"Your choice," the siren purred, and Angelo abruptly found himself chin-deep in very cold water, "is to try to swim back to your ship, or put on a very good performance with my friend here."
"Performance?" Angelo asked, trying to keep his mouth above water. His mind was still clouded from the siren's puff-puff attack, and he was already shivering; trying to swim anywhere would be suicide, and the sea-witch knew it.
She smiled, showing more sharp-pointed teeth than strictly necessary, and the tentacular lifted him out of the water. "Demonstrate, my pet."
The thick tentacle wrapped around his body shifted, was joined by a second, then a third, and he was snapped from the spell haze by the realization that his armor was being stripped off, the clothing beneath unfastened. He began to struggle, kicking futilely at the tentacles as they stripped him bare.
The prospect of drowning didn't seem terribly frightening, under the circumstances.
Tentacles were stroking across his body, now, cold and slick. He shuddered under the sickly caresses, and the siren said, "Really, it makes for a better show if you seem to be enjoying yourself."
At her words, one of the tentacles slid between his legs, the tip teasing at his balls before moving back, pressing experimentally into him. He jerked and cried out, fighting again; more tentacles bound his legs, forcing them apart, angling him so that the siren had a good view of what was being done to him.
Dear Goddess, it hurt; even the smallest of the tentacular's tentacles was beyond any human proportion, and what was being patiently worked into him was hardly the smallest.
His will gave out; he screamed, and the smallest tentacle was put to use muffling the sound.
The world blurred, though not enough to let him escape this nightmare. He no longer fought for freedom, but simply to breathe, to remember to breathe despite the pain, not to gag, not to scream. He barely noticed when something - yet another tentacle, or the siren's sharp-nailed fingers, he wasn't certain - teased him to hardness, except that the sensations were a distraction from the oh-so-vital effort of drawing air past the thing brutally fucking his mouth and throat; he lost the rhythm of it, chest burning as he choked, world darkening around him but still not granting him the mercy of unconsciousness.
He came, pleasure and hell jumbled in his mind, and everything finally slipped away.
When he woke, he was safely back on the ship, in his own bed, dry and blessedly warm. A nightmare, he told himself, and tried to ignore the pain radiating through his body, and the salt taste of the sea on his tongue.
Written for 30 Tortures. Session #9 - a rock and a hard place
