Another silent car ride. Even most birds knew it was way too fucking early. Like every morning, Mom dolled herself up like she was going on a date. Every bump in the road threatened to eject her breasts from her tight dress. Mine are just as big; it doesn’t mean I have to tease the massage clinic employees. They’ll see everything anyway.
“Can I just ask them if someone else is available?” I shoot my shot at least once a fortnight.
“Not this again, Ash. I told you it takes time to develop a relationship with your therapist. It took days for Jelly and me to gel. But when we did… it was like two puzzle pieces snapping together.”
“You’ve been taking me there for months. The pieces don’t fit, and there’s eight of them.”
“Maybe it’s taking longer because of your negative attitude. It’s always something with you: too long, too thick, too rough, too much, too many, too salty…”
“Mom, this is all the same problem!”
“Well, I already paid for the whole year, so it’s going to take as long as it takes.”
“I just think that two hours, twice a day…”
“Oh, now it’s too often.”
I stopped myself before saying something I’d regret. I don’t have enough free time to get grounded. I acknowledge that I’m grumpier on weekends. At least on weekdays, I get a ride to and from school out of this nonsense.
Ugh. I hate everything about this place. The people who run it have no idea how humans work. They think we love getting naked next to giant windows in a brightly lit room that doubles as the reception area. Because it’s still dark outside, I wouldn’t have been able to tell who might be watching.
My massage table is easily recognizable because it has asylum-style straps on the sides. I have a ‘bad habit’ of clamping my legs shut and shielding my butt crack. I would call it basic survival instinct, but whatever. At least if someone I know walks in, they’ll see that I’m here against my will.
My guy was late. I wasn’t in a hurry to get my cervix ballooned and intestines filled up like sausage casings, but I couldn’t stand watching my mom flirt with her masseur, so I still climbed my table and buried my face in the face hole. I’m so embarrassed for her. Where is this going, Mom? Am I going to call this nightmare creature Dad while he serves me a bowl of hot cum for breakfast?
My stupid boobs didn’t want to fit in the stupid boob holes, so I had to knead them in there. All this therapy has my hormones out of whack.
Yes, boob holes. The table has four holes. The one for the face, I get; that’s pretty standard. The two for the breasts, I sort of appreciate as a busty gal, but once the massage starts, I would much rather have them squished against the table unmolested. The fourth and largest hole is under my abdomen. For the moment, it doesn’t do anything but subject my belly button to the AC breeze.
Gah, they keep it so cold in here, probably to make us look forward to warm tentacles and even warmer semen. I don’t know much about the average octopus, but the Eldritch variant has little mouths at the end of its limbs to suck and squirt and is definitely warm-blooded.
When my mom started moaning on the adjacent table, I almost missed the disturbing sound of wet penetration and membranes stretching. My mom cums pretty much non-stop during her massage. No wonder she feels relaxed when uncurling her toes after two hours. I’m not a sex addict like her, but I could maybe see myself ‘gelling’ with my therapist if he was more like hers, a jellyfish type with hundreds of skinny tentacles. I’d even take the electric shocks that give orgasmic seizures for a slight reduction in circumferences.
For a clinic that prides itself in finding ‘the perfect match,’ they could have started with a size comparison. And the hole-stretching girth doesn’t even tell the whole story. The suckers, the tens of thousands of suckers, seem to exist solely to make penetration and extraction more laborious and intense. Like every morning and evening, I was shaking on my table, dreading skin contact with the first tip.
“Ashleigh?” A woman’s soft voice can make you jump when bracing for wet slithering. “Spreader is molting; unfortunately, he won’t attend this morning’s session.”
I didn’t even care what that meant. I was more than happy to take my first break in three months. Mom was cumming and moaning so hard she wouldn’t even have realized I’d been waiting in the car. “That’s OK.”
“Don’t worry. We have a replacement for you. They’re from the same species, so the experience should be similar.”
“Oh no, that’s not necessary.” But then I heard the combination of sounds that sends shivers down my spine whenever my mind revisits it during the day: wet slithering and fastening Velcro. The massage was about to start.
“Stretcher is a little bigger than what you’re used to, but I’m sure you will adjust.”
“How much bigger?” I asked the floor. My question went unanswered. Even a centimeter per tentacle would be disastrous, given how stretched my limits were.
Tentacles began slapping my backside like a full-body spanking, leaving red suction circles on my skin and lathering me with secreted lotion. Painful as it was, this was the closest I got to a legit massage. But no, this wasn’t massage oil; probably more like weird alien pre-cum that keeps their victims (clients) conscious beyond fragile human capabilities. By how sore I am after each massage, I imagine the pain would be unbearable without that stuff first seeping into my pores.
She said ‘a little bigger?’ It wasn’t even close. The previous night, the tentacles felt like arms. That morning, they felt like legs. I prayed for this foreplay to last forever, but eventually, the slapping stopped, and the exploration began. Four tentacle tips the size of my knee squeezed themselves in turn through my clenching butthole, three pushed through my clenching pussy before penetrating my clenching cervix, and one managed to widen my clenching peehole.
I groaned. Not a moan. Maybe it sounded a bit like a moan, but it was definitely a groan. That pre-cum lotion might prevent excruciating pain, but it doesn’t numb any of the affected sphincters. If anything, I’m much more aware than I should of every sucker flicking my stretched rim and rubbing against my distressed walls as the legs travel deeper inside. From the warmth, it felt like getting probed by freshly baked bread.
At least I wouldn’t have to hear the sound of my own moans for long. Groans. I mean groans. The anal tentacles didn’t stop at the stomach. They followed the light to burst out of my throat and dislocate my jaw. I closed my eyes so as not to see them wiggle, covered in gross, sticky stuff in front of my nose. But for two of them, my face is not the destination; remember that my breasts were dangling through the tit-holes nearby. Two hungry mouths at the tentacle’s tips went for the udders. They sucked on them so hard my breasts got swallowed whole like torpedoes in a launch tube to get their elongated shape milked and masticated.
I hate cumming. I hate that it turns me into a dumb slut like my mom for a few minutes. As if a moment of pleasure justifies the gaping holes and coughing sticky sperm out of my lungs all day. I just have sensitive breasts, and they were going through the wringer. Can’t help it.
The other two tentacles were just kind of chilling for now. One of them started sucking on my nose, and the other one killed time by sliding in and out of the gap between my swallowed breasts.
At this point, if my massage therapist could find contentment in soaking his legs coiled inside my guts, womb, and bladder for the rest of the session, I might have been able to relax. But I figured out on day one that these massages aren’t really about what I want. The tentacles began sawing me in half, ten feet back, then ten feet forward every few seconds. I got to experience extreme penetration with a new extreme girth and the rubbing of countless suckers incessantly. It’s unbearably intense. With my mouth so stuffed, I couldn’t ask the new guy to slow down, and with my wrists strapped to the table, I couldn’t tap out (maybe this one would have listened). Just had to endure it for a solid twenty minutes until…
This is where the table’s belly hole comes in handy. When the two face tentacles U-turned to penetrate my stuffed mouth from additional angles, I knew my therapist was about to unload heavy, salty cream from most of his many mouths. The legs swelled up inside me, stretching their respective condoms even more than they already were. Then, it’s five minutes of non-stop gushing that I’m forced to taste and swallow. I got so saturated with this stuff that some filtered seepage got sucked out of my mammaries. My stomach, womb, and bladder combined into one giant bulge that expanded out of the hole like an inflatable belt pack. Even without restraints, I’d be attached to this table until unplugged.
The massage resumed but only got more intense from there, considering my internals were now clogged with the opposite of lubricant.
“Look who finished his molting early!”
My ears were leaking cum, so I could only infer what the receptionist said from the second set of tentacles rubbing my butt with lotion. First of all, no thank you; I think eight giant tentacles are more than enough for a short girl like me. Second, are you sure it works that way? Aren’t there diminishing returns on that distention gel? I resigned myself to finding out the hard way.
Four more tentacles squeezed themselves into my ass. Three more in my pussy, one more in my pee hole. Velcro is crazy strong because I was straining against my restraints with the strength of ten men. Ten small girls, at least. My usual guy had returned bigger than his replacement. Molting, as I suspected, is not a good thing for me.
The extra tentacles coming out of my mouth coiled against the tit cocoons to squeeze them even harder. Cursing my sensitive breasts, I came with sixteen tentacles inside me. As if to teach my body a lesson, the orgasm triggered a synchronized swelling of all tentacles. My dangling belly grew three times its size while monster cum saturated my body. I don’t think any girls at my school could relate to feeling your ovaries and kidneys engorge with semen. The only pressure valve was my nostrils, so they were shooting out nasty glue in spurts.
“Ash, are you ready to go?” Mom appeared refreshed like the ‘after’ woman in a sleeping pill commercial.
“Hang on, Mom. I’m not done leaking.”
The receptionist had a hard time keeping up with receptacle changes to catch all the cum I belched, queefed, and farted, but she tried to make conversation nonetheless. “How was your session today, Ashleigh?”
“Intense,” I said between two oral dumps of oatmeal that splashed on the bottom of a mop bucket.
“Oh yes, it certainly looked like you were having fun. Stretcher and Spreader are inseparable now. Your massage was a bonding experience for them.”
Good for them. Wait… “What does that mean? I don’t need two massage therapists at the same time every session.”
“There she goes again,” Mom said loudly to herself. “This girl gets twice the attention and still finds a reason to complain.”
“Not every session,” the receptionist assured me. “Every three months, one of them will molt. Stretcher is due any day now.”
Mom interjected, clearly in a hurry to go home and have her post-massage nap. “Let’s go, Ash. You can finish your conversation this evening.”
“Mom…”
“What now?!”
“Can you help me walk to the car?”
“Oh, sure thing, honey. Sorry, I snapped at you. I’ve just been so stressed out, you know. Maybe we need an extra massage each day.”
The receptionist smelled money. “I can certainly arrange that.”