Right

With another shudder, you manage to suppress your lust again, though it's harder than before. You cut to the right, splashing back into the cold water on the floor, moving as quickly as you can. The squelching sounds grow ever louder, as you half-stagger, half-run for the other pipe. Your breasts sway violently with your movements, dragging your nipples forcefully against your blouse, your moans echoing eerily within the pipes.

You hit the end of the other pipe, and go to step up onto it, your knees shaking hard enough to make that small step much harder than it normally would be. Instead of cleanly stepping into the other pipe, you trip over it, pain flaring in your toes as they strike the concrete immediately below the pipe. You tumble forward, landing painfully on your front, cold water immediately soaking the front of your blouse, as something slimy touches your left sole. With a squeal, you lunge forward, dragging your breasts against the bottom of the pipe. Your nipples throb with the sensation, and you faintly hear a tearing sound as part of it catches on the pipe, as the slime-coated tentacle behind you slides off your foot as you manage to use your momentum to regain your footing, staggering up the pipe towards the light you can see in front of you.

Without a glance backwards, you stumble up the cold pipe, racing towards freedom as the squelching sounds seem to stop behind you. A moment later, you burst forth into the sunlight again, cold pipe giving way to cool, soft grass, and you put a few more steps between you and the horrors beneath the ground, before collapsing onto your knees.

Another moan escapes your lips as you manage to take a look down at yourself. The front of your blouse is drenched, the translucent white material clinging wetly to your breasts. Well, right breast. Your left one is partially exposed through a tear, it's nipple standing painfully erect in the cool breeze. Several holes dot your blouse in other places, probably from the weird, clothes-dissolving acid from earlier. Thankfully, your pistol is still in your waistband, and your knife in it's sheath.

Another, deeply lusty, moan emanates from your lips, as your hand finds your exposed breast, pinching and kneading it forcefully. Your lust is nearly overwhelming at this point, your body demanding the attention you have denied it, jumbling your thoughts. A faint thrill of worry worms it's way through your mind, though you can't place why...