Tentacle’s Terribly Long Day

July 9, 2015 5 Comments by willcrimson Alien/Monster

Tentacle’s Terribly Long Day

• This story has been waiting for a while — Kate Armstrong and I have been fussing over it between work and life (two different things). The story originated as a commission from Kate — a plot, the characters and their appearance. Soon as I found out what a wonderful artist she is, I asked if she wanted to trade a couple illustrations for the story. I have always wanted to collaborate. The good news is that we both enjoyed ourselves; and the other good news is that if you want to commission an illustrated erotic story, you can. Here’s the deal, commission two illustrations from Kate and I’ll write the accompanying story for free. The only catch is that we both have to like your idea. Just one offer. Short of that, visit Kate’s Blog, Sierra’s Blur, and say ‘Hello’.

Sierra burst into the cottage.

—What are you doing?

—Working.

—It’s beautiful outside.

—So go outside, he answered without turning. I need to work just one hour.

—We only have a week left.

—Do you have a point?

Sierra studied her boyfriend.

—It’s hot. There’s a waterfall and swim hole. I’m going swimming. Gonna’ stop me?

—Didn’t we go out last night?

—And?

—And the day before that?

—Coming or not?

—We’re not supposed to swim there.

—According to who?

—The owner.

—Miss High Heels? Fuck it. I’m not waiting. It’s August. I’m hot.

—They’re having a wedding.

—And I’m in a tank top and boots?

—That’s not what I mean.

—Have fun working.

—I fixed your glasses.

He took her square, half-frame glasses from the tabletop and cleaned them on his shirt.

—Oh for God’s sake Jeremy.

She didn’t take the glasses. She didn’t take a towel. She went out under the dappled shade branching above the cottage and passed two others; then followed a dirt road. Early morning heat already shimmered on the glistening hoods of cars parking for the wedding. Well-dressed children, couples and guessed passed her by. She found the unmarked path that broke through some saplings and dipped into the darker shade of pine and fir. The noise of the wedding party diminished.

To the right of the path, the lake glittered. The left was the darker mountainside. The sound of the waterfall filled the glade into which the path descended. Danger. Swim at own Risk. Sierra swung around the sign and jumped down to the sandy edge of the pool. There was nobody else, and not that she cared. She took off her tank top, unlaced her boots and shimmied out of her short shorts. She took up her short, strawberry blond hair into a pony tale. She hung her clothes on the sign.

She was naked. The water was cold and refreshing. She brushed her clit with a finger’s tip and dove into the half shade and sunlight. At the further end of the pool the waterfall was like a silver curtain. She spread her arms and kicked, then surfaced in a cool carve of dark sand, gravel and granite. Sunlight flickered on the roof of stone. What was so dangerous about the pool? It was as large behind the waterfall as outside. Something floated in the water.

Her glasses?

Had she been wearing them? Did she forget to take them off? They were in the middle of the pool. She pushed and glided toward them. She could only just touch the sandy floor with the tip of a toe. They glasses hadn’t moved. She reached. She touched them. She suddenly inhaled, mouth open, eyes unfocused. One tentacle snaked tightly round her pony tail. The other, embedded in her rectum, lifted her straight up and out of the water. Her eyes turned as her own weight slipped her down the impaling tentacle.

She groaned.

“What have we here?” hummed the creature.

Her wrists had already been drawn behind her. The creature her bent her like a bow, head back, belly thrust forward. Water cascaded and dribbled from her pussy as if she pissed. Yet another tentacle touched her lips, as if appraising them.

—Catch and release, murmured the monster. We’re supposed to throw you back in.

—Let me go! Sierra finally managed to shout.

—I like fight.

—I’m not your fucking toy!

—You’re better than a toy. You’re a girl.

—Let me go!

She kicked and was suddenly underwater. The creature was gone. She sputtered to the surface. Her glasses were tangled in her hair. She swung them to her nose with trembling fingers. She looked behind her. She spun left and then right.

—Asshole! she shouted.

She lunged toward the curtain of falling water and almost reached it A slender tentacle circled a knee, and then the other.

She dug into the sandy ledge but found no purchase. The monster easily overpowered her efforts to keep her knees together, opening her like a frog on the water’s surface. She turned. In the cavern’s dark, her vision blurred by water and wet glasses, the tar-black tentacle was almost indistinguishable from the shadow. But it’s skin glimmered with pearlescent colors. And then her head was yanked back by the pony tale.

—Asshole, what? the creature rumbled.

—What?

Something massive, the spongy bulbous tip of a tentacle, was pressing at the center of her thighs.

—Asshole, what, muttered the creature again.

Sierra huffed and clawed at the sand as she was stretched. Anything. Then her toes curled and her spine recoiled. The monstrous bulb opened her. She froze and panted. Another tentacle choked her clit.

—Hasn’t anyone trained you, girl?

—Fuck yo—

But her execration was cut short as more of the sinuous thickness pushed from behind. She froze, lips pursed, blowing through them.

—How about now?

—Asshole, she swallowed, Sir!

—That’s better, answered the creature.

—Please Sir!

She tried to reach behind her, to stop what was happening. Between her clit and it’s size—she would if it didn’t stop!

—It’s too big!”

—That’s better. Open your knees a little more. Good girl.

It pushed again.

—Yes, Sir! she inhaled. Anything you want to do to me, Sir!

Then she fell in the water, splashed and surfaced. Once more, with shaking fingers, she moved her glasses to her nose. She caught her breath. This time she backed through the waterfall. She moved slowly. She watched every shadow. Once outside, in the safety of the sunlight, she shouted a ‘Fuck you!’ at the waterfall. Something slithered at her ankle and she screamed. She scrambled out of the water, half throwing herself against the dry sand and stone. The dark water of the pool rippled calmly.

Where were her clothes?

There were a pair of red high heel shoes in the leafy weeds at the bottom of the sign. Then she heard voices. A couple was walking in the high grass of the field back the way she’d come. She squinted. She leaned, disbelieving. A tentacle, in an impossibly tailored suit, was leading a young woman—his date?—by a leash attached to her nipples. She was almost naked, but for high-heeled shoes, a wide-brimmed hat, and a silver chain attached to her belly button. The chain glittered at her hips and crossed her wrists at the small of her back. She took off her glasses. She looked again. She saw an ordinary couple. He wore the same suit and she wore a black one-piece dress.

Quietly and bare-footed, she snuck closer to the field. Now she could see other wedding guests across the field where the grass was mowed and a white tent gleamed in the daylight. When she looked through the glasses, she saw tentacles and women. The black, iridescent skin of the monsters contrasted with white cuffs and collars. All the women were naked, though each a little differently.

The couple who she had earlier had turned to the woods. She quietly cursed and hurried back to the glade and pool. She waded into the water and dove beneath the waterfall. When she surfaced she hurriedly peered left then right. Her eyes hadn’t adjusted yet. There! And then she almost screamed. The creature had lifted her straight out of the water by an ankle.

—What the fuck?

—Pardon? rumbled the gravelly monster.

—Sir! she breathed. What the fuck, Sir!

—Better!

—Where are my clothes?

—You don’t need clothes, woman.

—What—what’s outside? I mean, what kind of glasses—What did you do?

—They’re prescription, answered the monster.

Then it sniffed:

—All you women with your poor eyesight— See a blur and think it’s reality. The glasses simply let correct your vision, like any descent prescription.

Three weeks earlier (sound of musak):

—Now just tell me which one is better.

Sierra peered through the phoropter and saw not letters but a naked cowboy wearing chaps and a stetson.

—Um, aren’t there supposed to be letters?

—What do you see?

—A naked cowboy?

—Good, and what about now?

The phoropter clicked and she saw the cowboy change, just a little.

—I don’t know, but with the second lens there’s something—different?

—Very good, answered the ophthalmologist calmly, how about this?

—There’s, um, a tentacle?

—This one? His voice was even and soothing. Or this one?

—Another tentacle. Sierra’s nose scrunched into a question mark. Is that supposed to look like that?”

—This one? continued to the ophthalmologist, Or this one?

—Oh my god. The cowboy’s turning into tentacle. Is this like—I don’t know. Are you sure?

Three weeks and one minute later:

—Oh.

Then she gasped when the creature pulled her thighs apart, knees bent. She hung upside-down, her wrists held at her back by a third tentacle. Yet another blindfolded her. Yet another put on the red, high-heeled shoes. “What are you doing,” she asked plaintively.

—Inseminating you.

—What? No! Why?

—Because you’re a girl.

—But I’m a kick-ass army boot, girl!

Another tentacle, one of the two largest pressed. Her spine bent and she panted:

—Sir! I’m a kick-ass girl, Sir!

—And with a fine, deep and tight little pussy!

—But, Sir, you can’t Sir!

—Why not?

—Because— You— she sputtered. You’re a tentacle!

Her mouth opened. Her tongue curled as if pushed from her mouth by the size of the thing entering her.

—Good girl.

And then the creature happily hummed:

—Have you ever heard of Chinese water torture? It’s not what you think. Torture perhaps, or agony?—that special kind of agony that produces torturous pleasure. You can’t talk, can you?

One of the creature’s tentacles collected a drop falling from the tip of Sierra’s tongue and another dribbling down her belly, and tasted it.

—But as I was saying— Ah, so sweet, delicious and feminine. You can’t hide it. But— always when a girl is being fucked. Her taste—changes, such a feminine, aromatic flavor. You can’t change it. But where was I? But you’re taste— There’s a bloom—an inviting burst of sun and—clover? But, really, as I was saying: All tentacles are masters of Shibari. And for the delight of various emperors, who sometimes suffered reluctant wifes and concubines, the women would be abound, ankles to thighs, wrists to elbows behind them. They would be lifted upside down, just like you, and two vessels would be hung from the ceiling above the opening center of their thighs. In one vessel was water sweetened with nectar, and in the other was the salty nectar of the emperor. A girl, you see, may be broken quickly or slowly, though slowest is the most permanent. The slowness encourages the girl to meditate on her femininity. The water, sweetened by nectar, drips from a pin-prick, and strikes the girl’s clit. She can’t move. The pinprick is not too large, lest she submit too quickly, nor so small that she’ll forget before the next falls; but the drops are like a kiss at first, then a lick, then tortuous agony as each drop strikes, adding before the last has diminished—the cup of pleasure neither spilling nor ebbing.

—The drops that struck her clit made her glisten and drip, now mixed with her own nectar. At first a girl might struggle. She might complain. She might eventually moan, incessantly, with need and want. Submit. But you see, even the desire to submit must be broken. Submission must be absolute. The girl will eventually grow silent. Her tongue will curl and protrude, like yours, and she will loose all sense of time. Her eyes will will turn upward and inward. The drops that strike her clit will have formed a little rivulet that will run between the taut muscles of her belly, her breasts and down her throat. They will drip from the tip of her tongue. The drops are collected a silver cup from which the emperor will periodically drink. The girl teeters. Her cup of pleasure is full. She cannot hold anymore. Her tongue and nipples protrude. One more drop, or the next, and she will orgasm. And this, my dear, only a Tentacle may understand. Every so often, the tip of a tentacle will steal a drop from the tip of the girl’s tongue and taste. And when the girl is taut, like a drawn bow, and her breathing almost ceases, the Tentacle will prick the second vessel containing her lover’s nectar. This vessel will not strike her clit, but the drop will fall in the center of her thighs, in the cup of her pussy—the entry to her womb. Because the nectar of her lover is not like water, the drop thickens and thickens. The girl waits, thighs held apart, with perfect submission. The drop falls, and it is this, at the mouth of her womb, that causes her to orgasm. As she convulses, as her spine recoils and lifts her head, her lover’s nectar descends deeply into her orgasm.

—This one drop will go inside her.

Sierra hung limp, dominated, as the spasms finally ebbed. She could feel the drop, like a silvery trickle, collecting and collected in her womb. And then the shock of water. She sputtered yet again, surfacing and catching her breath. Where was the tentacle? Outside the waterfall, the daylight was dimming. She spun, looking in all directions, then dove under the waterfall. She scrambled out of the pool, and she sat with her back against the sign—swim at own Risk. How long had it been?

She heard a noise.

She spun around, an arm across her breasts, the other on the ground for balance, but nobody was there. She was naked. She lowered both hands to the soil, staying low, hips raised. Water and semen were dripping down her thighs as if she had just been fucked from behind. She quickly scanned the deepening shadows for her clothes. Without her army boots, tank top or the green cargo shorts, her imagination ran wild.

What if a man saw her?

What if he was young, like a teen or twenty year old, and bad. What if he saw her running naked. What if he said: Get over here right now! She would. And what if, as he looked at her tits and bush, he lit a cigarette and said: Running around naked, girl? Think you’re bad? Get on your knees, cunt and suck my cock.

She would. And she’d swallow too. And she’d look up at him while she did it. But if he told her to bend over, spread and grab her ankles, she would do that too. There’s an order to the world—between men and women.

—No! She said aloud.

She’d swim. The lake was only some yards further down the glade. She dove into the dark water noiselessly. Anyone might see her swimming, but no one would know she was naked. The stretch between the lake and the cottage was mowed grass. She ran lightly between the tall pines and as quietly shut the door behind her.

—Where have you been, asked Jeremy without turning.

—I— she began, then stopped.

Her clothes were draped over the back of his chair and her glasses—she’d forgotten them!—were on the floor at her feet. She squatted and put them on.

She shuddered.

—I’m exhausted, he said and stretched. Today’s been a long day, don’t you think? Ready to go out for dinner and a movie? I’ve picked out some clothes for you.

—Yes, she answered weakly. Sir.

Will Crimson & Kate Armstrong : July 9 2015

Categories: Alien/Monster, Bondage, Copulation, CP, Dominance & Submission, Erotica, Forced Orgasm, Insemination, Monster, Nonconsensual, Oral Sex, RedBud, Reluctance, Rough Sex, TentacleTags: Bondage, Copulation, Erotic Illustrations by Kate Armstrong, Erotica by Redbud, Erotica by William Crimson, Forced Orgasm, Insemination, Non-Consensual, Sierra's Blur, Tentacle Erotica