#tentacles x reader

You trace the carvings on the shiny black box with your finger.

It opens smoothly. Inside, an almost translucent blue dildo rests on a velvet pillow. Oh, my, you think. It’s smooth to the touch, soft and almost jelly-like. It jiggles when you tap the pad of your finger against it. You giggle and tap it once more just for the sake of poking it. The slime flops its head against your fingers.

Oh, it’s… alive? Sentient? You don’t know exactly what to call its state of being. The slime dildo jiggles once and jumps in place once. Oh, okay, you think and hold up a finger. “Let me just close the store, yeah?” It doesn’t respond, doesn’t move again but the head of it is tilted your way, as if staring at you as you move through the store to lock the front door and flip the sign on the window.

It patiently waits where you left it. You stop in front of it and cup your hands. “I don’t want the store to get messy. Or break anything. There’s uh—” you swallow and holy shit, you’re having a conversation with a dildo-shaped slime you’re not sure is actually alive, “we can go upstairs.”

The slime doesn’t move for a moment as if considering your offer. Maybe? Shit— you make a mental note to read up on slimes and slime farms. Your teacher did briefly go over slimes while you were under her apprenticeship but that was also the day you’d latched onto the idea of customizing your wizard robes if you ever graduated. Oh, you can recall the original designs you’d drawn up in class even now, something more lingerie-adjacent than the long and heavy robes of her discipline. Where’d you put that babydoll-inspired robe you’d unpacked the other day?

You nearly startle out of your skin when the weight of the slime lands in your open palms. It wobbles in your hands briefly before it assumes its shape. You take that as a yes to your proposal and weave your way through your store towards the stairs to the second floor. Your heart is beating against your ribs like a wild horse as you ascend the stairs, turning off the lights as you reach the top.

You place the slime onto your coffee table. Your nerves are wrecked already. “So,” you start, fiddling with the rings on your fingers, “is this good enough? How is this even going to— What are we — me — we? What—” you press your lips together and take a moment to gather your thoughts. “Now what?”

The slime leaps forward until it reaches the edge of the coffee table, just a hair’s breadth away from your thigh. It jiggles, its head pressing against the slit in your wizard’s robe. You reach down and drag your fingers along its shaft, the bulging vein on its back and swallow around the lump in your throat. You want to lean down and drag your tongue across it.

The slime presses forward, between your thighs and rubs its head against your clothed cunt. You drag your fingertips down the length of its smooth shaft. It jiggles and pushes harder against your body. It’s pleasantly cool to the touch. It’s a little too thick to wrap one hand around, but you do your best. You move your hand slowly up and down the thick shaft. Precum pools at the tip and dribbles down the curve of the head and you feel compelled to lean down. You drag your tongue up the slime’s shaft — feel the slightly tacky cum on your tongue — from its balls to the very tip and dip your tongue into the slit. The slime jiggles in your hand. That’s good, you assume. It hasn’t pulled away or melted into a puddle yet. Slowly, you wrap your lips around the mushroom head tip and take it into your mouth.

The slime jiggles and pulls out of your mouth abruptly. “What?” You wipe at your mouth with the sleeve of your robe and the slime jiggles again. It swings its whole weight forward and flops pathetically at your robe. “Oh.”

You shrug off your robe and hastily pull down your underwear, kick them out of sight. The slime jiggles as if appreciating your nudity and pushes itself against your body again. The sensation is odd. It’s both firm and soft, almost like you could run your fingers through its body. It burrows between your thighs and wiggles upwards until its head hits your clit. You gasp and reach to rest your weight onto the coffee table before your knees give out. It pulses, wiggles, dragging its smooth body against your clit. You wrap your legs around it and slowly lower your hips.

The slime jiggles, wiggles against your thighs, almost as if thrashing around and you unlock your legs with haste. You stare at it, legs open, pussy wet and waiting for it, so many questions on your tongue. Maybe there’s a spell somewhere to get over this language barrier because it’s clearly intelligent and your skin is on fire and if it starts teasing you now, you might just smite it and finish the job yourself.

It positions itself against your hot, wet cunt and you exhale a breath of relief, head thrown back. It moves, positions itself, the head pressing against your entrance and you roll your hips minutely to beckon it.

It sheathes itself in your cunt with one harsh thrust. You yelp, try to reach for the edge of the table to find an anchor but its pace is too much, too harsh. The table legs drags against the floor from the force of its thrusts into your waiting cunt. Your mouth drops open, stifled, breathy moans escaping your lips as you try to pull yourself together and figure out which way is up, where to grab. It thrusts harshly and you nearly topple off the table, manage to grab onto the edge and roll knot your stomach for more leverage. Your knees drop to the plush carpet. The edge of the coffee table rams into your hips with every thrust from the slime buried into your cunt, bullying it like a jackhammer. Your sweat-slick skin drags across the glass surface. It’s thick and big and you swear you feel it in the back of your throat. Your head is spinning, the pleasure overwhelming. The coil in your core snaps abruptly.

You cum with a low moan, pussy clenching around it like a vise but the slime doesn’t stop, just keeps rutting into you as you come down from your high and spills. It’s warm and gooey and it dribbles from your cunt as the slime eases itself to a slower pace until it stops, buried inside you to the hilt. You feel full, so deliciously full and fuck, maybe it’ll stay there forever. You wouldn’t mind it, you think. It could rut into you while you’re talking to a customer and you’d be forced to keep your poker face or fold like a goddamn house of cards with your client watching your depravity.

Your cunt flutters at the thought.

Slowly, you lower yourself off the coffee table and onto all fours, ass up in the air, and press your face against your folded arms, take deep, even breaths to get your head on straight again.

The rug underneath you feels nice. Smooth. Soft, if not a little gooey. It moves, undulates underneath you, rises until it brushes against your collarbones.

Wait, what?

You pull your face away from your arms and blink a few times to get rid of the shapes in your vision. Your rug isn’t your rug. It’s dark blue, almost liquidy in consistency and it bubbles and laps at your body like waves at the beach. It’s cool to the touch.

Your cunt feels strangely empty all of a sudden. You clench around thin air with a frown and slowly sit up. The slime-like liquid on the floor wiggles as you adjust your legs — it’s the same blue hue as the slime that should be buried into your cunt. Oh, so they don’t last forever. You feel a strange sense of loss at the realization; they’re just here to fulfill an itch, then. And then they’re gone.

You should pull yourself together, get up and clean this mess up. No point in crying over something that’s over.

The slime warbles and then, something breaches it. A single thick tentacle rises from the pool that’s overrun your living room. It turns its head as if looking around and you take that time to reorient yourself. The slime gift from your client has melted into a puddle that’s overrun your living room. Something not quite of this world has used it as a portal. That opens another can of worms about slimes and portals and you should really write down how a tentacle appeared from the melted body of a slime from a nearby farm but— it looks remarkably phallic in shape. Its head is pronounced, almost mushroom in shape like male genitalia. The light streaming in from the window next to you illuminates the ridges on its body, the texture reminds you of snake scales.

You shift on your knees, your cunt aching.

The tentacle snaps around. It slowly crosses the space between you and itself, more and more of its body rising from the pool. It’s tall and thick. There are ridges on its back, and you swear they would feel so good dragging against your clit —

It lowers its head in front of your face where it hovers for a few long moments. Slowly, you reach out and drag the tip of your finger down its body. Bingo. Scale-like small ridges decorate its body.

There is movement in the corner of your eye. More tentacles rise from the slime, these ones smaller and leaner. They slither across the mass of slime and glide onto your skin, wrap themselves around your legs, creeping towards your pussy. You rise onto your knees to give them more leeway.

More tentacles shoot out from the pool on your floor and tangle around your arms, pull them together over your head. Others latch onto your skin. They traverse the expanse of your body, warm and slick, prodding and poking and squeezing. One slides underneath your breast and loops over it. Its tip circles your nipple and you gasp at the sensation, throw your head back and arch your back, nearly hitting the coffee table. A thin, glimmering tentacle shoots out, wraps around your torso and across your neck before the back of your head can actually collide with glass. It pulls you forward just as quickly, onto your knees.

The large tentacle is hovering right in front of your face now. It bumps its tip against your forehead, your cheek, your nose and then against the seam of your lips. They part involuntarily and it dives in. You feel the ridges on its stomach against your tongue but the moan gets stuck in your throat.

It eases itself out of your mouth and you nearly whimper at the loss of contact. Seriously, what’s with these things not wanting your mouth? It’s an extra hole for them to use and abuse so why are they rejecting it?

The tentacle dips down and you feel the ridges caressing your skin as it glides towards and across your cunt, dragging the ridges on its stomach against your clit and something between a moan and a gasp escapes your throat involuntarily.

You’re suddenly hauled up and backwards until your back collides with your couch. Your legs are pulled apart to expose your weeping pussy to the head tentacle. It lowers itself to your cunt’s level as if studying it. It gives an experimental nudge against your slit and then presses forward harder. The very tip slides in with little effort and then it’s pushing ahead, wiggling like it’s trying to force itself inside.

Your chest is heaving, short, shallow breaths escaping you as you desperately try to push against the tentacle but the others keep you rooted to the spot. It’s torture and agony and bliss all at once as the thick tentacle prods at you. Just a little push and it can fuck you within an inch of your life, until you beg and beg and beg it for more, to fill you up and keep you stuck on it for as long as it wants, do whatever it wants.

The head breeches your cunt and it slides all the way in with one thrust. You gasp at the sensation, chest heaving and try to breathe through the obscene stretch, the obscene sight of its shape in your stomach but it has other ideas. It starts moving, slow and deliberate as it pulls back and then dives in again, setting a ruthless pace. You’re so wet, so slippery and it almost slips out of your cunt. You dribble around it, the sound so obscene and lewd in your ears. It’s the only sound in the room other than your moans, your babbled begging for it to just take you already.

Its size is overwhelming but it feels so good, bullying its way into your cunt and drawing those ridiculous wet sounds and moans and gasps, pleading from your lips. You’re almost in tears at the euphoria, at the way this tentacle claims your cunt for itself, at the way the others hold you back and spread out to take and take and use you up like the goddamn fleshlight you are. You’d let it use you as a fleshlight again and again, fuck, maybe this one can stay and display you as a freak show to any potential client. The thought of someone staring at the way this thing defiles your holes, their cock in hand, maybe even trying to join — it sends you over the edge.

You cum with a swear on your lips, a half-baked cry stuck in your throat. Moments later, the tentacle spills into your cunt. You’re so full, you’re so incredibly full. Its cum, as translucent and pearly as itself dribbles onto your couch, slipping out from around its thick body. Your chest heaves as you try to pull yourself together, tears brimming in your eyes.

The tentacles around your legs tighten. They pull your body along like dead weight, off the couch and onto the slick floor. Your hands are maneuvered with your body but there’s no weight left in your arms and your jaw nearly collides with the floor. The tentacles yank your body upright at the last moment, tightening around your limbs to hold you on all fours without leaning any weight on your weak limbs.

Your legs are pulled apart. Tentacles press against the skin of your ass, massaging and groping and prodding.

The thick tentacle still buried snugly in your cunt purrs. Something prods at your ass. Its smooth tip presses against your puckered hole and you do your best to relax every muscle in your body. It teases for just a moment before it slides through slowly. You moan at the sensation, at being so full.

It moves first, slow and deliberate, delving deeper into your ass and then pulling back. The head tentacle in your cunt moves in tandem with it. They’re so deep, so slick you want to cry because it’s too much but they feel so good, fucking you so thoroughly in tandem. They move, they all move, every single goddamn tentacle wrapped around your body, your limbs, your tits, their tips move, sliding back and forth across your skin. One pinches your nipple and you mewl, mouth agape to take in air and cry out.

A tentacle roughly pushes into your mouth, slides down your throat and pulls back to fuck it. Your face is wet and your vision is blurry, it’s too much, one stuffing itself and its pretty cum back into your aching cunt like it wants to live there, another thrusting into your ass with vigor, you feel them both, at the way they rub against your walls, against each other. Another in your mouth, pumping into your throat, so many caressing your body.

They pause for a fraction of a moment but it's enough to have you crying out for any stimulation. They dive in with newfound vigor, like they haven’t been fucking you stupid for who knows how long now, stuffing themselves so deep into your pussy and your ass and your throat. Your eyes roll back and your whole body tenses for a moment before you come the hardest you’ve ever come. You clench down at the tentacles, and nearly scream. The tentacle in your mouth pulls back and you hear your own pathetic voice, begging and pleading and babbling for more, more, please, please, please before there is a weight on your tongue. The tentacle spits its cum onto your tongue, thick and glossy, dribbling past your open lips and down your chin.

The world comes back to you in small increments. The sound of birdsong on the other side of your window. The feeling of something pumping into your ass at a languid pace before it stops and slowly pulls out. Something shoved deep inside your cunt so far you feel like you’re about to burst. The grip on your body is tight but pleasant, almost massage-like. You blink the tears from your eyes and sniffle, try to breathe.

A wail escapes your throat when the head tentacle pulls out of your pussy with an audible pop. Its cum shoots out of you, an obscene amount dribbling onto your rug, pooling between your legs, running down your skin, hot and sticky. Your breath shudders in your throat as the tentacles ease you onto your knees. More and more dribbles out of your gaping pussy, and you almost want the tentacle to shove itself back in and take you until you can’t think anymore, pump you full of its cum again and again and again until the world comes to an end.

The tentacles on your body loosen their grip. The one around your tit gives it another squeeze and flicks your nipple and it shoots a jolt to your core. More cum dribbles from your pussy as the feeling passes and your muscles relax, fatigued and aching and sore.

The pool beneath your knees shrinks. You turn despite your screaming muscles to see the tentacles retreat into a summoning circle in the middle of the pit of slime one by one. Before long, the pool dries up entirely and the circle on the floor disappears.

You should really write down a note to get in contact with the slime farm to get to the bottom of this. Instead, you scoop up a handful of pearlescent cum from the floor, and try to shove it back into your cunt.

—a/n: anon is on, feel free to comment, go nuts, describe how many times this made you cum, god I hope it made sb cum

This company focused on a coalition between humans and monsters, trying to gain an understanding of how they lived, how they reacted to certain things, etc. These sorts of facilities paid a lot of money to willing participants and the one you signed up for paid even more, considering it focused on the non-humanoid monsters—much more volatile than the monsters with consciousness and intelligence.

You weren’t sure what you would be doing; the contract was very vague in that aspect, but they had assured you that you wouldn’t be harmed—safety guaranteed at all times—and on the off chance you were somehow harmed, you would be heavily compensated atop of the pay you would already receive for participating.

So when the day came, you were nervous, sure, but the thought of the money steeled you. At first, they didn’t have you do much; they asked questions about your medical history, fears, and phobias, along with some oddly personal questions about your cycle and fertility.

After that, they prescribe you some pills you take twice a day and note your reactions and symptoms. They ran tests on you, determining if you were a suitable test subject. For what exactly? You don’t know; they were all very secretive about it, assuring you it’s just standard procedure.

You felt uneasy but couldn’t really do anything about it; besides, the contract had assured you wouldn’t be harmed. You could only hope that would be the case.

It was about a couple of weeks in that they finally gave you your first assignment. They hadn’t told you much, just that this monster was known to keep to itself, not showing interest in its surroundings nor in any human being (either a scientist or another like you) that attempted to interact with it.

Aside from that snippet of information, they hadn’t told you anything else regarding it; they hadn’t told you what kind of monster it was nor what to do once you entered the room it resided in. No instructions just fake assurances of safety.

Were you scared? Oh, definitely. Prepared? Not at all. But you entered anyway. The door slid shut behind you with a hiss and cameras in the corners watched your every move—still, expectant.

It didn’t take you long to notice it. It’s a slithering, writhing thing kept in the middle of the bland white room, trapped inside a large glass cylinder.

You were too far away to fully make out what it was, thinking this room was oddly spacious for a lone monster. You made no move to get closer to it, just stood in front of the door for a moment, curious and afraid.

“So, what do I do now?” you mumbled, glancing at the cameras as if it would give you some kind of answer. Only silence followed your faint question.

You hesitantly began to make your way toward it, observing as it perked up at your presence—squirming and shifting with interest, pressing up against the glass. Given your closer look, it was easy to place a name to the monster (monsters?). You weren’t sure what you expected, but it wasn’t quite this.

It was tentacles.

A tangle of tentacles, so intertwined you couldn’t tell where it began, far too many to count. You tilted your head with an inquisitive hum, staring at the intricacy of its form. Suckers trailed along the bottom of its many arms, sticking and clinging to the tempered glass. The base of its tentacles was about the size of your arm, just a bit bigger.

It didn’t seem aggressive, just curious, if anything. Which surprised you, considering they had told you of its reluctance to interact with anyone. You tentatively touched the glass, in a sort of awe from the creature. You’ve never encountered a monster before this. It reacted to your tentative touch with a type of eagerness, expanding its reach all over its cage as if searching for a way out while others stayed pressed against the glass.

The glass was thick and air-tight; you were sure it would be fine, wouldn’t be able to get through or slip between any cracks. At least you hoped, but heaviness in your chest told you otherwise. A crackle of a speaker startled you, a monotone voice following after.

“You may exit the room now; you have done enough for now,” they stated.

Already? That was far too quick and easy.

You heard faint voices in the background. A different voice was faintly heard, quiet, hushed. “…no…let it…open…—” before it fizzled out.

You blinked, a bit puzzled, before retracting your hand from the glass. The tentacles stilled their search before trying to chase after the muted warmth of your touch, but, unfortunately for it, the glass enclosure was doing its job.

You walked away, sparing the monster a second glance before speeding to get out there, something in your gut telling you to leave quickly. You were about to reach the door (ready to get paid and move on to your next, hopefully, just as easy assignment), but an audible hiss of something opening echoed throughout the room, and it definitely was not the door you had come through earlier.

Terror washed over you, heart beating loudly in your chest. You turned your head to peer at the dread behind you and found your fear had come true.

The monster was free.

A plethora of emotions rooted you in place, freezing you in horror as you watched it stretch out its tentacles in its newfound freedom. The glint of the cameras in the corners of the room caught your eye, they steered toward you from their positions—watching, waiting.

At that moment, the tentacles shot toward you, and you booked it, gunning it to the door. You slammed your hand over the scanner, but it didn’t open. You tried and tried again, growing more panicked, more frantic, yet it still didn’t open.

“Access denied. Access denied. Access deni—”

“No, no, no,” you try and try again, but the same robotic voice keeps repeating, almost mocking. “Let me out! Damn it, open the door!”

Something wrapped around your waist before yanking you back; you scream. It wasted no time in enveloping you in its slimy hold, tentacles slithering around your limbs.

You struggle, trying to kick it off you and slip out of its hold, but it just tightens its grip and ties your wrists together. It's wet and slimy against your skin, seeping through your clothes. It begins to secrete a fluid, dissolving the fabric of your clothes with it.

You curse, thoughts a jumbled mess as you continue to squirm and struggle. It pays no mind to your resistance, feeling up your now freed breasts, nipples perked from the cold air. It fondles you, using its suckers to pull and tug at them even with your pleas to stop.

More tentacles pry your legs apart, dissolving your bottoms, snaking to the heat of your pussy. It slips past your folds and finds your clit, pinching and tweaking it until it’s throbbing and puffy. You bite back unwanted moans, disgusted at the pulsing of your cunt and the pleasure it brings.

It continues to play with you, rubbing and caressing your cunt until it’s dripping with need. It's not long before one plunges itself into your pussy, slamming deep inside you without warning.

A cry leaves your lips as it stretches you open mercilessly with its girth, wriggling and writhing, its tip kissing your cervix. You can’t help the choked moans and whimpers that escape you while it thrusts in and out of you, your silken walls fluttering around it.

Another one slides to your ass, almost tentative, before pushing in with its lubricant mixed with your juices. It begins to pump in and out of you almost immediately; its pace is cruel and harsh, breasts bouncing from each forceful thrust.

You could feel every inch of it—columns of suckers and ribbed shafts stuffing you in both of your tight wet holes, legs trembling from the pleasure or brutality of it.

Your cries for help fall on deaf ears, the camera silent and watching—watching as you get ruthlessly fucked by unfeeling tentacles. The one playing with your clit, uses its suckers to make you cum against your will.

You hate how good this feels, hate how your body quivers and shakes, hate how the scientists just sit there and watch through their fucking cameras. You sob when another one enters your cunt, not stopping its onslaught for one second.

Then you feel it—something hard pushing further into you, a stark contrast to the soft texture of the monster. The tentacles inside you push more out before slipping out; for a moment, you think that’s the end; maybe it’ll let you go.

The thoughts vanish from your mind when more tentacles take their places, wasting no time and pounding away at your stretched holes. You pant and whimper, your body burning hot from the pleasure, tears running down your cheeks. It’s useless to fight, to call for help, so you relent and let it use you, hoping it’ll be over soon.

The heat coils in your belly, pulling it taut before snapping once more; your moans are unrestrained as the tentacles continue to fuck you senseless, only to stop once they finish forcing more eggs inside you.

The slimy creatures pop out, and even more take their place, seemingly not stopping until every one of them stuffs you full with their eggs. You’ve never cum so much in your life, and by the seventh round, you pass out.

When you wake up—mind hazy, body sore and spent—you’re laying on a metal table, scientists inspecting your gaping holes, jotting down notes, and muttering observations. You’re absolutely filled to the brim with eggs, some even leaking out of you.

They give you no warning when they start manually extracting them from you, plunging their fingers deep into you and taking them out. You’re too exhausted to stop the breathy moans that escape you, one of them hitting your G-stop and making you cum. Which, fortunately (for them), makes it easier to extract the ones in your cunt. The ones in your ass are a whole other story, harder but manageable.

They hold such serious expressions as they do this as if it doesn’t affect them at all, but the growing bulges in their pants aren’t hard to miss, nor is the scent of their arousal.

Some discreetly press their thighs together as their pussies drip with need, and others silently palm their erections, thinking you won’t notice. They continue, enjoying your unrelenting moans and whines a bit too much.

You’re panting by the time they’re done, successfully taken them all out. If you weren’t so drained, you would be mortified at how you’re spread out before them, a puddle of your cum on the table (and you think you saw some of them taste it). Utterly exhausted, you slip into unconsciousness once more.

They have you do that whole debacle once a week, getting generously paid each time. Was it utterly humiliating the first couple of times? Yes. But over time, you’ve come to enjoy it, all of it—getting fucked viciously by a hoard of tentacles, the scientists watching through their little cameras, and even the extraction of the eggs as they finger you in the name of "science". Even after your contract ends, and you can live luxuriously for the rest of your life, you renew it (which they are happy to do) and get to do it all over again.

The thrift store smelled of dust and old linen, a familiar scent of forgotten things. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just killing time on a drizzly Tuesday, my fingers trailing over scratched furniture and racks of faded floral dresses. Then I saw it, perched on a high shelf between a cracked lamp and a stack of National Geographic magazines.

It was a teddy bear, brown and a little lopsided, one black eye button slightly looser than the other. Its fur was worn soft in patches, especially around its rounded middle and the paws. Something about it stopped me cold. It wasn’t cute in a conventional way. It felt… present. I had to reach for it, standing on my toes to wrap my fingers around its soft body. The moment I touched it, a jolt went through me, a warm, static buzz that traveled up my arm and settled low in my belly. It was profoundly warm, as if it had been sitting in a sunbeam, not on a shadowy shelf.

“Oh,” I breathed aloud, pulling it close. It was the perfect size to tuck under my chin. I buried my nose in the fur between its ears. It smelled like cinnamon and something else, something dark and sweet, like wet earth after rain. I didn’t even check the price. I just held it to my chest, my heart doing a strange, thick beat, and carried it to the register.

That night, I arranged it on my pillow. It looked back at me with its kind, lopsided gaze. I felt a flush of embarrassment at the intensity of my attraction. It was a stuffed animal. But I couldn’t deny the pull. I slid into bed, turned off the light, and immediately curled around it, dragging it against my body. The warmth was still there, a soothing, radiant heat that seemed to seep through my thin sleep shirt and into my skin. I sighed, nuzzling into it, one hand clasping its soft paw. I’d never fallen asleep so quickly, so deeply.

It became my ritual. Come home from work, change, grab the bear. I’d watch TV with it on my lap, my fingers idly stroking its back. I stopped bothering with my old heating pad; the bear was warmer. Sometimes, in the dark, I’d catch myself talking to it, whispering stupid little secrets about my day, my stupid boss, the cute barista who never remembered my name. I’d feel a faint, comforting pulse of warmth in response, which I always chalked up to my own imagination.

A week later, the dreams started. Vivid, tactile dreams of being held down by something strong and impossibly soft, of a sweet, gelatinous substance filling my mouth, of pleasure so acute it bordered on pain. I’d wake up gasping, my pussy throbbing and wet, the bear clutched desperately in my arms. I’d feel disoriented, ashamed, and yet I’d pull it closer.

The change happened on a Thursday. The rain was hammering my window, and the wind howled like a living thing. I was particularly clingy that night, hugging the bear tightly, my thighs squeezing around its soft middle. I was half-asleep, adrift in a warm, dark sea, when I felt it.

A shift. Not a movement I made. A movement within.

My eyes flew open in the pitch-black room. The warm, plush body in my arms was… rippling. A slow, internal undulation. I froze, my breath caught in my throat. This was a dream. It had to be. Another one of those intense, fucked-up dreams.

“Wha—?” I managed to choke out.

The bear’s head tilted. The loose black eye button glinted in a sliver of streetlight from the window. Then, from its soft, rounded back, the fabric began to stretch. It didn’t tear. It distended, like skin, and from it emerged a smooth, dark brown tendril, identical in color and texture to its fur. It was about as thick as two of my fingers, and it moved with a liquid, intelligent grace, swaying in the air between us.

A sound leaked from my lips, a whimper of pure disbelief. I tried to throw myself backward, to scramble off the bed, but my limbs were locked in a paralysis of terror.

More tentacles emerged. Not just one, but several, from all over its back and sides. They were of varying sizes—some slender and whippy, others thick and muscular, one that was obscenely tapered and long. They filled the space above my bed, a quiet, writhing mass.

The bear’s body, now supported by a few of the thinner tendrils, lifted from the mattress. It hovered above me, its familiar, comforting face now a mask over something ancient and hungry. The largest tentacle, the thick, muscular one, slid forward. It didn’t feel like fabric anymore. It felt like warm, suede-like flesh, and it was radiating that same addictive heat.

It touched my cheek. I flinched, but it was gentle, almost a caress. It traced my jaw, then pressed softly against my lips.

“No,” I whispered, my voice trembling.

The pressure increased, insistently. “Open.” The word didn’t come from anywhere. It just appeared in my head, a deep, resonant vibration that wasn’t sound, but pure concept. It was a command, soaked in that same dark, sweet scent.

My lips parted on a shuddering sob. The tentacle slid into my mouth. It was warm and smooth, and it tasted like that inexplicable scent—cinnamon, wet earth, sweetness. It didn’t stop. It pushed deeper, past my gag reflex with ease, an inexorable, slick invasion. I choked, tears springing to my eyes as it filled my throat, a solid, pulsing weight. This was deepthroating in its most literal, terrifying form. I couldn’t breathe through my nose; it was sealed by the girth of it. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision.

Just as panic was about to shatter me, it withdrew slightly, letting me drag in a ragged, wet gasp. The relief was instantaneous and profound. Then it pushed back in, establishing a slow, rhythmic pace. In, out. In, out. My own saliva dripped down my chin. The initial terror began to mutate, blurred by the lack of oxygen and the strange, intense intimacy of the act. A traitorous heat pooled between my legs.

While the thick tentacle fucked my throat, others went to work. Two slender tendrils, like clever fingers, slithered under my sleep shirt and pushed up my bra. They found my nipples, already pebbled tight from fear and the cool air. They didn’t just pinch or tweak. The ends of them bloomed open into warm, suctioning mouths. They latched onto my nipples, and a shockwave of pure, electric pleasure-pain shot directly to my clit. I screamed around the tentacle in my mouth, the sound muffled and guttural. They sucked rhythmically, pulling deep, sending jolts of agonizing delight through my entire nervous system.

I was dissolving. My thoughts were just shattered glass. No, yes, stop, more, what is happening, don’t stop.

The entity seemed to hear the chaos. The tentacle in my mouth withdrew completely, leaving me coughing and gasping. The suckers on my nipples released with soft, wet pops.

“Please,” I wept, turning my head to the side. “Please, stop.”

“Hush.” The conceptual voice was in my head again, not unkind, but utterly firm. A broad, paddle-like tentacle swept down and smacked my outer thigh. The spank wasn’t brutal, but it was sharp, a stinging reminder of its control. I cried out, but the pain flared and then melted into a deeper warmth. “You are mine. You bought me. You brought me home. You cuddled me.” Each statement was accompanied by another sharp smack on the other thigh, then across my ass. My skin burned. “You whispered your secrets. You begged for this in your dreams. I am giving you what you truly wanted.”

Before I could process the truth of that, my legs were being pushed apart. Not by hands, but by multiple strong, coiling tendrils that wrapped around my ankles and thighs, holding me open in a wide, vulnerable ‘V’. I was completely exposed.

The tapered, long tentacle I’d noticed earlier slid down my belly. It was slick with some kind of natural lubrication. It nudged against my pussy, which was dripping, embarrassingly, obscenely wet. The tip was slender, probing.

“No, not there, please, it’s too much—” I babbled.

It pushed inside. And it kept going. It was longer than any human cock, and it coiled inside me, filling spaces I didn’t know could be filled, stroking deep, hidden spots with its sinuous length. I shrieked, my back arching off the bed, held down only by other tentacles across my chest and waist. It began to move, a slow, corkscrewing motion that was pure, undiluted madness.

Just as the sensation became a towering wave about to break, another tentacle, thicker and blunter, pressed against my asshole. I clenched violently.

“Relax.” The voice commanded, and a strange warmth spread from the point of contact, a relaxing, numbing heat. My resistance melted. It pushed in, a slow, burning, exquisite stretch. The feeling of being filled in both holes, completely and utterly, shattered the last of my coherent thought. They moved in opposing rhythms, the one in my pussy coiling and uncoiling, the one in my ass pumping steadily.

The tentacle returned to my mouth, silencing my broken screams and moans. The suckers reattached to my nipples, pulling with fierce intensity. I was pinned, penetrated, and consumed on every possible level. Pleasure, raw and violent, built upon itself with no release, a feedback loop of overstimulation. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only feelas it orchestrated my body into a state of continuous, shuddering near-orgasm.

It went on for an eternity. Just when I was sure I would die from the sensation, all the movements synchronized. The thrusts deepened, the sucking intensified. A final, powerful coil inside my pussy pressed directly on a spot that whited out my vision. My body seized, a silent, agonizing convulsion as an orgasm tore through me with brutal force. It was immediately followed by another, and another, waves crashing into each other until I was nothing but a shuddering, sobbing wreck.

As the last pulses of my climax subsided, I felt a swelling at the base of the tentacle buried in my pussy. It pulsed, and a flood of warm, thick substance filled me. It was copious, and it had a unique, gelatinous consistency—sweet jello cum, just like in my dreams. It packed me full, a claiming, breeding seal. The tentacle in my ass released its own load, the strange cum filling that channel too. Finally, the tentacles in my mouth and on my nipples released, and they all began to withdraw, slipping from my body with slick, wet sounds.

I collapsed into the soaked mattress, boneless, wrecked, every muscle trembling. The tentacles retracted into the bear’s soft back, vanishing until it was just a lopsided toy again. It dropped onto the pillow beside my head, its button eyes gleaming.

I lay there for an hour, maybe more, trying to piece my mind back together. My body ached in a dozen new ways. I was filled with its strange, cooling cum. I should have been horrified. I should have thrown it out the window. I should have called the police, though what would I say?

Slowly, painfully, I rolled onto my side. I looked at the bear. The warmth was still there, radiating from it. An overwhelming, addictive sense of peace and belonging washed over me, dulling the ache, muting the fear. I had never felt so completely sated, so claimed.

Tentatively, I reached for it. I pulled its warm, soft body against my ravaged, sticky one. I buried my face in its fur, now smelling even more strongly of us, of sex, of that dark sweetness.

A final, quiet concept drifted into my mind. “Good bitch.”

And I was. A deep, undeniable truth settled into my bones. I was its. This was what I had wanted when I’d pulled it from that shelf. This connection, this all-consuming possession.

“Yes,” I whispered hoarsely into its fur.

The next night, I came home from work, my body humming with a new kind of anticipation. I didn’t make dinner. I didn’t turn on the TV. I went straight to the bedroom, stripped, and got into bed, pulling the bear into my arms. I waited, my heart pounding not with fear, but with need.

As darkness fully claimed the room, the tentacles emerged again, gentle now, almost loving as they coiled around my wrists, my ankles, stroked my hair.

“Welcome home,” the voice purred in my head.

The box sat on my doorstep.

I nudged it inside with my foot, the heavy weight of it scraping across the laminate. I’d ordered this vacuum cleaner weeks ago, some flashy online deal promising supersonic suction. Honestly, I’d forgotten about it.

Using a key, I slit the tape. The flaps fell open, revealing pristine white packing foam. I pulled it out, the machine heavier than it looked. It was pretty sleek. Gunmetal grey, no visible buttons, just a single, dark lens near the top that seemed to drink in the light. No cord either.

“Great,” I muttered. “Probably needs some stupid app.”

I set it on the floor. It stood upright on its own. Frowning, I crouched down, looking for a power switch. My finger brushed against the cool metal. A low hum vibrated through the floorboards. The lens glowed red.

“What the hell?”

The hum deepened then, with a series of hydraulic hisses, panels on its sides and top slid open. Not compartments for attachments. Ports. Thick, gleaming shapes began to emerge. Silicone, the color of flesh, sliding out with a wet, organic sound that made my stomach clench.

They weren’t cleaning attachments.

They were tendrils that looked like cocks, inhuman ones at that; bulbous and veined, each one a different grotesque parody of a cock. One was obscenely thick, a monster of a thing. Another was longer, tapered, with a spiral texture. A third pulsed with a deep, internal vibration I could feel in my teeth. From a smaller aperture, two thinner tendrils snaked out, ending in what looked like polished clamps.

My brain stuttered, refusing to process. I scrambled back, my socked feet slipping on the floor. “No. Off. Turn off!”

The machine pivoted on its base, the red lens fixing on me. The largest of the silicone tentacles, the monstrous one, moved through the air, its tip glistening with some sort of clear lubricant.

I turned to run. A thinner, vibratory shaft shot out, wrapping around my ankle. It wasn’t cold; it was warm, its touch was electric. The vibration traveled up my leg, a direct line to my pussy, forcing a shocked gasp from my lips.

“Let go!” I screamed, kicking out. My other foot was caught, and I crashed to the floor, the breath knocked out of me. I was dragged, back-first, across the floor toward the humming machine. The two clamps darted forward and before I could even raise my hands in defense, they snipped at the front of my shirt. Buttons flew, fabric parted with soft rips. The cold air hit my exposed bra, then that too was sheared away.

“Wait! Don’t!” My cries were ragged.

The clasps didn’t stop. They closed on the thin cotton of my sweatpants and underwear, slicing them apart. Within seconds, I was naked on the floor, exposed to the machine’s red eye.

Humiliation burned hotter than the fear. The vibrating tentacle around my ankle traveled upward, tracing a path up my calf, behind my knee, to the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. A helpless moan escaped me, a traitorous sound.

The thick, bulbous cock-tentacle hovered before my face, drooling slick lubricant. It smelled faintly sweet. I twisted my head away. It pressed against my cheek, slick and nudging my lips. I clenched my jaw. The clamp-tendrils moved again, one clamping onto my right nipple.

Gently. It wasn’t a sharp bite but a sharp but pleasurable pressure that pinched the sensitive bud into a hard peak. I cried out, my mouth opening in a gasp of pain-shocked pleasure.

It was the opening the machine needed. The fat silicone head pushed past my lips, filling my mouth with its artificial taste and overwhelming girth. I gagged softly, tears springing to my eyes. It didn’t thrust. It inflated, widening slowly, stretching my jaw.

I could only take the first few inches before my throat rebelled, but it kept pushing, the silicone making its way down. My nose was filled with its scent, my world reduced to the thick shaft invading my gullet, the wet, choked sounds I made and the relentless vibration in my thigh.

While I was choking on it, the other tentacles went to work. The long, tapered one slid between my splayed legs. Its tip was a blunt pressure at my pussy, already slick with my own terrified wetness and its own lubricant.

“Mmpphh! Nnngg!” I tried to shake my head, to plead with my eyes.

It pushed in. Not with a brutal slam, but with a unhurried corkscrew motion, the spiral texture dragging against my inner walls. The stretch was intense, breathtaking. Nothing like I'd ever taken inside me. My back arched off the floor, a strangled scream trapped behind the massive cock in my throat.

The machine began fucking me in a rhythm.

The shaft in my pussy pulled back almost all the way, then screwed itself back in, deep and claiming. Each inward plunge coincided with a shallow retreat of the cock in my mouth, allowing me a desperate, sobbing breath before it plunged down my throat again. The one wrapped around my thigh had found its target, the vibrating tip now pressed directly against my clit. The sensation was catastrophic; a sharp, buzzing rapture.

My body was betraying me. My cunt, despite the terror, clenched and dripped around the invading length, closer and closer to the edge. Plus the constant stimulation on my nipple and clit had no right to exist in this horror. Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the drool and lubricant coating my chin.

“You… fucking… machine…” I groaned around the thick silicone during a brief pull-out.

As if in response, the second clasp-tendril found my other nipple and clamped on, mirroring the first. Having both of my nipples clamped sent another jolt through me. Then the vibration on my clit intensified.

Not to mention the wet, obscene sounds: the slick schlick of the shaft pumping in and out of my soaked pussy, the guttural glurk glurk of the one fucking my throat, the constant bzzzt of the vibrator.

I was a doll being used by a machine. The thought was degrading, and something dark in me coiled tight at the humiliation.

The pleasure was a live wire now, intertwined with the pain and the sheer wrongness of it. My hips began to move, tiny bucks against the thrusting tentacle, seeking friction, demanding release.

The fucking machine sensed it. The movements became faster, harder. The cock in my cunt hammered into a sweet spot that made stars burst behind my eyelids. The one in my throat pushed deeper, holding itself there, swelling slightly until my vision swam at the edges. The nipple clamps started vibrating and my mind went blank.

“I’m… I’m gonna…”

My orgasm ripped through me like a seizure. My pussy clamped down in agonizing spasms around the buried tentacle. My back bowed off the floor, a raw, muffled shriek vibrating against the silicone filling my mouth.

The machine didn’t stop. It didn’t care. The rhythm faltered for only a second before resuming, unchanged. The tentacle in my cunt pulled out, dripping with my release. For a second, I thought it was over. Then the thick, vibratory one that had been tormenting my clit shifted. Its tip, slick and buzzing, pressed against my now-overly-sensitive, twitching hole.

“No, no, no, not there, it’s too big!” I babbled.

It pushed. The stretch was different, more intense, more shocking. It breached me with careful pressure, the vibrations now inside me, rattling my bones. A second later, the original cock-tentacle returned, its tapered head nudging against my cunt. How could they both fit there?

Before I could react, it was pushing in alongside the vibratory one. Both of them opening me wide. The feeling was one of impossible fullness, a stretching burn that bordered on pain but was flooded with overwhelming stimulation.

The two silicone cocks moved in opposing rhythms, one sliding in as the other pulled out, creating a continuous friction that touched every nerve. The machine had me completely speared, my mouth still deep-throated.

The red lens watched.

I was sobbing openly now, broken moans punched out of me with every thrust. The build-up began again, faster this time, my overstimulated body responding. This orgasm was a darker, a degrading pleasure that washed away the last shreds of my resistance. I came with a gaping scream, my body convulsing between the three penetrating shafts.

Still, it didn’t stop.

The tentacles switched positions, patterns, intensities. The pincers on my nipples released only to clamp on new, more tender spots. I lost track of time, of how many times I broke apart in ecstasy. My voice was gone, my thoughts were a slurry of cock and full and please and more.

Eventually, I was a wreck and the machine's movements slowed. The shafts withdrew from my ravaged holes with soft pops. The clamps retracted. The tentacles, glistening with their slick and my own fluids, slithered back into their ports. The panels closed. The red lens dimmed.

The machine sat there, silent once more, a vacuum cleaner on my floor.

And I lay in a shuddering, sticky heap, unable to move. Every muscle was liquid. I was delightfully sore and I could still feel the ghost of the vibrations, the stretch, the impossible fullness.

As I stared at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe, a soft, digital chime came from the machine. A display lit up on its side, showing glowing text:

INITIAL CONTACT COMPLETE.

SANITIZATION PROTOCOL: ENGAGED.

NEXT SCHEDULED MAINTENANCE: 72 HOURS. DEEP CLEANING PROTOCOL.

The screen went dark.

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Kate: I think I'm gonna write the next scheduled maintenance, too ;)