Page 23 of A Merry Christmas for Art… and His Tentacles

Of course, my tentacles have an immediate reaction. One of them slides back down between his ass cheeks, and another releases some of that lubricant he wanted.

“Do you, um, prefer store bought lubricant, or…” I mumble, not sure how to tell him that I make my own.

“As opposed to what?” he asks. Then he stops because my tentacle has dragged the gooey substance between his ass cheeks.

“It’s just that sex underwater requires a certain kind of lubricant, and mine is perfect for it. But we could buy some?—”

“Yours, as in…” Dean Miller trails off, waiting for an explanation.

“It’s common for organisms that sexually reproduce to self lubricate.”

His eyes widen.

“Like I said, if you want to buy some lubricant?—”

He brings me in for a kiss that takes my breath away. “I want you. Right now.”

I close my eyes as Dean Miller continues to kiss me, his mouth traveling across my jaw and my neck. His mouth is greedy and certain. There’s absolutely no hesitation, not evenwhen one of my tentacles gently slides against his hole. If anything, his mouth becomes more insistent.

It’s rare that I have complete control over my tentacles. It usually only happens when I’m in the zone at work. The synchronicity of my mind and body moving as one is my favorite thing about getting lost in my job.

There are times when that synchronicity happens outside of work, of course. They’re rare, and they usually involve me giving into some kind of temptation. My tentacles love temptation.

This time, as my tentacle drags against the tender skin of Dean Miller’s hole, I’m in control. I tease the puckered skin, tasting it and memorizing the texture. Every part of me is focused on how soft he is—how tight. He shifts his hips back ever so slightly, and his rim gives under the pressure of my tip. I probe inside him, overwhelmed by the glorious heat and pressure.

“Your anus is very pleasing to me,” I say.

He presses a kiss to the crook of my neck, and I can feel the smile on his lips.

I don’t tell him that I can taste his insides. That sounds like something a cannibal would say. But I love how intimate his flavor is. It’s like tasting the core of his being. I savor him for a while, staying completely still. He does the same, as if he’s savoring me too.

“I’ve always liked deep penetration,” Dean whispers. “Really deep.”

I push deeper inside him. He lets out a pent-up breath. I twist my tentacle, testing the elasticity of his body, wondering just how deep he can take me. I don’t want to hurt him.

“More, Art,” he groans.

I give him what he wants, sliding in so far, he lets out a gasp that’s either bad or very, very good.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Fuck, yes. Your tentacle is so thick at the base.”

“That isn’t the base.”

He burrows his nose into my neck. “Then I want more.”

“I could hurt you.”

He shakes his head. “Go slow, and it will be fine.”

I ease in further, releasing more lubricant as I burrow my tentacle deep inside Dean. His breath is shaking, his hands clinging to my shoulders with a death grip. The intensity of it all is beautiful. I’ve never shared anything like this with another person.

“Deeper,” he begs.

“Hold on.” I withdraw from him, spreading the lubricant as I go. When I push in again, the way is smoother. I coil my tentacles near the tip, so I can push more of myself inside him. The way his body swallows me is the stuff of my fantasies. This is better than I ever imagined. I didn’t think a man could take this much of me. I keep pushing, even when Dean lets out a guttural groan, even when his walls are so tight that the pressure is almost painful.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Stop,” he says, his body tensing up.

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