The Experiment

Shawn woke with a jolt, the cold press of vinyl flooring beneath his back sending a shiver down his spine. The ceiling above him was high and curved, a smooth dome of seamless white panels that reflected the sterile glow of recessed lights. An endless stream of ivory white was painted across every wall, trapping him into a box of uncertainty. As he sat up, a faint echo followed the scrape of his movements. The room was vast, hollow, and eerily silent.

Around him stretched a chamber that resembled a high-tech laboratory, but one that had been stripped bare. The walls were padded with a soft sponge, ceiling-mounted conduits snaked across the room like the veins of a sleeping giant. Thin vents were prominently plastered to the ceiling, projecting a scarce amount of fresh air. The air was cool, tinged with a faint chemical sharpness that stung the back of his throat.

He wore a grey jumpsuit, loose at the sleeves, one that was unfamiliar to him. He tugged at the clothes momentarily, feeling them flow off of his slim build. He turned his head to observe the other qualities of the room. No windows. No doors he could see. Only the quiet hiss of unseen vents and the low, pulsating hum of machinery beneath the floor. Calling it a room was generous, really. It was more like a box, designed to trap him.

Shawn's breath quickened. His last memory was... blank. Nothing came. No name, no face, no context, the only thing given to him was his own name, Shawn. Even that felt borrowed, fragile. He staggered to his feet, the soles of his bare feet shivering against the polished floor. He turned and began to walk in slow circles, trying to find an anchor in the sterile emptiness. He ran his fingers against the soft padding against the walls, his fingers indenting into the material before they sprang back. It was soft.

But somewhere, behind the walls or deep below the surface, something was moving. Watching. Waiting.

The hours passed in a blur of silence and fluorescent light. Shawn paced the chamber, over and over again, his movements growing more restless with each circuit. He had long given up counting the number of laps around the room, the way each wall was unmistakably the same made everything feel like a loop with no exit. Time was shapeless here, measured only by the dull ache in his legs and the dryness creeping into his mouth. Hunger gnawed at the edges of his stomach, but not enough to distract him from the more pressing discomfort. The uncertainty. The unknown.

Why was he here? Who had put him in this place? And what was the purpose of the room that felt too empty to be accidental?

Every now and then, he would stop and stare at the vents near the floor. They were evenly spaced, circular, about a foot wide, built into the sleekl flooring like they were part of a larger design he couldn't decipher. He hadn't heard anything come from them, no gusts or noise, but they unsettled him for reasons he couldn't name.

He sighed and sat down again, his back against one of the padded panels, the synthetic material somehow cold even through the thin fabric of his jumpsuit. His fingers drummed restlessly against his knees, a quiet rhythm in the vacuum of sound. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, constant, pale, and clinical, offering no hint of time. There was no warmth, just an endless, sterile glow that made it impossible to tell if it was day or night. There were no windows. No clocks. Just the blank, seamless walls and the low mechanical hum that seemed to come from deep beneath the floor.

The silence pressed against his ears like cotton, thick and absolute, amplifying the sound of his own heartbeat, his own breath. It wasn't peaceful. It was watching, somehow. There was an emptiness that felt intentional. Engineered. Like the room itself was waiting for something. Or someone.

He didn't notice the movement at first. The air didn't change and the vents made no sound. But down by his feet, slow and almost imperceptible, something began to shift. Smooth, slender tendrils that were a deep iridescent purple began to rise with fluid grace through the grating. They coiled softly, silently with an elegant grace. Their moves were deliberate, and impossibly quiet.

Shawn remained unaware, lost in thought as his brows furrowed in a quiet frustration. His eyes were still scanning the same blank, sterile walls for the hundredth time, as if by sheer will or desperation, they might suddenly shift. He needed them to open, reveal something. A seam, a clue, a door he had missed. But they remained as flawless and indifferent as ever, reflecting the clinical white light back at him in cold, unblinking silence.

He didn't see the way one of the tentacles had paused, just inches from his leg. It hovered with eerie stillness, swaying ever so slightly in the still air, the tip curling and uncurling like a finger testing the edge of sensation. It lingered there, sampling the heat radiating from his body, the particles in his breath, the subtle shifts in his movement. The rest of it remained hidden in the vent's shadow, coiled and waiting, while its end danced just beyond his awareness... ever patient. Until it decided to act.

And the room, once lifeless and cold, was beginning to breathe.

A subtle brush against his ankle made Shawn flinch, his head snapping down toward the sign of the sensation. At first, he thought it was his own mind playing tricks again, until he saw it.

A long tentacle, smooth and glistening with a faint shimmer of violet curled around his bare ankle. It moved with an eerie precision, not jerky or rushed, but fluid. Almost curious. Before he could react, another one slipped around his wrist, its touch as light as silk, but unyielding. He tried to pull away, but it only tightened, not harshly--firmly. Deliberately.

"W-What the hell...?"

He scrambled backward on the floor, but more tendrils were rising now, dozens of them, sliding from the vents in slow, graceful waves. They wound around his limbs, his waist, his shoulders, coiling like a lover's touch. Soft, but inevitable. Every inch they touched sent a jolt of warmth through his skin, foreign and almost hypnotic. The scent of something sweet filled the air, like lilac and ozone, and his thoughts started to blur, dulled by the way the tendrils pulsed gently, as if breathing with him. He couldn't help but feel a sense of soft curiosity and security. A sense of mesmerization wrapped around his mind, drawing him further into the sensation of the soft, slow-moving tentacles.

One wrapped around his thigh, gliding upward with sensuous ease, another found its way around his chest, flattening him slowly to the floor in a relaxing restraint. They were warm now, radiating a faint heat that bled into him in a comforting vibration. His breath hitched, not in pain, but in genuine confusion. His heartbeat thudded in his ears, rapid, uncertain. But he could feel it steadily slowing as awe settled under his ribs. Whatever these were felt unlike anything he had experienced before.

The smooth sprout neared his neck with unhurried grace, its surface gleaming faintly in the sterile light like silk dipped in moonlight. Shawn's breath hitched, caught somewhere between anticipation and unease. He felt it before he saw it, the way the smooth, warm surface brushed lightly against the side of his throat. Just a small whisper of contact, like a fast, heated breath.

It curled gently, trailing from his collarbone further upward toward the thin skin of his throat, then tracing the line of his jaw as though savoring the shape of him. The motion was languid, sensual, not a threat, but a seduction of sorts. The tentacle looped once around the base of his neck, slow and deliberate, applying the faintest pressure that was just enough to be felt, not enough to hurt. Its movements were careful, precise, almost intimate as the smooth and slick surface of the creature rubbed against him.

Another loop followed, tighter this time, and it was snug against his skin. It throbbed faintly, as if syncing with the rhythm of his pulse. Shawn shivered involuntarily. The touch wasn't cold, it was alive. Curious. Possessive. He could feel its slick surface sliding minutely with each breath he took, the coils shifting ever so slightly, stroking against his throat as if reading the tension in every swallow.

It didn't choke. It cradled. Restrained. Claimed.

His head tilted back slightly as the tendril continued to wind higher, brushing behind his ear, curling once more beneath his chin. Each motion was soft, reverent, like it was learning him, marking him, wrapping him in something more than just muscle and heat. The room seemed to fade around him. Around them. Just light, breath, and the slow, sensual constriction of something not quite human, yet somehow knowing exactly how to touch him.

A sudden crack, sharp and electric, split the silence like lightning across glass. Shawn flinched, the sound unwelcome and jagged against the thick, pulsing quiet of the room. His eyes darted upward, searching for a source, but the ceiling offered nothing: no speakers, no visible devices, only the seamless dome and its cold white light.

Then the voice came.

Distorted, low, and threaded with static, it slithered from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Smooth. Detached. Almost amused yet unmistakably inhuman. Its voice was nasally and garbled, as if the creature was trying to speak from more than one throat. Low chittering noises echoed through the speaker, something almost similar to a cough perhaps.

"Subject 9... Can you hear me?"

Shawn froze, every muscle tensing beneath the slow, rhythmic embrace of the tentacles. One coiled tighter around his neck, as if reacting to the voice that came from the unknown. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a shallow breath escaped.

"Vitals elevated. Trembling and tensing noted. Stimuli response is strong."

The voice crackled again, then softened, taking on an inquisitive edge, almost as if it was teasing him. Yet it held a genuine curiosity, a thirst for knowledge and genuinity.

"How are you enjoying the sensations, Shawn?"

His name, spoken aloud, made his blood turn to ice. He hadn't told anyone, he hadn't even been sure it was his name. Yet the voice wielded it with certainty, wrapping it around him like another coil. Something was there, something he hadn't noticed or known, and it knew more about himself than he did.

"Is it fear you're feeling... or pleasure?"

"Do you like the way they hold you? How they slowly learn you?"

Shawn's heart pounded against his ribs. A soft gasp leaving him as the tentacles responded to his surprise with a slow, indulgent squeeze, soft pressure around his chest, his thighs, his throat. It wasn't punishment, it was a soft reminder of the security that he had within the arms of the creature.

"They know where to touch," the voice continued, each word syrup-thick with observation and fact. "They were designed to. You're not the first. But your data... is fascinating."

A low hum buzzed through the chamber. The luminescent lights dimmed slightly, and the tentacles moved again, subtle shifts, like a sigh through dozens of limbs. One of the tentacles began to slowly slither, poking toward his lower lip and pressing against it softly as if slowly testing the waters.

"Answer me, Shawn," the voice pressed, still intimate and curious. "How does it feel... being wanted like this?"

Shawn's throat tightened beneath the smooth, warm pressure of the tentacle coiled around it. He swallowed hard, the motion pressing his skin into the supple, living restraint that pulsed faintly with something disturbingly like breath. His lips parted, but no sound came at first, just a shallow exhale that was trembling and unsure.

The voice waited, calm and patient despite Shawn's hesitation.

"Describe it, Shawn. How does it feel?"

He didn't want to respond. Not at first. He wanted to demand answers, to fight the strange, unnatural thing wrapping around his body like silk spun from shadows. But his mind... his body... they had long betrayed him. The gentle scent of the tentacles had suffocated him in a cloud of captivation, and the even surface of each limb as it rubbed and pushed against him further rooted warmth into each muscle.

The way the tentacles moved against his skin; slow, deliberate, intimate, it was becoming harder to resist. There was a pull, like gravity, drawing him deeper into the sensation.

"... I..." he croaked, his voice hoarse. The limb at his neck shifted slightly, stroking along his pulse like it was gently encouraging him to speak.

"I don't know," he whispered. "It feels... strange. But..."

"But?" the voice prompted, smoother now, almost as if it was pleased and eagerly waiting.

Shawn's eyes fluttered shut for a moment as another warm, slick figure slid gently across his ribs, spiraling upward beneath his arm as it traced each line of muscle with maddening care. He gasped, and it wasn't out of fear. Barely swallowing the lump in his throat, Shawn was able to croak out a response to the unknown voice.

"But... it feels good."

The admission came like a confession, soft and ashamed. As if the word itself triggered a reward, the tentacles responded with subtle delight, tightening slightly and writhing with slow, sensual rhythm against his legs and torso, cradling him closer.

"Mmm," the voice hummed. "You like it, don't you? Being touched. Held. Studied."

Shawn almost tried to shake his head in futile denial, but the tendril around his neck kept him firmly still. He felt flushed, his skin prickling with heat under the endless caress of the living limbs. He couldn't deny the warmth creeping through him, the way his nerves lit up wherever they touched.

"... Yes," he said finally, barely a whisper. "I think... I do."

"Good," the voice said, low and approving. "That's what they're for. You're proving useful for our research."

As the tentacles continued their gentle, invasive embrace, Shawn felt something inside him shift. Resistance softened into surrender, not from weakness, but from the slow, undeniable pleasure of being known so completely... by something that never stopped touching.

The tentacles shifted again, this time with more purpose. One of the smaller limbs rose, slow and precise, gliding upward along Shawn's chest, its tip gently tapping against his lips. He tensed at first, his instinct screaming protest, but the others cradled him tighter, soothing, warm, rhythmic in their motion, as if rocking him in a cocoon of breath and pressure.

The tendril at his lips was persistent, not forceful, simply present. It traced the outline of his mouth with patient care, its texture soft and strangely comforting. His breathing slowed. His resistance dulled beneath the overwhelming tide of sensation. The warmth, the restraint, the low hum beneath his skin that made thought flicker and fade.

He opened his mouth.

The tentacle slid in with fluid grace, pressing gently against his tongue. It tasted of nothing, but there was a strange familiarity to it, like static on his lips or memory turned to silk. His jaw relaxed, his eyes weakly fluttering closed. Whatever tension remained in him ebbed away as the tentacles held him, pulsing with a quiet, tender rhythm.

The foreign vessel rested on Shawn's tongue like warm velvet, neither cold nor slimy as he might've expected, but impossibly smooth, almost weightless and warm. It didn't push further, didn't force. It simply existed there, pulsing faintly with a rhythm that matched the beat of his heart. Shawn's breath grew shallow, the air brushing in and out of his nose as he focused entirely on the unexpectedly pleasurable sensation.

It was alien, yes, but gentle. Not invasive. Not violent. It explored.

His tongue instinctively pressed upward against it, and the tendril responded in kind, gliding softly across his palate and further to the edge of his throat. A low shiver coursed through him. Reflexive, electric. The texture was unlike anything he'd felt; supple, warm, and subtly vibrating, like it was whispering thoughts through contact alone. No taste, but feeling. A hum that traveled from his mouth down into his chest, loosening his muscles and dulling the corners of his reluctance.

Somewhere beyond the chamber, behind a pane of darkened glass, figures observed. Their silhouettes were faint, tall, angular, and inhuman. Their eyes, if they could be called that, were all prominently glued toward the glass screen that clearly showed the scene happening ahead of them. Hidden behind a one-way surface, they watched with vigor. A low vibration hummed through the observation room, not unlike laughter, restrained and satisfied.

Their mouths curled in faint smirks. Not cruel, but pleased.

Subject 9 was adapting well.