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The Centipodian ship had crashed into the bay two days ago, and while Tosh had been busy fixing it, Ianto had been put
in charge of keeping the Centipods happy. They were a nice bunch, friendly and co-operative. One of them even seemed to have
a thing for Ianto. Ianto hadn’t been certain how to respond, but Jack had suggested that he just go with it, especially
as the Centipodians were renowned the universe-wide for being brilliant lovers.
“It’s the tentacles,”
said Jack, fingers, hands and arms writhing about like an octopus.
Which was, more or less, how Ianto ended up taking
Schassh home with him that evening. It, and how Ianto wished that any of the languages he spoke made ‘it’ sound
nicer, because it sounded so harsh. Schassh insisted that it didn’t mind, Tosh’s translation programme managing
to work around the problem. But anyway, it had started the night as a luminous turquoise blue colour that had slowly developed
into a burnished purple as the night wore on. Now that they were in Ianto’s room, Schassh had gone a pink colour, brighter
than Ianto’s worst blushes.
“I’ve never done this before, with a Centipod, I mean.”
Schassh
burbled something back through the translator about not worrying, and that, from what it and it’s colleagues had previously
observed, theirs having been a science mission before the mechanical error that plunged them into the bay, the main difference
was that Centipods didn’t use their mouths to kiss. Their nerve endings were centred around their tentacles, and the
Centipod equivalent of kissing involved them rubbing their tentacles against each other. Only the front tentacles mind, because
those were the ‘social tentacles’, anything more intimate involved the remaining eight tentacles.
Ianto
kissed the tentacle that he was offered, touching his lips to the surprisingly soft flesh between the suckers. The pulse that
beat through them sped up, the same beat was running through the other tentacle that was ruffling his hair. As they carried
on kissing, or something like it, until Schassh started secreting a translucent liquid from his tentacles.
Ianto took
off his shirt, and Schassh wrapped his third tentacle around Ianto. Ianto thought it would have felt tight around his chest,
but instead it felt snug. Another tentacle started to undo his trousers, handing them on to a waiting tentacle that carefully
folded the trousers and laid them by the bed. If only Ianto had been as careful with his shirt. Then again, he hadn’t
the hand to spare, both of his were busy caressing the tentacles in front of him. He was never going to be able to eat squid
again.
Another equally cool and slippery tentacle pulled Ianto’s briefs down, the cotton caressing his buttocks,
his thighs and the curve of his calves on the way down. The tentacle made its way back to Ianto’s arse, kneading the
cheeks and spreading them, with the help of another tentacle, to allow the sixth tentacle to slowly be inserted.
It
felt incredible, like a very large and flexible tongue, and the feeling of the pulse added to the thrumming of his own blood
was driving him wild. The third tentacle that was wrapped around his torso stayed there, cradling him and holding him in place.
Ianto had to guess that Schassh was enjoying itself too, as it was rearing up on its hind tentacles, driving deeper into Ianto.
The
sensation, being filled and held, supported in mid-air, was amazing, and intense. And over far too quickly as far as Ianto
was concerned. Schassh seemed to know that the orgasm had left Ianto’s nerve endings so sensitive that they were screaming
with overstimulation and withdrew. It put Ianto down on the sofa and rested next to him.
“If they ask for a report,
this was cross-cultural communication.” Schassh agreed, and laughed.
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