Page 8 of Beneath the Surface (Tendrils of Love #1)
T he once-luminous underwater realm was bathed in a hellish scarlet glow as torrents of blood erupted from the men's anal cavities.
Their bodies contorted not in rapture, but in anguish, as if puppeteered by some macabre marionettist. The thick, ropy tentacle impaling the tall man's ass had sprouted razor-sharp barbs and relentlessly shredded his insides into a pulp of raw, weeping tissue.
With each brutal, backward lash of the appendage, his body evacuated a grisly slurry of blood and flesh, like some obscene volcano spewing forth its gruesome offerings.
The broad-shouldered man endured the same brutal torment, his eyes rolling back in his head as he choked on the tendril lodged in his throat. His muscular frame jerked and spasmed in excruciating pain, the creature relentlessly driving him toward a gruesome, inevitable end.
Quinn bore witness to the hideous spectacle, his heart pounding a staccato rhythm of sheer terror, his mind shattered by the grotesque scene before him.
Yet, the excruciating pain coursing through his own body served as a brutal reminder of what these men had done to him, seeking to extinguish his life, to snuff it out like a mere candle flame, their actions fueled by a single, hateful motivation: Because I’m gay.
Go ahead and scream, faggot. No one’s gonna hear you but the lake. And it don’t give a fuck.
The tall man’s words swam inside Quinn’s head as he watched “the lake” give a fuck, in extreme brutal fashion.
The sinuous appendages coiled ever tighter around the men’s genitals, constricting with a relentless, merciless grip.
Their male organs, gripped in a vice-like hold, swelling and engorging, not in anticipation of release, but on the brink of a grotesque detonation.
The men convulsed violently, their bodies jerking uncontrollably, mouths agape as they emitted gagging wails.
These cries of unspeakable torment reverberated beneath the water, transformed into muffled echoes of sheer agony.
Quinn hovered just below the water's surface, observing the gruesome spectacle from above as if watching a macabre play from a theater balcony.
The tentacles enveloping his own body displayed a stark contrast to the viciousness inflicted upon the others, cradling him in an almost tender embrace, their sinuous lengths gently pulsating as though soothing his battered skin with a rhythmic massage.
Despite the nightmarish tableau unfolding beneath him, the sensation was unexpectedly calming, a balm to his senses amidst the chaos.
The tendril entwined in Quinn’s throat began to emit a faint humming sensation, a delicate vibration that softly resonated throughout his throat canal and into his head, gently coaxing him into a state of serene relaxation.
Through his heavy-lidded eyes, he observed his abusers receiving their gruesome retribution.
His mind felt like mush, as if it had been submerged in a numbing fog, and he remained impassive as the men’s genitals erupted violently, detonating in grotesque explosions of bloody, shredded flesh.
The tentacles violating them proceeded to extract entrails from their bodies, snaking up beyond the confines of their anal cavities, leaving a nightmarish trail in their wake.
A multitude of tiny tendrils shot up from the lakebed, piercing through the silty floor with eager precision, voraciously consuming the fragments of bloody flesh that drifted through the water like a macabre feast.
Quinn understood that he should be horrified— mortified —by the ghastly scene unfolding before him, but his mind was preoccupied with replaying every kick, punch, and vicious slur he had endured at the hands of these hateful, violent men.
Perhaps the horror would have been all-consuming if not for the euphoric sensation coursing through his mind and body, enveloping him in a cocoon of eerie calm and relaxation.
His eyelids drooped and finally succumbed to fatigue, closing softly.
It seemed as though they had only been shut for a brief moment, but when he reopened them, the men were nowhere to be found.
The underwater tapestry stretched out before him, pristine and untainted, with not a single trace of blood or flesh to blemish it.
Still ensnared in the sinewy embrace of the tentacles, Quinn's mind quivered with anxiety. 'What now?'
He floated there, motionless, every muscle taut with uncertainty, the tension amplifying the soreness already etched into his exhausted body.
He flinched as more slick, lithe appendages wound themselves around his arms, legs, chest, waist, and hips.
They squeezed with a measured, tender pulsating rhythm, secreting a warm, viscous substance onto his bruised and battered skin.
Tiny suctioning mouths nestled within the tentacles began to knead the slimy balm into his throbbing muscles and aching bones, working with delicate precision.
Gradually, the pain ebbed away, retreating into the cool embrace of the water, as if the lake itself was drawing the hurt from his broken body, washing it away with the gentle currents that surrounded him, replacing it with a soothing, numbing calm.
A soft, involuntary moan sifted up his throat, resonating through the tentacle that fed him life.
The appendage responded by quivering and humming, a change from its previous effect, which had been soothing and lulling.
Now, the sensation was deeper, more internal, more intimate , as if communicating with his very being.
Quinn didn’t realize he was being lifted until his head broke the surface of the water.
The tendril in his throat retracted slowly, sliding over his tongue with a deliberate, languid motion, leaving behind a tangy, sweet residue that lingered in his mouth, reminiscent of a citrusy flavor.
Quinn swallowed the essence, feeling it slide down his throat, then inhaled deeply, drawing a fresh lungful of air into his chest.
He glanced around, his eyes taking in the scene with a newfound clarity.
The shore was right there, just a few yards away.
He was surprised, for he didn't recall moving through the water at all.
The water lapped gently at the shoreline, and the air was filled with the scent of pine and the faint whisper of the breeze through the trees.
The tentacles, slick and supple, encased Quinn's body and carried him with a smooth, unhurried grace toward the shore.
His back eventually brushed against the soft, yielding mud at the shallows, a stark contrast to the relentless pull of the water.
Quinn lay still, his eyes fixed on the vast, crisp expanse of the blue sky above.
The cold water gently lapped his bruised face, a rhythmic, soothing cadence, while his body remained partially submerged in the shallows, the water's cool embrace mingling with the warmth of the sun.
The tendrils encircling his form began to loosen their grip, not fully retreating but easing enough to let each one move with a deliberate, almost affectionate touch across his slick, slippery skin.
A series of gentle, pleasant sensations flowed through him as the tentacles lovingly caressed his thighs, their exploratory movements approaching his bruised genitals with cautious, almost reverent hesitation—the only area spared by the healing, viscid balm they offered.
Another tendril glided with purposeful grace over his abdomen, tracing a path up the center of his chest, skimming just beneath the water's surface.
It paused at his throat, its touch light and inquisitive, tenderly probing the sensitive skin, applying gentle, repeated suction, as if offering comfort and solace in its peculiar embrace.
Quinn shivered softly, his eyelids fluttering, as droplets from his damp eyelashes trickled into his eyes.
A tender, caressing tendril glided up beneath his jaw and gracefully traced its way to the corner of his mouth.
It lingered there, the tip brushing the edge of his lips with a soft touch, while the appendages beneath the water caressed him with quiet curiosity, lingering respectfully, resting patiently without imposing.
After a few moments, Quinn realized the creature was seeking his consent to continue. A warm shiver coursed through him, and he slowly parted his lips, welcoming the mysterious entity with a quiet invitation… and a serene sense of anticipation.