure that makes her pant and struggle.

“No!” She’s distracted when she feels rope around her own ankles.

“We cannot have you interfering,” says the first scientist.


They force your ankles apart with the spreader bar. “Yes, full access to your pussy and womb is required.”

“I’m a human being!” you object. “I’m not just a –“

“Yes we know,” answers the first scientist. “You can imagine crossword puzzles for all we care – so long as your pussy is full and your womb is being filled. It doesn’t have to concern you. You might just feel a warm tickle as his fluid impregnates you.”

A ripple disturbs the surface of the black water. The scientists back away.

“No!” you cry out. “You can’t leave me like this! I’m defenseless! I have a career. I have a graduate degree! You don’t understand! This isn’t my kink! I’m a liberated woman! I don’t know how to change diapers! For God’s sake, I have a Masters degree! I’m up for a promotion!”

A horrible, deep and gravelly voice reverberates in the leafy chamber. “Honey, I’m home.” The first of his horrible tentacles breach’s the surface of the water. “Oh – there you are,” says the horrible, masculine voice as a second, third and fourth tentacle twists and rises from the surface of the water. You struggle but there’s nothing you can do to close your thighs, to protect and hide your pussy or the womb to which it leads.

“Don’t touch me foul fiend!” you snarl.

A third, a fourth, fifth tentacle appear. “You know,” says the horrible, gravelly monster, “I go out. I work. A slave all day. All I ask, when I come home every now and then, is for a nice piece of ass – a little morsel. Is that too much to ask?”

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Exactly what’s meant to be done to you.” The eighth tentacle, the most horrible tentacle of all, rises up from the black pool. The tip isn’t like the others. The end is long, thick, and a wide, spaded, bell-like flare that you could hardly fit your mouth around. A small slit in the end of it already drips and glistens with a slippery slickness. The other tentacles rise and press against the arch of your feet, then round and up your thighs, round the backs of your knees and slowly toward your inner thighs, held defenselessly open by the spreader bar. The horrible eighth tentacle, the one you fear the most, moves toward your mouth. “Don’t you want to taste it first? Get it wet for yourself? The full length of it? It’s all going to be inside you soon, breaking you, taking you.”

“I won’t be like them.”

“Yes you will.”

You turn your head this way and that, refusing to let the tip touch your lips.

“Why do you refuse me?” the horrible monster gurgles. “The spreader bar holds you open. I know some other lips of yours that won’t refuse me, that will kiss, open, and welcome me, will take my length and milk my spurts.”

You gasp. The tip of a tentacle presses against your anus. It’s moist, soft and cool. You arch and your mouth opens as the pressure builds and the tiny, squirming tip slips inside you and begins to tickle the very inside of your gut. “No!” you grunt. You fingers close into fists as you squirm, rock your hips back and forth, and try to expel the slippery feeler, but the pressure only builds. You push, instinctively, as though you were full and had to potty, and that opens your muscles. You throw your head back and stiffen as the mass of the tentacle abruptly slips through your tight anus. More and more of the tentacle pushes inside as the width forces your anus to open wider and wider. Your gut pushes and contracts again and again as you instinctively try to expel the increasing fullness. Somewhere, deep inside your gut, the worm-like tip of the tentacle is tickling you. Your anus is as stretched is it could possibly be. Your movements change as the deep pressure in your gut becomes impossibly pleasurable. Your flat belly stretches as you move your hips back and forth, as your muscles clench, push, and relax. Your pussy, still empty, opens, swells, and dampens.

“That’s it,” the horrible monster whispers. “Soon you’ll be just like them.”

“No,” you groan, but the tips of other tentacles are tightening, noose-like, around your distended nipples, cutting their circulation, making them swell, red, moist and sensitive. Another tentacle twines in and around your hair, forcing and drawing your head back. The spreader falls away, splashing in the black pool beneath you, as tentacles take the place of rope and further draw your legs apart by the ankles.

The monster draws your head back and forces your back to arch as though the tentacle in your ass were an anal hook drawing your ass back and upward. Tentacles tug your pinches nipples forward as your ankles are drawn up and back to your haunches, knees spread wide. You are immobile, stretched, arched and your pussy is defenseless between your opened thighs. The tentacle in your ass tickles you deep in your gut. A first spasm of pleasure wracks your immobile body.

The monster holds the tip of the eighth tentacle just above the open lips of your both.

“Lick it,” says the monster in a voice that reverberates on the water’s surface. The clear pre-seminal fluid drips from the tip of the monster tentacle into your mouth. You can smell and taste its salt-watery odor, the odor that will soon fill your womb. The tentacles around your body, your breasts and flat belly are strangely soft, yet muscular and unyielding. They are damp but also warm. They are slimy, but the slime is the slipperiness of sex and promised penetration, as though every part of the creature were the perfect sexual predator. It’s muscles massage and suck at every part of you with a thousand suction cups. They suck at your breasts as they tug; they knead the muscles of your back as they wrap around you; they part the cheeks of your ass and suck at your throat.

“Lick it,” the monster says again.

Slowly, trembling, eyes growing heavy with your possession, your tongue pushes past your lower lip, rises, curves and licks the tip of the eighth tentacle.

“Yes, girl,” rumbles the monster. “Good girl. Submit. Lick it. Submit yourself to it. It is what you are meant to receive.”

You lick the tip again, the only part of your body that you can move, as a soft spasmodic flow of pre-cum, twitch after twitch, slips down the broad, spaded head of the tentacle, down the V of your tongue, slowly filling your mouth until the white syrup slips from the corner of your lips, down your cheek and neck.

“Good girl,” whispers the monster, “do you taste me? That is for your womb, girl.”

You groan as a warmth begins to fill your gut.

“Ah, you feel that? You feel me pumping my aphrodisiac into your gut? Surrender to it.”

The tip of the eighth tentacles begins to slide down your chin, your taut throat, between your collar bones, your breasts and slowly lower. Another tentacle slips into your mouth, then pushes into your throat. You swallow but somehow you don’t gag. The smooth tentacle pushes down your throat and into your belly; and somehow you don’t suffocate. You feel the tip of the eighth tentacle, soft, almost tickling, wetly slide down the knotted and stretched muscles of your slender belly, over your belly button and to the top of your pudenda.

The tentacle in your ass and throat begin filling you with their warm syrup, pumping until it feels as though your blood is warm with it — your face and breasts are red and mottled with the monster’s male aphrodisiac. The broad flange of the eighth tentacle slips to the place where your skin begins to divide and open into your pussy. You moan and your eyes roll as the tentacles broad flange slides over your helplessly exposed clit, and then the monstrous head of the tentacle lodges in the wet nook. You can do nothing to stop it.

“Are you ready?” murmers the tentacle monster.

Your face reddens and heats with anticipation. Though you clench, his flange smoothly and wetly open the lips of your pussy. Your eyes open wide and roll again as the spade suddenly pops inside and effortlessly slides upward toward your womb. Then the heavy knob, like a knot or a fist slides, pulls and pushes within the soft length of your hard abdomen. It thrusts again and again at the plce behind your belly button.

Each push against your womb makes your toes curl. The shaft sliding up and back behind your distended and exposed clit, rubbing it, makes you tremble.

“That’s it, girl,” the monster croons. “Come for me. Show me you want what I have to give you. Show me where you want it. Show me you understand.”

If you could scream, you would. Instead, your thighs are stretched and open. Your ankles are held back against your haunches. Your head is drawn back by a tentacle in your hair. Your wrists are bound above you. Your back is arched and tentacles suction the milk of your nipples. The only sign of your powerful orgasm are the alternating bands of sunlight that appear and disappear across the muscles of your stomach.

Only the whites of your eyes are visible.

The only other sign is what the monster feels, the muscles of your pussy powerfully gripping his tentacle again and again, milking it. Over the white noise of your own heartbeat, you barely hear the rhythmic splash of water beneath you as you squirt.

He fills you.

You feel the heat of his seminal fluid filling your womb even as you squirt and twist with contractions.

The male of the cephalopod species fills you — pumps his fluids into all your orifices. You swim with his warmth as he hums with pleasure. “I will enjoy the taste of you in my pool as you drip and drip.”

When the monster’s tentacles finally withdraw, you hang like the other women, inseminated, wombs filled and impregnated, lost to the aphrodesia the monster has pumped into your belly and ass. You will hang like the other women, gestating, their careers and spotless academic records for naught – one more woman subdued by the evil and strangely irresistible tentacle.

“How long are you going to hang there?” murmurs the horrible Tentacle.

He hangs up his pants, shirt and tie, each with a different tentacle on a clothes hanger next to you. “And what’s with these Teddy bears? What are they? Lab techs? Scientists? Where did you get those little costumes?”

“You won’t get away with this!”

The terrifying Tentacles slips back into the black water, tentacle by tentacle. “I got you wheat pasta,” it burbles menacingly.

You are evil incarnate.” Your voice is hoarse. You drip into the pool.

“What?” The monster, with one long tentacle, holds the box of pasta in the cave’s sunlight and shakes it. His voice reverberates like a dark tumbling of rock. The leaves inside the cave shake as though a wind blew through it. The sunlight flickers with their trembling. “Silence, little fool! It says right here: You can substitute kale for spinach.”

29 comments on “Tentacle Eats In

  1. nilla
    July 20, 2012

    oh, what a twisted fucking tale! I LOVE it. LOVE it. yeah, i’m a slutty girl, but whoa…no one, Will Redbud, NO one, does tentacle porn like you do.



    • willcrimson
      July 20, 2012

      I’m related to Dr. Evil. Beware.

    • Gotta
      April 11, 2016

      Why can’t the girl trun into fucking superwoman and kick the tentacles asses and free the other women sot hey can live out their successful careers!!

    • willcrimson
      April 11, 2016

      Or you could think of these stories as a little bit of escapism for butt-kicking superwomen living successful careers. :-)

    • Nilla
      April 11, 2016

      Who reads escapist erotica for anything other than getting caught and seduced and or taken to the dark side? ! Besides. ..Tentacle is despicable–it says so right in the warning paragraph. That’s part of his evil charm.


  2. Harper Eliot
    July 20, 2012

    Oh holy Jesus…

    Fuck and fuck. And fuck again. How I love to read absurd words as I’m coming… “You can substitute kale for spinach”… I never thought I’d be reading that mid-orgasm.

    *pulls self together* But as a rational English student as well, let me say bravo! Quite a story… and with so… much… woah. Horrifying. Arousing.

    (Although there are a few grammar things. If you ever need a proofreader…)

    • willcrimson
      July 20, 2012

      Yikes, says Dr. Evil! I just corrected some of the most egregious mistakes. I think I’m going to have to give this a once over later today, once I’ve gotten a little distance — (if just to smooth out the narrative). But yes, my dear, now you will forever associate Kale with Orgasms. Everything is proceeding as I have foreseen.

    • Harper Eliot
      July 21, 2012

      You’re an evil genius! Mmmm… kale…

  3. paul1510
    July 20, 2012

    you are positively sick, but in such an interesting way!!!

    • willcrimson
      July 20, 2012

      I wondered what you would write… :-)

  4. willcrimson
    July 20, 2012

    By the way, I thank you all.

    twisted, horrifying, positively sick, absurd…

    No really, I’m touched. Thank you…. your praise renders me speechless.

  5. Pingback: Tentacles and more Tentacles « Vanillamom's Blog

  6. Anonymous
    September 29, 2012

    Damn that was amazing! Very dark………

    • willcrimson
      October 2, 2012

      Thanks Anon. Sorry I haven’t been around. I just saw your comment. :-)

  7. tina
    October 28, 2012

    *heavy sigh* I’ve wasted years… YEARS.. spurning tentacle porn.
    I’m not sure whether I should thank you for enlightening me to the endlessly entertaining possibilities, or curse and run back to hide under my previously comfortable rock.
    I’ll have to flip a coin.
    Right after I make Calamari & Kale for dinner. With a nice white… :)

    • willcrimson
      October 28, 2012

      You cannot escape the Tentacle. You cannot spurn the Tentacle. The Tentacle will get you no matter where you hide. It’s arms can reach anywhere and in a thousand different ways, times eight. Stay tuned, I mean to have another Tentacle ready for Halloween.

    • vanillamom
      October 28, 2012

      my Will! There you are! Been missing you fiercely. Shame on you for being away for so long! Tentacles for All Hallow’s….*shivers with delight*…oh, the horror….


    • willcrimson
      October 29, 2012

      Oh Nilla, it’s a long story fraught with melodrama.

    • vanillamom
      October 29, 2012

      your story? or Tentacles…or are they perhaps…identical…?



  8. Cara Thereon
    March 25, 2013

    Really enjoy this genre (can I call it a genre?) of writing. I think it’s the force that I find arousing. I’ve read some of the other parts, so well done.

    • willcrimson
      March 25, 2013

      They’re a lot of fun to write. And yes, I can see how the force could be appealing. What can you do, after all. All those arms, those penetrating tentacles, those powerful suction-thingies… :-)

  9. penelopelake
    March 28, 2013

    OK. *sigh*. I might be a little bit of a tentacle fan. Sometimes. But it really depends on the story. :-)

    • willcrimson
      March 28, 2013

      That’s how it starts: just that first tentacle, insinuating, hinting, pressing itself into your imagination.

  10. Rudy
    November 19, 2013

    Oh, the mixture of the profane of the imagination with the mundane of everyday is so rich. Truly nasty and wonderful. Telling the truth about our darkest daydreams.

    • willcrimson
      November 19, 2013

      Tentacle and I are collaborating on a Virgin Sacrifice story. [Rolls eyes.] You know, you only provoke Tentacle with comments like these… The thing is already insufferable.

  11. ladyhornica
    July 16, 2015

    LOVE IT, best story i have ever seen.
    I really hope you write many more like this.

    • willcrimson
      July 16, 2015

      And each one a little different? Tentacle lives for his adoring legions, minions, victims and fans.

  12. Anonymous
    April 11, 2016

    Ugh why does the girl always have to be a slave or bonded why can’t she turn into fucking superwoman and kick the tentacles ass and free the women so they can live out thier suucesful lives!!

    • willcrimson
      April 11, 2016

      That’s like reading a crime novel and complaining that it’s full of criminals.

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