Page 14 of Tasty Tentacles

When he’s good and hard, he jumps up and gives me the biggest, sloppiest kiss imaginable, gathering my beard in his fist and tugging my mouth open. After all these years, this man knows all my buttons, and he saves my biggest one for last.

“I want you inside me, BurlyBear. I want that monster cock filling me up.”

I know a few of his buttons too. He’s a big ole bottom, but he still likes some control, so I suggest, “Why don’t you just take a seat, Doctor? I’m enjoying the view from down here.”

His eyes flare with lust and somehow, the lube appears out of nowhere. When did that happen? That’s my sexy doctor: always prepared. I let my feral bear take over and then it’s all slick hands and bodies and cocks, doing what they’re meant to do.

When rational thought returns, we’re in a steamy shower and my well-satisfied doctor is soaping up my beard. He knows I love this, the feel of his gentle hands on my central personal affectation, and he always throws himself into the task. As he concentrates, stroking and weaving his fingers through the curly hair, I let my hands wander over his smooth chest, his broad shoulders, those strong arms. I wonder again why this paragon chose me, a silly little baker bear. My breath catches and I feel the happy tears—how can I not? This is the sentimental season, after all.

“Everything okay, BertieBear?” he says, catching my face in his hands.

“I love you so much, Hidie-ho,” I say, not hiding the tears.

“Oh, cutie. I love you too. Come here.” He crushes me in his hunky arms under the streaming water, and I let myself believe it, yet again. After I’m well and truly hugged, he pulls back and jokes, “Pencil me in for another date night?”

I laugh and say, “I’ll have my people call your people.”

When we eventually crawl under the sheets, clean and exhausted, I take a holiday moment to count my blessings instead of sheep. A business I love, a beautiful home, and the sexiest hunk in bed next to me every night.

6

HIDEO

My adorable BertieBear has gone into full hibernation, snoring quietly next to me. I think I wore the poor dear out. I can get rather needy when my ass gets into the mix, and he did me up and down and forward and backward. There’s my first resolution for the New Year: date night is definitely going to be a regular event in this household.

My body is telling me it’s time to finish the day for good and get some sleep, but my mind is buzzing around my new patient, Orion. I don’t know what I’m going to do. His case is tricky—tricky but manageable—but it’s such a pity. His remarkable tentacles seem like such a natural part of him. No, I mustn’t use objectifying language like that, and it’s certainly not my place to make his decision for him. But still…

Sleep is obviously not going to happen anytime soon, so I slip out of bed and grab my laptop. Bertie gives a delicious little groan when I get back in bed, and turns over on his side. I stroke his furry arm and hope he’s having a good dream.

I need information, so I’m not flying through this challenge by the seat of my pants. I pull up PubMed and start the search. He’s 34 years old, so he must have been at the research hospital twenty-ish years ago. I’ll start there.

Searches on tentacles give a couple thousand hits, none related to humans, but with remarkably little effort, two papers pop up:

Functional Maxillofacial Tentacula. I: General Anatomy and Motor Function

Functional Maxillofacial Tentacula. II: Contact Chemoreception

As expected for a professional article, Orion’s name is never mentioned, but the first figure includes photos of a much younger Orion, straight on and in profile. They’re cropped tightly to show only the tentacles, which are not yet covered with hair, but it’s easy to tell it’s him. The arrangement and shape of his tentacles are the same.

The first paper is a detailed anatomical study. I start reading with an uncomfortable mix of anticipation and trepidation, hoping the study didn’t include any invasive procedures. I don’t want to imagine a young Orion subjected to that, even though excision biopsy results would give us a trove of information for his upcoming procedure. When I get to the end of the paper, I breathe a sigh of relief. There’s no mention, so they must have limited themselves to the tomograms that fill roughly half of the Results section.

There are some useful findings. His tentacula are structurally similar to the tongue, with a similar muscular and vascular structure and attachments to the mandible and maxilla. That’s going to cause some challenges, but certainly not insurmountable ones.

The second paper is fascinating, delving into the rich sensory characteristics of his tentacles. All of his tentacula are highly sensitive to touch and heat, but the ones around his lips, upper and lower, are also sensitive to taste. Remarkably so. His taste buds are sheltered in narrow grooves formed when the tips fold closed, opening when they’re deployed for tasting. Even more interesting, the paper includes a detailed genomic study, finding a massive expansion of the taste receptor gene clusters. He must be tasting things the rest of us can’t even imagine.

My mind marvels. These tentacles are a marked improvement on standard human physiology, allowing him to sense his environment in far richer detail. If he had been born millions of years ago, his tentacles could have been a seriously beneficial adaptation, changing the course of human evolution. If things had been different, the entire human race could have evolved with similar tentacles, and taste, today. But since he’s alive now, in a society that values uniformity, his uniqueness is a detriment, something to be fixed or shunned. It’s tragic, but at least he wasn’t born in the Dark Ages. Back then, he probably would have been burned as a demon.

What am I going to do? His needs must come first, so I need to treat him as I would with any of my other patients. I’ll continue my literature research, ensuring that the procedure, if we perform it, will be as safe and successful as possible. At the same time, I’ll help him make certain he’s made an informed decision.

Date night was a total success, but life rapidly encroaches, and we settle back into our normal daily routines. Bertie is long gone when I get up each morning, and our evenings are take-out dinners and exhaustion. Day after day goes by and neither of us have the energy to put up holiday lights, but I live for the brief times our paths converge. Christmas is rapidly approaching, with the promise of a few days off with him and our friends, and if my wishes come true, a holiday date night.

On Friday, Bertie leaves me a note on the coffee machine:

Drop by the bakery at about 10:00.

The kouign-amann should be ready by then.

XXOO BB