Bonding Experience (with tentacles)

Another silent car ride. Even most birds knew it was way too fucking early. Like every morning, Mom dolled herself up like she was going on a date. Every bump in the road threatened to eject her breasts from her tight dress. Mine are just as big; it doesn’t mean I have to tease the massage clinic employees. They’ll see everything anyway.

“Can I just ask them if someone else is available?” I shoot my shot at least once a fortnight.

“Not this again, Ash. I told you it takes time to develop a relationship with your therapist. It took days for Jelly and me to gel. But when we did… it was like two puzzle pieces snapping together.”

“You’ve been taking me there for months. The pieces don’t fit, and there’s eight of them.”

“Maybe it’s taking longer because of your negative attitude. It’s always something with you: too long, too thick, too rough, too much, too many, too salty…”

“Mom, this is all the same problem!”

“Well, I already paid for the whole year, so it’s going to take as long as it takes.”

“I just think that two hours, twice a day…”

“Oh, now it’s too often.”

I stopped myself before saying something I’d regret. I don’t have enough free time to get grounded. I acknowledge that I’m grumpier on weekends. At least on weekdays, I get a ride to and from school out of this nonsense.





Ugh. I hate everything about this place. The people who run it have no idea how humans work. They think we love getting naked next to giant windows in a brightly lit room that doubles as the reception area. Because it’s still dark outside, I wouldn’t have been able to tell who might be watching.

My massage table is easily recognizable because it has asylum-style straps on the sides. I have a ‘bad habit’ of clamping my legs shut and shielding my butt crack. I would call it basic survival instinct, but whatever. At least if someone I know walks in, they’ll see that I’m here against my will.

My guy was late. I wasn’t in a hurry to get my cervix ballooned and intestines filled up like sausage casings, but I couldn’t stand watching my mom flirt with her masseur, so I still climbed my table and buried my face in the face hole. I’m so embarrassed for her. Where is this going, Mom? Am I going to call this nightmare creature Dad while he serves me a bowl of hot cum for breakfast?

My stupid boobs didn’t want to fit in the stupid boob holes, so I had to knead them in there. All this therapy has my hormones out of whack.

Yes, boob holes. The table has four holes. The one for the face, I get; that’s pretty standard. The two for the breasts, I sort of appreciate as a busty gal, but once the massage starts, I would much rather have them squished against the table unmolested. The fourth and largest hole is under my abdomen. For the moment, it doesn’t do anything but subject my belly button to the AC breeze.

Gah, they keep it so cold in here, probably to make us look forward to warm tentacles and even warmer semen.