Tentacle Eats In
Another titillating Tentacular travesty by Redbud
- October 9th 2017: Just edited this story. Hope I’ve improved it. I changed the narrative from second person to third. The fourth story in the continuing, terrifyingly twisted travels of Tentacles (look here for the others). 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 scientists are strong.
“How could you?”
“I trusted you!”
“Of course you did,” says the smaller one. “Who wouldn’t trust Teddy Bears?”
“You mean – ”
“Yes,” answers the second scientist. “All of us!”
“But we were best friends!”
“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. The females never do. You won’t be any different.”
“I will be”
“No you won’t.” They tie her wrists to the closet pole.
“How long are you going to leave me in here?”
“Until you’re inseminated.”
The words are spoken so clinically, so matter-of-factly. “What do you mean – inseminated?”
“You can’t! I mean—but—impregnated?”
“Look around you,” says the smaller one.
She looks and it as if a blindfold were removed. She hangs from a pole above a black and opaque pool in a strange, overgrown cave. Sunlight pours through a jungle-like canopy of leaves, just visible through a chasm-like crack at the top. The slender beams of the sun’s light are 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. She sees Tentacle’s foul work. Other woman hang by the wrists, each is a little more pregnant than the other. The syrupy goo of orgasm trickles down their thighs, drips from their toes into the pool below. The long auburn hair of one is dampened by the milk of her nipples. Her eyes are half-closed in ecstasy. She groans. Her fingers and toes stretch and curl. She stiffens, lifts her pussy behind her, then grunts as her thighs newly glisten. Penelope! She worked in the same office. She had had a promising career.
Just beyond her is another girl, but more pregnant. She only graduated from high school two years ago and now her head hangs back and her breasts areswollen. Her nipples are pierced and two silver rings hang from the lips on each side of her pussy. The black pool ripples beneath her. Semen drips from the corner of her mouth. And then there’s her neighbor, just two houses down. Unlike the others, her legs are held apart by a spreader bar. She also drips into the pool.
“No!” She’s distracted when she feels rope around her own ankles.
“We cannot have you interfering,” says the first scientist.
“Yes, access to your womb must be unimpeded.”
“I’m a human being!” she objects. “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 inseminated.”
“How can you be so clinical!”
A ripple disturbs the surface of the black water. The scientists back away. “No!” she cries. “You can’t leave me like this! I’m defenseless! I have a career. I have a graduate degree! Don’t you understand! This isn’t my kink! I’m a liberated woman! I don’t know how to change diapers! For God’s sake, I’m up for a promotion!”
A deep and horrible voice reverberates in the dark chamber. “Honey, I’m home.” The first of his horrible tentacles breach’s the surface of the water. “Oh – there you are,” says the gravelly voice as a second, third and fourth tentacle twists and rises from the surface. She struggles but she can’t even close her thighs.
“Don’t touch me foul fiend!”
A third, fourth, and fifth tentacle appear. “You know,” says the horrible 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?”
“Add you to my collection.” 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 she could hardly fit your mouth around. The end already drips and glistens. The other tentacles rise and press against the arch of her feet, then round her thighs, round the backs of her knees and slowly toward her inner thighs, defenselessly spread by the bar. “This is going to break you.” The horrible eighth tentacle, the one she feared the most, moved toward her mouth. “Don’t you want to taste it first?”
“Break me?” she spits. “You can’t break me.”
“Just like the others.”
She turns her head this way and that, refusing to let the tip touch her lips.
“Why do you refuse me?” the horrible monster gurgles. “The spreader bar holds you open. You have some other lips will kiss me, will suck me, will swallow my squirts.”
The tip of a tentacle presses against her anus. She arches. Her mouth opens as the pressure builds. The squirming tip slips inside you. “No!” she grunts. Her fingers close into fists as she squirms, rocks her hips, tries to expel the slippery feeler. She pushes, instinctively, as though to expel the tentacle, then sharply inhales as the mass of the tentacle abruptly slips inside. Her anus opens wider and wider. She pushes and contracts again as the worm-like tip tickles her gut. But her movements change. The presence in her gut becomes impossibly pleasurable. Her flat belly stretches, muscles clench, relax.
“That’s it,” the horrible monster whispers. “Soon you’ll be just like them.”
“No,” she groans, but the tips of other tentacles are tightening, noose-like, around her distended nipples, cutting their circulation, making them swollen and sensitive. Another tentacle draws her head back, twined in her hair. The tentacle deeply in her ass makes her arch. The spreader splashes in the black pool as tentacles take its place, drawing her legs further apart. A first spasm of pleasure works her immobile body.
“Lick it,” says the monster.
The eighth tentacle, glistening with pre-seminal fluids, slips between her lips, into her mouth. She tastes salt-watery acridness, an odor meant for her womb. She squirms, massaged by the tentacles surrounding her, soft but muscular, warm with the slipperiness of sex and penetration. Every part of her is pinched with a thousand suction cups, sucking at her nipples; kneading the muscles of her back; parting the cheeks of her ass, drawing bruises at her throat.
“Lick it,” the monster murmurs.
Slowly, trembling, eyes growing heavy, her tongue rises, curves and licks the crown. Soft, spasmodic flows of pre-cum slip down her tongue’s V. She swallows. The white syrup slips from the corner of her lips.
The eighth tentacles slides downward, between collar bones, breasts and lower. Another tentacle slips into her mouth. She swallows but somehow doesn’t gag. The smooth tentacle pushes down her throat. The tentacle in her ass and throat fill her with their warm syrup until her face and throat are mottled with the aphrodisiac. The broad flange of the largest tentacle slips into the place where a woman’s skin divides and opens. She moans. Her eyes turn upward. She can do nothing. The heavy knob curls, pushes, works softly up and into her hard abdomen. Her toes curl. Her muscles tighten. Her fingers open and close.
“That’s it, girl,” the monster croons, withdrawing the tentacle from her mouth. “You’re almost ready. Show me where you want it.” She inhales, thighs stretched, head drawn back. “No!” she trembles. “Oh no! No. Oh no!”
The tentacle that had been in her mouth slips around her clit like a choking noose.
“Please!” she begs. “Don’t make me! I’ll do anything! I have money! I have friends in high places!”
“Don’t make you what?”
“I have a career!”
“Your little clit says your pussy needs come—so much come—-so deep, so much” croons the monster.
Her eyes once more turn upward. Her abdomen powerfully clenches. Over the white noise of her heartbeat the splash of her orgasm sounds in the pool beneath. As she flows into the pool, the monster flows into her womb. She twists. She arches. Her womb swims with the syrup of his orgasm. “Drip, drip, drip, my little love,” he hums pleasurably. “I can already taste your insemination in my pool.”
When the monster’s tentacles finally withdraw, she hangs like the other women, inseminated, wombs filled and impregnated, lost to the aphrodesia pumped into your belly. She hangs by her writs like the other women, lost, gestating, career and spotless academic record for naught – one more woman subdued by the exceedingly evil and strangely irresistible tentacle.
“How long are you going to hang there?”
The foul creature hangs up his pants, shirt and tie, each with a different tentacle. “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 creature slips back into the dark waters. “I got you wheat pasta,” it burbles menacingly.
“You are evil incarnate.” She drips into the pool.
“What?” The monster, with one long tentacle, holds the box of pasta in the cave’s sunlight and shakes it. Its voice reverberates like a cataclysm of tumbling rock. The chamber’s leaves shake as though a storm blew through. “Silence, little fool! It says right here: You can substitute kale for spinach.”