Just to get back.
Darkness enveloped me. It felt as if it was touching my skin.
I tried to blink it away. To no avail. Had I gone blind? What even happened?
My hand felt soft fabric. My consciousness quickly conveyed the meaning—it was a blanket. The room was warm. For some reason, I knew I was in a room, and not somewhere else. The scent of vanilla hung in the air.
My thoughts insisted: "I need to get up." My body pleaded: "Lie down, rest." Warm air, an intoxicating aroma. It seemed the smell grew stronger, as if its source had been brought close to my face. Somewhere to the side, something made a slapping sound, or, better said, a "smacking" sound. I turned towards the noise but still couldn't see anything. The aroma became much stronger, making my head spin. My body went limp, sinking into the bed as if the air itself was pressing down on me with greater force.
I thought I could hear breathing. The sounds weren't constant, disappearing periodically. Colored lights danced before my eyes, distracting me from dark thoughts. Indeed, why torment myself with reasoning when I could surrender to the power of sleep?
Again, I hear a slap. I'm too lazy to react. I close my eyes.
A damp palm touches my chest. It's warm and very smooth. The palm is motionless, as if someone is checking if my heart is beating. I breathe evenly. I don't care, I'm asleep.
I felt moisture trickle down my sides, wetting the sheet beneath me. I find myself covered by a blanket. When did that happen, I don't know. I'd rather fall asleep quickly.
The palm slid across my chest, rising to my neck. The vanilla scent became too strong. It was so intense that I began to think it was emanating from the hand gliding over my body. Another palm rested on my stomach. It was slightly smaller than the first and a bit cooler, causing goosebumps all over my body. The second hand slid lower, lifting my briefs. I felt ticklish, but I was too lazy to grumble, and I merely parted my lips slightly, exhaling quietly.
The first hand continued moving, ran over my chin, touched my lips, causing a slight tremor in me. I wanted to lick it. It was clearly the source of that strange smell. Funny, now vanilla seems like a strange smell to me... I realize the hand isn't damp. It's more like it's smeared with something viscous, stretchy, like warmed honey. Only now do I feel coolness from this hand too.
The palm strokes my lips, gently tracing their outline. The desire to take the source of such an intoxicating aroma into my mouth prompts me to stick my tongue out a little. The hand touched it, covering my mouth. Something sticky got into me, and I noted that the taste didn't match the smell. The sensations on my tongue were indescribable: the hand, as it turned out, had no fingers, and the taste was more like... powdered sugar, maybe? Exactly that, not just sugar.
The limb pressed my tongue down and entered my mouth. Savoring the sensations, I began to lick this something, swallowing the viscous juices. A warm languor touched my body. I wanted more. My thoughts crumpled, became jumbled. I just want these juices to keep flowing into me, and the movements to stretch my mouth wider.
The second hand... though, surely, it was also something else, slipped into my briefs, ran along my leg, barely touching my member. I inhaled noisily and began to lick even more diligently what was in my mouth, savoring every moment. Juices flowed steadily over my lips and cheeks, wetting my hair. I pulled the "hand" and grasped it with my fingers, surprisingly finding that this "something" was quite long and resembled... a hose or perhaps a tentacle.
The second something slid along my leg, touched my buttock. I want to take it in. A thought broke into my consciousness that all this was, at the very least, strange. A moment, and the thought is gone. Everything's fine. The warm scent is calming. The fragrant air is intoxicating. The rustle of leaves, the splash of waves...
The tentacle leaves my mouth, runs over my lips again. What am I? I try to shake my head, rouse myself, and finally understand what's happening. I want to comprehend. The tentacle that descended below is stroking me between my legs, sliding over the opening, making my body relax and my legs part slightly with each touch. I want to get up and turn on the light—I think it will clarify the situation. The first tentacle returned to my mouth. This time it went deeper, pressing against my throat. The lower one, as if following the first, pressed down below.
I squirm, wanting to push away what's in my briefs. It seems my reason is returning. My weak resistance is extinguished by a gentle movement: both my legs are pressed into the bed by other "hoses." A few more slide over my body, touch my nipples, stroke around my navel. Others tenderly "hug" my neck, dive into my hair. And all of them are flowing with viscous fluid, smearing it on me. Feeling so many limbs on my body, I surrender to the sensations. I feel good, pleasant from such a huge number of contacts with my body. I writhe, stroke the tentacles.
The smell of vanilla desperately hits my nose. The light of a headlight. The noise of a signal from a car barely crawling towards me. It crashes into my leg, the bumper crumples, paint scrapes off the hood, thick smoke hits my face. It smells of vanilla.
I cough. The tentacle in my mouth went down my throat and immediately left it. I cough. Some of the fluid inevitably flowed into me. My sides tingled. I want it to happen again, and I lean forward, again taking the long instrument in my hand, urging it to return into me. No need to beg, and the strengthened shaft firmly presses against my throat. I can't breathe. I want it deeper. How pleasant to realize that oxygen is no longer entering my lungs. How easy it is when you can't take a sip of bland, lifeless air. I am no longer a slave to civilization. I am yours, something!
The tentacle under the blanket lightly touches me between my legs, asking to enter again. My stomach pleasantly tightens, and I lift my pelvis. I feel the blanket tighten, as if it suddenly became heavier. I don't immediately realize I've been lifted into the air.
What am I doing? What is even happening here? I suddenly realize the lack of control over my body: many sticky, viscous juice-flowing tentacles have enveloped my body. Several have spread my legs, two, literally, ARE HAVING ME in the mouth and in the rear... Oof, no way! How did I allow thi... that...
Vanilla...
A poppy field. Flowers touch my feet, their aroma tickles my nose. Can an aroma tickle?..
Bright sun. Seagulls cry. Hot sand. Someone's shadow covers my face from the sun, and I open my eyes. A girl in sunglasses and a beach hat stands before me. She smiles cheerfully. I want to smile back, but I have no strength—the heat has made me too lethargic. The girl sits down next to me on the sand, puts one arm around my neck, and her face is opposite mine. Finally, I force my muscles to obey and manage to smile. The girl kisses me. Her tongue dives deep, pressing against my throat.
I open my eyes. Pitch darkness. The sensation that I am suspended. Rapid thrusting movements in... inside me. In my mouth and down there. Vanilla...
My tongue rages. I lick, suck, happily swallowing the sweet juices. I am yours! The movements below quicken, each thrust pushes this something deeper. I want more, let it penetrate my entire intestine! Let it... deeper... The tentacle hardens. It starts to hurt a bit. I want more!
An immense volume of fluid, more viscous than the lubricant, pours into my mouth. Its taste is sharply different from the tentacle lubricant—salty with a bitterness, maybe with a drop of sweetness. Or are these remnants of the original fluid? A lot of this "finish" runs down my lips. I try to swallow the rest. Why?..
The movements below pick up pace. It hurts even more, but the tentacle doesn't calm down, diving unnaturally deep. My legs are spread to the limit. I feel I'll have good flexibility today. I am being taken fiercely. My stomach swells. I place my hands on it and feel dozens of tentacles of different sizes moving over me. My stomach becomes bigger, like that of a seven-month pregnant woman. The tentacle shudders and stops. A second, and it leaves me. And a whole stream of thick fluid pours out of me. No sound of it falling. As if we are floating in space... What space?!
I shake my head.
— What space?! What are you saying?
A female voice. No, a younger voice. Possibly a girl. Familiar? Unlikely. Though I want to believe it.
— Mish, wake up!
Slaps on my cheeks. I open my eyes. A blonde girl, without a bra, is leaning over me. I look her over. I find the girl wearing only lace panties. I look at her questioningly.
— Misha, it's me! Do you recognize me?" she asked with genuine anxiety in her voice.
I look into her eyes, trying to remember how I got here. Who is she even talking to?
— Misha, it's me, Nastya!..