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.