eggs&orgasms

Its been exactly a month since you and your team have been observing Nero and you’re the last one in the gallery again. Everyone else bailed after the 22:00 krill chump feeding dumped through the ceiling hatch. Nero had been sulky all week. Barely ate. Just hung upside down from the ceiling grate, arms drifting like torn sails.

You lean over the railing, voice soft. “Hey, handsome. You’re worrying me.”

One golden eye rotates toward you. A single arm uncurls, slow as smoke, and taps the glass right in front of your face. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Then the arm slides down, suction cups kissing the glass with wet pops, leaving perfect circles of clear slime that glow faintly under UV.

You smile despite yourself. “I know. They’re loud arent they. They don’t understand you.”

Another arm rises, this one thicker, scarred from old harpoon wounds the capture team gave it. It spells, in clumsy but unmistakable against the glass: 

Y-O-U D-O

Your chest tightens. You’re not supposed to get attached. You know that.

But you’re the only one who ever learned its language.

You bid Nero goodnight as you turned to do the final lockup for today 

Red strobes flashed once as the gallery doors opened before you. Standard procedure, no personnel in the observation ring after midnight. Nero had shown territorial spikes when staff lingered too long.

You hit the final panel and the doors seal with a hiss, you turned to look for what you thought was the last time for today and the motion sensors inside the tank suddenly flatline.

You frowned, looked to check if everything was stable and it was, you went back inside and went straight to the railings to check on the tank.

Tank integrity: stable

Pressure locks: engaged

Motion sensors: active

And yet Nero was gone.

Heart suddenly thudding, you hit the emergency light.

Nothing. 

You had a bad feeling in the pit of your stomach as you reopened the doors and slowly went up the stairs to the side and on the grated ceiling deck of the tank to check if it was truly empty, and to you it was empty and so you being the curious scientist that you were wanted to check how a creature of such magnitude could escape an enclosure fully made of reinforced glass, you swiped your card, hit the right buttons and opened the reinforced ceiling grate deck.

You bent down and peered into the water and saw exactly nothing

The gigantic inky dark creature, and all its tentacles gone. The water was perfectly still, lit only by the tank’s own bioluminescence. No silhouette. No disturbance.

“Control, this is Dr. l/n. We have a possible containment breach in Tank Nine. Repeat—”

Static, you winced at the sharp sound.

Then the surface of the water bulges.

One arm breaks out first wet and glistening. It slaps onto the deck with a wet slap, suckers flexing. Then another. Then four more, hauling the massive body over the deck like it weighs nothing. Water cascades off it in sheets, black skin gleaming like wet rubber.

You stumble back. “Nero–no! containment breach protocol–”

It moves faster than anything that size should. Two of its tentacles snap out, looping your waist and one ankle in the same heartbeat. The grip is cold, slick, unbreakable. You’re yanked off your feet and dragged across the wet floor, boots squealing.

A third arm clamps over your mouth before you can scream. The sucker sealing your lips pulses once, secreting thick ropes of clear mucus that taste like syrup and honey. It soaks through your lips instantly, sliding down your throat even as you try to spit.

Heat bloomed in your bloodstream, sudden and humiliating. Your nipples tightened against the soaked fabric of your bra. Between your thighs you felt yourself grow slick in a way that had nothing to do with the creature’s secretions already dripping off you.

A voice low, resonant, layered like whale song slowed to a crawl unfolded inside your skull.

Mate.

You smell like mine.

You have always smelled like mine.

You thrashed, managed to get a hand free, slapped the emergency beacon on your belt. Nothing happened. The creature had killed the grid the moment you entered lockdown.

Another tentacle curled under your shirt, ripping buttons. Cool air hit your breasts, then cooler slime as the tentacle coiled around one, then the other, squeezing rhythmically. Each suction cup latched and pulled with wet, obscene sounds, leaving perfect rings of aphrodisiac mucus that burned pleasure straight into your nerves.

You moaned behind the one covering your mouth, hips jerking involuntarily.

No, you thought. Not like this.

But your body was already singing a different song.

The tentacles dragged you slowly, possessively back toward the tank. Your boots squeaked on the wet floor, leaving long smears of glowing secretion. Every inch of contact left your skin tingling, oversensitive, greedy. 

Nero has dragged you fully into the water now. Your back presses against the smooth curve of its mantle, the creature’s body forming a living cradle that keeps your head and shoulders above the surface while everything else is submerged in warm, black water.

Its skin is no longer cool. It’s fever hot against your spine, pulsing like a second heartbeat. The texture is velvet over steel, soft, almost fur in places, then suddenly slick and rubbery where the skin colors shift. Every time its color ripples crimson to violet to deepest obsidian, the change drags across your bare skin like a caress.

Once again a low, subsonic rumble vibrates through the floor and into your bones:

Mate.

Mine.

Kind mate.

You claw at the arms around your wrists. They don’t budge. Another arm this one the long, thin feeding tentacle slithers up your thigh, leaving a burning trail of aphrodisiac mucus. It hooks the waistband of your pants and rips. Fabric tears like tissue. Your underwear follows.

You’re embarrassingly soaked already, the slime making everything slick and hypersensitive.

The feeding tentacle probes between your legs, tip tapering to a soft point, then flaring into a ridged, spade shaped head. It circles your entrance once, twice, smearing more slime until you’re dripping onto the ledge.

You shake your head frantically. “Nero–stop plea–”

The arm over your mouth shifts, one large sucker sealing over your lips while a smaller tendril forces its way past your teeth, pumping another dose of venom straight onto your tongue. Your vision tunnels, your hips jerk upward involuntarily.

The breeding tentacle presses in.

It’s thick, thicker than anything human. The stretch burns for a heartbeat then the aphrodisiac turns the burn into liquid pleasure. You sob around the gag.

A second arm joins the first, It slides in alongside, scissoring gently, opening you wider. You feel yourself flutter and clench around the invasion, helpless.

Suction cups latch onto your inner thighs, your hips, your breasts pulling, massaging, leaving perfect rings of bruises. Every cup secretes more slime until you’re practically floating in it. 

Two of its primary arms are starting to wrap around your wrists, pinning them gently but immovably to the tank wall above your head. The suckers on those arms are the largest. Each cup seals and releases in slow waves, tugging at the tender skin of your inner forearms, leaving perfect rings of throbbing heat. Clear mucus drips steadily from them, running in warm streams down your arms, over your collarbones, between your breasts.

Lower down, the real violation is happening.

The first breeding tentacle is buried to the root inside you. It’s easily as thick as your forearm now. Every time it draws back, those ridges drag across your front wall with deliberate slowness, catching on that spot that makes your vision spark white. When it thrusts forward again, the flared head kisses your cervix like a mouth, then spreads slightly just enough to make you feel impossibly, obscenely full.

The second tentacle is slimmer, but covered in clusters of soft, rounded knobs that swell and pulse like beads. It’s wedged in beside the first, creating a stretch that should be unbearable but isn’t, the aphrodisiac turning every nerve into liquid pleasure. The knobs roll against each other inside you, grinding, vibrating faintly. You can feel them kissing the ridges of the thicker tentacle through your walls, the two limbs moving in a slow, filthy duet.

A third, thinner tendril this one almost whip like has found your clit. The very tip is split into four tiny filaments that flutter like a tongue. A single large sucker at the base latches and begins a slow, rhythmic suction, pull, release, pull, release. Each tug sends a bolt of pure electricity up your spine. Your hips jerk helplessly, trying to chase the sensation, but Nero’s arms hold you perfectly still for its pleasure.

The air is thick with sound. Wet, obscene squelches every time the tentacles shift inside you. The slap of water against the tank wall as your body rocks. Your own broken moans, muffled around the feeding tendril still leaking sweet venom down your throat. And beneath it all, Nero’s subsonic rumble a constant, bone-deep vibration that you feel in your teeth, your clit.

You’re dripping. Not just wet. The creature’s mucus is everywhere, coating your thighs in glossy ropes, floating on the water’s surface in opalescent swirls, smeared across your breasts where smaller suckers have latched and are milking you in slow, tugging pulls. Your nipples are so hard they ache, each sucker leaving a perfect ring of teeth marks that glows faintly under the slime.

Inside you, the two tentacles begin to move slow, grinding thrusts that drag across every sensitive spot. The ridged one curls, pressing hard against the front wall, the knotted one pulses, swelling rhythmically like it’s pumping something into you.

You feel it first as a ripple down the thicker tentacle. round, firm shapes traveling down the length of the thicker tentacle, sliding into you one by one. Eggs. Small, smooth, deposited deep with every thrust. Your belly rounds slightly under the pressure, skin glistening with slime and seawater. The first egg presses against your entrance from the inside, the breeding arm widens, flares, and pushes. Your body opens for it without hesitation, the aphrodisiac making you soft and greedy. The egg slides in with a wet pop you feel more than hear, settling deep with a sensation like warm weight dropping into your core.

Then you feel another and another.

Each one is accompanied by a fresh gush of slick fluid from the tentacle itself thicker this time, almost creamy, glowing faint blue. It floods you, overflows, runs down and into the water in long, pearly strands. Your belly is visibly rounding now, skin stretched taut and shiny with slime, the faint outlines of eggs shifting beneath like fish in a shallow pond.

You lose count somewhere around the twelfth.

You come with a broken scream, back arching off the ledge, thighs shaking uncontrollably. Nero rumbles approval, arms tightening possessively as your body milks the tentacles still buried inside.

It starts where the sucker latches to your clit, it clamps down so hard on the tentacles inside you that Nero actually growls a real sound this time, low and animal. The breeding arms swell in response, locking deep, and you feel the flood of whatever fertilizing fluid it uses, hot, thick, endless. It pulses into you in long, rhythmic jets that match your own contractions, filling every spare millimeter of space until your lower belly is tight and you’re sobbing from overstimulation. 

When it finally eases out of you slow, careful, dragging those ridges one more time, the emptiness is almost worse than the stretch. A flood of mixed fluids follows, milky blue and thick, swirling around your thighs in the water. Smaller tentacles immediately move in to soothe, soft, licking touches that clean you gently, then spread a fresh layer of numbing, healing slime over your abused entrance.

Nero lowers its massive head until one golden eye is level with yours. A single sucker this one soft and lipless presses to your parted mouth in what might be a kiss. It tastes like salt and something slimy.

Mine, it rumbles, satisfied.

My beautiful, perfect mate.

The water closes over you both as it pulls you deeper into the tank, cradling your swollen body against its chest like something precious beyond measure.

You’re too wrecked to protest.

You’re not sure you even want to.

The water has gone perfectly still, as though the entire tank is holding its breath with you.

You surface slowly, cradled in the crook of one of Nero’s arms like a child. Your hair is plastered to your cheeks and neck in thick, salty ropes. Every inch of exposed skin glistens, a living canvas of bruises, bite rings, and dried bioluminescent mucus that catches the low blue lights.

Your body feels.. rearranged.

Your thighs won’t close properly, they shake and tremble when you try. Between them you’re swollen, puffy, slick with a mixture of seawater and the thick, pearlescent spend that still leaks from you in slow pulses. When you shift, you feel the eggs again heavier now, settled low and deep, a gentle but constant pressure against the mouth of your womb. Each one nudges its neighbors when you breathe, a secret tide inside your skin.

Your belly is visibly, undeniably round. Not pregnant huge yet, but unmistakably distended, skin stretched tight and shiny, faint stretch marks already blooming silver under the sheen of mucus. When Neros arm slides across it possessive, reverent, the eggs shift in a slow, answering roll that makes you gasp. A soft, internal flutter answers back, like tiny fingers pressing outward.

Nero notices everything.

One golden eye rotates down to watch your face. The arm across your abdomen splays wider, suckers kissing the taut skin in a slow circle. Each kiss leaves a fresh bead of clear slime that tingles where it lands, easing the ache of overstretched muscle.

You taste blood and honey on your tongue your lip split sometime in the night, healed now by the same secretion that still coats the back of your throat. Your voice, when it finally comes, is a cracked whisper.

“They’re.. moving.”

A low, proud rumble rolls through the water and into your bones.

Strong clutch.

They know their mothers heartbeat already.

You close your eyes. Tears slip hot down your temples, mixing with tank water. You should be horrified. You should be screaming. Instead there’s a terrifying, almost drug like warmth spreading through your chest every time one of the eggs nudges inward, like it’s saying hello.

Nero lifts you higher, until you’re half out of the water, torso supported against the warm shelf of its mantle. Cool air hits your wet skin and you shiver violently. Immediately two arms curl around you one under your breasts, one across your lower back, sharing body heat. The suckers on those arms are smaller, softer; they latch gently and begin a slow, rhythmic pulsing that feels disturbingly like being rocked.

Another arm this one long and thin, almost delicate slides up your chest and cups your cheek. A single sucker seals over the hollow beneath your eye, drinking the salt of your tears. The hooked teeth never prick you; instead it secretes something warm and numbing that smells faintly rain?

Look, it urges, gentle but insistent.

It turns you toward the glass wall.

You gasp as your reflection stares back, naked, wrecked, glowing. Your lips are swollen and bruised. Your throat is ringed with perfect circles of violet and indigo, like a collar made of bruises. Lower down, your breasts are heavier than you remember, nipples dark and peaked, each one crowned with a faint sucker print that still shines. Your belly curves out in a smooth, obscene arc, skin so tight you can see the faint movement beneath when the eggs shift.

You look claimed. Thoroughly, irreversibly claimed.

And the worst part the part that makes your breath hitch with something that is not quite fear is how right it feels.

Neros mantle pulses once, crimson with satisfaction.

Mine, it says again, softer this time.

My brilliant, kind mate.

Look how beautifully you carry them.

You lift a shaking hand and rest it over the warm swell. The eggs roll eagerly toward the pressure, clustering under your palm like they recognize your touch. A helpless sound escapes you half sob, half laugh.

Distantly, you hear the outer doors hiss again. Voices, closer now. Someone swearing about the broken motion sensors. Footsteps on the catwalk.

Nero’s entire body tenses. The water around you darkens as its skin floods black and warning red. A low, dangerous growl vibrates through every point of contact.

They come for you, it says, and the gentleness is gone, replaced by something ancient and territorial.

They will not take what is mine.

Your emergency tracker is already destroyed. Your clothes are shredded somewhere on the bottom. Your body is covered in evidence that no medical team could misinterpret.

You have maybe just a few seconds.

Nero loosens its hold just enough. One arm extends toward the emergency hatch at the rear of the tank, the one that leads to the old maintenance tunnels no one uses anymore. Another arm offers your lab coat again, draped carefully over a single sucker like a surrender flag.

The voices are almost at the observation window.

Your fingers close around the coat.

You pull it on, buttons gone, fabric sticking to wet skin and glowing bruises. The hem barely reaches midthigh. You look like a shipwreck survivor. You look like exactly what you are.

Nero watches you with unblinking golden eyes.

Choose, little mate.

The first face appears at the glass Dr. Patel, her eyes wide, mouth already opening in horror.

You take one trembling step toward the rear hatch.

Nero’s arm curls around your waist supporting, not restraining and guides you down into the dark water where no human light has ever reached.

Behind you, alarms begin to scream.