Page 8 of Beneath the Surface

Quinn gasped around the tendril in his mouth as a fresh bolt of pleasure shot through him. The tentacle squeezed and sucked, its inner lining studded with a thousand tiny, soft mouths that fluttered and rippled, each aperture converging in coordinated, undulating waves, sucking, tugging the length of his shaft. The sensation was so exquisite, so precise, that it almost tipped him into agony; his hips surged upward in instinctive response, seeking more of the impossible touch.

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The sensation was overwhelming, a kaleidoscope of pleasure and novelty, and for a moment, Quinn thought he might faint from the rush of it. He bucked instinctively, feeling the greedy, wet heat of the appendage sucking his length to full, trembling hardness, while the other, smaller tentacles continued their soft, seeking exploration along his torso and throat.

The mouth-tentacle was clever, itslipsforming a perfect seal around his shaft as it slid—undulated—over him, each withdrawal a slow tease, each descent a gentle, enveloping plunge. Every pass was accompanied by a ripple of suction that milked his cock with a subtlety that bordered on worshipful. The thousand tiny mouths inside the tentacle’s opening pulsed in gentle waves, each suck and squeeze sending a new circuit of pleasure through his spine, up his throat, into the roots of his tongue and the tips of his fingers.

The tentacle in his mouth responded, too, pulsing in short, eager bursts as if to encourage him while it gently fucked the roof of his mouth, coiling and uncoiling with the careful patience of a lover who knew exactly what he needed. Quinn moaned, the sound trapped and compressed, vibrating through his jaw and into the sensitive tissue of his tongue. He could taste the creature’s hunger, yes, but also its odd, desperate hope—the yearning for union, for the end of solitary existence. He swallowed, and the tentacle’s flavor was all citrus and ozone,electric on his tongue, a counterpoint to the thick, oceanic taste of his own blood still lingering in the back of his throat.

Inside his mind, the creature’s consciousness braided with his own. It did not have words—its thoughts came in bursts of color, lightning, and ancient longing. But Quinn understood: he was seen, in ways more complete and terrible than any human gaze could manage. He was studied, desired, and cherished. A hidden ache at the core of him, the one he’d never dared name, unspooled under this scrutiny, and he felt himself growing, in this strange communion, into something more than just a target or a victim.

Quinn’s breath caught as a broader, more muscular tentacle breached the water with a deliberate, stately grace, gliding up his thigh and across the sensitive underside of his balls. It pressed insistently between his cheeks, finding the tight, untouched—not entirely untouched—ring that had never known anything but his own tentative finger.

He tensed against the dark memories and in anticipation of penetration, fearing the panic that still dwelt within, but the creature’s presence inside his mind whispered comfort, soothing away the shame and the trembling fear. The thick, slick appendage pressed forward, and Quinn gasped—a sound muffled by the smaller tendril in his mouth—as the tip breached him, and then, impossibly, slid in with a molten, seamless grace.

The pressure that exploded inside him was at first a white-hot flare of shock—an alien fullness that threatened to split him apart from the inside out. But the tentacle was patient; it stroked and kneaded as it advanced, flooding every trembling nerve with wave after wave of numbing warmth, the balm it secreted acting as both lubricant and gentle anesthetic. The pain, anticipated and braced for—like before—did not come. Instead, a slow spasm of ecstasy uncoiled in Quinn’s gut, moving through him in radiant pulses, each one more intense than the last. Theappendage knew his body better than he did, coaxing him open with each deliberate, writhing pulse, until, with a shuddering gasp, he surrendered completely.

The sensation was unlike anything he’d ever imagined—less like an intrusion than a chemical ignition, as if the tentacle’s touch released some latent element in his blood. It was hot and cold at once; the velvet skin of the appendage stretched him with a slow, relentless pressure, then retreated, only to press again, each cycle opening him wider, filling him with the paradoxical sweetness of pain and pleasure entwined. Quinn had never dared imagine his first time—his first time after the other—like this, but now, every other fantasy paled.,

Pleasure detonated inside him. The tentacle filled him, impossibly deep, each inch a new, blazing revelation. The tentacle’s tip was impossibly soft, slicked with its healing balm, and it pulsed in a perfect counterpoint to the rhythmic suction on his cock. The creature fucked him with patient, sensuous control, working him open in increments so gentle that the burn of resistance shaded, almost instantly, into a trembling, desperate need.

The thick shaft found a cadence, rocking into him with a depth that made his toes dig helplessly into the muddy lakebed, every muscle flexed in exquisite tension. Quinn’s legs splayed open under the water as the appendage fucked him with a measured, rhythmic certainty: in, out, slow, then suddenly deeper—so deep Quinn felt his abdominals curl, every nerve lit up, every inch of his body mapped and claimed. The tentacle’s surface was ridged with microscopic undulations, each ripple caressing the inner walls of his passage, milking him with a touch impossibly sensitive to every twitch and clench of his muscles. With every measured thrust, the appendage withdrew in twisting spirals that sent a whiplash of sensation up his spine, only to lunge forward again, deeper.

The appendage in Quinn’s mouth grew thicker, driving deeper with each slow thrust, but never choking him. It seemed to know the precise limits of his tolerance, massaging his tongue and palate with a caressing, almost reverent pressure. The taste of the creature—sharp citrus and something darker, mineral—flooded his mouth, and he sucked hungrily at the tentacle, wanting more, needing to give back. Somehow, the act of submission gave him a strange, keening power; he could feel the creature’s delight as he hollowed his cheeks and worked the flesh with his mouth, his jaw aching as he surrendered to the rhythm.

The tentacles around his cock and balls were relentless, their suction intensifying with every pulse of pleasure inside him. The sheath tightened, the inner mouths suckling at his glans.

Quinn’s hands gripped the slick mud of the lakebed, knuckles whitening as the tentacle pistoned inside him, the rhythm accelerating in response to the urgent pulse of his need. He could feel the entire bulk of the creature beneath the surface, a living engine of muscle and mind, every limb and tendril devoted to unraveling his body’s secrets. Smaller tentacles swam up from between his thighs, licking over his tense, clenched stomach, and latched onto his nipples—hard as pebbles in response to the ecstasy flooding his senses—and sucked with a pressure that wrenched a muffled cry from Quinn.

His body trembled in the lake’s gentle grip, shivers running from his toes to the roots of his hair. The tentacle worked deeper, sliding past what Quinn thought possible, and when it grazed the swollen, shuddering gland inside him, he nearly screamed with the force of the sensation. The creature seemed delighted—he could feel its pleasure at pleasing him, a feedback loop of need and joy reverberating between them as the tentacle fucked him with inhuman precision. The creature’s pleasure was a bright, raw thing in Quinn’s mind: a silver bolt zigzagging through hisnerves, feeding on each shudder and groan, amplifying them back into him until he was little more than a vessel for sensation.

He was being fucked, yes, but more than that—he was being transformed. The slick resistance of his ass gave way to greedy acceptance, his body opening inch by inch to the length and girth of the appendage. Every withdrawal was an agony of emptiness, every thrust a shattering, molten ecstasy. He could feel his prostate swell under the relentless pressure, each pass of the tentacle drawing on it mercilessly, pumping pleasure into his core. The balm oozed everywhere; it coated his inner walls, filled him, made each motion silkier, easier, wetter.

The tentacle pounded into him, gentle at first, but growing in demand and depth with every stroke. It seemed to sense his need, probing the soft, inner wall with a skill that bordered on supernatural—locating the spot that made his vision shatter into white, then hammering it with a deliberate, rolling grind. The appendage inside his mouth mirrored this rhythm, plunging down his throat just far enough to ride his gag reflex but never enough to deprive him of air. Each time he choked, it retreated, stroking his tongue and lips with soothing affection, as if to apologize for its own hunger. He could only moan in response, the sound burbling up around the slick flesh and out into the air above the water, where it echoed over the lake in plaintive, desperate gasps.

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His cock throbbed in the clinging wet sheath, every pulse squeezing a new, desperate note from his body’s trembling orchestra. The tentacle’s inner mouths, slick and hungry, nipped and laved at the swollen head of his cock, latching on with a suction so precise that every nerve ending in his body seemed to collapse inward, reorganized around the single axis of his pleasure. The suction—oh god, the suction—became a kind of language, each shift in pressure a wordless promise, every slow, milking glissando a confession of intent. He could not bear it, could not bearnotto be touched, and so Quinn bucked against the tentacle’s rhythm, chasing every movement, every hint of friction, as if his whole existence depended on the next perfect stroke.

The more he thrashed, the tighter it held him; the harder he moaned, the more the mouths inside the tentacle suckled and massaged, drawing out each drop of precum and lathering it over the swollen, sensitive head. It was as if the creature had spent eons perfecting the art of touch, constructing a thousand different kinds of softness and wetness and pressure just to unravel him. Quinn’s balls ached, drawn tight by the unyielding suction of the smaller tendrils; they rolled and twisted in the creature’s grip, tugged and squeezed by a rotating chorus of minuscule mouths. When the tentacle inside him coiled and flexed at a new angle, he felt a lightning bolt shoot from his asshole straight to his cock, and he nearly blacked out from theforce of it. His whole body tightened as if to shatter the water’s surface, air foaming around his thrashing legs.

Quinn’s vision exploded into a riot of color, bursts of blue and white and aquamarine shattering the inside of his skull. He could feel the creature’s pulse through every tentacle, every inch of skin that touched him; it was not just a physical connection but a total, annihilating union, a collapse of boundaries and shame. He was no longer a boy on the lake’s edge, but a node in a living network—a filament strung from the depths of the water, humming with a raw, ecstatic electricity that burned away every memory of pain, fresh and distant.

He gasped, his body going rigid against the pressure, feeling the pulse of pleasure gather at the base of his cock like a supernova.

He could taste the creature’s delight in his mind, a chorus of iridescent notes swirling with each convulsion of his body. The tentacle’s rhythm accelerated, plunging deep in rapid, hungry strokes, opening him wider with every thrust until Quinn felt certain he was being split down the center, rendered into raw light. The smaller tendrils on his nipples and neck tightened their grip, suctioning harder, pulling exquisite pain from the peaks of pleasure, teasing out a raw, trembling desperation. The tentacle sheathing his cock began a new, brutal rhythm, pistoning up and down with a force that bordered on violence—yet never once injuring, never once slipping from that perfect ecstasy of touch.

The tentacle in his ass flexed with a new, ravenous urgency, driving deeper, stretching him wide and filling him with its undulating warmth. The ridges along its length abraded his inner walls with a maddening delicacy, brushing his prostate in a relentless, circular rhythm that banished all but the need to cum.

When he finally came, it was not a single, shuddering event, but a sequence of connected explosions, each one moredevastating than the last. The tentacle’s mouths drew out every drop, the suction so complete that he felt stripped to the core. The waves came in sets, each cresting higher, the white-hot pleasure mingling with the ache of emptiness as the tentacle squeezed and sucked him, refusing to let a single spasm go to waste. Cum jetted out of him in thick, unbroken ropes, sucked away by the insatiable mouths and then replaced by more of the creature’s healing, luminescent balm. The cycle was endless; as soon as one shuddering climax ebbed, the creature’s rhythm shifted—altering the angle, the pressure, the pattern of suction—until Quinn was shuddering again, helpless, wracked by pleasure so fierce it bordered on madness.

He had never cum like this, never imagined it was possible—his whole body a bell struck to ringing, every nerve tuned to a single, desperate harmony. He could feel the tentacle inside him throb in time with his orgasm, pumping its own fluid deep into his ass.

The tentacles around his cock and balls milked him so thoroughly he thought his soul might be sucked out along with his seed. The creature wanted all of him, every hidden vein of yearning and every sharp, private wound, and it took them, transformed them, ablated them in rapture. Quinn’s head snapped back, throat arched to the sky, as the tentacle in his mouth pulsed and flooded his tongue with a surge of sweet, acrid nectar that tasted of citrus rinds and distant thunderstorms. It was the flavor of life lived on the edge of every possibility, the hunger of a thing that had never been loved.

His own orgasm came like a storm, a rolling pulse so deep it tore the air from his lungs, every muscle flexed as the tentacle-womb around his cock sucked him with merciless, exultant force.

Each contraction wrung more pleasure from his body than he’d ever thought possible. He convulsed, shuddered, andscreamed, the sound echoing across the water and out into the trees in a long, keening wail. The tentacle milked him through every aftershock, never relenting, drawing out his orgasm until he sobbed in helpless, animal joy. The appendage in his ass did not slow or stop; it fucked him through his climax, each thrust forcing new, smaller shocks of pleasure through his trembling body. The appendage in his mouth flexed and pulsed, and Quinn drank down the thick, electric syrup it secreted, feeling it burn down his throat and blossom through his heart. The small tentacles pinched and tugged at his nipples and earlobes, a whorl of sensation that blurred the boundaries between pain and bliss. His mind was a whiteout, thought reduced to a single burning point: pleasure, pain, the wild, raw pulse of being alive.

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