Page 11 of Alien Kraken's Prize

“I installed a universal translator in your brain stem while you napped,” he says casually.

The nausea intensifies, and I think it might have less to do with the cramps than it does with the fact Mr. Tentacle-Pants just told me he installed some new hardware on my brainstem.

“Usually you take a girl out for dinner and drinks before you put things in her head,” I say weakly.

“Where would we go?” He gestures around. “You cannot breathe water without gills.”

“Right, fair enough. Not to mention the whole ‘we’re alien pets’ thing.” I frown, forcing myself into a sitting position. Hard to be taken seriously when you’re curled up in fetal on the dirt in a bra.

I groan as my stomach churns, and I decide being taken seriously is the least of my problems right now as I sink back to the grainy dirt.

“Eat,” the octopus with a six-pack tells me, shoving the leaves in my face.

“I don’t like being told what to do,” I say, but I do it anyway. I chomp on a leaf like my life depends on it, and honestly, who’s to say?

Maybe my life does depend on it.

My chewing slows, my lip curling in disgust at the noxious, bitter taste, and as my mouth opens to spit it out, he has the audacity to pop a berry of some sort in it.

Outraged, I stare up at him and his plethora of tentacles, and the orb bursts in my mouth.

Which, unfortunately, makes me start to gag—until the taste hits my tastebuds like a freighter docking at the space hub too fast.

It quells the horrible tang of the leaf, turning into something sweet and slightly sour and delicious.

Thank you is on the tip of my tongue—until he grins down at me with an indubitably smug expression that has me scowling instead.

Just because.

“You did what I said even though you did not want to,” he says, that smile growing. His arms cross over his muscular—honestly, it’s stupidly muscular—chest even as one tentacle pokes my cheek.

I slap it away and glare at him even harder. “It was disgusting.”

“And do you feel better?” he asks, his tone impossibly even, though his ocean eyes dance with amusement. The same tentacle starts towards me again and I start to swat it away, until I get a good look at it.

It’s not a fucking tentacle. It’s the same color as the rest of his bottom half, yes, but it’s not pointy at the end. It has suckers on the underside… but it’s also rounded with a slit at the top.

That’s a penis.

I know a penis when I see one, even an alien penis.

I suck in a breath and scramble backwards.

“Why the fucking fuck is your penis out and about near my face?” I have to hand it to myself, I’ve really kept my cool by not immediately punching him right in the octopus dick.

“This is part of my mating ritual,” he explains, with the air of someone who is exasperated at having to lay out the obvious but willing to do so nonetheless.

This time, I do punch him in right in the octopus dick.

“How’s that for a mating ritual?” I yelp, trying to back away some more.

Tentacles wrap around my wrists, and blessedly, ye olde octopus dick doesn’t deign to get any closer. I side-eye it, though, ready for a head butt should an octopus-dick-in-the-face occasion call for it.

“I like it,” he purrs, leaning closer. “Strange ritual, but all of it feels good to me.”

“You can’t just stick your dick on someone’s mouth,” I tell him crankily. I’m not even struggling at this point, probably because even my stubborn ass realizes that I’m outarmed, outgunned, and out, er, tentacled.

“Why not?” he asks, immediately releasing me.

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