Graham sniffed wetly and pushed himself upright, swaying slightly. Twenty feet away, the blue-and-white Coleman cooler bobbed in the shallows like a buoy, half-submerged among the cattails and lily pads. Aluminum beer cans glinted in the morning sun, scattered around it like metallic fish. He placed the soggy book on a flat rock, wincing as more pages peeled away, then waded into the water. The lake bottom sucked at his shoes with each step. When he reached the cooler, he plucked each can from the water, droplets cascading from their hollow insides as he tossed them into the cooler with hollow clinks.
Back on shore, he squinted at the rowboat, his brow furrowing into deep grooves. The wooden hull sat perfectly upright on the pebbled beach, its weathered planks bone-dry above the waterline.
How the hell had he managed to flip it back over, haul his drunken ass inside, and navigate to shore? The memory was a black hole in his mind. The oars were nowhere in sight—vanished as completely as his recollection. The mystery tickled the back of his brain, but each pulse of his hangover drove railroad spikes deeper into his temples. Graham abandoned the puzzle and trudged toward the cabin, the cooler handle cutting into his palm, the waterlogged storybook leaving dark stains on his shirt where he clutched it against his chest.
He abandoned the cooler and ruined book on the weathered porch planks and went inside, peeling off his damp clothes that reeked of algae and beer. His fingers trembled as he pulled a faded Nirvana T-shirt over his clammy skin and stepped into clean boxer briefs and jeans. The cabin's musty air clung to his skin while his hollow stomach twisted with hunger, yet the mere thought of food sent acid burning up his throat. The previous night's fragments—the ashes dispersing like smoke underwater, the mysterious movement beneath the surface—swirled behind his bloodshot eyes. He fumbled through his bag for ibuprofen, dry-swallowing three tablets before collapsing onto the sagging mattress that still held the ghost of his grandfather's impression. The quilted comforter enveloped him as consciousness slipped away almost immediately.
Dreams flooded his sleep with images of iridescent blue-green tentacles wrapping around his torso, thighs, and ankles—pulling him deeper into the dark depths of the lake. The water pressure should have crushed his lungs, yet he breathed easily, feeling not panic but a narcotic calm that spread through his limbs like warm honey. The slick tendrils coiled and uncoiled against his goosebumps, leaving trails of tingling heat wherever they touched. Each tendril's underside was lined with hundreds of dime-sized suckers that pulsed against him—tasting, exploring, and memorizing every contour of his body with reverent curiosity.
As he descended past where sunlight could reach, something massive began to materialize from the murk. Not a single cohesive form, but a writhing mass of tentacles braided and knotted together into a vaguely humanoid figure, its “head” crowned with swaying tendrils like living hair. The free-floating tentacles guided him toward this creature with gentle persistence, and although his rational mind screamed that he should be terrified, fighting for his life, clawing toward the surface... he felt no fear.
His hands touched the mass, then his body pressed against it. The flesh was warm and slick like sun-heated silicone, yielding yet firm beneath his palms, with tentacles shifting and slipping around each other with liquid grace. Suddenly, something enveloped him below—a moist cavity rimmed with hundreds of tiny suckers that latched onto his skin with gentle precision, engulfing his cock to the root. The interior pulsed with rhythmic contractions, each sucker throbbing independently against his shaft, creating waves of pressure that traveled from base to tip in hypnotic undulation.
Graham's eyes rolled back, eyelids fluttering, as he thrust forward into the “mouth”—again... again... again—his spine arching until tendons protruded on his neck, his entire body suspended in a cradle of writhing appendages while the creature's muscular orifice delivered pleasure so intense it bordered on agony, each nerve ending humming with electric sensation.
Graham's eyes flew open as his body bolted upright with a strangled “Huh!” The cabin's afternoon light stabbed his retinas. Sweat beaded along his hairline before trickling down his temples and neck, soaking the collar of his fresh t-shirt until it clung to his skin like wet tissue paper, his heart hammeringagainst his ribs. “Fuck...” The word escaped as barely more than a rasp as he swung his leaden legs over the mattress edge. The moment his feet hit the rough-hewn floorboards, he doubled over, a white-hot ache radiating from his groin through his abdomen. His balls felt swollen to twice their normal size, drawn up tight and throbbing with each heartbeat, while his cock strained against denim with an almost painful rigidity, the tip leaking a dark stain through both layers of fabric.
Graham whimpered and collapsed onto his back, one trembling hand cupping the painful swell between his legs. His fingers slowly clenched around the rigid outline, strained against the worn denim, each throb sending electric pulses up his spine. He squeezed his eyes shut until sparkling light danced behind his eyelids, his hands shaking violently as he fumbled with the brass button, yanked down the zipper's teeth, and peeled away the damp cotton of his boxer briefs.
His cock sprang free—angry, purple-red, and swollen beyond recognition—the veins engorged, clear pre-come beading at the slit before trailing down the shaft in a glistening thread. The phantom sensation of the dream creature's undulating orifice clung to his nerve endings; he could still feel each individual sucker latching onto his skin, the rhythmic contractions milking him from base to tip.
Graham's hand moved of its own accord, fingers encircling the unrecognizable thickness of his shaft. “Uuhhh...” The sound tore from his throat as his palm slid over veins that mapped his skin. Each stroke sent lightning through his groin, his lungs struggling for air in short, desperate gasps. His free hand clawed at the bedsheets, knuckles whitening as pressure built at the base of his spine, coiling tighter with each frantic pump. Sweat beaded across his forehead, trickling down his temples and neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt.
He fumbled blindly for something—anything—finding a discarded sock. The rough cotton scraped against his hypersensitive skin as he sheathed himself just as the first volcanic pulse hit.“Uuhh!!”His vision fractured into prismatic shards, his body jackknifing forward as wave after wave of release crashed through him, each spasm wringing another broken curse from his lips.“Fuck... fuck...”
When the massive orgasm abruptly released him, Graham collapsed back on the bed, his limbs splayed loosely. His chest rose and fell with each ragged breath, sweat cooling on his feverish skin and leaving crusted trails down his temples. The cabin ceiling spun above him in lazy circles, wooden beams blurring into amber streaks. His mind floated in a narcotic limbo where time stretched like warm taffy, his thoughts scattered, making it impossible to analyze these odd, surreal dreams that felt more visceral than memory.
Before his breathing could even steady, the distant sound of engines cut through the cabin's silence. Graham cursed, fumbling with his zipper and tossing the sock under the bed. He dragged fingers through his sweat-damp hair and stumbled onto the porch just as dust clouds billowed between the pines. His stomach dropped. Visitors were the last thing he’d expected; no one knew he was here—or even whereherewas—except for his parents. It wouldn’t be them.
A convoy of vehicles materialized from the tree line—two Ford pickups flanking a gleaming Range Rover, with the smaller truck hauling a pontoon boat behind it. The vessel's size suggested a party rather than solitary fishing, an impression confirmed as bodies spilled from each vehicle, their voices shattering the lakeside quiet. Graham's stomach knotted as he watched his sanctuary invaded.
So much for healing in solitude.
“What the hell, Bro?” Deke hopped out of the Maverick and swaggered toward the cabin. “You got this sick party spot, and you didn’t tell us?”
Graham's lips twitched into what barely passed for a smile as he watched the parade of familiar faces emerging from the vehicles. Wendy's presence was inevitable—of course, she would be with them—but he was a little shocked thatRyanhad tagged along. Ryan mostly hung on the periphery of their social circle. His unexpected appearance here felt like a splinter under Graham's skin.
Brad—Deke’s shadow since seventh grade—sauntered up, eyebrows rising at Graham's disheveled appearance. “Jesus, man. Rough night?” His gaze flicked to the cooler overflowing with crushed aluminum. A smirk tugged at his mouth. “Having your own private rager out here?”
Graham's eyes followed Brad's to the evidence of his solitary binge. “Something like that.” His temples pulsed as he squinted against the afternoon light.
Wendy emerged from the Range Rover alongside three other girls in cutoff shorts and crop tops. Her eyes locked on Graham, and she bounded toward him with a wave, her ponytail bouncing, the blond highlights catching the sun. “Surprise, babe!”
Graham pressed his fingertips against his throbbing temples, his voice barely audible. “How did you... Why are you all here?”
“Your mom told us where you were,” Wendy said, her glossy pink lips curving into a smile. “It sounded like a great spot for our graduation party.” She stepped up on the weathered porch boards that creaked under her sandaled feet and poked his chest with a manicured fingernail, leaving a small indentationin his sweat-dampened T-shirt. “Andyourbirthday party. You wouldn’t let us throw you one last week.”
Graham swallowed, his Adam's apple visibly bobbing in his still-flushed throat. Sweat continued to cool along his hairline as he stared at the intrusion of color and noise that had descended upon his sanctuary. “I don't need a birthday party.”
Deke’s voice boomed across the porch. “The fuck you don't,” he countered, his broad shoulders squared beneath his faded tank top. “Eighteen is an epic milestone, bro. You will celebrate.” He punctuated each word with a jab of his finger.
“It’ll be fun.” Wendy's lip gloss caught the sunlight as she wrapped her tanned arms around Graham's waist, pressing her warm body against his still-sensitive skin. She kissed his mouth with sticky-sweet lips that tasted of watermelon, then swept her manicured hand toward the glittering expanse of water. “I mean, look at this place; it’sawesome.”
Graham's attention drifted to the others who had migrated to the lake's edge, their bare feet disturbing the glassy surface as they waded in ankle-deep, sending ripples across water that had been mirror-still just minutes before. “I don't...” He shook his head, the throbbing behind his temples intensifying. “I mean, this was my grandpa’s place. It was special to him. He didn’t like having people here.”
“But… he’s gone,” Wendy said, her voice honeyed yet dismissive. “And it’s yours now, right? You can do whatever you want with it.” Her glossy lips curved into a predatory smile before she rose on tiptoes to kiss his lightly stubbled chin. “And it’s theperfectparty spot. No one around to complain about the noise. We can get aswild—”She slid her hands down the small of his back and grabbed his ass, her nails digging slightly through denim “—as we want. And that sounds good to me.” Her whisper carried the scent of watermelon lip gloss as she pressed her mouth against his, her chest flattening against his torso, theunderwire of her bikini top evident through both their shirts. “Doesn’t it sound good to you?”
Graham spotted Ryan in his peripheral vision, hovering at the edge of the porch like a shadow reluctant to fully materialize. Ryan's dark eyes tracked the exchange, his lean frame angled toward them with feigned casualness that didn't mask his obvious eavesdropping. “Yeah,” Graham replied half-heartedly.
