Chapter 28: The Last Time.
"...Again?" he groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
This was the third time this week.
He was disgusted with himself.
This wasn’t right.
He was a monster researcher, a rational man from a reputable family.
Amethiel was no ’monster-fucker’ which, unfortunately, does exist in their kingdom.
Humans who loved...doing things with monsters.
Sure, Amethiel wanted to propose humans breeding with Kree, but that was different.
It wasn’t for fun or for pleasure.
And certainly not for him.
Yet his traitorous body reacted with undeniable, visceral arousal whenever his thoughts strayed to those tentacles.
The phantom sensation of their textured bands rubbing inside him, the shocking fullness, the way Kree’s unusual form had pinned and pleasured him against all reason.
After it happened, he told himself he didn’t like it.
Because he didn’t.
Amethiel concluded that Kree’s actions had messed with his body, twisted his responses.
But his penis strained against his trousers, hard and eager.
A little too eager for Amethiel’s taste.
’A natural response...this will pass, his logical mind whispered, even as shame burned in his gut.
The evidence was severely undeniable.
He had liked it.
No, his body liked it.
Not him.
’Damn it.’
With a frustrated sigh, he stood, locking his door. He couldn’t risk anyone walking in.
Not for this.
He walked to his bed, which was pristine and clean. Just like he liked it.
His movements were stiff, as if he was trying to stop himself, a very sad attempt to maintain control.
But his mind was already unraveling.
He sat on the edge of his bed, fingers trembling slightly as he unbuttoned his trousers.
He pushed them down, along with his underwear, letting his erection spring free. It was already leaking, a faint pearl of precum at the tip.
He stared at it, a mix of contempt and helpless hunger warring within him.
’This is disgusting.’
He lay back, one hand moving to his chest, the other sliding down to grip his shaft.
The touch was clinical at first, just pressure. But his mind supplied the details.
The tentacles.
Those goddamn tentacles.
He imagined one now, not the thick, invading one, but a thinner, exploratory one. It would slide up his inner thigh first, a cool, slick touch that made him shiver.
It would coil around his ankle, a gentle restraint, then glide upward, tracing the line of his calf, his knee.
’Stop,’ he thought, but his hand began to move, stroking his length in a slow, tentative rhythm. ’Years of not doing this, now I’ve done it too much in one week.’
His imagination fed the fantasy.
The tentacle would reach his hip, then swirl across his abdomen, leaving a trail of cool, alien wetness.
It would pause at his navel, dip inside, a teasing intrusion.
Then it would move higher.
To his nipple.
He pinched his own nipple, a sharp, sudden pleasure-pain that made him gasp. In his mind, the tentacle wasn’t pinching.
It was sucking.
Forming a perfect, airtight seal around the small bud, pulling with a rhythm that matched the thrusts of the other tentacle... the one inside.
His strokes on his cock became faster, more urgent.
’It was filling me,’ he thought, his hole clenching around nothing, feeling achingly empty.
He remembered the stretch, the glorious, impossible fullness.
He imagined it again.
Not just one tentacle, but two.
One pressing into him, stretching him wide, while another, thinner, more agile, sought a deeper, more secret entrance.
A blasphemous thought surfaced: a tentacle pushing into his urethra, following the path of his own ejaculate, a deep, internal violation that would make him scream.
His breath came in short, sharp pants.
He twisted his nipple harder.
His other hand left his cock and slipped behind him, fingers probing his own hole.
It was dry, tight, nothing like the slick, easy penetration he remembered.
The frustration peaked. He wasn’t Kree. He couldn’t replicate that feeling. He was just a man, alone on his bed, trying to mimic an alien’s expertise with clumsy human fingers.
’I need... more.’
No.
Not more.
He just needed to finish this once and for all.
That’s what he thought, but...
He reached for the small bottle of oil he kept in his bedside drawer—a practical item, used for easing his body pain, never for this.
He slicked his fingers, and slowly...slowly, very slowly...
...pushed one inside himself.
"A-Ah..."
It was a poor substitute. The stretch was minimal. The texture was wrong. There were no ridged bands, no pulsing, living warmth.
And he was sloppy, considering this was his first time doing this.
And yet, he added another finger, scissoring them, trying to open himself. A weak imitation of that glorious stretch.
His hand returned to his cock, now slick with his own precum and the lubricant.
He pumped it fiercely, his hips rising off the bed, driving his fingers deeper into himself in a pathetic, syncopated rhythm.
’Kree...’ he whimpered into the silent room, the name a secret, shameful prayer. ’You stupid, idiotic, useless, specimen.’
And yet, imagined the creature here. Not attacking, not overwhelming him, but serving him.
A fantasy of control. Kree would kneel by the bed, its tentacles extending to him not as bonds, but as gifts.
One would wrap his cock, not with tight, milking pressure, but with a slow, worshipping caress.
Another would press against his hole, not invading immediately, but teasing, promising. A third would find his mouth, and he would suck on it, tasting its strange, mineral slickness.
’I’m its master,’ he thought, the fantasy granting him a fleeting sense of power. ’It does this because I allow it. Because I command it.’
But the fantasy crumbled as his body betrayed the narrative.
He wasn’t commanding anything.
He was desperate.
His fingers plunged deeper, his hand on his cock a blur of motion.
He was chasing a memory, a ghost of a sensation that his human body could never truly recreate.
"F-Fuck...damn it."
The orgasm built, a tense, coiled pressure in his balls and lower back.
It wasn’t the overwhelming, mind-shattering release Kree had given him. It was a human orgasm, familiar and solitary.
Yet, fueled by his illicit imagination, it felt more intense than any he’d had alone before.
He cried out, a choked, stifled sound as his back arched.
"Ah!" His fingers clenched inside himself, his hand squeezed his cock, and heat spilled over his stomach in messy, human streaks.
He lay there, panting, covered in his own spend, fingers still lodged in his unsatisfied hole.
The emptiness was more profound now.
The shame rushed in, cold and clear.
’I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I like...being stuffed,’ he admitted to the empty room, the truth finally spoken. ’No, no, the more I think about it. The more my body responds.’
This was the last time.
Last time, and then no more.
