Sea Monster Daughters: Beware Beware (NSFW)

I actually first started writing Sea Monster Daughters with this little short story which I wrote about three to four years ago. At one point in time, it was actually contained in the actual text of Sea Monster Daughters but, during one of the revisions, was removed entirely from the narrative, along with shifting the general tone and theme of the story in general.

Before proceeding, please be aware of the following regarding this short story:

  • nsfw
  • contains explicit descriptions of tentacle sex
  • power plays (vague themes of domination and subjugation)
  • i would also warn for dubious consent because of what happens afterwards
  • and i will again reiterate: not safe for work

One of the reasons I removed this from the story is because I wasn’t sure how I felt about the intersection of violence and sex. I’m still not a huge fan, but I also don’t want to pretend that this wasn’t the origin story.

I do want to assure any who are curious that Sea Monster Daughters does not contain any explicit sex of any kind.Today is also the last day the story is free.

Consider the below a tidbit. A extra-curricular treat. Or something you can safely skip if you’d rather.

You wait for the storms, for the ships to struggle against the ocean’s jaws, for the sea to swallow them whole.

You live in the belly of the beast, and sometimes the sea feeds you well enough and sometimes it doesn’t.

You wait with your mothers and your sisters on the floor of the ocean. Your tentacles curl over the sandy bottoms like black suns. Soft bubbles from your gills float over your suckers while membranes plug up your nose until you breach the surface of the sea to call those soldiers and sailors home to you because even though you’re not a siren, your voice cannot be silenced and they cannot resist you, cannot resist their name in your mouth, the only familiar thing in this god forsaken storm.

Lightening, twisted by the water, splits the sky, and the waves swell, pitching the flimsy ship to the side so sharply water pours over onto the deck. You hear a sailor call out, “Man overboard,” and one of your hearts beats faster as you reach out for the surface, tentacles trailing behind you.

Your sisters prepare themselves. It’s always a fight, and sometimes you win and sometimes you lose and sometimes you wait for the last man, the one most spent struggling so hard to survive, and they are always too busy with theirs to notice you.

You put up a good show when the first body breaks through the water, their boots almost half off, their clothing torn, their knobby knees skinned red. You release your ink to blind your siblings, and they push you hard into the ocean floor because you’re a brat like you’ve just hatched from the egg, and they know you know they hate the taste of you on their tongues and their suckers and their eyes so you fully deserve that mouthful of sand, the itch and grit of it in your gills.

They circle round and round the humans that slip from their makeshift planks, torn from the belly of their ship. Geysers erupt from their open mouths as they struggle, as they attempt to dog-paddle from your siblings. But their hands are sticks broken in the water. You wonder how they dare to step on the sea when they do not have webbed membranes between their limbs, when the ruts of their ribcage are not scored with gills.

They always look so surprised when they drown.

Your siblings have found themselves a human—some quarrel for another, some merely trade. You’re still waiting for the last to succumb. You pluck a cast off boot with your tentacle, and hold it tightly to your chest. You catch the other too, and finally see them desperately kicking their feet as they shed their belts, their useless gun, too wet to catch a spark, their pants, their shirt a billowing ghost torn and stained red, a white flag of surrender, and you move in, jetting bubbles behind you.

When their head finally sinks below the water, you’re there to clutch them to your chest. They struggle when they see you, legs too weak to really kick you through the water, and you wait for them to gesture at their face, for their palms to follow the burning need for oxygen their lungs scream for.

You always make them wait longer—you make them wait till their lips blue and then you make them wait even more so that they think they’re going to die. Then you surge towards the surface, break through with a splash of water and a flair of tentacles like you just understood that they need to breathe with their nose, you poor naïve little fish.

Their mouth gapes, lips pulling back to reveal their pale pink gums, their tongue heavy in their mouths as they gulp down air, their lungs weak and hungry bellows, and they clutch you, their nails scratching at your iridescent obsidian flecked scales like they want to hurt you or they want to cling to you so they won’t drown, and you let them as you cradle them in your limbs.

The water softens their fingernails—it never even hurts.

You sneeze as your membrane shrivels up in the air, and you breathe cautiously through you nose. Your lungs are so weak inside, you feel breathless even though waves still kiss your gills.

You hold his shoulders above the water and swim for your lonesome island, the one that’s yours, all yours like one of your mothers said, and your sisters know not to bother you here. They know that you’ll be back when you please—when you’re done. You’ve made this island comfortable—caves provide shelter, there’s wood, there’s flint to strike fire to cook the fish they manage to catch in the nets you’ve dragged from the flotsam and jetsam of sunken ships.

You shiver even though you’re not cold. You remember the press of the nets against your skin, coarse and tasting dry and choking against your suckers.

The last one had liked you like that—pretending to catch you from the depths of the ocean, and you swimming lazily into the net like you were young and foolish and unaware. How he’d lifted you then, dripping, your tentacles shriveling in the air like his skin shriveled in the water, how the wind was sandpaper rough, and it hurt and it burned and you wanted to see how long you could stay, trapped and tied up and caught, while you struggled for the salty water and simultaneously fought to stay, stay, stay for this, for your blood pumping through your limbs, flushing your suckers pink, your weak, weak lungs hitching inside your ribcage, gasping, all three of your hearts crying out in tandem as they pushed oxygen through your systems, your gills flared red like thirsty, parched throats for water—

How he’d held you there, the ropy ends of the net looped tight around his hand until it swelled purple, how he’d plunged his free hand inside his trousers, wrist jerking above the tattered waist, rubbed raw against his leather belt, until his voice broke through his teeth and his body shuddered hard so that he lost his grip and you fell with a splash back into the water but not before you saw that his crotch was wet.

That one had been fun. You wonder if this one will top the games that one used to play, the end almost always the same: you in the water and he with his pants wet—but not from you.

This one in your arms now, you think, will be just as fun. They’ve already lost their pants, which is something that hasn’t happened before.

You drag them to the shore of their new home and wait for them to wake up in the shallows, in the beds of coral that grow and grow, just for you.

You take their boots with you when you return to the sea. The rocks will cut up their tender soles, and they’ll paint the sand red, and it will trickle into the sea, a small taste for you, the gentlest and faintest of teases.

When he stirs for the first time, you’re hidden by the rocks clustered at the far north end. You sink deeper in the water so that it rushes over your gills but you also draw air through your nose.

You feel heady, high on the oxygen.

One of your firsts had taught you this—had held you by your neck above the water with one while the other hand, fingers splayed against your gills, pushed you down into the water.

You had left a circlet of bruises mottled green and purple around his neck, a irng of them around the soft yield of his throat, stained across his clavicle.

He loved you for it.

But the oxygen had made your stomach swoop and dip, had made your tentacles churn the tide to surf and foam until he had laughed and laughed and laughed before letting you go, suckers so flushed and pink, your body weightless like kelp floating in the water, let loose, adrift, hearts going and going like they’re trying to drive you down and down, to let the crushing weight of the water anchor you home.

You hope this one has lots of interesting things to teach you as they stand up and stretch, their skin leather stretched tight against their rib cage. Their hand dips down to their groin, and they cup their testicles as if they’re checking to make sure every bit of them is safe and sound and there.

You splash the water with your tentacles, you open your mouth in a soft oval, not enough to show your fangs, but enough so they will draw closer and fall into you as they sink into the tide.

You breath through your nose and your gills and float high as they catch your eyes. You don’t want to leave the safety of the surf, so you let your eyes drop, let him see you open your hand in the sand, as if you want to crawl your way towards them if only you had the strength.

It always works, and they come to you. They drop to their naked knees in the sand and the grit. They think you’re drowning, and you gasp like you are so that your body moves and undulates in the water, and then they see that you’re not like them with their pale driftwood legs, tossed here and there and cast aside by the waters and the storms.

They see your tentacles curling around you.

You wonder if they’ll fight, and you’ll have to drag them down, down, down to the bottom of the ocean.

You wonder if they’ll try to drag you ashore and hope you’ll flop and die like the fishes who can’t speak and sing like you.

You wonder if they’ll stare at you curiously, reaching out to touch you with a stick, afraid to touch as they should be.

But they do none of these things. They crouch low, each wrist hanging low over their knobby, skinned up knees until their left hand drops to the vee of their spread legs. Light glints from a silver ring on their finger. You see the pink of their fleshy balls peeking through their coarse, weedy hair. The tip of their cock—the word still feels strange and heavy and sharp in your mouth, but it was one of the first human words you learned from the soldiers on this lonesome island—peeks through their fist.

They’re a quick one, and your hearts beat in tandem because yes, you didn’t feel like being patient today, not when you’re already so hungry.

It’s been a long time that you’ve waited for a storm.

“God,” they say, and you love how they call you that, how they always call you that, like they want to worship you, but you’ve heard their stories, how their god needs their lambs for slaughter.

You wonder if this one will baa like a lamb if you ask them to.

You don’t care when you see them hardening under their palm, see that they’re red and pink across their chest.

You bite your lips, then reach out with your hand because you don’t want to startle them away with your tentacles before they’ve gotten used to them. They let you touch their knuckle.

“You want to see?” they say, their voice rough, scraping against the bottom of their throat.

They lean back on their heels, thrusting up and out with their hips so that you can see their erection, see the way their cock is already slick and flush.

“Pretty, don’t you think?” They squeeze their eyes shut, pump their hips up. “You want to touch? You want to touch like I want to touch you?”

You slide your hand under theirs, you let them push you down against their groin.

“Harder,” they say, taking their hand from yours, tucking them under their feet.

You squeeze, you wrangle out a high pitch moan, and you feel that they harden more. “God, yes,” and their voice shudders.

And you think you know what they want and your hearts shudder. You surge forward like the crushing waves until your bodies flush together, and they’re afraid, you think, but they see you crowding in next to them, your tentacles finding their wrists, your weight pushing them down in the sand.

They go loose beneath you—you’re not disappointed because you like to string them tight, to play along their muscles and their tender, sensitive strips of skin—and you drag their hands above their heads, so they’re stretched out beneath you like an offering.

They catch their breath as your other tentacles spread their legs wide, until their voice hitches on the stretch of their legs, letting you see their hole, scuffed with salt and sand along the muscle there, the thin stretch of skin thick with blood and nerves so that your mouth floods and fills with water.

You dip your head, your thin blue tongue already reaching for the sea salt dried on their skin, licking it clean, cleaning them of all remnants of the ocean, the water they dared to tread as if they had flippers between their toes, as if they could breathe like you, as if they swim like you, until you’ve removed every bit of your waters from him, until there’s just you, your spit marking them from the sea as they writhe and pant under your tone, wrists and ankles flexing against the strength of your tentacles.

Their voice washes over you like you’re rising with the tide when you finally lift your head once more. You don’t think they’re speaking words anymore.

Maybe they’re words you just don’t know yet.

The sound takes the shape of their lips though—open and oval, a circle waiting for you to slip through like water sluicing through broken bottles. Their voice crashes against your ears so you plunge your tentacles through their mouth, through their lips and past their teeth with silver fillings in the molars until your tip pushes against their soft palate, until their throat must relax or they’ll choke—and they do, they do so beautifully as they swallow your tentacle down, down, down like their bodies are the ocean so full of salt water that leaks from their eyes.

You shudder when their tongue laves your suckers, so you move in their mouth, you drag your suckers over the chafe of their stretched lips, up-down, up-down, and you swallow when you see the undulating motion of their throat swallowing you down, like you’re all they need to fill their empty bellies, like they want you to reach so far down that you touch their groin from the inside, and god you want to, you wonder if you could ever break through the soft mounds of their flesh from within, cracking them open so they spill everything all over you.

Their erection starts to flag because their blood rushes elsewhere, rushing to try to fill their lungs with the scant air they suck through their nose, and to their red-red face, so you wrap another tentacle around it, kiss it hard again with all the tiny, little lips you possess, wrap yourself tight around the base so they will not go limp again.

They’re strung so tight beneath you as they arch up into you, as they tip their head back into the sand so you can lick along the soft yield of their throat, tracing yourself so deep inside as their legs splay even wider, their hole bared to you, and so you oblige and slide another tentacle into them there, stretching them full as they relax around you, letting you in and in and in. You twist inside, you twist until a moan hums around your tentacle in their throat, and you shiver together as your hands fist in the sand near their head.

You feel wetness seep from them onto your tentacle wrapped so tight around their cock, and you squeeze even harder till their testicles are so swollen and red from you, from the desire to come and come and never stop coming all over you.

You sink your fangs into your lips, the narrow tip of your tentacle searching out for their other entrance, smaller than the hole you’re thrusting into now, your hips undulating in time with the drum of their heart, the one that lets you into their cock, so much more fragile than their throat, the one that will let you stop them up entirely, so full on you, choking on you, on your salt and your skin—

You slip inside and they can’t move, they can’t dream to move, they can’t do anything until you remove yourself from them.

You know they can’t spill anything onto you, not with you stuffing their cock with your tentacle, but now, with them stoppered up like bottles, they know it too. They can’t come, not unless you let them, and you can fuck them through it until their skin burns with lust and want, to become undone even as you string them tighter and tighter, never letting them have what they want until you’re good and ready.

They’re spread wide beneath you, stretched around you, filled to the brim with you, their eyes seeping salt water like they wish they had an ocean like you.

You think you hear them say something like “please” around you.

You don’t think they can take more, and it’s no fun if they go still before you’re done, so you slip from them like a receding tide, pushing their cock towards their stomach so they come all over themselves, so that they splash their lips with themselves, and, as their bodies shake like their core has split along fault lines they didn’t even know they possessed, you rub their mouth, smearing their come like paint along their lips, the high flush of you still staining their cheeks.

They shake and they shake. They tremble like they’ve forgotten how to move. “Wow,” and the word is rough like sandpaper, like you’ve scraped their throat raw and maybe you have. You wonder fi their mouth fills with blood like yours fills with salt water. They’ve covered their mouth with their palms, holding you close there as they run a think pink tongue up around your tentacle, tracing your suckers. “You didn’t come,” they say, their breath hot against you.

You taste the lingering cloud of rum from their breath, and you’re disgusted.

You let them lean forward, let them pull the skirt of your tentacles apart. They always expect a groin like theirs.

They’re never prepared for your other eyes, for your black pools, deep and wide and endless like the depths from which came, peering up at them. For your hard beak, waiting for them to bend their head low

They pause. They’re afraid. They always are, at first.

You speak their language, something you know they’ll understand.

You tilt your hips, you thrust up into their face. “Kiss me,” you say, your words clumsy like rocks in your mouth banging against your teeth. “Kiss me.”

They cradle your second face in your hands, and you let your human head fall back onto your shoulders, letting the stretch run through you and through your belly to your beaked mouth, which opens beneath their lips.

They slide their tongue inside, scraping against your hard edges. They find yours, and you lick them close, closer, drawing them in, nipping at the crease of their lips.

They smile against you, their tongue still caught with yours until they pull themselves up, their thumbs circling and cradling you other, human face. “You like that? You can’t get enough of me, can you? You think I taste good? Is that what you’re going for? You want to lick the come off my face, the come you smeared all over me?”

And you think if that will shut them up then yes, of course you do, so you push them down with your fists and they laugh against you as you lick them clean with your barbed tongue.

“Just want to eat me up, huh?” they say as they stick their tongue into your beak, and you pull them close, biting down on their soft flesh as you notice that they are already trying to become hard again even though you’ve fucked their brains out—another phrase one of your firsts had taught you.

They groan into you and you swallow that down too. Their hands find your hips, pull you in close so they can lick the back of your throat, try to do with what you just did to them with their short, pathetic tongue.

You open your second mouth wider until your beak scrapes at their cheeks, their eyes, your tongue pulling them deeper and deeper into your mouth as their fists crush your waist, scrabbling at your back like they had scrabbled for purchase against a rough and sinking ship.

You take their screams too.

You take them all until there’s only a bit of them left on your lips.

A clean tide takes their bones away as you slip into the sea from your lonesome island.

~*~

If you enjoyed this story, please comment, share, or download Sea Monster Daughters. If you read, please rate/comment. Thanks everyone for your time and consideration!

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