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The Stranger Tentacle on the Bus
Another puerile, perverted, and pestilential tentacle post by Redbud
‘What a fucking little shit.’ She stepped up into the bus and her boyfriend followed.
“Just ignore him.”
“Give it a rest.”
“Ever since the aquarium you’ve been a complete dink – a complete fucking, squid-brain.”
“What’s your problem?”
“This! This is my problem! Some perv following me around, you, and this. What is this? Fucking senior citizen day?”
She and her boyfriend move between the taken seats. They move to the back door. The other teen is staring at her tits, a skinny kid with geek glasses, jeans and a white and blue plaid shirt. He’s stands aside as they squeeze by him in the isle and he stares at her ass. When she turns, she glares at him and lifts her middle, fuck-you finger between her breasts. The geek looks away.
At least she’s ditched her family with the Zebras.
Why did she and her boyfriend get dragged along, anyway? The bus lurches forward.
“Good afternoon everyone!” says a cloyingly happy voice. “You’re embarking on journey into a wilderness of rare, wild and exotic animals.”
The woman rambles on.
The day is hot and humid. The bus reeks of sweat, old perfume, deodorant, and makeup. A middle-aged man is on her left, an elderly woman on the right. The geek is looking at her again. She rolls her eyes, gives him the finger again. She glares until he turns away, pushing his glasses up his nose.
They pause at the rhinoceroses, then the antelopes, then the elephants. Something touches and brushes her calf. She glances down, sees nothing. She turns. Her boyfriend, behind her, stupidly looks at the elephants. “Hey.” She licks his cheek. “I like that.”
The bus lurches forward and she turns again.
A hand touches her calf again, then curls around her knee. Another smooth, touch caresses the back of her other knee. A spindly chill snakes from the back of her knee, up the inward of her thighs and up her writhing spine. The bus slows in front of the seal & sea lion habitat.
“The seal and sea lion habitat is one of our most popular attractions,” the gratingly insouciant voice bubbles.
Her knees are pulled slightly apart. “Do it!” she whispers. Her boyfriend is already lifting the back of her mini-skirt. He powerfully pulls her backward and lifts her ass with a hand at the base of her belly. She nervously glances at the other tourists. They’re all looking at the seals. A finger pulls her panties aside, two more are snaking upward toward her nipples.
She abruptly glances downward just as another hand closes around her neck, and she screa – The tentacle tightens. She can’t breathe. She struggles. Another tentacle closes round both wrists and lifts them. The tips of the tentacles under her tank top loop and tighten round the base of her nipples. She can’t move! Another tip presses at her anus and another begins to choke her clit. A desperate, oxygen deprived pleasure, light-headedness and blackness begins to creep into her vision. Just when she feels her bladder beginning to let go, the tentacle at her neck slowly loosens. She inhales, but quietly. Christ, what is she thinking? She should be screaming! She abruptly gulps air but the tentacle quickly tightens. A warning! She grips the stainless steel bar above her and swallows.
“I’m sure some of you, if you’ve visited our oceanic habitat, are disappointed that the wing housing our cephalopod collection isn’t viewable. Our most exciting specimen, if you return, is one so rare that researchers haven’t yet agreed on a classification. For now, it’s known as cephalopod eroticismus of the order octopoda.”
The geek stares at her. The little shit! Why isn’t he helping her? The tentacles at her nipples tighten and tug – little strangling knots that force her to bend over, that force her to surrender her pussy. She struggles. Half of her wants to scream, half is ashamed. The man and woman at her side don’t seem to notice. They peer out the window just as a slick smooth ball of flesh presses against the much smaller ‘I’ of her pussy. Her eyes widen and she pants.
“Like all cephalopods, the cephalopod eroticismus is a master of disguise,” says the giddy tour guide. “He can look like a neighbor, a boyfriend or a husband – and he almost fooled our handlers – but don’t worry, we have ways of spotting him. This is his breeding season. Who knows, maybe in 9 months we’ll have a dozen more of these wonderful cephalopods.”
The creature, or whatever it that was behind her, holds her firmly against itself, her ass back, her pussy lifted, her spine hooked. The giant knob of flesh pushes at her opening, stretching, indenting, forcing her legs wider as it begins to break her resistance. She pants, holds her breath, pants, and yet doesn’t dare to make a noise. Her mouth opens, widening with the widening between her legs. Another tentacle writhes upward beneath her shirt, upward between her breasts, and curls into a snake-like S in front of her mouth.
Her fingers grasp at the panicked air. She closes her mouth and shakes her head. The massive knot behind her abruptly presses. She inhales. She submissively widens her legs. Her mouth opens into a wide ‘O’ of shock. The lips of her pussy give way, stretching around and swallowing the giant bulb. She grunts once, loudly and sharply, her eyes rolling, then groans as the bulb slides effortlessly upward, into and inside her until it presses at her womb. The taut skin of her belly bulges with its heaviness as the other tentacle fills her mouth.
The geek massages the cock beneath his jeans. She sees the outline, full and bulging downward half way to his knee. He begins to walk toward her. The thick knob of the tentacle, tightly sealed inside her by the lips of her pussy, begins to thrust again and again, knocking expectantly at her womb, expecting her orgasm, her submission.
The geek stands above her. If only her eyes could plead. He still massages his cock and then says something, quietly, into a walkie talkie. She can’t hear him over the blood-rush in her ears. He knew. He knew all along. And finally, someone else notices, an elderly woman with a permed halo of gray hair. She’s sitting. She mouths the words, ‘Oh my God’; but the curl of her lips express disgust. ‘Little slut.’ She quickly turns away.
“Women, if you’re ever in the presence of a cephalopod eroticismus, don’t lose control,” continued the bubbly voice. “Our research has noted that though the cephalopod eroticismus can sense female fertility and fecundity (through special receptors along its tentacles) the cephalopod can’t impregnate you unless you orgasm. To prevent this, of course, you mustn’t let it immobilize you. If, however, the cephalopod immobilizes you, you will unfortunately discover that millions of years of evolution almost guarantees your submission, orgasm, insemination and impregnation. But I don’t think any of you have to worry about that.”
She struggles. She holds her breath. She tightens the muscles of her legs and arms, her thighs and back twisting. She pulls and pushes, but the struggle isn’t outside, it’s inside; and there it’s too late. She’s defenseless. No matter how she struggles, pushes and pulls, the stalk of the tentacle moves with her pussy, the giant bulb inside thrusts at her womb’s umbrella, unabated, with a perfect rhythm, unaffected by her contortions.
The keening pang of orgasm builds in the dark of her midriff. She wants to squeal with each thrust, but the tentacle in her mouth stifles her. Her defiance is gone, her toughness vanished. With a look, helplessly on the verge of orgasm, she pleads with the the geek. Her spine turns upward and stiffens. Her toes spread. Her fingers spread like the wings of a trapped butterfly. She tries to push the tentacle out with the muscles of her insides, but only a trickle of piss runs down her thigh.
Then, as though the pushing had opened her womb, the tentacle presses and holds. Her eyes lose focus once again. The contractions are long and deep and the tentacle times its powerful spurts. Her insides grow warm, thick and syrupy. The geek’s cock twitches. The hidden bursts soak his jeans from thigh to knee.
Then he seems to remember himself. He quickly kneels and draws a gold ring and tag from his pocket. “Yes Sir,” he says, speaking into the walkie talkie, “the specimen is successfully inseminating the subject.”
He unceremoniously yanks down her top. He pokes the tentacle at her left nipple and it releases. Blood rushes back into her nipple and if she could have screamed, she would have. Instead, her head rears back and her back arches with pain. Her trapped wrists and fingers contort wildly above her. She hardly notices, in the mix of orgasm and agony, when he takes her tit between his fingers, when he places the gold ring at her nipple, and when, with practiced skill, he tags the thrust of her tit. The prick of pain mixes with the spasms and spurting inside her. Another trickle streaks her thigh. She groans and goes slack.
When he stands he removes the tentacle from her mouth. He guides her exhausted lips to the semen-slick fabric of his jeans, to the place where the mushrooming tip of his cock still sputters. In the haze of her pleasure and drunken insemination, she licks him through the jeans, tasting his cum and kissing the tip. He lets her go. A strand of semen stretches from her bottom lip.
The tentacle releases her wrists. She doesn’t let go of the pole. She hangs, limply, knees bent, eyes half-lidded. The last shrunken tentacle withdraws from her belly. Not a drop slips from between the lips of her pussy. They close submissively behind the withdrawn bulb. Her miniskirt falls back into place as the bus comes to its last stop.
The geek disappears with the exiting crowd.
The bus is empty. She lets go of the pole, then half leans and half stumbles out of the bus. She surreptitiously reaches under the hem of her skirt, but the tentacle’s dark and fluid heat is locked in her abdomen.
When will it come out?
She feels the tug on her nipple and winces. She peers through the crowded walkways and squints at the glare of sunlight. Whatever was behind her has vanished into the crowd.
“There you are!”
“I lost you in the aquarium,” her boyfriend says with a smirk. “Did you get that piercing you wanted?”