Try to escape

You stomp hard on the tentacle and bolt.

This doesn't go particularly well. The tentacle is much tougher than you imagined, and doesn't let go. When you reach your maximum distance, it pulls you up short with a painful jerk.

Before you can do much else, longer, thinner tendrils exude from your owner and entangle your legs and arm. "Ooh, I do like a bit of fight," {if Owner = 1} he {endif} {if Owner = 2} she {endif} {if Owner = 3} it {endif} croons. "But we'll work that out of you soon enough, won't we, my pet?"

The tendrils tighten, jamming your legs together and forcing the leash tentacle hard against your clit. They pull your arms together behind your back, wrenching your shoulders painfully. Then, ignoring any protest you might make, your owner starts walking again, dragging you backwards, face down, by the tentacle in your cunt.

It's not as painful as it could be. The floor isn't rough, although it is dirtied by hundreds of alien feet, and your legs are squeezed so tightly together that your thighs take most of the pressure. Once you leave the **** market and hit the rougher roads outside, your owner picks you up. To keep you from biting, {if Owner = 1} he {endif} {if Owner = 2} she {endif} {if Owner = 3} it {endif} shoves the end of a particularly tough tentacle into your mouth, which expands to **** your jaws painfully wide. The tendrils around your arms tighten further, until you're **** to arc your back and thrust your breasts forward; more tendrils wrap around the base of your breasts and tighten, causing them to swell and jut out more. Your owner holds you against {if Owner = 1} his {endif} {if Owner = 2} her {endif} {if Owner = 3} its {endif} body like a new fancy brooch, and continues on.

{if Owner = 1} He {endif} {if Owner = 2} She {endif} {if Owner = 3} It {endif} seems to like you struggling. It's a long journey through crowded streets, and when you eventually stop fighting, tendrils tickle your feet and neck to make you thrash about again. Whenever your struggles slow, new torments are added; pulsing the tentacle in your cunt to make you squirm, tickling the back of your throat to make you thrash, an unlubricated tentacle thrust into your ass to make you buck. You quickly become a hot, sweaty mess. Your owner takes {if Owner = 1} his {endif} {if Owner = 2} her {endif} {if Owner = 3} its {endif} time on {if Owner = 1} his {endif} {if Owner = 2} her {endif} {if Owner = 3} its {endif} journey, stopping at several stalls to buy trinkets, before ambling towards what is clearly a spaceport -- long metal walkways lead to spaceships of all shapes and sizes.

Your owner takes you onto one of the smallest ones, barely the size of a large room, and drops you on a platform in the corner. The platform is circular, pale pink, and about four metres in diameter. You're too exhausted to move as your owner locks a wide pink collar around your neck and attaches it to a two-metre chain in the center of the platform.

"I suggest you sleep, pet. You're going to need your energy for your big debut tomorrow."

Your owner heads off to a complicated-looking control panel over the other side of the room, ignoring you. Down one side of your platform is a crude toilet and a large tub filled with soapy, perfumed water. Down the other end are two bowls, one containing clean water and one containing a chunky, meaty-looking gelatinous substance. There is nothing else on the platform.