When I dream of tentacles

Photo of an octopus with one of its arms draped across its head. The suction cups are turned towards the viewer.

When I dream of tentacles,
it’s not the potential for restraint that captures me,
nor is the force of penetration entering my mind.

Instead, I dream the firm fluidity of their embrace,
wet slither across my skin, the suction
of eight armfuls of kisses.

I dream their many-fingered strokes, strong
on my flesh; their suckers sliding, dragging over skin.
the overwhelm of elasticity.

I dream the lazy swirl of winding arms,
a dance, slow-motion, limbs entwined;
their suction cups my flesh in gently pulsing lines.

I dream a slow, close hold; full-body
touch. Sharp, piquant pain as blood surges, bursts
beneath my skin, blooms into mottled purple.

I dream the tightening and the release;
limbs falling soft, breath easy under water,
flesh sinking to the ground. A sigh.

I dream the loss, the loosening, the slipping off;
a final kiss, a wave. Until next time, my strange
and wondrous lover.


This is a post for the Kinktober prompt “tentacles.”

For the zoology-minded amongst my readers: Yes, I know that octopus arms aren’t the same as tentacles. This is poetry, though, so I don’t care.


Image source: Pixabay, color edited by me.

1 thought on “When I dream of tentacles

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