Page 10 of Hook, Line, and Tentacle

A tentacle slides forward, curling behind my neck and back around until it rests at the hollow between my jaw.

His fingers don’t touch me, but the firm pressure of that limb makes my body tense, my breath catching as it tilts my chin up slowly.

Heat burns in my belly like lava at the thought of him controlling it like this, wordless and primal.

“Open,” Cal murmurs.

I let my mouth part, tongue flattened, eyes still locked on his. He rests the head of his cock on my tongue, and the weight of him there—solid, pulsing, hot—pulls a deep moan from me. I can’t stifle it.

He tastes like salt and warm skin and something darker. Not bitter, not sweet. All him.

I close my lips around the head and suck, slowly, almost experimentally—as if I’ve never sucked a cock before.

I have, obviously, but never one like this.

My cheeks hollow as I take him deeper, and my hand curls at the base of his cock.

He’s far too thick and long to fit entirely, even with my best efforts, but I try anyway, swallowing around him, spit pooling fast in my mouth and trailing down my chin as I push myself.

Because I want to, because I can’t not .

I might be just as crazed for him as he seems to be for me.

Cal’s head tips back on a noisy, hitched breath. The places where his tentacles reach from his body pulse in time with my movements, like they’re equally affected.

I love it. I love watching his reactions, learning what he likes, making him unravel for me. It’s a unique and heady power, and I’m intoxicated.

He braces one hand on the back of the sofa, another threading into my hair, not yanking, but holding me firm enough to guide with insistence. The tentacle at the nape of my neck pulses.

Then there’s another—slick and warm—sliding along my thigh, over the curve of my ass, and dipping lower. I gasp around him, almost choking as it strokes between my legs, teasing the hot, sensitive flesh there. His cock jerks in my mouth.

My hips roll instinctively, chasing the contact. I brace one hand on his thigh, fingers splaying for balance, the other drifting down to palm his balls, gently rolling them with slow pressure.

He groans—low and gravelly.

“Careful,” he mutters. “You keep that up, I’m going to fill this clever mouth with my cum.”

I moan, the sound strangled by the fullness of him. My tongue glides over the ridges that line his shaft—each one distinct, almost textured like coral—and I feel him twitch again, like he likes that. I test the pressure, licking slow and firm, and he makes a sound that borders on obscene .

The tentacle between my thighs shifts, pushing past the thick, wet line of my slit, just enough to slide up through the soft, slick lips of my pussy, the ridges catching every swollen, trembling inch.

I whimper, eyes fluttering. The sensation is maddening—just shy of enough, and almost too much in equal measure.

My body rocks on instinct, chasing rhythm, chasing friction.

He doesn’t stop me, and he doesn’t stop fucking into my mouth in slow, steady thrusts.

Doesn’t stop teasing me open with that thick, sinful limb.

It presses in slow. Not all the way—like I even know what all the way would entail—but just testing with a warm, ridged, impossibly smooth few inches.

My hips jerk down hard, like I’m trying impatiently to seat myself.

I moan again—louder this time—and he shudders above me as the vibrations radiate through his dick.

“You like that,” he says, voice strained. “You want to fuck yourself on it, don’t you?”

I nod, drool slipping down my chin. I ride him—both of him. My mouth full, my cunt fluttering around a tentacle that doesn’t stop moving, adjusting, flexing inside me with a precision that makes me feel both helplessly owned and transcendently worshipped.

“My good little trespasser,” he rasps, thrusting into my mouth. “So greedy for me.”

The tentacle inside me slides deeper, thicker now, stretching me open as it shifts and pulses with ridged movements that have me grinding down, chasing each flex with a shameless roll of my hips. I moan around his cock as I bounce on the throbbing limb inside me.

Cal groans—deep, guttural—and his grip in my hair tightens just slightly.

“Fuck—just look at you, love,” he grits out, bracing harder against the back of the sofa. “Look at how desperate you are for it.”

He rocks into my mouth again, tentative at first, then more sure, more insistent. Not quite fucking my throat, but testing, pushing, making me take him deeper.

I do so willingly, eagerly, urgently . My consent is enthusiastic, a great big steaming yes -train as my thighs tremble and my pussy clenches. I feel myself gush around the tentacle fucking into me, and he groans again, sharp and possessive.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” he pants. “You like when I use you. Like when I fill your greedy little cunt with my tentacle. You want me to fuck you open with it until there’s nothing left, just a dripping mess on my floor.”

My eyes roll back. My hips snap harder. I can’t help it—I moan again, loud and unrestrained, around the thick length still stretching my lips.

“I can scent how wet you are,” he growls, his grip tightening in my hair, but his hold is still possessive, not harsh. “Can fucking taste it in the air. You’re soaked. Begging. You want to be ruined, don’t you, love? Want to be my perfect little toy. Just mine.”

A second tentacle slides around my thigh, curling close to where the other one thrusts in and out of me, and I nearly sob from how sensitive I am already. It teases at my clit, brushing circles over the slick, swollen nub like it knows its part exactly in this impossible symphony of sensation.

“You like the ridges?” he hisses through gritted teeth, fucking just a little harder into my mouth. “You want to feel every last one splitting you open? Stretching you wide?”

I nod frantically, sloppy and desperate, around the length of him.

He laughs—dark and delighted and devastating.

“I’ll give you everything you want,” he murmurs, his voice lilting down into a low, velvet softness. “Anything for you, love.”

The tentacle inside me pulses, then begins to thrust deeper, the ridges swelling—thicker now, dragging along my walls with every insistent roll of my hips as I try and grind down harder.

I cry out around his cock, the sound lost in the stretch of my throat.

The pressure inside me builds fast, searing and deep.

And then it swells further, locking inside me with an impossible fullness that makes my back arch and my thighs tremble and tighten.

I gag, sputtering around him. Cal retracts from my mouth instantly, drawing back with a soft, wet pop and cradling the back of my head .

The tentacle inside me withdraws too, slick and slow, and I feel its absence like a wound. But he doesn’t look conflicted this time—not like the first time. No flinch of shame. No angry, self-loathing silence.

Still, something inside me lurches. My breath catches. I blink up at him, my voice small and cracking as I whisper, “No—wait, I— please , don’t stop. Cal, please.”

His eyes flash. Hunger. Want. Something more tender, too. He drags a thumb over my chin, smearing spit there.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

Tentacles curl around my waist and thighs, lifting me effortlessly. I try to stand, but I’m trembling—boneless and utterly wrecked. Cal doesn’t let me fall. He carries me through the narrow hall, into the soft dark of what I assume is his bedroom, laying me down on his bed.

Black sheets. That tracks.

He climbs over me and brushes damp hair from my cheek. “Do you trust me?”

I nod. “Yes.” It’s the easiest answer I’ve given to any question in my life.

His expression shifts—going sharp and dark with something devastating. “Good.”

He kisses my throat, then my collarbone, trailing open-mouthed worship down to my chest. He cups my breasts in both hands, his thumbs circling my nipples until they’re tight and aching, and I’m arching up into his touch. A low sound rumbles from his chest as he licks a path down my sternum.

“I want you to come again. I want to feel it. You’re going to let me, aren’t you, love?”

“Yes,” I gasp. “Yes, please.”

Another tentacle snakes between my thighs—thick and slick and warm—and presses against my aching cunt. I cry out as it slides in, ridged and slow, stroking deep as the wet heat of his mouth covers my nipple.

My hands claw at the sheets as he sucks softly, the air filled with my moans and panted breaths. Another tentacle joins the first, sliding lower, slick and deliberate, down between my cheeks, nudging at the tight pucker of my ass.

I jolt.

Cal pauses. His head lifts from my chest, and I meet the black of his eyes. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” I breathe. “It’s okay. Not too much, please. Just— fuck —you feel so good, Cal.”

He freezes like I’ve pressed on an old bruise inside of him. His fingers tighten on my thigh.

“Say it again,” he rasps.

“You feel good,” I repeat breathlessly.

“No,” he snaps, sounding almost frustrated, but not with me, I don’t think.

“I mean—” He breaks off, like he’s mad at himself for wanting something, and he doesn’t know how to ask for it.

Realization pours over me all at once. The way he tenses and the way his tentacles still where they’d been stroking soft all over me.

He wants me to say his name again.

I arch into him, let my head fall back, and moan, “Cal, please . I want more .”

A tremor rolls through him in a wave, peppering his skin with goosebumps. I feel them everywhere I’m touching him. When I look up, a grin pulls at his mouth, sinful and satisfied.

“More, little trespasser?” he murmurs. “What more could you possibly take?”

A giggle bubbles up through my chest—breathless, delirious—and I reach up to touch his face with shaky fingers. “Well, if you really want to shut me up… insert tentacle here.”

I tap my lips.