cw: tentacle monster erotica, bondage, gags
Also, while the second-person narrator is given no gender, they do have a vulva, and I refer to a clit a few times.Listen as audio
The cave is cold and damp, but you expect no different from a cave, after all. The stone table—platform, really—beneath your belly has warmed to your body temperature, after the time you’ve spent here, and you think it might be a little sweaty, which doesn’t particularly add to your comfort. The thick rope chafing around your waist, keeping you against the table’s smooth-worn surface, reminds you that you dare not move, though you could easily free yourself. You do not. You’re waiting.
You think, sometimes, that the relationship between a good harvest and your role here is tenuous at best. But every year, the village sacrifices a volunteer to this, and every year, the harvest is good—provided the farmers are wise and pay attention to the weather. Most of the farms are generations old, and the farmers probably know what they’re doing by now. Then again, they say that this ritual is generations old as well. Maybe they are connected after all. You’d agreed to be here, regardless of your beliefs. The sacrifice must be voluntary, they say. You don’t know if it’s because nothing else will be accepted, or if it’s because the village’s guilt would be too high otherwise.
Outside, you know, the moon is new and dark—the first new moon after the harvest. The stars may be dark, too, obscured with thick clouds. Better luck, they say, to have a darker night for this. Inside, there is one tall, red candle, casting a small and flickering circle of light to your right that does not reach the edges of the cave, and barely even reaches you. Those remain in darkness, and only rare sounds hint at what might be there. A steady drip of water. Faint rustling that might—or might not—be bats.
You don’t know how long you wait before you see movement, and at first you think it might be the flicker of candlelight. But the movement does not flicker. It’s fluid and faint, like coils of mist off the village lake. And then it coalesces more solidly, though no less fluid, until something emerges from the blackness—not as if it had been veiled, but as if formed from the cave’s darkness.
It does not step into the light, to show you its eerie, multi-limbed form. That would be too easy. That would show you exactly what was there, and what to expect, more than the vague expectations you hold. But a tendril thick as the rope on your back emerges into the light, and touches your face, stroking over your cheek like a lover’s hand, before curling under your chin and tilting your face up. Maybe it’s studying you. Maybe it thinks you can see it, the bulk of it only a suggestion outside the warm light of the candle. The tendril is cold, not like a fish or snake or other slimy beast, but the way an autumn morning is cold, the way the cave is cold.
It releases you, and you let your face drop again, cheek thudding a little too hard against the stone. You hear it move, and tilt your head towards the candle, straining to catch a glimpse. It goes between you and it, not walking, more like slithering, and for a moment you get a silhouette, framed with a golden halo. It’s large, but not as large as it sounds, and there’s a hunch that might be its head or might be its back. Tendrils appear and disappear, curling now and again, many tentacled limbs that seem to reach out to the air and pluck something from it, or perhaps that’s how it smells or tastes. You don’t know, and you probably never will. And then the shape is gone, behind you, and you see nothing except the steadily unreassuring candlelight.
A cold limb wraps itself around one thigh, and then another around your other, gently prying your legs apart. You’re breathing hard, from fear or cold or something else. It doesn’t matter. A third tendril touches your back, smoothing over your skin, tracing the heavy rope and the slight red mark it’s left behind. The soreness of the rope’s chafing fades, and you let out a little sigh of relief.
It smooths over your back again, then slides down, trailing a now-damp coldness over your skin until it slides past your buttocks and to the heat between your legs. Your breath catches as it traces over you, exploring more than anything. The coldness, the flexibility, feels nothing like a hand or anything else that might have touched there. It feels like what it is, the strange limb of a being you can never quite understand.
And while it continues to explore, a fourth tentacle finds one entrance, and a fifth finds another, and gradually both insinuate themselves inside of you. You find yourself suddenly filled, clenching around cold flesh. The limbs pulse inside you, just a little, but otherwise don’t move.
Like the cold stone under you, they start to warm to your body. Gradually, uncertainly, you relax, just a little, and then a little more. It strokes your back again, maybe encouraging, or reassuring, or maybe just intrigued by your shape and warmth.
It starts to move those limbs in and out of you—not thrusting straight and hard like a cock or fingers would, but an oddly gentle flow, in and out. All the while, the creature still strokes over your folds until it finds your hardening clit. The tip of the tendril curls around it, delicately, precisely, and you can feel it pulsing like a heartbeat against sensitive skin.
Even with that, its attention isn’t all there. The other limbs stroke over you, a few more on your back, a few more on your legs, one winding around your waist, one even reaching up to stroke your hair. There’s a weight on your back—perhaps the whole creature is on you, cold and softly solid, or perhaps the tentacles weigh more than you think. It presses you into the hard stone, and it would be uncomfortable if you could pay attention. But it’s hard to concentrate on such mundane things when it’s still fucking you the whole time. One limb thrusts into your ass as the other slides out, and then back, steady and maddening, the thickness of it alone stroking every good spot inside of you. Its rhythm never varies. It’s the same rhythm it uses stroking over your hair, your back. It’s the same rhythm it uses on your clit, pulsing, stroking over your skin that’s almost too sensitive, but you cannot pull away.
The little sounds you make are not to that rhythm, nor to any rhythm. You choke a little, and gasp. You pant, but it’s ragged, uneven, as the strange sensations stop being strange and just become pleasure, from the stroking of your clit to the soft weight on your back. A tendril comes to slide across the width of your open mouth, the thickness of it between your lips and wrapping around your whole face. It smells like night air and tastes like stone, and when you sink your teeth into it, the softness of it gives, but your teeth do not break the skin. The only sounds now are the wet rasp of its movements.
If you could, you’d buck your hips, but its whole body seems wrapped around you, inside of you, until you’re rendered nearly motionless. And only then does the rhythm change—harder, faster. You let out a startled cry, but it’s buried into its flesh, no sound of it reaching your ears. The movements are merciless, building pleasure into you until you think you’ll break from it.
You come, hard and without moving, only shuddering under all of its limbs, clenching around it, the feel and taste and smell of it flooding your whole body. But still it doesn’t stop. Relentless, it keeps moving, and you’re almost too sensitive, trying to wriggle away but to no avail. And you come again—and again, until you lose track of where one ends and another begins, until your whole body is nothing but an unending onslaught of pleasure.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, its over. All those limbs withdraw, leaving you gasping and limp against the table, under the soft weight of it, until that’s gone, too. You’re too spent to look as it passes the candle again, noting only the brief moment of darkness behind your closed eyelids.
Once again, it strokes your cheek, runs one tentacle over your hair. You don’t know what pleasure it derived from that, but something about that touch is tender, and you imagine that it’s affectionate, maybe grateful.
And then it’s gone, leaving you alone, tied to a stone table.
This had been better than last year, you think as you breathe, as your heartbeat steadies again. Maybe next year will be even better. You don’t know—you’ll have four seasons to speculate, to masturbate, but you won’t be touched again until the first new moon after harvest, and that harvest will be good. You’ve ensured that, perhaps.
A few brief moments of mind-numbing pleasure, and then a whole agonizing year without, except in poor recollection and fantasy. But that is, after all, what makes it a sacrifice.