Page 2 of Clutching Cthulhu’s Pearls (Time for Monsters)

If Leopold found me out here, he’d spank the daylights out of me. Stumbling around in the dark is asking for a sprained ankle, but I can’t resist the lure of the swamp. My afternoon chores, cooking dinner, eating alone, and evening duties are a blur. I can’t push past the exhilaration from the tentacles exploring my flesh. No pesky bloomers lie beneath my nightgown. The flimsy frock may give away my whereabouts in the morning with a map of grass stains, but I have time to concoct a story. Would he believe I made a nighttime visit to the chicken coop? Perhaps I heard a noise…or saw a rabbit in the garden out my window… I’ll come up with something convincing…

The clench and squelch of the mud under my feet sounds delicious. My fingers made those noises when I tried to ease the ache inside me while under my duvet. My fantasies lit a fire. I can’t extinguish the flames in my low belly. I must know if someone’s hands pushed me out of the swamp to save me from drowning or if I was evicted from someone’s personal space. Of course, this all revolves around the assumption that a sentient being is under the water…a sentient plant tentacle monster—

I’ve spent too much time alone in Leopold’s house of horrors, and I’m going nutty. He’s never bred anything larger than a parrot…with lizard legs and rabbit ears. My nighttime excursion will prove my folly, and I will sleep soundly. Wait until I tell Leopold I suspected the pond’s plants gave me more affection than him. My grass-stained gown and tale of sentient plants could be enough for him to send me to Boston for the holidays. It will be more fun if he stays home, too. What a wicked thought!

But not as wicked as having a story too salacious to share…

My brain takes a smutty spiral as I imagine a man in a metal breathing suit under the water. The tentacles are leaves he uses as puppets to arouse me. A fantasy man on my property is too much to hope for. But dark eyes and curly black hair above a square jaw take shape in my imagination. When he steps from the black pool, rivulets of water slide down his muscles. He removes his dive helmet and kisses me with all the passion I long to experience !

Or will he—after I stomp my way to the stupid swamp.

By the time I reach the water’s edge, my nightgown weighs at least ten pounds thanks to the mud clinging to the hem. Rinsing my achy feet in the frigid water shouldn’t feel so tantalizing, but the high humidity mixed with the desire coursing through my veins makes me feverish. Curls stick to my cheeks and tickle my ears. Damp air sits on my chest, suffocating me like a wool sweater. I’ll blame my appearance on exertion if I’m caught by Mr. Breyers or Leopold. The singular benefit to being the weaker sex in their eyes is I can feign exertion to end any conversation and headaches to get out of any compromising position.

My toes swirl the water on the surface, trying in vain to wake the plant tentacles from their slumber. I tentatively tiptoe onto the deeper stones. Who cares if my ruined nightgown is soaked? Nobody sees the fabric turn translucent except the fish, the plants, and possibly the mysterious diver from my imagination. I must admit, my husband misses a show. My slim silhouette is elongated in the moonlight’s shadow, so I look like a willowy model. My nipples poke the fabric, forming darkened circles above the shadowed triangle between my legs. I’m an illuminated tease with no audience. There’s no point delaying the step downward that will raise the water level to my collarbone.

At least there will be less exposed flesh for the mosquitos to feast upon!

Were those rocks always positioned in that manner? Was I two steps from a submerged chair when I toppled in this morning? A white, flat limestone lays almost two feet below the water surface. On each end, white limestone blocks act like armrests at surface level. Had I kept my wits when the plant tentacles—nope. If I’ve learned anything today, it is that I’m starved for touch to the point that the brushing of plants above my knees sends me into a dither. My tumble is all Leopold’s fault, really.

If our roles were reversed, I could have a mistress. Well, this chair is my mistress tonight.

Of course, the first thing I do is flash my ass at her as I bend over to grip a rocky armrest. Giggle. My saturated nightgown is bundled in one hand while the other clings to the stone as I climb over it. I’m not falling in and cutting this trip short…again. When my knees hit the smooth seat, I let my dress go. The white ruffles glow in the moonlight as it ripples from my body. My bare legs swish forward as I settle on my butt. The seat is narrow…more like a perch… I lean back for balance to discover more rocks on the bank. Nestled in soft grass are two more pieces of white limestone, perfectly positioned for my elbows to rest. No way polished planks of limestone magica lly came to rest on the bank of a muddy, swampy lake.

The conceited part of me likes the idea of some mystery man hauling stones to entice me to sit so he can tease me with plant fronds at his leisure. My fantasy expands from a man in a diver’s mask who happened upon me to a man setting up the scenario because he’s obsessed with me. Wouldn’t it be divine to have a man so overcome with passion that he not only fantasizes about me but creates an atmosphere for our moonlight rendezvous?

Elbows on the polished stone, I fold my arms behind my head and lay back. My body floats. I swish my legs beneath the glowing fabric of my nightgown. The stars glitter overhead. Slight splashes against the pond’s edges mix with the cricket chirps to create a delightful lullaby. The peaceful, meditative spot is a gem, even if nothing else comes of my adventure. My eyes drift closed as I lose myself in the gentle sway of the water.

Omf!

Bright green tentacles wind around my ankles, thighs, and waist simultaneously. I drop into the seat with a thud that clacks my teeth. My chin bobs. My arms fly upward to flop onto the armrests. They are pinned by vines before my movement settles. A sense of calm washes over me as my body floats just below the surface. If my captor were a malicious octopus bent on revenge for my eating their cousins, I’d sink to the bottom. I surrender to the tentacles’ grasp so I can study their musculature.

They aren’t plants.

The grip on my waist pulls my midsection lower than my spread arms and legs, bending me into a V-shape. Two more tentacles draw lazy circles on my inner thighs with their tips as their bulk pushes my nightgown to my throat. My pale skin glows against the brackish water. Such a wanton display outdoors pushes my desire to the forefront.

“Please,” I whimper, but what I beg for, I don’t know. The teasing circles go higher and higher, coiling the dark emotion in my lower belly tight. How far will they go? Are they randomly exploring a foreign entity or controlled by someone sentient? Does the owner hypnotize aquatic animals to pleasure me, or is he manipulating a contraption he built? Does a hidden man watch me writhe in their grasp, desperate for attention?

I don’t care as long as they touch me. My knees bend to suggest the path they should go up my legs. When one tentacle disappears beneath me, I release a feminine growl into the night. I buck my hips, which only tightens the bonds on my wrists and ankles…

…but loosens the two about my waist. These tentacles are thicker than the rest. They slither up my ribs and cross between my breasts. A large, red su cker adorns the tip of each tentacle. It tickles my skin as it walks along my flesh. The appendages’ paths divide around each breast, squeezing them. My erect nipples point upward in an obscene display of my arousal until they are covered with green coils. It’s like a living, rubbing brassiere dotted with peach suckers which kiss my skin. The two largest cups on the ends of the tentacles alternate sucking and releasing my nipples until I ride the edge between pleasure and pain.

Water splashes violently on the banks of the pond with the bucking of my hips.

A shriek catches in the back of my throat as two sets of webbed fingers clench my knees. I freeze. The water is too dark to see anything other than the tentacles and the webbed hands. Ten fingers, tipped with broken, ragged nails, dig into my doughy flesh. Their scales flash in the moonlight with each clench and release of the webbed digits. The rhythm matches the tentacles sucking my nipples. My heartbeat slows. My breathing evens out to match the creature’s cadence. It restores my calm and the fire burning between my legs.

I whimper but hold the pose for fear of scaring off this being who holds my arousal in their grasp.

Hesitantly, the two tentacles on my thighs resume their journey to my cunt. I strain the bonds to open my legs as far as I’m allowed. One dips inside my labia to explore while the other’s tip plants little kisses on my heated lips. I thought the sucking at my nipples was intense, but my eyes cross with each movement of the tentacles between my thighs. When one breaches my vagina, I cry out in ecstasy. The sucking and releasing continues as the tendril works its way past my virginal barrier.

I’m quickly silenced by one of the tentacles that held my wrists. The coil jams itself between my lips, and I suck it with gusto. The need to pleasure the being who gives so willingly overwhelms me. I flick my tongue on the suckers and hollow my cheeks with suction. His salty taste reminds me of the gourmet fish I indulge in when traveling. My lips stretch to accommodate the increasing girth. Instead of hitting the back of my throat, the appendage bends into a shape that fills my mouth. I breathe through my nose to maintain our rhythm and not panic.

Despite not seeing a face, I’m confident he won’t allow me to suffocate.

He had a thousand opportunities to drown me already.

Somehow, the danger makes me hotter. The webbed hands scrape over the tops of my thighs so the thumbs can hold open my labia for more tentacles. My eyes roll back when, one by one, three more tentacles invade me. The four lengths rub along my vaginal walls in a delicious stretch. I’m touched where no man has ventured and my fingers can’t reach. My limbs tense with my impending release. Long inhales shorten to desperate panting. I can’t calm my thundering pulse. My fingers shake. I claw my nails to bits on the limestone armrests. I alternate hard swallows with brutal suction to reward the tentacle crammed in my mouth.

I’m on the edge when tapping at the crease of my ass runs ice through my veins. Certainly, they don’t hope to breach that hole? The tentacles in my vagina stop their wiggling but don’t leave my body. A fierce blush creeps down my cheeks and over my breasts as the suckers investigate my backside. Why do their kisses feel so good? Should I feel shame or pain? When the tip dips inside, it squirts something that tingles. The pleasing warmth flows upward in the strangest sensation, followed by a fullness that makes me squirm.

I need movement, NOW.

My hips swivel and buck. The webbed hands let go of my legs, so I pump with all my might. A squeeze to my ribs draws my attention to my sides, where green, scaled knees hold me. The brush of webbed feet or fins on my lower back coaxes a moan from my lips. I’m a boneless mess for an aquatic creature. His cock—a tentacle can’t have that girth—rubs the base of my spine and between my buttocks. A webbed hand emerges from the black water to work my clit.

It's too much.

My orgasm pulses and pumps as I milk each penetrating appendage. I oscillate between intense pleasure and blinding pain that threatens to rip me in half. After each clench, a tentacle withdraws until I’m sobbing with the loss. He lets go of my ankles. They sink. One webbed finger dips inside my vagina to collect my release while the rest makes lazy circles over my clit. I attempt to suck his hand into my body with each pass. A tremor starts at the base of my spine and rips through my body as I come down from the high.

What?! He vanished?! I never saw his face!

What am I willing to risk to see the face behind this experience? To kiss his lips or find another way to thank him for showing me affection? I can’t find it in me to be ashamed of my behavior. No one knows except me and the tentacles… Could the man manipulating them know me? I swim into the center of the pond, arms waving, hoping to catch a glimpse of my lover. I crisscross the space but don’t call out. I can’t risk someone finding me now—not with my flesh loosened and flushed. I have no choice but to return in daylight.

I shake and sob as I stumble back to my cold, lonely bed. Which is worse—returning to my loveless marriage after what I just experienced or my growing addiction to a monster’s touch?