Page 11 of Beneath the Surface (Tendrils of Love #1)
H is 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 bear not to 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 the force 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 more devastating 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, and screamed, 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.