People managed to stop what they were doing long enough to clap if their mouths were busy, holler if their hands were busy. The cheers followed her to center stage, in part a reaction to her turning her ass to the crowd.
Door number one and door number two. Right-handed people were inclined to choose the right door, and that’s where she wanted to go. She turned instead toward door number one. Every step to the door pulled her on the rack, tighter, tighter, tighter, but wrapped around a dense core rather than apart in four directions. Even the act of taking hold of the doorknob felt obscene.
As she opened the door, the lights went a bluish green. Soft, minor key string music overlaid with a waterphone emitted from the speakers.
In the darkness on the other side of the door, a giant mass shifted.
Neve backed away, nerves hitching on the roads of her arousal.
A slick tentacle struck the ground. It left a trail as it slithered back into the darkness.
What the actual fuck?
Neve stumbled back, straining to see what was in the shadows.
Five more tentacles stretched out into the light. Three of them were smooth, black or dark gray—difficult to tell in the dim light—but two of them were thicker and lined with grasping suckers. At the ends of the larger tentacles, there were seven smaller tendrils, like boneless fingers.
The tentacle arms raised up and grasped the sides of the opening to pull the body forward.
At first, Neve wasn’t sure that what came out had ever been humanoid. All she saw were masses of tentacles like Gorgon hair, sliding, grasping, glistening with something too thick to be water and too thin to be slime. But then it opened its black eyes, like barnacles deep in its face, and parted its mouth. Each tooth narrowed to a point so sharp it could have been carved, like the teeth of a lantern fish. And it had legs, large powerful legs the same color as its tentacles, which was why she hadn’t noticed them at first, not until he’d crawled all the way through the doorway and had room to stand.
He was twice the height of the doorway, which Mikhail would have been able to walk through and Ciarán would have had to duck. His body was a slick anemone, a cluster of deep-sea worms, a biological paradox. Tentacles unfurled and twisted in constant movement, the darkness of his body difficult to see through them, like staring at a blurry photograph and trying to see sharp lines. He was a creature from another dimension, not the alien that Troy had pretended to be but something truly anathema to her reality. Each step shook the floor, and his tentacles struck the concrete with wet slaps, rubbed against each other with sounds too much like what came from the audience, awful and arousing at the same time. He was very much a humanoid figure underneath the tentacles, but they always drew her eye away.
Neve scrambled back until her heels hit the first step up that led to the first row.
“Now, now, Neve, no running,” Bell said softly into the microphone. “That’s not the game.”
The being lowered himself at center stage. He leaned forward to reach his grasping tentacles toward her with a low moan that wasn’t of desire but an attempt at a voice, like the opening of a giant stone door in a cave.
“Are you scared now?” Each word was extended, nearly deafening. It wasn’t so much that he was loud as the vibrations were violent, shuddering through her like the big bell in a bell tower.
She could run. Mikhail would try to stop her, she supposed, but if she were truly afraid, she doubted Bell would force her to take this…thing on. But though her surface mind rejected the sight of this being almost completely, she couldn’t help the slow, damning swell of curiosity.
This was a creature feature kind of horror monster, no question, the sort that wouldn’t be out of place in an eldritch bestiary. There was nothing like it in the haunted funhouse, and there had been nothing like it in the Funhouse maze. She hadn’t seen him on Oddity Row or slithering through Arcanium after the circus closed. Yet although she might not have been introduced to everyone in the circus yet—after all, David and the Blob had been new to her—she felt almost certain she knew him.
She cautiously stretched her hand out to touch one of his reaching tentacles. If his suckers were similar to those of a squid or octopus, that could spell danger for her, tearing her skin and drawing blood. But Bell wouldn’t send something like that out here to take her. Capable of violence, yes, but not something that would actually do damage she hadn’t signed up for.
The tip of the tentacle she touched curled around her finger with frightening strength. It was like a prehensile tongue, although not quite as slippery.
The comparison made her bite her lower lip against the reawakening of her desire. Fear immediately receded.
The being’s mouth curved upward in a glittering, terrible smile.
“Who are you?” she whispered. But he shook his head, still smiling like a shark.
His tentacles beckoned her in, parting over the front of his body to where his dark, slick cock arched up—big and as strong-looking as the rest of him, the head pointed, bottom ridge of the shaft frilled.
The arcane assortment of dildos under her bed suddenly made sense.
The being’s laughter filled the room as her face flushed a hot, burning red that probably extended all the way down to her chest. Then he jerked her in by the hold he had on her finger, and she tripped forward into his waiting tentacles. They wrapped around her, quick and unstoppable as pythons. Whatever coated him slicked over her, and again, she was reminded of tongues—tongues that licked around her arms, her waist, her legs, shifting all over her body.
She shouted as he whipped her around like a carnival ride, adjusting his hold by raveling and unraveling his tentacles over each part, disorienting her.
Before she knew it, she faced the audience again, gasping and trying to find something to hold on to, but he shifted his tentacles from her grip every time. She was at his mercy, held up from the floor and nothing under her control. There were more wolf whistles as the being spread her limbs to display her, inspecting her with a prod here, a brush there, then curling around her thighs to part them farther and expose her cunt to everyone’s gaze.
Mikhail was still there. He clutched at the front of his trousers as though he wanted to tear them off—or perhaps as though he wanted to tear his cock from himself, crush it in his strongman’s grip.
The being rolled his tongue against his teeth in a deep, clicking purr as he brought his tentacle arms, with their seven smaller finger tentacles each, to her torso. They curled around her, suckers pulling on her skin as though searching—over her abdomen, near and over her navel, over the skin above her mound, up between her breasts then over them—leaving red marks where they’d been. If his suckerless tentacles were like tongues, the suckers were like mouths. The comparison was all the more apparent when they blindly found her nipples. The suction was nearly excruciating, yet her clit throbbed with every suck.
Before Bell had granted her wish, she’d had no doubt she was somewhat masochistic based on what she and her husband had discovered during experimentation. But that masochism hadn’t been connected to sexual desire.
Now she couldn’t deny that her masochism effortlessly extended into that realm. Between the demon hands and the being’s suckers, the only conclusion she could draw was that she was indeed turned on by pain—this kind of pain, the kind that walked the line of pleasure but wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
“You don’t need gentle, do you, Neve?” Bell whispered in her head.
“No,” she murmured. She jerked against the tentacle grip over her wrists and ankles. She shook her head sharply, closed her eyes. “No, no, no…”
The being hesitated, his suckers still working over her nipples but his tentacles otherwise still.
“Don’t stop,” she pleaded. “Whatever you do, don’t stop. Just take whatever you want. Just…oh, fuck no.”
His laughter was an avalanche in her ears. He curled his tentacles away from her then snapped them in vicious rubber ban
d slaps over her abdomen and breasts, leaving new flushes over the red sucker marks. She swore a blue streak she didn’t know she had in her, but the being cut her off when he brought his greedy suckers back to her breasts. She fought the tentacles around her feet and ankles for entirely new reasons, tired of being bound, wanting to hold instead of being held and moved back and forth against her will. Even as she writhed into the suckers at her breasts and teasing her mound without getting close enough to her clit—oh God, what would that be like?—she dug her nails into the tentacles, trying to get them to let her go.
She cried out as the tentacles spun her again, this time tilting her head to face the floor, her profile to the audience. Her breasts weighed heavily against the tentacle arms, but he held her more or less steady around her waist and thighs. He released her wrists and ankles, as though he’d known what she wanted.
Neve kicked, though, and shouted as he flicked his thinner tentacles across her buttocks. It reminded her of her favorite flogger, but with more of a sting because he put more power behind it.
She wrenched with every blow until tears joined whatever secretions he produced to glisten on her skin. But when she whimpered, it was because her folds, her pussy and her clit weren’t touched or sucked, not so much as caressed. And with dozens of tentacles in her way, she couldn’t tend to it herself.
She could only imagine what her backside looked like when he was finished. He smoothed his cool secretions over her ass, raised her up to stroke the tears from her cheeks, although that did nothing to clean the mess.
When he pulled his suckers from her breasts, she screamed. It hurt, yes, but she felt almost like she was throwing a tantrum. She was at the end of her night and she couldn’t take any more, damn it. The whole night had been a tease—worse with Mikhail there, emanating at her like a black sun sending out radioactive waves with every little solar storm. The scream grated through her vocal cords.
A tentacle shot into her cunt without warning, nothing but its secretions—and hers—to protect her as the tentacle shoved in with the force of a fist. She cried out, wrenched again against the tentacles before her body realized it hadn’t hurt.
The tentacle undulated, arched within her, but not on her G-spot, which was all the more maddening.
That tentacle was joined by another—smaller, thinner, entering her just as rudely and as a counterpoint to the thicker one fucking her. It found a different place that wasn’t quite like the G-spot, but which still had her wriggling in spite of feeling full.
She dug her nails into his arm again as a third tentacle squeezed in with the other two. This one swished over her G-spot like a cat’s tail. The fullness stretched her blood-swollen flesh taut, her pleasure tauter.
The being brought yet another prehensile tentacle up to trace over her lips. He didn’t have to force anything. She opened her mouth and took him deep as though swallowing a cock. She suspected this being had some of the magic the other demons supposedly had that allowed improbable sizes in tight spaces, but that didn’t stop her from feeling strained.
Even though his tentacles took her from either end, as unpredictable as the liquid music of the waterphone, she rocked herself forward and back to her own rhythm, using her strength and her grip on his tentacle arm. His groan shuddered through her in low vibrations so strong, her clit thought they were close. She moaned her orgasm helplessly through the tentacle in her mouth.
Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more, that this was going to be the sexual overstimulation that sent her tumbling into the realm of unconsciousness, the tip of a tentacle traced from the base of her spine, between her cheeks, to just between her legs, circling the last unpenetrated orifice she had left.
She immediately tensed. He had to have felt it around what he’d already put inside her.
He pulled her upright again and into the seething cradle of tentacles against his body, facing her toward the audience. His gigantic face loomed above her, his teeth a disquieting lack of distance from her head. Tentacles wrapped around her breasts, not quite squeezing but pulsing their grip, and the suckers returned, needy little mouths.
She knew what he was going to do before he did it. Her eyes widened as he finally brought one of his suckers right over her clit, keeping blood in the little organ no matter what he did elsewhere.
She’d only done anal once and hadn’t liked it at all, but the being’s tentacles were thin and slippery, and every time her thoughts were coherent enough for her to try to raise herself up away from that probing limb, the suckers over her nipples and clit would just suck harder, distracting her until the tentacle had curled like a parasite in her ass, moving with its own rhythm like the rest.
As soon as he thought she was ready, another two tentacles made their way in with the rest until she was completely full, her skin covered in his slick secretions like oil, on pornographic display for every person in the room. She shivered as she fought off her second orgasm, which climbed so hard and fast that she was afraid it would pummel her from the inside.
Mikhail reclined on the couch by himself. So many spectators had moved up to the first row for a good look, but no one dared sit next to him when he looked like he’d kill anyone who tried. He wrung his erection with so much force, it couldn’t have felt good, but he didn’t stop, didn’t blink.
The being’s cock came up between her parted thighs, and she let go of the tentacle claiming her mouth to grab the equally slick erection. Her hands felt small around the shaft, but she caressed the head and pumped both hands over him, her grip as firm and punishing as Mikhail’s, unintentionally finding the same rhythm until the being growled again.
Neve clamped around the tentacles, her orgasm a rain of punches inside, her body like a fist to whatever had slithered within. Her eyes rolled back and her eyelids fluttered, taking away the sight of Mikhail staring. She came so hard, she managed to make the tentacles sway from the rocking of her body as she tried to intensify everything at once—the tentacles in her ass, the tentacles rubbing every last spot left in her cunt, the suckers over her clit and her nipples, the tentacle in her mouth, the tentacles all over her body like tongues, the cock in her hands. Her own liquid sprayed the tentacles moving in her cunt, not that it made a difference. Her muscles nearly cramped from the tension that wouldn’t release, wouldn’t stop, kept hitting her over and over and over as long as the sucker over her clit didn’t let up.
Finally, the being groaned one more time as the music reached its conclusion. The cock in her hands pulsed, visibly twitched. Thin, whitish fluid closer in consistency to his secretions than semen struck her cheek, her breasts, her arms, her stomach, before the pressure made the rest a fountain down his shaft.
Neve thought it was over when the tentacle in her mouth and the suckers pulled away to let her orgasm run its course, as thick tentacles emerged from her cunt, leaving her empty and a complete mess from head to toe. The refined nudity Kitty and Bell had arranged had been rendered cheap with the being’s fluids.
Then, the tentacles in her ass still curling and uncurling in a horrible, wonderful way she still hadn’t decided whether she liked, he turned her around to face him and brought her gaping pussy to his still-spilling cock. He’d already found all the places that made her squirm, knew exactly how to angle her so that the frilled ridge rubbed over them. He stood up with her like that, the floor far away from her now. He spread the many tentacles around his head as he slowly slid her down his cock, deeper, deeper, as impossibly deep as Mikhail would go. Deeper.
With her mouth no longer stoppered, her moan was long, loud and humiliating.
“Goddammit, Neve, ride him. Fucking ride him, gorgeous creature. Take that monster cock deep. Make it yours. Grab those fucking tentacles and ride him.”
At this point, she didn’t know whether the desire burning under her skin was more hers or Mikhail’s, but he’d officially lost control of his sex magic, which took the room by torrential storm. She did what Mikhail told her, undulating and
writhing over the being’s cock and tentacles the way she had those strange dildos for days. She filled herself up, her moaning almost constant except when she had to breathe. Her whole body had become one giant sex organ bent on pleasure and unafraid of anything except not being able to come again, because she wasn’t done, somehow wasn’t done. Something still yearned inside her, because when someone and something wanted her, she could never be done.
It was a kind of hell, but it was also liberating to not think about what she should want or what she should be, to accept the constant ebb and flow of pleasure, accept that it wouldn’t stop.
She looked over her shoulder. In the rows behind her, Rome could have been burning, but the audience was fixed only upon its pleasure, and that pleasure no longer had rules. If there were women, the men had the women, but in the absence of one, they pleasured each other—these sensitive men who couldn’t watch another man getting fucked by a male monster.
A man was on his knees in front of Locke, who had somehow miraculously stayed dressed. She still couldn’t see his cock, because it was buried down an older man’s throat. Locke shoved his erection into the man’s mouth, but he was transfixed, clenching his teeth, the hollows of his cheeks twitching.
Bell sat on the edge of the stage, his bare toes in a crouching woman’s mouth. He was clearly aroused but the only quiet in the storm, his eyelids heavy in feline pleasure.
Mikhail stood then lifted the sofa and slammed it against a column. The legs and frame splintered like balsa wood. He staggered away stage left as though he’d been shot in the stomach. Watching wasn’t going to help. Her coming wasn’t going to help. Everyone around him coming wasn’t going to make a damn bit of difference to him. No one could give him what he needed without dying except Sasha—who Neve doubted would do it a second time tonight.
Funhouse Page 29
