The Transmasculinization of Tentacle Porn

The changes happen as scheduled. Appetite the most immediate. Quick on its heels: wildflower fields of acne, feathery body hair that darkens in pubescent harmony with your deepening voice, scratchy and cracking and awkward but so deliciously yours. The thankful drought of malignant menstruation. Congealing in its place is a growth, both physical and visceral. Sensitivity and the need for indulgence enlarge tenfold to itch against your boxers. You shower daily, sometimes twice in one day, not just because your pores have adjusted to exude pungent masculinity, but so you can caress your swelling flesh with a lover's adoration, peeling back folds to reveal its full glory. 

That glory grows. Day by day, it grows. And grows and grows. It surpasses the average, keeps on extending towards and beyond its supposed upper limits, and continues growing. Over a telehealth call, your endocrinologist is unconcerned, simply says you're a lucky guy and stifles a chuckle. Lucky guy indeed. 

At five months, you're permanently going commando, hoping flannel sweatpants mask the print of your impressive weaponry. At six months, it becomes disruptive, and you politely excuse yourself from several online lectures to answer its primal pleas. The pointed wormy head with a mind of its own breaches the top of your loose fist. Your thighs never quite accustom themselves to the constant exercise.

On the eve of the eight-month anniversary of your new self, you call up an old friend. Because you got yourself a little drunk. Because it’s starting to scare you—the way it can wrap twice around the widest part of your forearm with more to spare.

“DUDE! HOW'S IT HANGING? How’re the ‘mones? Tell me everything.” Tipsy lips crack lopsided smile. You get two words in before he cuts you off with a frat boy's raw excitement. “Your VOICE! HOLY SHIT! Am I allowed to say? You sound HOT AS FUCK.”

The compliment makes your slender dick jump as everything you planned to say melts into horny goo. “I—thanks Andy, I mean, damn right I do.” His hyena laugh barks through the speaker. “So, well I was wondering…how big is your, uh, little guy? How long has it been, two years on T?”

“Shit, something like that? Honestly I've lost track. My little guy? The ol' cock and no balls, the schlong, the farm-raised meat if you will? How forward of you. Hold on, let me check.” There's a pause, the clear undoing of a belt buckle. Warmth hardens between your legs. Momentary fantasies flash behind your eyes until Andy's voice returns. “Two inches if I fudge the numbers but, in my defense, I'm soft.” That makes one of you. “Like three on a good day? I used to pump but, eh, I like whatever it does naturally. But if you're considering it, I could give you mine. Promise it's clean.”

“Thanks man, but I'll pass. I, uh, don't really need it.” He starts to speak but if you don't say it now, you never will. “You should come over anyways, though. I mean, if you're free.”

“Oh?” His tone makes you twitch again. Hard. You stifle the noise pushing against the bud of your Adam's apple. “Darling, how could I say no to that?”

†

Andy's taller, more muscular than you remember as he steps proudly into your apartment the next day. He embraces you in an immediate bear hug and you pray he can't feel your half-hardness sandwiched between your bodies, already dripping in anticipation. Pleasantries go by quickly; neither man can deny the tension wafting from your unsaid revelation. As you sit together—a socially acceptable couch cushion between you—you rip off the band-aid.

“I can't make this not sound weird but I'm kind of worried about my t-dick.” Anxiety and arousal cohabitate in your gut and you refuse to look at his face.

“Oh? How so?”

“Well, it's gotten pretty big. Like, too big.”

He laughs, but can't conceal the prickling intrigue beneath. “You can't say that and not show me.”

So you do. Fuck it, you do. Sweatpants slide away and your dick rests like a pink snake sunbathing across your upper thigh.

“Dude.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Dude.” You feel his eyes on you, on it. “Can I—”

“Sure. I mean, yes. Please.” 

Mere touch electrifies. Shock melts into curiosity melts into desire.

“How?”

“No fucking idea, man.”

“Wow.” You simultaneously liquefy and stiffen at his praise. When you muster the courage to look at him, you spot his bulge teasing the thin fabric of his gym shorts. Very good day indeed. Three inches was conservative. “I bet you could suck yourself off.”

Arousal dominates your core now. “To be honest, I haven't tried.”

“Never had anyone do it for you?”

“Unfortunately not.” Grindr had dried up in perfect inverse relation to your growth. Figures.

“Would you like someone to?”

You can only nod as he kneels before you: an altar to transsexuality, microcosmic monolith of creation. His breath is hot precursor to pleasure on your skin, mingling with your changed scent. He's so gentle with you, almost too much—your body is already begging for release.

“Jesus Christ, Andy just fucking—” Your own moans interject. Eyes roll back in tandem with your head and only the pain as it hits the wall grounds you in your body. Lips wrap tender around your length, one inch, then two, three. You're pure nerve bundles coiling in the vast, humid cave of his skilled mouth. You want him closer, want to anchor trembling hands in his hair. You want to know what the back of his throat feels like. Concerted effort to relax unfurls your thin tendril deeper into slick-soft bliss.

He mumbles something around your cock you can’t hear over the blood pulsing in your ears. Heartbeats later, you're wedged between gagging walls, legs vice gripped around his back and hands clenching anything they can find, his white-knuckling the redistributed fat of your sides. T-dick thrashes prehensile in wet overwhelming heat, yearning in its lust to spear the man all the way through and make a fleshlight of his body for its delicious monstrosity. Its tentacle outline imprints on the translucent dip between his collarbones. Hips buck and it disappears into his chest cavity. The thought of its head kissing his heart cracks lightning through your core and you explode white and every pride color within, barely conscious as aftershocks of ecstasy manhandle your body until you're reluctantly released into room temperature emptiness. Sense of time sucked out from your groin, you don't know how long it’s been until you can speak again. 

Andy breaks the silence first. “Don’t let any motherfucker convince you that isn’t a work of art.”

Your t-dick still throbs, glistening pink slenderness a semi-flaccid anteater's tongue protruding from your messy second mouth. Its slow undulations transfix you, and you can’t help but agree. 

A masterpiece.

© 2024 j ambrose

About the Author

j ambrose is a literary taxidermist and maximalist devotee of the weird, queer, and filthy. Refrain from making direct eye contact, but feel free to find a compilation of his sacrileges at caninebrainz.neocities.org or the dreaded thing itself on Bluesky @caninebrainz.