Beg from them to stop breeding you and let you go

A tentacle breeding nest below the sewers, Tentacle Sewers, at 7:00 AM on Monday, January 15, 2024

The words tumble from your cum-slick lips before you can stop them, **** and pleading. "Please—please stop! Let me go! I can't—you can't keep breeding me like this!"

The tentacle collective shudders as one, and that gurgling voice returns, but this time it sounds almost... pleased. "Begging... verbal... submission... good... very good..."

Your stomach drops. The new tentacle—the massive one that's been positioning itself between your trembling thighs—surges forward with renewed enthusiasm. It's significantly thicker than the first, easily the width of your wrist, with pronounced ridges running along its length. The tip parts your cum-drenched pussy lips with obscene ease, your body still loose and slippery from the first breeding.

"No wait, that's not what I—AHHHN!" Your protest dissolves into a broken moan as the girthy appendage pushes inside. The stretch is immediate and overwhelming. Your inner walls, still twitching from the previous orgasm, clench reflexively around the intrusion, but there's no resisting its steady advance. Inch after thick inch disappears into your cunt, and you can feel every ridge dragging against your sensitive inner walls.

"Begging... proves... wants... breeding... body... honest..." The collective's voice reverberates through every tentacle touching you. "All... females... beg... then... accept... truth..."

The tentacle bottoms out inside you, its tip kissing your freshly-violated cervix. Your slightly swollen belly presses against the appendage from the inside—you can actually feel the new life already taking root in your cursed womb. The runic tattoos across your massive breasts pulse brighter, and you realize they're responding to your verbal submission exactly as the tentacles hoped they would.

"Please, I didn't mean—I wasn't submitting, I just—" You're babbling now, trying to take it back, but your hips are rolling involuntarily, your pussy making wet squelching sounds as it grips the tentacle buried inside you. A smaller tentacle wraps around your engorged clit and begins a slow, methodical stroking. Another coils around your right breast, squeezing the heavy flesh until your nipple stands painfully erect. A third traces the curve of your ass, smearing slime across your still-gaping asshole.

"Second... breeding... begins... now..."

The massive tentacle in your cunt pulls back slowly, dragging those ridges against every nerve ending, then slams back in with brutal ****. Your entire body jolts in the collective's grip, breasts bouncing wildly, and a spray of your arousal spatters against the tentacle's shaft. It sets a punishing rhythm—deep, hard thrusts that make your belly ripple with each impact.

"Fuck fuck fuck—" You're reduced to incoherent cursing as the appendage rearranges your insides. It's reaching deeper than the first one did, stretching you wider, and your traitorous body is responding with enthusiasm. Your pussy floods with fresh wetness, providing obscene lubrication for the breeding tentacle's ****. The one teasing your asshole pushes inside suddenly, filling your rear channel in one smooth thrust. You're double-penetrated again, and your mind immediately flashes back to those doujin panels—the cross-sections showing how the tentacles deformed the girl's body, how they moved in alternating rhythms to maximize stimulation.

"Verbal... submission... increases... pheromone... output..." The collective sounds almost educational now, as if explaining the process to you. "Body... produces... more... fertile... markers... breeding... success... rate... improves..."

Your runic curse flares so hot you gasp, and you feel your cervix beginning to dilate again—already preparing to accept this second load directly into your womb. The realization that your begging made things worse, that it triggered exactly the response you were trying to avoid, sends a spike of humiliated arousal straight through your core. The tentacle around your clit intensifies its stroking, and you feel that terrible familiar pressure building low in your belly. Another orgasm is approaching, and there's nothing you can do to stop it. Your thighs are shaking. Your breath comes in **** pants. The slight swell of your pregnant belly jiggles with each thrust.

"Please, at least—at least don't cum inside again! I'm already pregnant!" You're still begging, still pleading, even as your hips buck to meet the tentacle's thrusts.

"Already... pregnant... perfect..." The gurgling voice sounds delighted. "Can... breed... multiple... times... curse... allows... many... spawn... simultaneously... will... fill... womb... again... and... again..."

The breeding tentacle swells inside you, growing even thicker, and you realize it's preparing to release. Your cervix is fully dilated now, the tip of the appendage pressing directly into your womb—into the space already containing the first clutch of tentacle spawn. You're about to be bred on top of being pregnant, exactly like that one really depraved doujin where the girl's womb got pumped so full it—

The tentacle explodes inside you.

Thick, hot seed floods directly into your womb in massive spurts—more than the first time, if that's even possible. You can feel your belly swelling noticeably, the skin stretching, the new weight pressing against your ruined blouse. The tentacle in your ass releases simultaneously, pumping its load deep into your bowels. And the pressure around your clit becomes too much— Your second orgasm crashes through you like a tsunami. Your vision whites out. Your mind fractures. Every muscle in your body convulses as pleasure beyond description tears through your nervous system. You're dimly aware that you're screaming, that your pussy is gushing around the tentacle, that your belly is visibly larger now—swollen like you're three months pregnant instead of minutes.

When consciousness returns, you're sobbing. The tentacles are still inside you, still pumping, still filling you. Your belly has grown noticeably—a definite round swell pressing against the torn fabric of your blouse. You look down at yourself and see the runic tattoos pulsing in a new, faster rhythm.

"Third... breeding... soon..." the collective announces cheerfully. "Female... broke... faster... than... expected... begging... very... effective..."