Mimic Studies

Erotic short. An elf experiences a mimic’s tentacles, and then a reward.

Rated E, 2.5k, trans M/a mimic. Featuring multiple tentacle penetration in one hole, vaginal sex, some mild objectification and dehumanisation, some academic silliness, object insertion, cervix penetration, belly bulging and stomach distension.

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Mimics are ever-evolving — it depends on the dungeon or the environment they creep into, whatever shadowed, strange place they enjoy. There’s a reason so many of them favour chests or barrels, any object that might lure some hapless adventurer or tomb robber or thief or harried priest looking for a spare offering bowl or whatever else — it gets them one or two isolated targets that they can just grab hold of and swallow inside them.

Some mimic species, anyway.

Amaethon’s familiar with some of them more than others, and he’s even given information about various of them to the university before, ones he’s seen or encountered about and abroad — the Royal College of Lania is a sprawling campus built atop of old ruins in which they specifically breed or keep confined various sorts of dungeon beastie, the better to study them, and he supposes it only makes sense that they’d have a fascination with them.

Professor Tiresias Everhardt is a funny old soul — Amaethon had first met him deep within the bowels of a maze-like abandoned temple, had been tasked with lighting the altar torches at each of the thirteen stations within it by a nearby temple, and he’d been shocked out of his fucking skin when the old man had tapped him on the shoulder. He’d thought the bastard goddess had stepped out one of her statues to give him a shock — he’d been relieved when he’d turned around and seen a mage, plump and cheerful with his beard braided up and out of the way of anything that could grab at it.

That relief had dwindled — but only initially — when said mage had begun assaulting him with taxonomical questions that Amaethon hadn’t exactly felt equipped to answer, and he’d allowed Everhardt to accompany him further in, and then they’d come out together.

He’s not a nice man, particularly. He has a deceptively acerbic sense of humour, one that people often miss because of his naturally warm tones and the jubilant timbre to his voice, and Amaethon had found the longer he’d spoken with him how much he enjoyed his blunt tendencies, how flatly he stated what he wanted or liked, what he enjoyed, what frustrated him.

Red-cheeked and white-skinned and blue-eyed, his hair a very fine white, he tends toward ornate and colourful robes with lots of reflective embroidery and decoration, and he looks like someone people think would be nice. Amaethon has known since he was a young man — let alone since he began approaching sex work within brothels and without — that men who look as “nice” as Everhardt does are often the most depraved of all, and in that regard, Everhardt has been no disappointment. He has an interest in a great many academic studies, most of all in monsters and their effects on their prey or opponents, and he enjoys the practical effects of those studies, likes to watch them, enjoy them, jerk off over them.

He’s hardly the strangest of Amaethon’s friends, but he’s one of the more satisfying to have sex…

Well, not with.

Amaethon’s never actually seen the old man’s cock or his cunt, doesn’t even know what he might have beneath the robes he wears, if he has any genitalia Amaethon’s familiar with at all — it’s not any of his business, really, if Everhardt’s never going to have him involved with them.

But have sex for? Because of? In front of? In the service of, and indeed, in the service of science?

For Everhardt, Amaethon tends to keep diaries of monsters and species he encounters, whether he fucks them or not — he draws little sketches of creatures and beasts, their eggs, describes the feeling of their emissions or their venom or the rest. It’s somewhere between taxonomical entries and erotica, and it brings him great satisfaction to consider how much (and just how) Everhardt might enjoy them.

In between sending his diaries and his samples over, he visits Lania — he stays not in Everhardt’s spare room, but ordinarily, in one of his observation rooms.

“What is it today, Everhardt?” Amaethon asks as he scrubs over his skin and makes white suds build over his shoulders, his belly, his thighs, before he steps under the spray of the shower.

“A mimic, like I told you,” Everhardt says, combing thoughtfully through his long, white beard without looking up from his notes, which he has to look through his half-moon spectacles to see. “Off you go.”

Amaethon steps out from the spray, shaking out his hair as the enchantment takes hold and dries him out, and then he moves across the room, steps through the glass door and looks at the corridor that’s been brought up from the dungeons underneath the university.

It looks like a normal mimic.

It’s a wooden chest, and if he stands in place and doesn’t move, he can see the ever so slight movement of its lid as it breathes.

“What’s it going to do to me?” he asks.

“Fuck you,” Everhardt says without looking up from his notes.

“… And?”

“Chop chop!” Everhardt says, and Amaethon huffs out a breath, moving forward and putting his hand on the mimic’s lid, feels the wood of it warmer than it should be, and then the mimic’s lid opens and its tongue shoots out, wrapping tight around his wrists and hauling him in.

Amaethon groans as he’s half-dragged inside.

It’s never a dignified position, once a mimic draws you inside it, stuck on your knees with your front half stuck inside it — once or twice, a mimic has managed to grab him with the intent of eating him and he’s had to hack at it from the inside, digging a blade into the most vulnerable seams present within the confines of its guts, feeling for them in the pitch black swallow of it and then twisting his dagger or short sword until he heard its growls turn to whistles and squeals. They’ve changed over time, though, or at least, some of them have — the ones Amaethon encounters.

Mimics don’t always draw in a magic-rich, larger species — particularly adventurers and wayfarers, those that taste of different magicks and enchantments, who go between different temples, dungeons, and other ruins or actively magical sites — with a meal in mind, though. Amaethon’s been bred by a mimic before, has felt its eggs settled deep within his guts or settled in his womb, once dropped into his stomach. Each time it had been an unsettling but not wholly unpleasant experience: mimic eggs, unmoored from the parent that had borne them, lack a framework by which to hold a particular shape, weight, texture, density, or even a temperature, and they’ll often cycle through different ones in whatever environment they’ve been laid, inspired by their laying parent’s experiences, inspired by the host they’re settled in, even triggered by other nearby eggs.

According to Everhardt’s research, anyway — for Amaethon, carrying the eggs, the reasons or prompts for the mimic eggs to do what they were doing hadn’t mattered so much as the sensation of it, the way the clutch of half a dozen eggs would suddenly double in size and fill his belly so much that his knees would suddenly buckle at the weight and the sensation; the textures would shift abruptly, or they’d go from being heavy, round, slightly slick and gooey balls to being larger and squarer, to having sharp corners or leathery, rougher skin, or to resembling small tentacle beasts themselves.

Apart from that was the agonising and/or ecstatic revelation that mimics laid their eggs in a host that did not leave until they were ready — and when they were ready, they would already have cast off the outer film that contained them and crawl out of him alive and conscious, shifting beasts with tentacles or tiny little hands or fins.

He wonders if that’s what lies ahead of him today — Everhardt rarely shares in advance what the subject of his observations are when he asks Amaethon in to demonstrate one thing or other, claims it might taint or distort the results of his observations were Amaethon or an of his other subjects to go in forewarned.

He moans when one of the mimic’s tentacles slides easily into his open cunt and sinks inside, feels the mimic throb and shift around him — he’s captured within its mouth, feeling the wet, slick flesh all around him, the movement of its tongue as it tastes him, slides over his chest, around his neck, the underside of his armpits. He grunts as his nipples are flicked, shifting as best he can as the mimic plunges its thick tentacle in and out of his cunt.

Mimics are one of many dungeon denizens, according to Tiresias Everhardt, who fuck for pleasure as well as to breed, and Amaethon has no difficulty believing it — he can feel the mimic breathing heavier all around him, feel how eagerly its tentacle doesn’t just dive inside him but fucks at a regular rhythm, even before another lines itself up and forces itself alongside.

Amaethon whines at the tentacles as they piston back and forth inside him, dragging and pulling at the inside of his cunt and making him feel wonderfully stretched wide.

He can’t move, can’t wrestle free, can’t push back with his arms and shoulders gripped on all sides by the mimic’s mouth, and then it tilts backward. He can hear the quiet clatter of its fake wood panels as it tips Amaethon up and off the ground, and gravity pushes him further into its maw as it changes its shape. He can feel it moving around him, feel the flesh encompassing him getting warmer, feel its slick grip tightening around his body as it makes itself taller, gives more depth to its mouth.

He’s upside down in the slick, wet heat of the mimic’s mouth, unable to do anything but moan and powerlessly shift as it squeezes in tighter around him, as the tentacles thrusting in and out of his cunt move faster, more frenetically, shoving in deeper, harder.

His cock is enveloped by the mimic’s raising mouth, and it must have thrown aside the chest disguise — the edges are softer, fleshier, and a mouth forms to suck hard at his prick and make him yowl, muffled, into the wet meat that’s captured and enraptured him.

His cunt is throbbing with heat as his orgasm hits him hard, and as he tightens and clenches, the mimic’s cocks only speed up within him, each of them pumping the mimic’s come into him, he guesses — it’s wet and slick and has a filmy quality to it. He knows from memory that it’s normally glossier than other kinds of come, stays wetter and shinier for longer.

He lets out a grunting “Oof!”, the wind knocked out of him — his breathing is becoming slightly laboured, his access to air not as easy as it was when the chest was on its side — as one of the mimic’s cocks forces its way deeper, shoves into him, past the tight sphincter of his cervix and pushes inside. He feels the tightness, the aching pain deep in his belly, and then the sense of relief and satisfaction and sheer, overwhelming fullness — and then the drop of weight as it lays —

Something.

His body is still shuddering with the orgasm, his thighs twitching, and he feels his face contort in concentration as he tries to feel the shift in weight. He’s had a lot of eggs laid in him in his life, different ones — different even among different sorts of mimic — but what had just dropped into him hadn’t felt like an egg. Hadn’t been the right shape, hadn’t had the right weight distribution, had been small.

Another releases into him, small enough that he barely feels it moved up the tentacle, but then he feels the next drop, and hears a —

A clink?

It’s muffled, barely audible through the flesh of his own belly, and before he can concentrate on it the other tentacle starts to thrust back and forth again, through the wet mess the mimic’s made of his cunt — he moans low and deep at the pleasurable sensation, piling on top of his last orgasm, not yet overstimulating, and his body fucking quakes as he realises what it’s doing. He’s fucking heard of shit like this, of mimics depositing treasure in people they fuck instead of their eggs, but he’s never been on the receiving end, and he moans and squirms as he feels more coins dropped down from the tentacle and inside him, heavy as more of them pile up.

Something else comes up the tentacle, something bigger, and he screams at the sudden stretch and the pressure it puts on his cock — he can feel his body tense as anything, abruptly coiled up tight no matter that he’s only just fucking come, and then it’s like the mimic just opens up the floodgates and pours everything it has into him. He can feel the obscene stretch, hear the clink and clank of metal against metal and feel the push and shove of things inside him, strange, irregular objects dropped into his cunt, shoved into his fucking womb.

As another rush of slick is pumped into him from the mimic’s other tentacle, he comes so hard that for a moment, all he knows, all he sees, are fucking stars — stars and overwhelming waves of pleasure, feeling suspended in blackness whether from the sheer overstimulation or from lack of oxygen or from pain or from all of it, he doesn’t know.

He comes to with the mimic splitting him out, sliding back from him and leaving him spread on the floor on his back, bleary-eyed and dizzy as he stares up at the approaching Everhardt, who is peering down at him.

He wishes that the old man wore trousers instead of robes, wishes he could see the evidence of his arousal, if it’s there, wishes he could see his hard cock, or perhaps a little wetness about his crotch — what he sees instead is his thoughtful expression, his smirk, as he crouches down and strokes his fingers over Amaethon’s distended belly, all unusual, unexpected angles at what’s crammed inside him.

Everhardt says in mild, warm tones, “I’ve an enema prepared, and some relaxants. Wonderful to observe this behaviour under controlled conditions, hm?”

“What the fuck?” Amaethon asks, barely lifting his head off the floor.

“A very primitive understanding of prostitution, I suppose!” Everhardt says cheerfully — as cheerful as he gets, with not much outward emotion. “Mimics fuck for pleasure, Amaethon — and they have some understanding of what adventurers are looking for, not to mention an understanding of valuable exchange.”

Amaethon feels the weight inside him, feels coins, gems, and what, a fucking plate? He doesn’t even know, but he sees all the corners and shapes under the taut flesh of his belly, can feel the metal and gemstones shoved in him.

“I’m keeping these,” Amaethon says, and Everhardt huffs out a low chuckle, one that sounds merrier than the man is by his nature.

“Let’s get it all out of you, first — cleaned and weighed and examined. But after that, certainly. Payment, young man, for services rendered.”

Amaethon drops his head back onto the stone, glances across the room to where the mimic has settled back into position, resembling a chest again.

“I’ll get that enema warmed up for you, shall I?” asks Everhardt, and Amaethon groans and puts his arm over his face.