Girl on the Net

I’m not entirely sure how I’d sum up my brand of writing, but whatever my ‘style’ is, it’s pretty far from ‘a whimsical 2000 word tentacle porn story’. Nevertheless, that’s what you’re getting today. The following is something I wrote in 2020 after a Zoom call with Patreons where they gave me prompts for erotic stories by suggesting a name/kink/location/object that I had to work into a piece of erotic fiction. I find these stories challenging (in a fun way), because it’s good to push myself sometimes to think about stuff I wouldn’t normally get horny for. You can find some of the improv erotica stories here on the site for free, and even more improv erotica on Patreon if you’d like to join. But if you just want to read a whimsical 2000-word tentacle porn story that I think might own the title of ‘most challenging thing I’ve ever written’, then hoo boy are you in luck.

This story was written with the following prompts, which I had to use/work in at some point in the narrative:

Name: Captain Bob

Kink: Intelligent octopuses

Location: Naoshima

Object: Koto

Talent

She plays and plays until her fingers hurt, and she knows she won’t get any better – it’s too difficult. Holding the notes in her head and the position of her fingers and remembering the timing and oh, everything. Her back hurts from kneeling over it, and her brain hums painfully with the echo of the memory of the music, and the clanging mis-steps that she peppered liberally throughout the tune.

It’s no good, she’ll never manage it. And she so desperately wanted to impress. She turns to her notes, a ragged page with ‘talents?’ scribbled in faint pencil, and almost crosses ‘koto’ off the list. But then she sighs: it’s the last thing on the list. What exactly is she supposed to be good at? Everyone has a talent. Everyone except her.

She steps around the koto – resisting the urge to kick it as she goes past, and opens the door out onto the street. She slips into sandals then marches sullenly down to the edge of the water, turns left towards the absurd, imposing pumpkin that sits at the end of the pier. She’s always hated that pumpkin: a sop to tourists and a good way to ruin a decent pier, which she could otherwise sit on alone – feet dangling as she stares into the water.

She must have a talent. She must be someone. Everyone has something they can do that’s different and special. But she’s tried them all: sports (too slow), music (not enough patience), art (a joke!), cooking (she accidentally gave her mother food poisoning). She tried writing stories once, but the boy she’d written them for bit his lip to stifle his laughter. Her stories were weird and dark and dreamlike and deeply depraved. He was polite enough not to say anything out loud, but she saw. So stories were crossed off the list.

She used to have a talent for languages, long ago: would chat to the tourists who came to visit the pumpkin, practicing that weird singsong intonation that Americans have – like they’re trying to tempt you in to the clunking words by adding lilting melodies to each sentence. But the knack for that has left her too, and now when she looks in the mirror she sees someone talentless. Insipid and boring and lacking in any charm.

What can I do? What am I good at? What is my purpose?

She asks the sea, and doesn’t expect an answer.

But she gets one.

You can come.

A rumbling, odd, alien voice. The sound rings in her ears like a brand new musical note – as if somewhere just past the bottom of the usual scale, this new note had been sitting undiscovered.

When the water ripples and something flashes towards her at speed, the colour of it beneath the surface feels new too. Somewhere between blue and green and grey yet beyond all those. A shade she has never seen before.

She immediately decides that she’s dreaming, which makes the next bit less scary.

A long, smooth limb – as thick as a willow trunk – slips out of the water and grips her round the waist. Perhaps it’s the fact that she’s determined she must be dreaming, but something about the way it curves around her makes her feel protected and safe. It holds her above the water for the barest of moments before dragging her underneath the calm, summer-warm surface and down to the chillier depths.

“Huh,” she thinks. “This is not what I had imagined.”

She cannot see the creature, because her eyes haven’t adjusted yet to the murky swill of the sea, but her lungs apparently have. She opens her mouth and breathes water like it’s air. Hears the voice of the creature again, saying That’s it, relax. I’ve got you.

I’ve got you.

It’s an ‘I’ then, this creature. For a second she had wondered – the tone of the voice and the sheer size of it made her wonder if it might be an army. A gathering of Things instead of one. The way it spoke echoed in her mind in a way that made her think of gods – a pantheon. Thinking and speaking as one.

Perhaps, it says, and she can sense rather than hear its tone of surprise as it continues, You’re closer than you think, it explains, speaking somewhere both inside her mind and far beyond it. The tentacle which grips her waist throws further coils, and tiny tendrils on the surface play across her skin. The way it ripples feels like resonance, and she wonders if this touching is how it hears her thoughts.

Definitely dreaming. No need to panic. No need to worry about where she’s going as the water stuffs her ears and further tendrils reach out to cover her in feathery murmuring. She can feel her heart beat a steady rhythm and knows by this that everything is safe.

It’s not far, the creature tells her, tickling her gently with its limbs. It’s perfectly safe, just be at one.

Be at one?

Relax.

As they speed through the water, she catches glimpses of spider crabs and jellyfish. Dogfish and squid and funny eels that whip away as this huge creature swims past. Perhaps she’s fascinated because she’s never swum this deep before, or maybe she’s distracting herself from the fact that the creature has begun to remove all her clothes.

Be at one, it tells her again, as feathery touches nudge at the hem of her t-shirt, slipping gently over her skin and caressing her with that shiny blue-green-greyness. Don’t be afraid, it urges, flipping her this way and that to unhook her bra and slip down shorts, brushing gently against her sensitive lips and causing shivers. Her sandals – the last things to go – almost melt away without resistance, those tendrils are so delicate it’s as if the creature might have sung them from existence.

Naked, now, she looks down at the large, willow-thick tentacle cradling her body. It slides further around her, more curves stretching over more of her skin, until her whole torso is enveloped in feathery touch. The flick at the end of the tentacle sits neatly in the cleft of her cunt, and when it resonates her stomach kicks with joy.

Still dreaming, definitely dreaming, she asks it in her mind: what are you?

We are new, it tells her. Travellers. From the sea beyond the horizon, beyond the sky.

Space?

No. Space means ‘empty’ – nothing is empty. We came from the place which you think is full of nothing.

At that, it plummets – speeding at a rate of knots, further down into the ocean. Her eyes are adjusting better, though her focus is fuzzy with those shivering touches which nudge her slowly towards the edge of reason.

As they drop further, she wants to ask how long they’ve been here, what they want, but she knows the answers will come. And besides, she’s enjoying this feeling – the tip of the creature’s tentacle nudging at the warm folds of her cunt. She enjoys the aching ring of pain that’s starting to pulse at her entrance – the desperate, needy joy of wanting it to slip inside.

You like to be touched, it tells her. Touching you brings joy. It isn’t a question, just a statement of fact. She shudders at the pang of desperation and does not need to tell the creature ‘yes.’

Perhaps that is your talent.

The truth of it comes as such a surprise to her that she twitches. Feels the creature curve more tightly – protectively – around her in response. They’re slowing down. We’re almost there.

Where?

With the others.

The others come upon them in a rush, with the same alien speed and precision with which her companion had arrived at Naoshima pier. In the same way, she is not afraid, though no longer entirely unsure she’s dreaming. Her body thrills at the touch of their limbs as they crowd round her, rub over her, tickle her legs with soft, resonating ripples and tease the curves of her breasts with slippery limbs. She can hear them talking to her as they touch – snippets of curious joy flash briefly into her mind before one tentacle’s replaced with the next.

So soft.

This flesh.

The colour.

These tiny hairs.

Pulse beating strong.

So much warmth.

She throws her head back so they can touch her throat and face, arms wide so they can reach her breasts and stomach. Legs open because now – now – she needs one of those soft-hard things inside her. The rush of creatures sweep her up and make her think of climax: of the blood pulsing through her cunt and the way her clit would throb and the whoosh of colour at the edges of her vision. She wants it, needs it, and knows that the creatures will give her the joy that she craves.

Her throat is now encircled, resonating bluegreygreen skin thrums deliciously over it, and the tip of a tentacle nudges at the corner of her mouth: she opens that too. Opens and stretches as it penetrates her lips, shoving deep into her open throat. Meanwhile another explores the warm, soft furrow that runs down from her lower back and forward to her pubic mound – slipping along it and stretching her wide until it finds the first hole.

Yes?

Yes.

When she tried this before, with a lover who didn’t really understand how to do this with softness, it burned. The stretching pain was too great and she’d recoiled. But now, with the tentacles, everything is just the right size and shape and speed and depth – the tip of this one slides in, wet and smooth and humming with pleasure. Impaled on this probing limb, spread wide and gulping down another, she uses her body and her mind to tell the creatures:

More.

One more. The gentle, stroking touches have brought her close to her favourite kind of madness, and her cunt is howling now in agony. If you can call this fucking, it really wants to be fucked. She wants to be fucked. She wants them to fill and stretch her as thoroughly as they’re surrounding her. Hear their whispered gasps

So warm

So taut

So soft

through the ringing tingles of the way they speak to her through skin.

And as she writhes and bucks her hips, she feels it start to happen: first the thin, soft tip then more and more – one of her companions obliges what she needs. One thick, wet, rippling tentacle slides inside her cunt, and the relief of it nearly causes her to choke. Her eyes open now, surrounded by that weird singsong colour and the thrashing murk of the deepest sea, churned up by tens or thousands of these creatures.

Yes.

The creatures echo her cries through touch as well – yes yes yes – until she’s chanting, and they’re chanting, each yes thrumming joy through her skin and pulsing pleasure into her cunt and ruffling at her nipples and undulating over her clit until she can no longer recognise where her mind ends and her body begins. Which yes is in her voice and which in theirs.

She does not know, when she comes, that they come too.

But they do.

Their tentacles feel each zipping thrill of pleasure, and some ‘yeses’ turn to one-note ringing hums. Expressions of shock and delight, the ones you get when you learn a brand new thing. Their tendrils itch with the surprising sensation of newness – the way the back of her neck had done when she’d been the first human being to perceive the colour of their skin.

They soak it up, her pleasure, and they learn. And their learning will carry them through for the next ten thousand years – they’ll digest it, measure it, debate it, analyse it, until they know the full shape of the way that this human feels joy.

Then they’ll move on to the next one, and the next.

When they’ve catalogued the whole of humanity, they will leave. Tentacles turned towards the next living planet, bursting with secrets for these joy-hunters to feed upon.

When it comes time to return her to the land, her companion – her guide – tells her maybe this is your talent. And she pulses back a wave of disappointment. How can this be a talent? It’s not koto or baseball or telling stories. You can’t perform it in front of a crowd or show trophies of pleasure to your family.

No, concedes her companion. But what are those other talents for, if not to spread joy? 

At the bar of Captain Bob’s, her companion sits and reads with a focused frown on his face. She sips carefully at a lime chu-hai and swings her legs nervously, tapping her heels against the stool. In these shorts, her thighs stick to the plastic chair, and she’s very aware of the sheen of nervous sweat that shimmers over her skin.

She studies the curve of his neck and his shoulders, intently observing as he scans through the pages she’s brought. Heart thrumming, she watches for the telltale signs that he might break out into laughter: a lip twitch, a raised eyebrow, an awkward shuffle in his seat when he gets to the parts that are precious to her.

So warm. So taut. So soft.

When he gets to the end of the story, he looks up at her with shining eyes and tells her you have talent.

Then he reaches out a hand that shakes with lust, and touches the skin of her thigh with feathery-soft fingertips.

I genuinely have no idea if this is good or not, but I enjoyed thinking about intelligent octopuses who not only fuck but give you a little confidence boost at the same time. This is the post that’s sat in drafts as my ’emergency’ one, to be published if I run out of blog ideas or have nothing else ready when Sunday rolls round and my heart is starting to hammer in panic. It’s basically my emotional support tentacle porn… and I’ve just burned it. Fingers crossed I can get my arse into gear before next Sunday. Thanks for your patience.