- Tentacle has lately been obsessed with the Stats page. Really annoying. He found all the search terms for the past year (involving tentacle of course) and demanded that I write little improvisations on each of them. Fine. Some of these are just for fun. And this might have a little inside joke for any of you who love, know and have read a certain other blogger. And, I know, I’ve already done most of these, but here goes:
: fucked by tentacle alien story :
“What have you discovered?” asked Major Minkowski.
“It’s been two weeks Major,” answered the Doctor, reviewing her notes. “And despite our attempts to communicate with the creature, Sir, he continues only responding to Playboy and Penthouse and seems to prefer Hustler.
“Technology so advanced, so confounding, that even our best military, engineering and scientific minds can’t reverse engineer it! A creature travels — how far? — across how many star systems, how many nebula and possibly other advanced civilizations, for what? For earth women?”
A younger lab assistant picks her hurriedly plucks her cell phone from the pocket of her lab coat. “Hello?”
“Your phone still works?”
“I’m, sorry, Major,” she answered.
“Your mother?” the Doctor asked.
The brunette cupped her hand over the cell phone, “My nephew’s birthday. Mom can’t find the cookie recipe.”
“You’d think she’d memorized that by now.”
The major continued: “Have you tried any other forms of communication?”
“We’ve tried a variety of centerfolds.”
“No Mom, not baking powder, Soda. S-o-d-a, Soda.”
“Blood samples showed alcohol in the creature’s system when we recovered it from the crash site.”
“Drunk driving?” asked the Major.
“Maybe it crashed on the way to Venus?”
“Two and three quarter cups of flour, Mom. What? No. Can you hear me?”
“Well, do we have volunteers? And by that I mean, women?”
“Not one, Sir,” said the Doctor.
“That frankly surprises me.”
“Major, I don’t know what you think of women, but I can assure you that there’s not a woman so craven, so irredeemably debased, so pruriently disturbed, so shamelessly debauched that she would voluntarily—nay—with unbridled alacrity throw herself at this alien, this monster, this vile, despicable, porn-addled tentacle that’s traveled God knows how many light years just to fuck an earth woman!”
“Vanilla, Mom!” the lab assistant said in growing frustration. “Va- Nil – La.”
“Sorry, Doctor.” The young woman shoved the phone back in the pocket. “The signal was breaking up.”
“I think we should proceed with our original plan, Major,” said the Doctor.
“You’re Mom dotes on your nephew, doesn’t she?” the Doctor asked the young woman.
“I think she wishes I’d get married and have grandchildren.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“I don’t know, I’ve quit dating.”
“None of the guys do for it me.”
“No, definitely not women.”
“Well then, maybe you haven’t met the right person.” The Doctor lifted an aerosol can to the woman’s nose. Her eyes rolled and she woozily collapsed to her knees, slumped forward, ass in the air.
“Well,” the Major observed her posture, “I take that as a promising sign.”
“You won’t back out,” said the Doctor coolly.
“She’ll get the promised seven figures and another seven if she behaves.”
“Funny — and she wasn’t the least intrigued why she was offered such a raise?”
“I would have offered ‘you’ the contract.”
“But I obviously don’t offer the same nubile allurements.”
The elevator slowed and stopped. The two of them pulled the semi-conscious woman into the lab room, an arm under each of hers. The counters and floor were white. A glass wall, the width and height of the room separated the small, sparsely equipped laboratory from a larger holding cell. The cephalapod-like alien was sheathed in a metallic skin. Both it and the flying saucer had been secreted away.
The major withdrew a briefcase from under one of the counters, unsnapped its buckles, and withdrew a shiny, black, latex catsuit.
“Very nice,” said the Doctor.
“It’s a government modified Latex Crazy Condom Catsuit™.”
“Where do you find these things?”
“How do you—“
“Scissors. Then unroll it. And zippers.”
Together, they removed the younger woman’s clothes and fit her in the cat suit.
“She shaves,” said the Doctor. “How sweet.”
“The latex will prevent physical contact with the tentacle. Any deposited liquids can be isolated and sampled. I’ve thoroughly thought this through.” Once the young woman was safely in the catsuit. they put on her lab coat and guided her to an isolation chamber, closed the sealed door and waited until she came to.
When she finally stirred, Major Minkowski tapped the com and spoke: “Welcome back, Miss Trelane. You are presently wearing an impenetrable cat suit. Don’t be afraid. I have exhaustively considered all possible contingencies. You are perfectly safe. Please try not to hyperventilate while I open the secondary hatch.”
“She’s hyperventilating,” said the Doctor.
“And look at the Tentacle,” I could swear its clasping its tentacles with delight.” Minkowski picks up the com. “Miss Trelane, please don’t cower. I assure you that I have considered all possible contingencies. Please let the alien have its way with you. The catsuit is impenetrable.”
The alien Tentacle lifts off the white lab coat. The young woman backs the black of her catsuit against the white wall. Her arms are outstretched, palms back, face turned to the side as the alien’s tentacles smoothly glide over breasts and hips. Suddenly a tentacle loops behind the small of hers back and lifts her away from the wall.
“What’s it doing?”
“I could swear, Major, that it’s dancing.”
“Alien foreplay, perhaps?”
“You don’t suppose it’s trying to seduce her?”
“I notice the alien has obtained a utensil.”
“Could you perchance, Doctor, tell me what you did with the scissors after unpacking the catsuit?”
“I seem to have given them to the alien.”
“Perhaps,” continues the Major, “we should have wrapped Miss Trelane in a little red bow?”
“Its skill with scissors is astonishing.”
Major Minkowski lifts his smartphone and records: “O843 hours. Notify secretary that Miss Trelane will be late—”
“Look at the size—“
“Will be—very late for her nephew’s birthday.
The Major lowers the smartphone. “Miss Trelane’s mother may get her grandchildren after all.”
“The first one’s going in right now.”
“Yes Doctor and though—” He adjusts his collar. “—I’m no expert in orgasms, we might advise Miss Trelane’s mother to expect a first and second grandchild.”
“It would appear Miss Trelane has met the right person, Major.”
“Where did you say you obtained that catsuit?”