tentacles that eat dyke brains

The walls pulse with a faint, sickly green light.

Martha was seventy, a woman who had spent her decades cultivating a garden, reading philosophy, and sharing a quiet, loving life with her partner. She was proud of her wrinkles, her silver hair, and the sharp mind that had carried her through seven decades. But the cave had other plans.

The creature emerged from the black water like a nightmare made of wet muscle. It was a mass of writhing, translucent tentacles, each one lined with tiny, suckering mouths that whispered in frequencies Martha couldn't understand.

Before she could scream, a thick, barbed tentacle wrapped around her waist, lifting her off her feet. Another coiled around her throat, not crushing her, but pulsing with a hypnotic rhythm that made her vision swim.

"Please..." she gasped, but the word died as a smaller, thinner tentacle one tipped with a needle sharp bone spur pierced the soft tissue behind her ear.

SQUELCH.

The tentacle didn't just wound; it began to feed. Martha's eyes flew wide as she felt something cold and invasive sliding through her skull. The creature wasn't just attacking; it was consuming. It was drinking her memories, her philosophy, her love for her wife, her very sense of self. She could feel her thoughts being slurped away like liquid, leaving behind only a terrifying, empty void.

As her brain matter was digested, the alien organism began to secrete a mutagenic ichor through the tentacle. This was the rewriting process.

Martha's body began to spasm violently. Her skin, once lined with age and wisdom, began to tighten unnaturally, stretching taut as if pulled by invisible wires. The wrinkles vanished, smoothed over by a synthetic looking flesh that felt like warm latex. Her silver hair darkened and thickened, spilling down her shoulders in synthetic looking waves.

But the most grotesque change was her chest. The alien ichor concentrated on her torso, forcing her ribcage to shift and her breast tissue to expand at an impossible rate. Her breasts didn't grow naturally; they swelled outward in two perfect, round, unnaturally firm spheres that looked like they had been bolted onto her frame. They were massive, defying gravity, their skin stretched so thin it gleamed like polished plastic.

Her jawline sharpened, her lips plumped into permanent, pouty cushions, and her eyes once bright with intelligence melted into two vacant, glassy pools of mindless blue.

The feeding stopped. The creature retreated into the water, leaving behind a husk.

Martha or what was left of her collapsed onto the cave floor. She didn't move for several seconds. Then, she slowly pushed herself up. Her movements were clumsy, uncoordinated, lacking any of the grace she once possessed. She looked down at her own body the hyper tight skin, the absurdly large, bolt on breasts and her lips parted in a mindless, vacant smile.

The philosopher was gone. The lover was gone. In her place stood an ultra tight, alien made bimbo. Her mind was no longer hers; it was a simple, looping program of basic sensations and alien impulses. She had no memories of the garden or her wife. She only knew the feeling of her own synthetic flesh and a hollow, gnawing need to be used.

She let out a high pitched, empty giggle that echoed off the cave walls, a sound that carried no soul.