Tentacles?
Yes, they resemble the octopus tentacles I’ve eaten in Boston. Rubbery, chewy nonsense that slipped within my cheeks and bumped my teeth most vulgarly. I loved the sensation of a fishy finger’s caress within my mouth at the dinner table. Slurping each phallus along my tongue kept me entertained while I pretended to listen to Leopold blabber on about heredity. What would one of these tentacles feel like in my mouth? Are they edible? Would they grow back if I ate one? What would happen if I didn’t truly eat it, but sucked on one while the other rubbed…
An insistent tug on my bloomers interrupts my smutty thoughts. The elastic glides over my narrow hips, and I bend to yank them back to my waist. Bundles of fabric slip from my arms as I tumble over. I flail indecently. The water is deeper than I am tall and tastes horrible. My housedress is ruined. My hair flattens to my head. I kick until the plant tentacles wrap around my knees. They push me upward, and I swear they are helped by a pair of large handsspanning my hips.
I’m thrust onto the muddy grass. As I huff and puff, I can’t help but admit…
…I can’t wait until my next visit…
Chapter 2
If Leopold found me out here, he’d spank the daylights out of me. Stumbling around in the dark is asking for a sprained ankle, but I can’t resist the lure of the swamp. My afternoon chores, cooking dinner, eating alone, and evening duties are a blur. I can’t push past the exhilaration from the tentacles exploring my flesh. No pesky bloomers lie beneath my nightgown. The flimsy frock may give away my whereabouts in the morning with a map of grass stains, but I have time to concoct a story. Would he believe I made a nighttime visit to the chicken coop? Perhaps I heard a noise…or saw a rabbit in the garden out my window… I’ll come up with something convincing…
The clench and squelch of the mud under my feet sounds delicious. My fingers made thosenoises when I tried to ease the ache inside me while under my duvet. My fantasies lit a fire. I can’t extinguish the flames in my low belly. I must know if someone’s hands pushed me out of the swamp to save me from drowning or if I was evicted from someone’s personal space. Of course, this all revolves around the assumption that a sentient being is under the water…a sentient plant tentacle monster—
I’ve spent too much time alone in Leopold’s house of horrors, and I’m going nutty. He’s never bred anything larger than a parrot…with lizard legs and rabbit ears. My nighttime excursion will prove my folly, and I will sleep soundly. Wait until I tell Leopold I suspected the pond’s plants gave me more affection than him. My grass-stained gown and tale of sentient plants could be enough for him to send me to Boston for the holidays.It will be more fun if he stays home, too.What a wicked thought!
But not as wicked as having a story too salacious to share…
My brain takes a smutty spiral as I imagine a man in a metal breathing suit under the water. The tentacles are leaves he uses as puppets to arouse me. A fantasy man on my property is too much to hope for. But dark eyes and curly black hair above a square jaw take shape in my imagination. When he steps from the black pool, rivulets of water slide down his muscles. He removes his dive helmet and kisses me with all the passion I long to experience!
Or will he—after I stomp my way to the stupid swamp.
By the time I reach the water’s edge, my nightgown weighs at least ten pounds thanks to the mud clinging to the hem. Rinsing my achy feet in the frigid water shouldn’t feel so tantalizing, but the high humidity mixed with the desire coursing through my veins makes me feverish. Curls stick to my cheeks and tickle my ears. Damp air sits on my chest, suffocating me like a wool sweater. I’ll blame my appearance on exertion if I’m caught by Mr. Breyers or Leopold. The singular benefit to being theweaker sexin their eyes is I can feign exertion to end any conversation and headaches to get out of any compromising position.
My toes swirl the water on the surface, trying in vain to wake the plant tentacles from their slumber. I tentatively tiptoe onto the deeper stones. Who cares if my ruined nightgown is soaked? Nobody sees the fabric turn translucent except the fish, the plants, and possibly the mysterious diver from my imagination. I must admit, my husband misses a show. My slim silhouette is elongated in the moonlight’s shadow, so I look like a willowy model. My nipples poke the fabric, forming darkened circles above the shadowed triangle between my legs. I’m an illuminated tease with no audience. There’s no point delayingthe step downward that will raise the water level to my collarbone.
At least there will be less exposed flesh for the mosquitos to feast upon!
Were those rocks always positioned in that manner? Was I two steps from a submerged chair when I toppled in this morning? A white, flat limestone lays almost two feet below the water surface. On each end, white limestone blocks act like armrests at surface level. Had I kept my wits when the plant tentacles—nope. If I’ve learned anything today, it is that I’m starved for touch to the point that the brushing of plants above my knees sends me into a dither. My tumble is all Leopold’s fault, really.
If our roles were reversed, I could have a mistress. Well, this chair is my mistress tonight.
Of course, the first thing I do is flash my ass at her as I bend over to grip a rocky armrest.Giggle.My saturated nightgown is bundled in one hand while the other clings to the stone as I climb over it. I’m not falling in and cutting this trip short…again. When my knees hit the smooth seat, I let my dress go. The white ruffles glow in the moonlight as it ripples from my body. My bare legs swish forward as I settle on my butt. The seat is narrow…more like a perch… I lean back for balance to discover more rocks on the bank. Nestled in soft grass are two more pieces of white limestone, perfectly positioned for my elbows to rest. No way polished planks of limestone magically came to rest on the bank of a muddy, swampy lake.
The conceited part of me likes the idea of some mystery man hauling stones to entice me to sit so he can tease me with plant fronds at his leisure. My fantasy expands from a man in a diver’s mask who happened upon me to a man setting up the scenario because he’s obsessed with me. Wouldn’t it be divine to have a man so overcome with passion that he not only fantasizes about me but creates an atmosphere for our moonlight rendezvous?
Elbows on the polished stone, I fold my arms behind my head and lay back. My body floats. I swish my legs beneath the glowing fabric of my nightgown. The stars glitter overhead. Slight splashes against the pond’s edges mix with the cricket chirps to create a delightful lullaby. The peaceful, meditative spot is a gem, even if nothing else comes of my adventure. My eyes drift closed as I lose myself in the gentle sway of the water.
Omf!
Bright green tentacles wind around my ankles, thighs, and waist simultaneously. I drop into the seat with a thud that clacks my teeth. My chin bobs. My arms fly upward to flop onto the armrests. They are pinned by vines before my movement settles. A sense of calm washes over me as my body floats justbelow the surface. If my captor were a malicious octopus bent on revenge for my eating their cousins, I’d sink to the bottom. I surrender to the tentacles’ grasp so I can study their musculature.
They aren’t plants.
The grip on my waist pulls my midsection lower than my spread arms and legs, bending me into a V-shape. Two more tentacles draw lazy circles on my inner thighs with their tips as their bulk pushes my nightgown to my throat. My pale skin glows against the brackish water. Such a wanton display outdoors pushes my desire to the forefront.
“Please,” I whimper, but what I beg for, I don’t know. The teasing circles go higher and higher, coiling the dark emotion in my lower belly tight. How far will they go? Are they randomly exploring a foreign entity or controlled by someone sentient? Does the owner hypnotize aquatic animals to pleasure me, or is he manipulating a contraption he built? Does a hidden man watch me writhe in their grasp, desperate for attention?
I don’t care as long as they touch me. My knees bend to suggest the path they should go up my legs. When one tentacle disappears beneath me, I release a feminine growl into the night. I buck my hips, which only tightens the bonds on my wrists and ankles…
…but loosens the two about my waist. These tentacles are thicker than the rest. They slither up my ribs and cross between my breasts. A large, red sucker adorns the tip of each tentacle. It tickles my skin as it walks along my flesh. The appendages’ paths divide around each breast, squeezing them. My erect nipples point upward in an obscene display of my arousal until they are covered with green coils. It’s like a living, rubbing brassiere dotted with peach suckers which kiss my skin. The two largest cups on the ends of the tentacles alternate sucking and releasing my nipples until I ride the edge between pleasure and pain.
Water splashes violently on the banks of the pond with the bucking of my hips.
A shriek catches in the back of my throat as two sets of webbed fingers clench my knees. I freeze. The water is too dark to see anything other than the tentacles and the webbed hands. Ten fingers, tipped with broken, ragged nails, dig into my doughy flesh. Their scales flash in the moonlight with each clench and release of the webbed digits. The rhythm matches the tentacles sucking my nipples. My heartbeat slows. My breathing evens out to match the creature’s cadence. It restores my calm and the fire burning between my legs.
I whimper but hold the pose for fear of scaring off this being who holds my arousal in their grasp.
