Be nice, it’s my first time.
Whisper rustle…
The warm sound of your linen sheets barely competes with the comforting drone of the ceiling fan, but it’s still perceptible. You haven’t had a drink in a few days, but you have the same fuzzy, dewy fog over your senses as if you were drunk. The room is still dark, and uncomfortably warm from the sticky July night, but your skin feels cooler suddenly. Slowly you realize that your body is no longer covered by your light summery linens; did they fall on the floor? You roll your eyes before opening them, and slowly sit up, twisting and cracking various joints before reaching over the edge of the bed where the sheet must be. You don’t bother turning the light on, how could you fail to find the floor, right?
Just as your hand closes over the soft cool linen, suddenly a hot sticky something snaps onto your wrist and wraps around it, nearly jerking you off your balance. Before your brain can even process “what the hell?” you feel several more heavy wet feelings touching various places on your body; ankles, your other wrist, and the small of your back. You instinctively thrash, not having yet realized that the creature from under your bed is twenty times stronger than you, and that you’re already helpless. The hot wormy things are trailing up and down your body, leaving silky dripping trails like warm olive oil up all over your back and up your legs. It’s so strong! Thick tentacles coil around your wrists and pin them together above your head, stretching your arm muscles uncomfortably. No matter how you struggle and fight, your light frame just doesn’t have the power to wrench free. Your breasts are being thrust upward underneath your light cotton cami, sweaty from the growing heat in the room; it feels like it’s hot as a furnace. More tentacles are squeezing a death grip on your ankles, forcing your legs wide open at 130 degrees, ankles off the edges off the mattress. Your sleep-groggy brain doesn’t even have the awareness or the time to understand what the fuck is going on, because in two eyeblinks you feel several thinner tentacles, barely thick as strands of spaghetti, fluttering across your inner thighs, making you jump from the terrifying ticklish sensations. Your core muscles are locked as you try to wiggle away, but you can’t. Each tiny slick string is wrapping itself around the material of your panties, tightening and pulling the material away, forcing it wedge between your pussy lips. Even as the fear is pounding in your skull, the tight uncomfortable sensation of having the wet cotton forced between your labia is unbearably pleasant. In the back of your mind, the most odd random thought appears: “How does this monster know I like it rough?”.
The flimsy cotton is immediately torn cleanly away from your hips, and several thin oily probes start flicking their way up and down your labia, gently feathering them back and forth, sending fiery licks of sensation up and down your petite frame. Another group of little probes oozes up your sternum to your breasts, tearing your cami off before clamping down a little too firmly on your tautening pink nipples. You yelp in pain, never having felt such rough treatment on your sensitive little buds, but the monster isn’t listening. Each cluster of tiny feelers radiates into a small “mouth” that bites down with rough, sandpapery feelings, jerking and nibbling until you’re biting your lip in hot misery. Each nibble and tug make your needy pussy seize and tense, as it gets wetter and wetter.
Shameful realization flushes into your cheeks and neck as the weight of the situation hits you. This isn’t a dirty story, this isn’t a secret, unwhispered fantasy; this is reality, though strange and impossible, coiling around your body, slowly constricting, seemingly intent on stripping away every scrap of decency and control.
“Please no”, you whimper, “please MMMFFFFF” as your supplication is cut short by a massively thick tendril plugging into your mouth, immediately jamming your jaw to its widest limit. It stops just short of tickling your esophagus, flattening your tongue and stretching your lips uncomfortably. You try to wrench your head away but the tentacle has wrapped itself around your shoulders and neck, and the time for escape has clearly passed. Silently, removedly you thank your lucky stars you don’t have a stuffy nose because you wouldn’t last long, but it still takes every ounce of concentration to breathe in and out without gagging on the impossible meat stuffed in your unwelcoming mouth. Its flesh is textured like tooled leather, but not exactly rough or abrasive. Like the rest of the monster, it’s slicked with some oily substance, clearly meant to ease its passage into your orifices. Your eyes are rolling up slightly, as the strain on your slight body threatens to overwhelm you, but unconsciousness eludes you. Your muscles go slack as your brain cuts off their function to preserve oxygen, and the monster immediately senses the change.
At the foot of the bed a final tentacle rises up, swaying back and forth like a charmer’s snake. As it nears, you catch a glimpse of it in the moonlight and your heart shoots into your throat.
“Holy Christ, it’s thicker than my forearm!”
you scream in your head. Ice cold sweat beads up and down your body and your stomach turns to lead when it sinuously wanders between your thighs and bumps its blunt round head against your exposed sex. The tiny rough tendrils grab onto your labia and spread you open, and as you squeal and shake your head as hard as you can, it pushes against your soaked cunt. For a moment your clenched hole resists, but there is way too much muscle backing this monster up, and it quickly punches through the feeble resistance and buries itself several inches inward. Your high-pitched squeals of fright turn into deep, guttural moans of pain as your unreceptive passage is brutally widened beyond all compare. It feels like a red hot poker is being jammed into you, despite the copious lubrication your defiant pussy is weeping. Slowly, inch by inch it muscles deeper, forcing you wider open, rubbing against spots deep within you that have never been touched by even the most generously endowed lover. As you look down you can see a rounded ridge in your flat stomach, inching up toward your navel. The waves of pain are shivering up and down your terrified body, slamming alarms into your wavering consciousness, but through all this, there is also some pleasure to be had. The sheer ridiculous girth of the tentacle is tearing your labia open so wide that your aching exposed clit is being pulled down, and is rubbing torturously against the ribbed skin of your sexual accuser. Each nub and ridge flick your sensitive pearl back and forth, and try as you might, you’re getting wetter. Again, you redden deeper with shame when you begrudgingly admit to yourself that being raped by a tentacle monster is starting to feel slightly, if agonizingly, enjoyable.
Once the destroyer reaches the end of your pussy, after inserting 12 or 13 inches, its round head nudges your cervix, and you finally tip over the edge, hurtling helplessly into the pit of orgasmic insanity. The core muscles in your abdomen engage as the tight heat quivers through your body like a bowstring and explode out your nipples and clit and fingertips. You wail in confused, stupid bliss as the little feelers bite more tightly onto your engorged pink nipples, and your clit is mercilessly rubbed raw, and your pussy is being destroyed by the shrew-taming tentacle cock buried within it. Pussy juice forces its way out around the edges of the invading meat and splatter onto your linen sheets, soaking it in several places. Your toes spread and wiggle as white lights explode behind your brain. Your petite frame struggles to get away from the immediate and excruciating pleasures, but the monster will have none of it. It insistently tightens and continues to pummel its meat in and out, gouging your cunt flesh open, butting an ever-widening tunnel into your core, hammering your aching cervix. Your vocal chords ache as you scream around the tentacle in your mouth before it suddenly surges in and down, sliding several inches down your throat before you even realize it. Immediately you gag, eyes watering, throat clenching on the solid tendril, and just as the lack of oxygen is fading your senses to grey, the unthinkable happens: the monster creams.
First your throat, sore and pressed flat; the tentacle buried in it tightens, constricts and then gushes forth, ropes of sticky cum boiling into your stomach. You retch and choke and little cumstrings immediately come out your nose and drip down to your lips. Moments later, the true antagonist, the vaginal destroyer, reaches its own satisfaction, and after a final authoritative slam against your cervix, it unleashes a torrent of cum, quart after quart, squirt after squirt. Too weak to scream or even mentally protest, you simply fuzz out slowly as the monster blows its pent-up load into your pulverized and unprotected pussy. After several minutes of high-pressure ejaculations, the thick tendril slowly recedes, dragging across ever destroyed and tenderized inch of your cunt, awakening the nerves in fresh pain, and finally as it pulls out, there’s a sound like a popping cork. You look down, eyes barely able to register, and see what looks like a gallon of thick sticky liquid splash out onto your mattress like a burst water balloon, pouring out and out like it’ll never stop. Long before the last drops of tentacle semen trickle out of your freshly tunnelled cunt, and as unconsciousness is just about to overtake you, you dazedly and anxiously wonder if the seed that was just muscled into you is viable, and desperately try to remember if you took your pill this morning…
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/bxxxdg/t4f_justtentaclethings_tentacle_rape_impreg
Since this is your first time, allow me to help you out a little bit. If there is one thing you should never do, never ever write a story in second person perspective for a general audience. First and third person perspectives allow almost any reader to get into the story. Second person, at the very least, cuts out half your potential readership because you’re either asking a man to put on a vagina or asking a woman to put on a penis in order to get into the story. Only use second person perspective when you’re writing a story that will be read by only one other person. I hope this helps. Love the tentacle monster theme!