Hesitantly, the two tentacles on my thighs resume their journey to my cunt. I strain thebonds to open my legs as far as I’m allowed. One dips inside my labia to explore while the other’s tip plants little kisses on my heated lips. I thought the sucking at my nipples was intense, but my eyes cross with each movement of the tentacles between my thighs. When one breaches my vagina, I cry out in ecstasy. The sucking and releasing continues as the tendril works its way past my virginal barrier.
I’m quickly silenced by one of the tentacles that held my wrists. The coil jams itself between my lips, and I suck it with gusto. The need to pleasure the being who gives so willingly overwhelms me. I flick my tongue on the suckers and hollow my cheeks with suction. His salty taste reminds me of the gourmet fish I indulge in when traveling. My lips stretch to accommodate the increasing girth. Instead of hitting the back of my throat, the appendage bends into a shape that fills my mouth. I breathe through my nose to maintain our rhythm and not panic.
Despite not seeing a face, I’m confident he won’t allow me to suffocate.
He had a thousand opportunities to drown me already.
Somehow, the danger makes me hotter. The webbed hands scrape over the tops of my thighs so the thumbs can hold open my labia for more tentacles. My eyes roll back when, one by one, three more tentacles invade me. The four lengths rub along my vaginal walls in a delicious stretch. I’m touchedwhere no man has ventured and my fingers can’t reach. My limbs tense with my impending release. Long inhales shorten to desperate panting. I can’t calm my thundering pulse. My fingers shake. I claw my nails to bits on the limestone armrests. I alternate hard swallows with brutal suction to reward the tentacle crammed in my mouth.
I’m on the edge when tapping at the crease of my ass runs ice through my veins. Certainly, they don’t hope to breachthathole? The tentacles in my vagina stop their wiggling but don’t leave my body. A fierce blush creeps down my cheeks and over my breasts as the suckers investigate my backside. Why do their kisses feel so good? Should I feel shame or pain? When the tip dips inside, it squirts something that tingles. The pleasing warmth flows upward in the strangest sensation, followed by a fullness that makes me squirm.
I need movement, NOW.
My hips swivel and buck. The webbed hands let go of my legs, so I pump with all my might. A squeeze to my ribs draws my attention to my sides, where green, scaled knees hold me. The brush of webbed feet or fins on my lower back coaxes a moan from my lips. I’m a boneless mess for an aquatic creature. His cock—a tentacle can’t have that girth—rubs the base of my spine and betweenmy buttocks. A webbed hand emerges from the black water to work my clit.
It's too much.
My orgasm pulses and pumps as I milk each penetrating appendage. I oscillate between intense pleasure and blinding pain that threatens to rip me in half. After each clench, a tentacle withdraws until I’m sobbing with the loss. He lets go of my ankles. They sink. One webbed finger dips inside my vagina to collect my release while the rest makes lazy circles over my clit. I attempt to suck his hand into my body with each pass. A tremor starts at the base of my spine and rips through my body as I come down from the high.
What?! He vanished?! I never saw his face!
What am I willing to risk to see the face behind this experience? To kiss his lips or find another way to thank him for showing me affection? I can’t find it in me to be ashamed of my behavior. No one knows except me and the tentacles… Could the man manipulating them know me? I swim into the center of the pond, arms waving, hoping to catch a glimpse of my lover. I crisscross the space but don’t call out. I can’t risk someone finding me now—not with my flesh loosened and flushed. I have no choice but to return in daylight.
I shake and sob as I stumble back to my cold, lonely bed. Which is worse—returning to my loveless marriage after what I just experienced or my growing addiction to a monster’s touch?
Chapter 3
“Damn woman! Where are you? Harriett!” Leopold’s voice thunders through our home. Good thing we aren’t in a semi-detached house in Boston. I’d hate to leave the confines of my covers to placate disgruntled neighbors. Light rain patters on the roof as if singing me back to sleep.Good, rain will break the humidity. The grey daylight streaming through my curtains tells me I overslept, but by how much? What time is it?
“You’re in bed,” Leopold announces as he bursts through my door. The few whisps of hair left on his head stand on end. His face wears pink blotches as if he ran around the house to find me. The lines on his face are more pronounced today. They broadcast our thirty-year age difference like a news bulletin on the radio. From his loose tie to hiswrinkled trousers, I suspect he slept in his clothes again—probably at his desk. Long, yellow toenails peek out from the hem of his pants. My stomach churns with nausea, so I burrow my face into my pillow.
“Why are you in bed at this hour? Are you ill?” Leopold’s questions may be phrased as if he’s checking on my welfare, but his tone is accusatory and menacing. The unspoken ‘how dare you’ hangs between his words.
Am I ill?
“I suppose so,” slips through my lips into the cotton pillow. Am I ill for staying in this marriage after it couldn’t be consummated? Am I ill for seeking pleasure and romantic thrills in our backyard under the moonlight?
Before my father died, he begged me to marry Leopold. He claimed Leopold would provide the type of lifestyle I was accustomed to. Granted, the arrangement I have now is similar to living in the same house as my father’s greenhouse laboratory. But shouldn’t living with a husband be different from living with your father?
“How ill?” Leopold pulls me from my thoughts with his childish snipe. Does it matter? We don’t eat together in the dining room or spend our morning together, so why should I rush to dress? Usually, I throw on my gardening dress and tend the gardens after a light breakfast alone.
“Do you have hysteria or something real?”
How dare he! I bolt out of bed to invade his space. Just because there is a uterus in my abdomen, my ailments are called hysteria. But that’s not how Leopold means it. I hate how the definition has changed in our social circles to a slur. My fists clench in rage. My physical aches or illnesses don’t diminish my intelligence. I’m insulted such a link would be suggested—for women—never for a whining man. Pounding around my eyes beats a furious tempo as my blood pressure skyrockets.
“I’ll have you know that I didn’t sleep a wink until well past midnight. Once I found comfort, I hesitated to relinquish it. Why spend a morning alone in the garden half-asleep when I can catch up on my rest while alone in my bed?” He can assume the comfort I found is related to thread count, not massaging tentacles.
“Well, you are up now, so you can join me. I have the most wonderful thing to show you. Come to the lab,” he says, rushing out of the room.
I fold my arms over my chest with a huff.
What, I’m stark naked!No wonder he wore a look of horror and sprinted from the room.
My laughter can chase him down the hall for all I care. I should be grateful he didn’t press me to tell him what kept me awake or how eventually I couldsleep. A true scientist would question the holes in my story or the pink circles covering my body like gigantic pox sores. He would want a definitive cause and cure for my insomnia. Moreover, a truemedicalresearcher, as is Leopold’s title, should have insisted on an examination. My husband didn’t even touch my forehead for evidence of fever…
Goodness, how awkward would an examination be? Mud caked between my toes, pond scum up my calves, dried slick on my thighs, and the stripes of mysterious green goop marring my back would puzzle him. Would he need to ask if I had skinny-dipped in the pond last night, or would he figure it out on his own? Would he examine my cunt to find it stretched, swollen, and bruised from my activities? I bet if he did, he wouldn’t have the nerve to confront me about my injuries.
What if he suspected Mr. Breyers? A mortification I must avoid at all costs.
