The Creature in the Cave [F] [Tentacles]

They say it is a great honor to be chosen.

You sit in the stone pool as your sisters bathe you. You cast your eyes over the slave standing by the pillars with a bronze pitcher of oil, his muscled chest glistens with sweat from the heat of the baths. Your eyes trace lower, over the ridges of his tanned core, to the cloth girdle, clinging to his every shape. But he cannot touch you, no man may, especially on this night. Only the acolytes may prepare you for what is to come.

Steam clings to the surface of the water, fed by springs flowing from deeper inside the caves, where the walls of your carved temple give way to uncut stone and endless dark. One of your sisters combs your hair as another sponges your chest and breasts.

A bead of water traces your collar bone and rolls down the curve of your breast. Your nipples harden to the chill air above vapors of the heated pool.

It is time.

You step, dripping from the pool. As you sisters dry you, a simple strip of black cloth is tied across your eyes. You are lead, naked into the dark. The fabric is coarse against your skin. As your sisters lead you, you feel the flagstones, cool against your feet. Close by, you hear the crackle of their torches and feel their heat against your bare skin. Your heart beats against your breast with fear and anticipation.

You hear the rumble of stone against stone and you stumble.Your hand touches the cold slab of a carved doorway. Your fingers trace the undulating pattern on its surface.The air is warm on the other side. You take one hesitant step, then another. Beneath your feet the smooth stones of the temple floor have given way to soft earth. Behind you, you hear the deep rumble of heavy stone, followed by the dull finality of echoing silence.

You stand, and though you can no longer hear the crackle of your sister’s torches, you feel the warmth of the air on your naked skin. There is a faint current to it, like the breathing of a great beast. Time passes to the measure of heartbeats and you know you are alone in the darkness. Slowly, you reach up, and pull the cloth from your eyes.
Around you candles grow like clusters of toadstools, on every rock and sill. They cast an orange glow over the cloven walls. Shadows flicker and dance. At the far end of the cave, outside the candlelight, there is darkness, a black maw, receding back into the abyssal belly of the earth.

You stay there, like that, in the perpetual twilight of the flame lit cave. Your eyes search the blackness beyond the edge of the firelight. Sometimes you think you see a great shape, moving in the darkness, black within the endless night. Your eyes play tricks on you as candle flames flicker at the corners of your vision. Casting light, and shadow.

Wax drips down the stones.

The cave is warm, very warm.

The shadow at the end of the cave seems closer now. Then you see it. The shadows move. They seem to unfurl, and from the darkness come black tendrils. Long and sinuous, dozens of them, they quest out blindly, probing into the chamber.

You freeze as one of the tendrils brushes your ankle. You flinch by instinct, but its surface is warm and smooth against your bare skin. It slides against you, coated in a slick film.

Slowly, like a growing vine, it twines around your thigh. Leaving a viscous trail it slides over your abdomen, your chest, moving like a black snake. Its touches your cheek as if by accident, soft and warm. Its tip slides over your lips, smelling of must and earth. A strand of its slick coating clings to your lip connecting you for a brief moment as it slides away.

Slowly, almost lazilly, it coils around your neck, and tightens. You can feel its warm smooth flesh pulsing against your own.

You feel more tendrils against your legs, you try to look down, straining against the coil around your neck.

You reach up to loosen the cincture when a dark tendril grasps your wrist, holding you fast. You struggle against it, as it slowly forces your arm down against the earth of the cave. A second takes your other wrist, wrapping around your arm, pinning you to the ground.

You feel more of them. Tendrils curl around your ankles, your thighs, your waist. You kick as they entwine you. They wind around your limbs, warm against your exposed flesh. You try to slip free but you sense the strength of them, holding you down, pulling taught like ropes. Slowly, inexorably, they begin to force your legs apart.

Your muscles strain in protest as your legs are spread wide. The tendrils constrict like the coils of a great serpent, tightening around your neck. You can tilt your head just enough to see a tendril snaking up between thighs, glistening in the candlelight.

You tug at your bonds but they hold you fast, dozens of black coils, twining around your limbs, your wrists, your ankles, your neck, throbbing. You feel the sleek head of the tendril, probing against you, glossy with its secretions. It pushes against your flesh, smooth and hot, against your wetness, you try and protest, but all that escapes your lips is a moan.

It pushes inside you. You feel the widening circumference of its taper until its full girth parts your wet lips. You gasp. It slides further into you, inch upon inch of its endless length.

You feel another tendril press you lower, its tip probing for another recess.

It pushes inside you, stretching you, your muscles tight around its thickness.

You writhe in its restraints, and the mass of black coils seems to writhe with you.

You try and cry out as it pushes deeper but your voice is stifled as a tendril slides into your mouth, forcing your lips apart. You gag as the scent of wet earth overtakes you. It fills your mouth, you choke as it presses down your throat. You gasp for air as the coil around your neck constricts.

The tendrils seem to swell inside you, filling you, filling the soft recesses of your form. They are are around you, and inside you, enveloping you as you envelope them. They slide deeper, slick with your wetness and their own. Your stifled moans come muffled around the tendril, you choke. You gasp for air as the tendril withdraws its dripping length from your throat and your breaths come fast and ragged.

The tendril between your legs slides deeper, its excess bulk slapping against you as it convulses, wriggling into you. The tendril pulses inside you, you can feel your wet muscles clenching around its girth. It throbs sporadically, seeming to grow larger with each swell, stretching you, filling you.

The other coils contract around your limbs as it spasms inside you, pumping. Your back arches as it pumps again and again, you moan with each surge. You can feel it deep inside you, warm and thick, filling you, seeping from you, wet against your thighs.

The tendrils withdraw from you, you feel them slide slowly out, leaving you gaping, dripping. Your thighs are slick. It loosens its hold on your neck and limbs.

You lay naked, panting as the tangle of myriad coils recedes past the edge of the flickering candlelight into the darkness of the cave.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/ahxh55/the_creature_in_the_cave_f_tentacles