Tattoo and Rachel
Author's Note: I've had several surgeries on my hands. To write I used a talk to text program that isn't always accurate. If you like my work, please consider helping me edit so I can publish the dozens of backlogged stories in this series.
World War T is a series of independent, vaguely interconnected stories about different tentacle monsters invading Earth, very much an erotic homage to World War Z. These short stories do not need to be read sequentially.
The lake was beautiful.
I hadn't worn clothes in days, swimming naked in the sun, my breasts billowing up just a little in the water.
How much do b cups honestly billow?
The dread of these past few days seemed all gone, replaced with an idyllic pastoral scene. A quiet cabin on the lake, a romantic weekend retreat...
With my tentacle monster boyfriend...
It sounded so crazy when said out loud, so I made an explicit point to never say a thing about it to another living soul. There were times when even I cringed at the thought of what Tattoo had done to me in all his different iterations. He could change almost at a whim, shrinking or growing, adding arms, points or bulbs, whatever he thought might fuck me best.
But always he kept his beauty mark.
A inky, black shaped rosararch mark on the top of whatever he was calling his head at the moment.
I turned on my back, my nipples warming in the sun when I heard him call for me.
Tattoo could talk, well... think directly into my head if he wanted to, causing my brain to react as though he actually formed words. But...
Well, he put it best.
Symbols are inefficient at transmitting information.
This single sentence had juxtaposed a thousand different images of his kind, split telepathically from each other in the great divide, their once collective consciousness spread out across the hundreds of different reproducing entities, some lost, lonely, confused, and hurt.
