Collaborative sex stories let us write the plot together

(Medical Experiments, continued by Hyperdreams...)

Nurse Jenny can’t form words, instead she points to a large mirrored window. You turn to face it, then scream in horror.

Your T-shirt is in tatters. Your upper body is bulging in all the wrong places. Your skin is a mottled slimy green. Your eyes are glowing red. And there are at least eight massive squirming tentacles sprouting from your torso. Not octopus tentacles, but disgusting, veiny penis-tentacles complete with phallic knobs on the end.

This is just so fucking typical of your life. You’re beginning to wish you’d never volunteered for this stupid experiment.

“What have you done to me!” you howl, turning to face the terrified Jenny.

“Steve, it’s not my fault,” she wails, backing towards the door.

Some new instinct kicks in and you send one of your tentacles rocketing across the room, slamming the door shut before she can reach it. She starts screaming at the top of her lungs, over and over again.

Such an unpleasant noise. You have to make it stop. Unbidden, another tentacle shoots out and stuffs its fat knob-end into Jenny’s mouth, muffling her shrieking. When she tries to pull it out, the first tentacle coils itself around her, pinning her arms to her sides.

You are just as horrified by these developments as she is. You realize that you have to get your new extremities under control. You look back at yourself in the mirror and concentrate. Gradually you manage to slow their frenzied writhing as pathways in your brain spark into life.

You turn to face Jenny again and attempt to remove the tentacle from her mouth. It starts to retract, but not before you become aware that it feels really good in there. The animal part of your brain wants nothing more than to throat-fuck the helpless girl, but the remnants of your humanity prevail. She coughs and chokes as you pull free, leaving a dribble of slime on her chin.

“Steve! That totally wasn’t cool!” she splutters. “Let me go. I’ll call Doctor Mandy, she’ll know what to do.”

“I very much doubt that,” you groan, in a voice much deeper and more reverberant than it used to be. “Unless, of course, I can be cured by her putting on a swimsuit and looking hot in it.”