The secondary tentacle finds my clit then, and my vision whites out.
The suckers are smaller on this one, more numerous, and they attach in a pattern that creates suction from every angle at once. But it's not just suction—each one pulses at a different rate, creating a chaos of sensation that shorts out my ability to think. My clit was already swollen from days of denial, but under this attention it swells further, emerges fully from its hood, completely exposed to the devastating attention.
I'm cumming before the primary tentacle even touches my entrance. The orgasm rips through me without warning, without build-up, just an explosion that ignited at my clit and spread outward like shockwaves. My inner walls clench desperately on nothing, and I can feel wetness gush from me, mixing with his preparation fluid to create something that makes the water around us shimmer.
“One,” he counts, but the word is almost lost in harmonics. “Need more. Need dozens. Hundreds.”
The primary tentacle pushes against my entrance while I'm still convulsing from the orgasm, and I feel myself stretch impossibly. The blunt tip is wider than anything that should fit, but my body opens for it anyway. The preparation fluid has made everything slick, almost too slick, and he slides in witha pressure that makes me feel like I'm being split apart and reformed.
Each ridge catches on my entrance as it passes. The soft ones drag against my inner walls like silk. The firm ones catch and pull, creating a rhythm of pressure and release that makes my legs shake uncontrollably. I can feel every texture, every variation, my modified body cataloging sensations that shouldn't exist.
He pushes deeper, and I feel him hit my cervix. The pressure there is intense, a deep ache that should be my body's limit. But he doesn't stop. The tip of his tentacle reshapes slightly, becoming more focused, and I feel pressure that makes my whole abdomen clench.
“No barrier,” he growls. “Nothing between us. Open for me. Let me in.”
The pressure increases, and I feel something give way. Not breaking but opening, my cervix dilating to allow him entry to my womb. The sensation defies description—a deep, profound invasion that makes every nerve in my body fire at once. I can feel him in places that should be impossible, the tip of his tentacle exploring the inside of my womb with gentle movements that contrast with the violence of everything else.
“Perfect,” he says against my neck, then bites again. “Perfect inside. Made for this. Made for me.”
Now comes the change I've been dreading and craving—the lock.
The base of his tentacle begins to swell inside me. The expansion is rapid, going from manageable to impossible in seconds. I feel my entrance stretch beyond anything I imagined, the ring of muscle forced to accommodate something that won't be denied. The stretch burns, but it's a good burn, a right burn, like muscles being used for their intended purpose.
When the lock completes, we're sealed together completely. No space between us, no possibility of separation. I can feel his pulse through the tentacle, feel the way it throbs with its own heartbeat. We're one organism now, joined in a way that makes individuality meaningless.
“Now,” he says, and the word is more vibration than sound. “Now breeding begins.”
The first pulse of seed is volcanic.
I feel it travel through his tentacle—a wave of pressure moving from base to tip. When it releases inside my womb, the heat is shocking. Not just warm but actively hot, like being filled with liquid sun. The volume is impossible—a single pulse contains more than should fit, but my body accepts it eagerly, my womb expanding to accommodate.
The sensation of being filled is overwhelming. Not just physical but psychological—something primal in my brain recognizing that this is what I was modified for, what my body has been screaming for since I arrived. Each pulse of seed satisfies a need I didn't know how to name.
“Feel it,” he commands, his hand pressing on my lower belly. “Feel yourself fill with me.”
I can feel it. My belly is starting to round, the skin stretching as he pumps more and more seed into my womb. The weight of it is strangely satisfying, a physical proof of his claim that my body celebrates even as my mind struggles to process.
The secondary tentacle hasn't stopped its assault on my clit. If anything, it intensifies, the suckers creating a seal that pulls my clit to its absolute maximum extension. The combination of that stimulation and the feeling of being filled triggers another orgasm, this one deeper, starting in my womb and radiating outward.
When I cum this time, I feel my cervix actually grip his tentacle, pulling it deeper, milking it. My womb contractsaround the pool of seed, and I swear I can feel it accepting the gift, pulling it into my tissues, claiming it as mine even as it claims me as his.
“Two,” he counts. “More. Always more.”
He lifts me off the wall without withdrawing—we're locked, unable to separate. His tentacles reposition me, and suddenly I'm on my hands and knees on the moss-covered ledge, the new angle making his tentacle shift inside me in ways that drag across every sensitive spot at once.
The position makes my swelling belly hang beneath me, and I can feel the weight of his seed sloshing inside my womb with each movement. The sensation is indescribable—feeling myself so full, so claimed, and knowing it's just the beginning.
More tentacles join the assault. One wraps around my throat, not choking but present, a reminder of his control. Others suction to my back, my thighs, my arms, each point of contact adding to the overwhelming symphony of sensation. I'm covered in his touch, marked by his suckers, claimed in every way possible.
He continues breeding me for what feels like hours. The position changes multiple times—against the wall, on the moss, in the water where buoyancy allows for angles that shouldn't be possible. Each position brings new sensations, new ways for his ridges to drag against my walls, new depths for him to reach.
My belly continues to swell with each pulse of seed. After what must be two hours, I look pregnant—genuinely pregnant, my previously flat stomach now a pronounced dome that glows faintly with bioluminescence from whatever his seed contains.
The orgasms blend together until I can't count them anymore. They roll through me in waves, sometimes overlapping, sometimes building on each other until I'm sobbing from the intensity. My body produces so much wetness that themoss beneath us is soaked, glowing brilliant blue-green where our combined fluids have saturated it.
At some point, I lose the ability to form words. Then thoughts. Then anything beyond pure sensation. I exist only as a collection of nerve endings, all of them firing, all of them overwhelmed, all of them singing the same truth—I belong to him. Completely. Irreversibly.
When consciousness returns—and I'm not sure how long I was gone—he's still breeding me. Still locked inside, still pulsing, still filling. But the frenzy in his movements has calmed slightly. His eyes, when I manage to focus on them, show flecks of silver returning to the black.
