In the close heat of the room the girl lies still. She arrived two hours hours ago. Outside the city traffic, bleached white, chokes and crawls beneath a late afternoon sun. A bedsheet pinned across window tries to keep the heat of sun from the room. The girl is sweating profusely. The sweat beads on her forehead. Little rivulets trickle and shiver down her arms, across her shoulders. Her sodden black tank clings to her back. Ringlets of damp hair curl at the nape of her neck. At her temples. A wild strand curls to the corner of her half open mouth.
On the dusty floor is an old mattress. The girl lies face down, her chest and shoulders pressed against the mattress. When she first came here it had sickened her. Now just the smell of it has her wet. Her hips, are are slightly raised. Head turned to one side, avoiding the bright white line of sun that slashes across the humid room and across her back. She has pulled her skirt up over her hips, it crumples around her waist baring her reddened arse and sweating thighs. Her hands are pushed between her legs as something slides languid and heavy beneath her outstreched, guiding fingertips. She makes almost no noise, but listen closely and her breath comes soft and shallow.
Still, she barely moves, her hips imperceptibly rock. Her eyelids flutter. As something jet black, thin, and snakelike rises, uncurling to touch her, lightly. The girl groans softly, but she does not move. She knows it is near. She is waiting. She feels sweat trickle across her face. The tentacle hovers, then slides itself between her legs, feeling her wetness, as in grinds upwards. Presses lightly against her arsehole. Circles. Dampness. Heat. From her body. From the tentacle. She pushes against the tip of it, small as the tip of her tongue and lets it push into her slowly. Opening her. Her mouth opens. But there is no sound. The tentacle continues to slide in and out in slow, circular motions. She feels it moving against her fingers and moans. A second narrow, tentacle slides into her. Now she moans slowly, her sound is almost mournful. She moves her hips, ever so slightly. A car somewhere in the street below sounds it's horn. The rhythm builds.
A tentacle falls heavily upon her butt cheek leaving a bright weal. And then again. The smaller tentacles writhe and pump her arsehole in the shlick schlep. It strikes her again. The sounds she makes come guttural from the back of her throat or somewhere deep in her chest. It is as if the air is being knocked out from her with those slow, heavy, beats.
Her hands reach for something to grasp now knotting in her sodden tank, pulling it down towards her knees and then up over her head. She softly growls. Burying her face in the stink of the mattress. Gasps. She cannot bear the sensation. Pushes back. Needs more. The unworldliness of the Thing as it fucks her as only it can, as only she wants: both tender and cruel. A tentacle slides around her throat lightly pressing. Then squeezes just a little harder. She wants to take it it her mouth, whimpers, mouth open but it denies her this time as it circles her throat.
She's white with heat. Rocking, grunting, against it. On fire, now coming hard against the steady beat and thrust and groan. Beat and thrust and groan. It pushes deeper. The humidity closes and falls on everything. She is soaked. She mouths voiceless moans. Cumming. Shaking to her core. Seeing only colours. White, burning. Orange. Burning. Red. Burning.
There is an empty room with a mattress. A tattered sheet at the window. Below cars writhe and groan through the summer heat.
