The human males disembark on the 17th floor. You wait, but no human females enter the elevator. You recall that the human feeding time they call lunch hour has just come to an end and move deeper into the building.
You find it effortless to move through the ceiling crawlspace. The electrical wiring and network cables are arranged in convenient pathways for you to follow, and there is generous allowance of space.
The ceiling panels are transparent to infrared, and you see many fertile human females sitting at desks or milling about, just begging to be used as pleasure receptacles for the eggs of your species. The glowing cleavage of many is alluring rom your perch, but you cannot risk tentacle raping these inviting victims in public.
You are over a dark photocopy room when you hear two human voices. The room is small, with a photocopier, a fax machine, some filing cabinets, and a shelf of office supplies.
"Can you fax the Albany file to Initech, Chelsea?"
"Right away, Mr. Roberts."
The female filing clerk enters the dark room. She has wavy brown hair and glasses. She's wearing a striped grey-white blouse, a smart black skirt with a button-up slit, and black heels.
Before she has a chance to turn on the light, you shoot a wad of sticky ink over her eyes and glasses to blind her and drop from the ceiling. Your tentacles extend to bind her wrists behind her back and to anchor her long, bare legs in place. Your orange hand clamps her mouth shut. The door closes behind you.
She whimpers.
You extend your finest tendrils and slowly caress her skin. Your feelers tease her smooth legs, flow over her wrists and forearms, and ebb over her most intimate parts. The human female's whimpers turn to helpless moans. You can sense her arousal growing as you brush her thighs, and you sense your own tentacles and ovipositors swell and become ready to fuck senseless the curvaceous human. |