Andromeda was awakened from a fitful sleep by something wet touching her face. The eggs inside her body made it painful to move, and her skin was still hot and sensitive from the monster’s mucus. She realized that another tentacle was pressed against her cheek, dragging a stripe of viscous wetness down to her jaw.

 

She recoiled, but the tentacle persisted, tracing her mouth with a languid, unhurried curiosity. Andromeda clamped her lips together, her whole body shuddering with revulsion as the tip prodded insistently. She bared her teeth and jerked her chin aside, but the appendage only tracked her movement, tracing the line of her lips, smearing its thick mucus into the cracks at the corners, tasting the salt of her dried tears.

 

“No,” she croaked. Her jaw ached with the effort of keeping her teeth clenched, bile threatening to rise as the tentacle flattened and pressed, determined to worm its way inside. Andromeda tried to bat it away with her hand, but she was weak from the previous day, and felt like she might faint. There was nothing to eat in the cave either, no fresh water to quench her thirst, and she felt light-headed enough that her hands shook when she tried to raise them.

 

Two more appendages slipped from the darkness, seizing her wrists and pinning them to the cave floor. Andromeda struggled feebly as several thin tentacles crept up to her mouth and wormed their way between her lips and teeth. They were so small that she couldn’t keep them out, and once they were inside, they pried her jaw open. The larger tentacle followed, curling between her lips, shoving with brute patience until it breached her teeth and forced them apart. The taste was bitter and fishy, but worse was the sensation of it filling her mouth, pressing down her tongue, smothering her scream at its source.

 

She gagged and tried to twist away, but the invasive appendage simply followed her movements. The thick, warm mass pulsed and slid over her palate, leaving a film that clung even after she tried to spit it out. It forced itself deeper, stretching her jaw wide, the tip jamming past her tongue and into the tight, slick tunnel of her throat. Andromeda choked, her entire chest clenching as she tried to retch it back up. She flailed her arms, but the smaller tentacles manacled her wrists, holding her fast. The monster’s mucus sluiced down her gullet in thick, slithering ropes, coating her throat, making it impossible to scream or even to cough. It felt like she was drowning in it, but somehow, she could still breathe through her nose.

 

A burning pressure built at the back of her skull, then eased as her throat surrendered to the impossible girth. Her whole face flushed and tears ran down her cheeks as the tentacle bulged deeper, massaging her from the inside. It was painful at first, then it was dulled by the persistent aphrodisiac in the slime and replaced by an obscene, full-body shudder that left her dizzy and twitching. The tentacle in her throat pulsed, and with each contraction came a new surge of liquid: thick, salty, impossible to swallow or spit, so it simply slid down and filled her belly with a sickening warmth.

 

Andromeda’s vision blurred. She forced herself to breathe through her nose, slowly, as the monster pumped her full of more of its thick slime into her belly. The tentacle finally withdrew, dragging a last smear of slime across her tongue as it retreated. For a moment, Andromeda was left gasping and slack-jawed, her mouth numb, jaw aching from the violation.

 

The smaller tentacles released her wrists and she collapsed onto the cave floor, coughing. The spasm jolted her entire body and she retched a gob of the monster’s mucus onto the stone, her whole frame shuddering. She spat more of it, tried to breathe, but the stuff clung to her lips and teeth, coating the back of her throat with its oily film.

 

She spat and spat, gagging up slime until her throat was raw. The retching brought nothing else; her stomach refused to empty, and instead she felt a dull heat radiating from her core. With surprise, she noticed that the hunger and thirst that had been gnawing at her since waking were gone. Her mouth, though slimy, no longer felt dry. Her stomach, despite its discomfort, felt full. The Leviathan was feeding her. It was keeping her alive.

 

Andromeda held her stomach, feeling queasy as it sloshed with the slime, while the eggs in her womb were crammed against her full belly and bladder. The pressure in her abdomen was everywhere, and her thighs trembled with the next realization: she needed to pee, badly. The cold knowledge that her muscles would not hold forever caused a small panic. There was no chamber pot or privacy or dignity left to her, not with the monster’s spawn crowding her insides and the slime still leaking from between her legs. She pressed her knees together, hand clamped between them, as if the gesture alone could restore some measure of control. She would not. She was a princess. She would not piss herself in the dark like an animal.

 

After a while, however, Andromeda’s body began to tremble, the urge mounting until it was no longer a matter of endurance but inevitability. Still she clamped her thighs together, but the eggs inside pressed cruelly against her muscles, imposing a pressure so sharp she could do nothing but gasp, then moan, then finally let go. She let out a single sob as her bladder gave way. First a trickle, then a hot gush soaked her legs and pooled beneath her on the cave floor. The relief was so immediate, so overwhelming, that for a moment she felt nearly dizzy, almost grateful for the respite. She sagged, panting, the tears drying sticky on her cheeks.

 

She lay there, still and wet, legs splayed in the warm puddle beneath her. For a long moment, the only sound in the cave was her erratic breathing, the hush of distant surf, and the faint trickle as the pool spread across uneven stone.

 

 

---

 

Something shifted. A ripple of movement, low at her calf, then higher up her leg. She froze. In the darkness, she felt the caress of a tentacle nosing at her shin. The tip traced the liquid on her skin, sucking on the trail of warmth where her urine had run. Andromeda tried to pull away, but another tentacle caught her by the ankle. She knew by now that struggling was useless, and she did not resist as the tentacle wound its way up her thigh, following the slick warmth until it reached the damp, tender skin between her legs.

 

The tip paused there, tasting her with patient, deliberate flicks. It nosed through her curls, then pressed insistently against the hot, swollen folds of her vulva, where she was still leaking a slow, viscous mixture of slime and her own juices. She braced herself, waiting for it to force its way inside her again, but the tentacle was looking for a different target.

 

It moved lower, finding the tight sphincter just beneath her tailbone and prodded, smearing its warm slime onto her ass. Andromeda yelped and tried to crawl forward, nails scrabbling at the slimy rock, but the tentacles at her wrists jerked her arms above her head, stretching her out prone on the cave floor. She screamed as the new tentacle pressed harder against star of muscle with a relentless, patient strength.

 

“No! No, please! Not there, not—” Her sobs were cut off as the force increased, worming its way into puckered ring. The way it squirmed and tickled inside her was a horrible violation. The tentacle continued pushing, and Andromeda’s clenching asshole surrendered under the attack.

 

The tentacle plunged into her, and she felt the suckers scrape against her rim. Eventually the slippery, rubbery length was stretching her in a way she had never imagined possible. The tentacle wriggled, winding its way deeper, and Andromeda felt a sharp, burning pressure that made her gasp and clench.

 

The tentacle inside her ass began to pulse, swelling tighter against her ring until she thought she’d split. Then, with a lurch, it started to spasm, and Andromeda felt a rush of hot, viscous fluid jetting deep into her rectum. It was as if the monster was injecting her with its own seed, but this was not like the eggs; just a scalding flood of thick, oily slime. At first she thought it would burn, but the sensation was instead a heat that radiated through her body, melting her limbs and sending a shiver of unwanted pleasure up her spine.

 

Her toes curled, her hands clenching and unclenching in the slime. The tentacle kept pumping, each spasm sending another squirt of the monster’s aphrodisiac deeper inside her. The pressure in her guts mounted rapidly; she gasped, feeling her belly swell further, the fullness climbing until she couldn’t tell the eggs from the heavy tide of slime pooling in her bowels. She whimpered, the heat of her breath fogging the cool air, the relentless pulsing inside her ass becoming the whole axis of her being.

 

Her whole body was on fire with arousal. Her pussy, now empty, clenched and spasmed on nothing, leaking the monster’s slime and her own juices. Red and throbbing, her clit pulsed like a little beating heart, alone and abandoned.

The tentacle began to move, not just pump its thick fluid but piston in slow, deliberate thrusts. It slid out a fraction, then back in, scraping the sensitive lining of her rectum with its ridged suckers and leaving behind a fresh coat of burning slime. The motion was punishing, but the pain melted quickly into a raw, electric pleasure that left her body limp and shaking. She could feel herself stretching wide around the girth, could feel the pucker of her rim pulled and tugged, and every movement felt like the monster was branding her from the inside out.

 

She could not move, could barely breathe, could only shudder as the monster stirred her insides, the tentacles at her arms holding her splayed and helpless. The tentacle in her ass swelled, the tip blossoming to plug her completely, trapping the heat and the slick within. For a few endless, excruciating minutes, she was immobilized, the pressure so great she thought her skin would split. She waited for something to give way, to rupture, for herself to break open and spill out the mess that was her.

 

Instead, a throb ran through the appendage lodged in her ass, and it started contracting rhythmically. Then pressure began to lessen, as the tentacle began to absorb the disgusting mixture of slime and her own waste, drawing them out in a wet, sucking rush. The relief was instant and every nerve ending in her body sang with the release. She moaned, too weak to lift her head, as the tentacle milked her ass, siphoning the liquid away. Andromeda hated how incredible it felt.

 

There was a timeless moment where she simply floated, pain and pleasure both wrung out of her body, her mind a placid pool after a storm. The tentacle slid free with a final, sticky pop, and left her gaping and spent. She exhaled, long and shuddering, feeling her insides slowly collapse, the pressure replaced by a vague ache that went all the way to her bones. She did not move. The eggs inside her shifted with every breath, but she was too tired to care. She let her cheek settle against the cool, wet stone, and the world faded into a gray blur of soundless, timeless nothing.

 

 

---

 

 

Andromeda drifted on the boundary between dream and waking, unable to tell one from the other. She no longer knew how many days had passed since her abduction. The cave denied her the passage of time, and the monster gave her neither rest nor respite. At first she had fought to mark the days, carving little notches into the soft stone with her nails, but eventually she stopped caring and lost count. The nights and days ran together in a feverish tide, every interval punctuated by the same invasions, the same slow degradation of her will. In the end, she had surrendered to the monster’s feedings and cleanings, counting not by hours or days, but by the rhythm of the monster’s attentions and the steady, irreversible changes in her own body.

 

Her skin, once pale and smooth, was now glazed in the sheen of the Leviathan’s mucus, slick and shining even when left alone. The scent of the stuff clung to her, soaked into every hair and pore. She had grown used to the taste of it as well, and how it dulled her hunger and thirst and left her perpetually hot and tingling.

 

She was glad she could not see herself in the darkness, but sometimes her imagination would betray her. In her mind, she would envision how her belly was swollen from the constant pressure of the eggs inside her. Her own breasts had started to swell and ache like a cow’s, pale and heavy, and her thighs and hips began to feel softer from the daily force feedings. The monster had made her into a parody of her own budding womanhood; a grotesque idol to fertility and submission.

 

Sometimes, when the monster had finished with her for the moment and left her alone on the bed of its heaving center, Andromeda imagined herself dead, a pale offering floating face down in a black, bottomless sea. She imagined the tide would carry her out and away, strip the flesh from her bones, and in time the memory of her would wash away too, lost to history. The world outside the cave felt less real with every passing hour; the city, her mother, even her own name seemed like something she had read in a story, not a life she’d actually lived.

 

The only thing that mattered to her now was the ache between her legs. She could not remember the last time she had been at rest, truly at rest, without a low, gnawing need simmering in her veins. Even the moments when her battered body was spared from the monster’s touch, her thoughts were thick with want. If she lay very still, she could sometimes pretend the need was not there; but it always returned, a tide that dragged her under.

 

Sometimes she would awake in complete darkness, her hands already wandering down to her groin, seeking the one place where the ache was most desperate. She’d bite her lip, thinking maybe, this time, she could find some relief. But the second her hand brushed her dripping pussy, or when she tried to rub her engorged clit in frantic circles, the tentacles would return. Always. Without warning.

 

It was as if the Leviathan watched her through the cave walls. The moment her fingers so much as grazed her clit, the tentacles would emerge from the darkness in all directions. They would seize her by the wrists and forcefully pin her arms above her head, and then the smaller tendrils would start playing with her like a toy.

 

The monster would start gentle, almost tender, with the thinner tendrils wrapping around her throbbing clit, kneading it between the pads of their suckers, flicking it in maddening pulses. They'd tease her nipples, suckling and tugging until her whole body arched and trembled with desperate need. Then, as her hips thrust up into the air, frantic for further stimulation, they'd simply stop. The tentacles would go limp, melting away, leaving her stranded just at the edge. Worse, the binding tendrils would pin her limbs so tightly that she could not even close her thighs over the heat. It was as if the monster could sense, with perfect precision, the exact instant she might finally find release, and at that moment, it would leave her suspended, nerves screaming for an end that would not come.

 

Sometimes the Leviathan would leave her like that for hours, her body soaked in sweat and the cave's humid air, hollow and aching to the point of madness, her every muscle locked in a trembling, ineffectual clamp around the ache that begged for release. When the tentacles finally let go, she would be left sobbing, her own hands useless and limp, forbidden even the privacy of her own relief.

 

It only took a handful of these punishments before Andromeda learned to stop touching herself, no matter how badly her body begged for it. She would wrap her arms around her ribs, hugging herself to prevent her hands from unconsciously wandering where they shouldn’t.

 

Even still, her body conspired against her. The ache below never left; she would wake to find herself grinding her pelvis into the warm, wet body of the monster, rubbing herself against the spongy tissue in her sleep. Sometimes she’d catch herself doing it and try to stop, but the urge was overwhelming, and she’d return to it the moment she lost focus.

 

That, she decided, was the true torture. Not the humiliation, not the pain, but the constant denial of her own body’s needs. Even the eggs inside her were a secondary concern to the hot itch that was always in the background of her consciousness.

 

She wanted to die. Anything to stop this endless edging, feeding, cleaning.

 

She had tried to end it.

 

The first time she slammed her head into the wall, the tentacle had come down and wrapped her head in its plush, unyielding grip, cushioning the blow as if she were a child and it her mother. The next time, it hadn’t even waited; as she crawled toward the wall, the tentacles seized her and pinned her gently, holding her until her rage had spent itself and her muscles sagged. She’d lain afterward on the sticky floor, sobbing more from the futility than the pain, hating the monster and hating herself even more for wanting, even for a second, to touch herself.

 

So she stopped trying. She stopped resisting, stopped fighting, stopped doing anything. She lost herself for long stretches, overcome by the swollen pulsing between her legs. The only times she would return to awareness was when the monster stuffed her mouth or her ass or her cunt until she was reduced to a gurgling, panting vessel for whatever it desired.

 

Then, after what felt like weeks of being kept alive by the monster, Andromeda felt something.

 

Deep inside her womb.

 

A movement.