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You come to me, my worshipper. This is your ultimate supplication. You stand and do not kneel; what need to make yourself smaller, when I am so vast? I am the infinite, the singularity; I am the collapsing point of the universe. I am the Lord of Patterned Madness, and you are my priest. Chant unto me, burn the twelve-dimensioned incense, but know that the true offering is yourself, your life, your being. Your body; it is nothing compared to what I can manifest, my tentacles and cloaca more solid than mass itself and more nebulous than light, but even its weakness and doubt and struggle is a gift, and you give it. You give it freely, because you must; no mortal can look upon me and dream otherwise.
First I will fuck you in as much of my true form as your mortal mind can comprehend without going mad. I will start with three tentacles, that is a good and rightful number. Where? In your ass—where else, my foolish one? Do not worry, they will fit. I command space and time; a body that barely touches the fourth dimension is no constraint for me. But for your sake, O worshipper, I will take on solidity, and acknowledge that fleshy sphincter as if it alone is the fines ultima of width. I start by making the tentacles thin, so they go in all three at once, but I will expand them once I am in your ass. How much they expand, after that, is up to you.
Do you want a slow, gentle fuck from a horror? Or do you want a creature from beyond the ken of this world to rip you open and subsume you into the cosmic pattern of silence that will reign when all things have shuddered into entropy? There is yet time to turn back, even now. Do you wish this annihilation? Do you wish to take in my awful climax, contain the uncontainable? But I touch your mind, without altering it in the slightest, and I see your “Yes, yes!”, and know that this is truly what you wish, insofar as you can comprehend it—divine eros, apotheosis. Death that is not death, rebirth beyond the human.
I am not sure if my true form will exactly lose control (or can, with a mere mortal), but order and chaos are the same thing at the ultimate end of the universe. Yes, at first I will have a care for your puny mortal form, but my incomprehensible climax cannot be denied, and my own form must resolve into some of its true shape. My tentacles expand into their full girth within you, straining your body to almost the limit of corporeal endurance, before I release infernal geysers of godly ichor inside your ravished entrails, and it leaks out a little around my tentacles still inside you, mingling with the traces of blood from your cruelly stretched entrance.
Hmmm, maybe I will make you suck one of my tentacles. Would you like that? To kiss and take in the unknowable? To receive the deity at both ends, os and fundament?
I slip just one tentacle into your mouth--one, a number so small it is not even a prime, the ultimate and most open mystery--and caress your tongue, then snake it down to your throat, testing your gag reflex.
You choke around my invasion; I am not offended, for you are mortal, and as mortal will resist the touch of the sublime—merely as the unwitting, instinctive desire of the body to preserve itself, even as the soul longs for mysterion and annihilation. I feel the flutter of your palate, as it contracts around my girth, swallowing and upheaving at once, as flesh fights with the soul. Carbon et aqua, it is weak, solid as tissue paper, compared to what I have manifested, within and around it.
I receive your adoration as my due; it is only right and ordered that a mere creature such as you submit to my dreadful presence. Thus is the order of things: eons and dimensions dance in threes and fours intertwined, and mortals serve eldritch, divine masters.
Do you want to be utterly filled? Do you want to be pushed beyond the limits of mortal endurance? Do you want the tentacles in your mouth and ass to meet in the middle, filling you utterly? Do you accept the ultimate penetration?
(Yes, O Lord of Patterned Madness; yes, O Paradox of Ordered Chaos; yes, O Ineffable Id, yes!)
I force my tentacle down your throat, through your sphincters, until I reach your stomach. It, too, is a line of defense (ah, brave and foolish instinct of mortality!), but mere hydrochloric acid cannot hurt me. I conquer it, twisting my tentacle in coils until your stomach is stretched with it, and you moan voicelessly around my tentacle from the eros and pain. Your stomach is stretched full with my super-substantial mass until bursting, and the port of your lungs is dammed with my thickness, yet you do not die. And now I push through your stomach’s lower sphincter, into the serpentine of your small intestine, as my triune tentacles still working from below breach up from the large one, and three and one I tie a knot in your bowels.
The sacrifice and I are complete. I, Ouroboros, am manifested in the feeble mimic that is the body of my worshipper. You are pushed beyond what mortal flesh can bear—I have pushed you—but I will not let you die. I will keep you alive as a half-living shell. I am a godlike being; I need a worshipper. It would be rather inconsiderate if I killed mine.
But do not worry. Even now, three tentacles thrusting around one, I approach my unspeakable climax. I will fill you with the ichor of the unknowable, and though undying by my power, you will experience it as would a true mortal, and you will be broken by the agony and the ecstasy of it. It will fill your guts, burst your innards, and burn every part of your internal organs. You will cry out and weep, and you will smile, knowing yourself filled with my unbearable divinity. Wrapped around me, you will die and live, and live and die again, eternal, in the orgasm of the cosmic mystery.
I will find new ways to play with you and accept your reverence, with each new life I give you. I will narrow all my tentacles and slip them into you one by one, until you can hold no more, filling your until flesh tears and you scream in terminal agony, even as your cock spurts and spews white, mortal seed onto your belly. I will take all of them from you and leave you aching, as you scream and pray and torment yourself, pleading for a glimpse even, once again, to see what I once granted you of my ecstasies. I will spend a century stretched into an eon with one tiny tentacle stroking your cock and another clamped around its base, denying you release until you have broken a thousand times and one, because the mosaic I will make of the shards of your brain requires that for its beauty.
It is all what you wish. I am your Lord, and I grant my worshippers their desires. I do not require you, but oh, I crave your worship, your pain, and your tears, freely given. I will push you past the boundaries of mortality and knowledge, and you will offer thanks in screaming songs. For you have given yourself as sacrifice and dedication, and I will take, I will take all of you—and with me, you, too, are infinite.
Receive me, worshipper. Shudder beneath my touch. Know and shatter under my desire. Release your mortal energy; spray white in mere contemplation of me. I am Alpha et Omega; accipe. Accipio. Ah!