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The Many-Tentacled Monster
The continuing and horrible saga of Tentacle (the Great) by Redbud
Mother Superior said nothing at first. She didn’t need to.
She floated quietly, back and forth, her eyes never wavering from the students’ deathly silence. They sat in perfect rows. The girls all wore the same white blouse, the same black ties, the same knee length socks, and the same pleated blue skirts. They sat with their books open. Their elbows and slender forearms rested on the desktops to each side of their opened books.
She stepped, or did she float, between the rows of desk? Her Holy habit wasn’t once perturbed by the bending of a knee or the sway of hips. The black cloth was motionless as she moved between the desks.
“And now,” she sighed, “naïve and simple-minded girls that you are, you will doubtlessly and most earnestly seek to avoid that many-tentacled monster.” Mother Superior stopped and with a stern voice addressed one of the girls. “Madeleine! Have you seen this many-tentacled monster?”
“No, Mother Superior!”
“Of course not,” smiled Mother Superior, “because you cannot see a metaphor. And, of course, now you must be thinking to yourselves, that this tentacle monster called metaphor is invisible. Sit up, Madeleine.”
“Yes, Mother Superior!”
“Young ladies, it embarrasses me to have to explain. A metaphor is a figure of speech. If I describe a subject – Lucinda? Are you paying attention, Lucinda?”
Lucinda sat in the back row. She tried to be good, but she so wanted to turn around. The hair on the back of her neck had risen. Goosebumps covered her arms and even her knees. She felt a giant and overwhelming presence. She felt it like a dark tug. She felt it at her ankle, a warm, coiling moisture that made her bite her lip and grip the pages of her book.
“Yes, Mother Superior!” Lucinda answered.
“I expect your full attention when I am addressing you.” Mother super approached Lucinda, her habit never wavering.
“Yes, Mother Superior!”
“Hold out your hand, palm up.”
But Lucinda didn’t need to be told. With a practiced ease, the elderly woman withdrew a ruler and smacked the young woman’s palm. The girl inhaled and shivered stiffly. But there was more to that sharp pain than met the eye. The other students who couldn’t watch, who didn’t dare turn but looked straight head, heard her sharp inhalations the ten times her palm was struck.
And they were reminded of rumors: what it is like to be with a man; what a man does to a girl, how the man does it to her, and what becomes of the girl as he finishes her. A shiver runs through them all. Yes, the first strike of her palm, the first sharp intake of breathe, like the moment when a man’s cock – they collectively blush to even think the word – first parts their thighs. That second cry, neither inhalation nor exhalation, when her belly is abruptly filled, the third when she struggles, too late, and her cry changes into something like a grunt, the fourth when he turns her around as though she were an animal to be mounted and rutted, the fifth! – But would he really do such a thing to me? – they breathlessly ask themselves.
Surely, not if his love for me is pure!
Such things are only done other girls. We are going to school. We are educated and moral. We will not be bred like she-animals! We will not be like those rumored girls who who are mounted on their knees, their heads down, the flower of their virtue submissively lifted behind them for the rude soiling and possession of the unspeakable shame that juts from a man’s thighs. Sixth! They also cried with disgust and something else. When the cry is no cry but like the silent O a woman’s lips make around the base of a cock. Seventh! When the little breaths and cries become an unending punctuated moan.
Oh! But then they feel the strange, soft, muscular tentacle around their ankles! But they dare not turn around. Mother Superior has forbidden it. But what is it? Is it the metaphor? The tentacle rises upward, twining, twining up their calves. Oh, how tighyly the girls hold their books! How tightly they grasp the edges of their desks! More tentacles. They rise over their shoulders, down between their clavicles, under their white blouses, and curl around their nipples.
Eight! Lucinda moans and her classmates gasp and moan. The tentacle has climbed their legs and the very tip, coiling between their thighs like a viper has struck them, in one quick stroke, penetrating them to their wounds. Their eyes roll. Their legs open. Their fingers loosen on their books and slip from their desks as their backs bend and their heads fall back.
Nine! Lucinda dares not look. How can Mother Superior not see? Something has lifted a classmate from her desk. Something dark, sinuous and like a whip has yanked a girl to the back of the room. Did the girl see it or did she not? – only in the corner of her eye.
She imagines the many-tentacled monster. It has penetrated Lucinda too. It tickles her womb with the stringy tip of its tentacle. It tugs on her nipples. It grazes her clit and tugs her knees wider. She cannot bear the agony!
Ten! The classroom of girls exhales with a collective sigh.
The terrible metaphor squeezes the stolen girl, holding her upside down. It’s giant round tentacles encircle her until only her slender bare legs, blue socks, and black leather shoes show above the coiled mass. Her knees are bent. The horrible monster has driven muscular and undulating tentacles between her parted thighs – one in her cunt, another in her ass.
The mass of coiled tentacles squeezes, releases and squeezes. One of the girl’s delicate breasts has slipped out of her blouse and thrusts, as if all the liquor of her distress had thickly engorged her ballooning breast, between the coils. The monster releases and squeezes again. Her aureole and nipple expand in un-suckled agony. Still, the tentacles, snake-like, release and squeeze until finally, with each flex of the muscular beast, a sharp spurt bursts and dribbles from the girl’s nipple. Another, also with each squeeze, arcs from her parted thighs, squeezed from between her clit and the thick tentacle impaling her pussy. The largest of the tentacles pushes, digs and undulates mysteriously inside the girl.
“Do I have your attention?”
“Yes, Mother Superior!” Lucinda breathlessly lies.
How can Mother Superior not see what is happening behind her? But the nun has already turned her back and is floating toward the front of the classroom. Behind her, the long, thick tentacles are slowly withdrawing, as if they had found what they had been searching for. The poor girl’s cunt still grips and releases, grips and releases, her spine curling with each contraction, each contraction more exhausted than the last. The withdrawing girth of the tentacles become smaller and smaller until the final slender, rope-like tips slip out of her ass and pussy. More spurts of fluid jet from between her legs until they are finally no more than hiccuping burbles that drenches her own abdomen. The horrible monster unwinds its grip on the girl and quietly returns her to her desk.
Lucinda must look. She must!
Poor, innocent Kirsten! She sits in her chair like an unstrung puppet. Her head hangs back. Her beautiful, long black hair is undone and feathered behind the chair back. Her eyes loll sightlessly beneath her half-closed lids. Her breasts rise and fall. One swollen nipple impends the white fabric while the other juts free, a clear liquor from the blunt and truncated nipple. Her arms hang loosely. Her legs are slack and open. Her socks are crumpled and one leg, knee bent akimbo, wrests on an ankle, tied to the other ankle by her panties. A drop, a final spurt slipping from between her parted thighs, gathers at the chair’s edge, falls and spatters the floor.
Mother Superior turns.
She glares at Lucinda, but Lucinda already looks straight ahead. Lucinda sees it – the awful tentacle that slips underneath the nun’s habit. Then Mother Superior returns to the front of the classroom. “A metaphor is a figure of speech that describes a thing by reference to something else. Do you really think there is such a thing as a tentacle or a many-tentacled monster?”
“No, Mother Superior!” answer all the young woman.
The old nun appraises them with a self-satisfied smirk. “Of course you don’t. You will be different, somehow. Why should you be like every class before you?” The elderly woman snorts. “You suppose your chastity won’t be soiled like all the others. You think you won’t willingly submit your chastity, on hands and knees, for the depositing of sin in your little bellies?”
“No, Mother Superior!”
Oh no, thinks Lucinda! She vows to resist the horrible metaphor but the devious tip of its tentacle torments the dark moisture wihtin her. She cannot close her thighs. The thing between is too thick. And then, as though it had found the dark secret of the young woman, a little flick of the tentacle’s tip makes Lucinda shudder, makes her nipples burst under her blouse, makes her grunt once, sharply and helplessly, as a warm syrup floods her panties and chair. The tentacle already begins to withdraw. Oh, what has it found? Lucinda’s eyes roll, her back arches and her fingernails dig into the pages of the book. She cannot stop the involuntary slide and sinful pleasure that seems to follow the tip of the withdrawing tentacle, follows until it departs with an evanescent web of fluid stretched between the tip of the tentacle, curled like an expectant fiddle-head, and her clit.
“Don’t think this insatiable monster will be satisfied with dainty morsels or tidbits. You will be consumed by it. The monster is a many-tentacled beast having as many arms as a woman has vulnerabilities. The is nothing more dangerous than similes or metaph–”
“But Mother Superior,” blurts Wilhelmina, sitting in the front row, “doesn’t that mean God is just a metaphor?”
A collective gasp fills the room. The elderly woman’s face turns white as chalk.
She closes her eyes. She opens her thighs wide. Her knees thrust over opposite edges. Her feet rise to her toes. Helpless, unable to stop them, her spurts come hard and quick. The web of goo between the tentacle’s curled tip and her clit dips and breaks. She convulses. She pivots her pussy hard into the seat. When the last spasm grips her and she opens her eyes, her breath uneven, she hardly knows what has happened.
She grips the edges of the desk, straightens, presses her knees together.
“Bend over the desk,” the ederly woman says to the young blond, Wilhelmina Rose.
No sooner has Wilhelmina bent over than Mother Superior yanks up her skirt snaps her panties down mid-thigh. Another collective gasp of shock reverberates through the room. “What’s this?” asks Mother Superior.
“Please, Mother Superior–” the girl rapidly stammers. “It’s just a tat–”
“Don’t take me for a fool. I know full well what a tramp stamp is. I want to know what this is. This!” The elderly woman drives a long fingernail into the tattoo at the small of her back. The girl rises, eyes wide, but only her upper body. Her back, arched, is held in place by the elderly nun’s fingernail, so that her buttocks remain lifted.
“The Flying Spaghetti monster, Mother Superior!”
“Put your head down and you will count to twenty.” The elderly nun produces her ruler once again. She stands to the side with the girl bent over in profile. She holds the student down with one hand at the nape of her neck. The young woman’s short blond hair falls over her eyes and cheeks. The first crack of the ruler is fast and unexpected. The student inhales, eyes wide, head lifted. “One!” she groans. She lifts one foot off the floor and claws the far edge of the desk. The class shudders as her youthful ass lifts and gyrates behind her.
Lucinda bites her lip as once again she feels the tentacles around her ankles.
“Do you know the name of this many-tentacled monster?” asks Mother Superior. “Do you want to know?” She strikes the ass of the bent over girl again without looking. The girl’s eyes roll. Her back arches and her legs immediately widen, straight, and knees locked. “The name of the many-tentacled monster is LUST. Don’t think I don’t see it writhing among you. And every tentacle has a name: desire, temptation, gluttony, envy, and that most foul and loathsome tentacle of all: Erotica.”
The old nun strikes the bent over girl’s ass with a sudden viciousness and the student rises to the tips of her toes, her back a U of shock, her straining ass and head lifted, her arms stretched in front of her. “Two!” she cries. A sudden trickle of piss, or something else, streaks her inner thigh, her calf, and gradually turns her sock a darker and darker blue.