19. Dean

Dean

The normally boring conference room has been transformed into a festive Christmas wonderland. Even though Art and I were both here for the decorating, there's something magical about seeing it at night with all the twinkling lights and the tree shining in the corner.

Beside me, I hear Art take a deep breath in. "Dean Miller, it reminds me of the bioluminescent beaches in the Maldives my parents and I visited a few years ago. We did a lovely and thorough job with the decorating."

"We totally did," I agree.

We're standing just inside the door, marveling at the decorations, when James comes over holding two glasses out towards us. "Good! You're here! I got you guys eggnog, and I nabbed a table over there for us to sit at."

He gestures toward a table filled with a variety of humans and cryptids that James and I are both friendly with. I smirk at James as I see Bob, the bigfoot security guard he's been crushing on, sitting at our table. I grab the drinks, handing one to Art, and then I lean over and ask, "James, are you finally chatting with Bob?"

James blushes, then looks back nervously at the table. "He just sat with us. In the chair next to mine."

I clap James on the back with my free hand. "Well, go talk to him! Just do it before you dip into the eggnog," I laugh.

James walks back to the table, and Art asks, "Is there something in the eggnog that would make James unsuitable for talking to others? I have read about this drink, and it does apparently contain raw eggs, which can be harmful to the human system if certain bacteria are present. However, I'm sure our company knows this and would have only purchased pasteurized eggnog for human consumption."

"I'm sure they probably did, but it's also spiked. They add alcohol to the eggnog every year, and James can be a bit… well, his people skills aren't so good when he's had alcohol," I laugh.

"Perhaps I should not drink the eggnog either, since my people skills often seem deficient," Art replies, looking skeptically at the drink in his hand like it might be about to bite him.

I laugh again, ready to reassure Art, when I hear Frank's voice over my shoulder. "Yes, Art, your people skills really don't need to become any more deficient than they already are."

We both turn around, and there's our harpy boss. I have to literally bite my tongue from telling him off for saying that to Art. We're at the holiday party, for fuck's sake. Can the man not ever be nice?

I look over at Art, who has sort of deflated a bit. Even his tentacles look limp and lifeless, and I'm reminded of when he told me he got made fun of in school by bullies. That's what Frank is right now—just another bully picking on Art.

Fuck it. Boss or not, it doesn't give him the right to be an asshole.

"Maybe Art isn't the one who needs people skills, Frank, since you seem pretty deficient in the area of knowing how to treat people with respect," I say, then I grab Art's arm and pull him off toward our table of friends without waiting for a reply.

Holiday music is playing in the background, but apparently it isn't playing loudly enough, or I was angrier than I realized, because everyone stares at us when we get to the table. I pull out a chair for Art and then sit next to him.

His tentacles wrap around me, squeezing along my shoulders and neck like a hug, and I let out a breath, realizing I'm still scowling. I grab Art's hand and turn to ask if he's ok. He's looking at me like I just mapped an entire microsatellite of repetitive DNA in record time, and I stare back, getting lost in his gaze.

"Holy shit, that was awesome," James murmurs, and Bob grunts in agreement.

That breaks the moment between Art and I, and I laugh self-consciously. "I didn't mean to be so loud," I admit. "Is he looking over here?"

"Yup!" Willow, a friend who works with James, answers. "And he looks furious. But then harpies always look cranky to me, so who knows."

"Hopefully I still have a job by next week," I mutter, then I shake off the worry. "But we're here to have fun, and I refuse to let Frank ruin one of my favorite work events. Besides, I'm sure he won't stay long." The bosses always make an appearance at the holiday party, but Frank is usually one of the first to leave.

I lean over to give Art a kiss, and he's got the loveliest little smile on his face as he looks at me. I can't help leaning my forehead against his, and most of the table gives a sweet "Awww" sound at the two of us before they get back to their conversation, which was apparently about the latest cryptid reality show, which half the table watches.

"Do not worry, Dean Miller. I will not let you lose your job over this," Art reassures me.

I'm not sure what he can do if Frank sets me in his crosshairs, but that's a problem for later me. I mean it—I will not let that asshole ruin our evening. Frank leaves the party after about twenty minutes, and I breathe a sigh of relief that he's gone.

We laugh and joke with the table, and a lot of the decorating crew comes over to chat with us as well. Art seems amazed that so many people talk to him—I don't think he realized how friendly most of the people we work with really are. I don't blame him for not knowing. He's naturally shy, and if he was mostly subjected to Frank and the interns who clearly didn't get him, then he wouldn't have found his people at work. When I hear Art deep in conversation with a gorgon about the frailty of the human digestive tract and the consumption of raw eggs while they drink eggnog, I know that he's finally found his people.

We drink eggnog—I think the gorgon is the one who convinces him to try it—we talk to tons of people, and we snack on all the food the company brought in. When they judge the ugliest sweaters, Art is delighted that he gets an honorable mention ribbon, and I don't think I've ever seen him smile so much at a social event.

We're swaying on the dance floor, and Art's tentacles are wrapped around me, but one is holding his ribbon out. "I'm going to hang this up in a place of honor," he states. "It is the only non-science related prize I have ever won."

A tentacle reaches down to pat my ass, and Art holds me more tightly. He hasn't had much eggnog, but it seems just a little bit has made him more handsy… or should I say tentacly?

Either way, he's been driving me subtly crazy for the last half hour, those tentacles touching and rubbing, never quite being inappropriate, but definitely making me want more of him.

The party is winding down, and I notice that James and Bob don't seem to be anywhere in sight. I lean in and whisper, "How about we head home? Your tentacles are driving me crazy, Art."

I press into him, and I can tell by the widening of his eyes and his blush that he can feel my hard on.

"Yes, Dean Miller, that is an excellent idea." With that he pulls me off the dance floor and toward the exit to the conference room. I give a wave and yell bye to the rest of our group of friends as we pass by, and they mostly chuckle at our rush for the door.

Luckily the company hires drivers to take people home after the party, and Art and I snag a ride outside the front of the building. It isn't a long drive, thank god, because Art's tentacles are wandering, touching my chest, my back, my ass… even grazing my already hard cock, and I have a very difficult time not tackling him in the car.

My place is closer, so we end up going there. Once we're out of the car, Art presses against my back at the door to my apartment. I fumble with the key, barely able to think straight as his tentacles reach around me, one of them gently undulating against the front of my pants.

"Art," I gasp. "I'm never gonna get the door open if you keep doing that."

Art's tentacle stills, but it's still lightly pressing against my bulge. I somehow manage to get the key in the door and open it, and Art follows closely behind me.

His tentacles grab onto me as soon as the door is shut, stripping my clothes off. My lips seek out his, and we kiss frantically as we stumble into my bedroom. His lips are warm and soft, and our tongues tangle together. I frantically pull at his clothes, and his tentacles help to strip them off after he's stripped me.

In a matter of moments we're both naked, and he backs me up onto the bed, where I sprawl out. I love how he looks at me—hungrily, like I'm the sexiest thing he's ever seen. I love how forward he's become, how he isn't so shy anymore and enjoys looking at my body. His cock is rock hard, sticking out in front of him, and his tentacles are reaching out toward me, gently touching my legs and sliding up them.

"I want your sexy tentacles, Art. I want all of you," I tell him.

"Would you like me to penetrate you with my tentacles?" he asks.

I think Art knows that his straightforward talk during sex makes me a little wild, because he's got a little smile on his face as he asks, and one wandering tentacle reaches up to playfully nudge at my balls.

"Yes," I hiss out. "I want you to fuck me. I want you everywhere—inside me, touching me, sucking on me with your tentacles."

"I will taste you everywhere, Dean Miller," Art says, and he crawls onto the bed, hovering over me. One of his tentacles is caressing my face, and I turn my head to suck the tip into my mouth.

Art groans as I explore the tentacle with my tongue. It's silky and firm, and the lubricant it emits is surprisingly tasty—slightly salty yet somehow also refreshing, like a drink of water. The suckers on the tentacle gently press and release against my tongue as I explore, and I suck harder, making Art groan again. I can't believe I haven't tasted his tentacles before. It's surprisingly like having a hard cock in my mouth, and knowing that it gives Art pleasure is turning me on even more.

"Yes, Dean Miller. That feels lovely. I will fill you up everywhere," Art moans.

A tentacle reaches down and softly caresses my hole, rubbing lubricant against me. It's hot and wet, like a tongue licking me, and I moan around the tentacle in my mouth. Art's other tentacles reach out and gently press my arms against the bed. The tips reach over to my nipples, flicking at them both simultaneously, sending little lightning bolts of sensation through my body.

I moan again, Art's tentacle emitting more lubricant into my mouth. Fuck, it's like he's precumming in my mouth, and that only makes my own dick harder. With that, the tip of his tentacle penetrates my ass, sliding smoothly in, wiggling against my walls.

"You are so very sexy, Dean Miller, and you taste so delicious," Art groans.

I cry out around the tentacle in my mouth as he finds my prostate, gently flicking against it. I know I'm writhing around on the bed in pleasure because I can't control myself, and something—his arms, his legs, his tentacles—I don't know, and I don't care, presses my legs wider and holds them against the bed. I'm barely able to concentrate on sucking him amidst all the pleasure.

I feel like I can come at any moment, and a tentacle reaches around the base of my cock, squeezing it, like Art knows he's driving me to the edge.

He pulls his tentacle out of my mouth, asking, "Are you enjoying this, Dean Miller?"

"Fuck yes," I cry out. "Want you to fuck me, Art. Want you to get pleasure too."

I flick my tongue out to lick along his tentacle again before drawing it back into my mouth. I love the feeling of being filled and surrounded. Art is pressing into me everywhere, gently flicking my nipples and suctioning on my skin in a dozen places. My mouth and my ass are both full of him, and my dick is leaking like crazy as I try not to come. It's like he's turned my entire body into one huge erogenous zone.

The tentacle in my ass withdraws and I mewl in disappointment, but then something thicker is pressing against me, and I know it's Art's dick. I moan in approval, and he presses in.

He's thick and long, and he eases in, stretching me. I'm full of him everywhere, and another squirt of lubricant enters my mouth as he begins moving inside me, fucking my ass with his dick and my mouth with his tentacle. I close my eyes in bliss, letting my tongue lick against him as he fucks my mouth.

He's slowly rocking into me, one tentacle still wrapped around the base of my cock, then there's something wet licking at my hole where his dick is pressing in. My eyes shoot open, and Art is above me, looking down at me.

I nod my head as much as I can without letting go of the tentacle in my mouth, and Art's eyes close in pleasure as the tip of a tentacle slips into me alongside his dick.

Holy fucking shit. The pressure is intense. His tentacle is sliding in alongside his dick, and he latches onto my nipples with suckers, gently pulling at them. I'm sucking at the tentacle in my mouth like it's giving me air as I moan.

"Dean," Art groans out. "Want to taste you everywhere ."

I nod again, because isn't he already tasting me everywhere? But then the tentacle curled around the base of my dick slides up, wrapping around me as it goes, secreting Art's lube and curling tightly around my cock. If the grip wasn't tight I'd probably come, but I'm teetering on the edge, my orgasm just out of reach.

I'm moaning steadily now, my mouth and my ass both full, his tentacle gently pushing against my prostate even as he fucks in and out of me with his cock. My nipples are sparks of pleasure where his suckers are latched on, and just when I think I can't take any more, the tip of Art's tentacle brushes against the slit of my dick.

Fuck. He wants to taste me everywhere . I don't even recognize the sound that comes from my throat as the thin tip of a tentacle flicks at and slides into the tip of my cock. Art's tentacle is squeezing and releasing my hardness at the same moment, and I can't hold back.

I scream in pleasure. It's too much—my entire body is one giant nerve ending, raw and exposed. My orgasm barrels out of me, my entire body shaking, spots dancing behind my closed eyelids as I groan. It goes on and on, and I dimly register Art's moan of release even as my body flies apart into a million pieces.

When I come back to reality, I'm snuggled in Art's tentacles, and the bedding is pulled up around us. I vaguely recall Art gently pulling out of me, cleaning us up, and tucking us in, and I snuggle closer to his body.

"Are you awake, Dean Miller?" Art asks sleepily.

"Mmmhmmm," I murmur, because I am, but only barely. My body is sated and snuggled, and my mind is floating in a sea of bliss.

"That was… amazing. You are amazing, Art," I murmur.

"Thank you. Although I'm sure your feelings are partially a natural response to your lower cortisol levels and the rush of endorphins you experienced."

I chuckle and snuggle even closer. "Stay the weekend," I tell Art. "We'll watch Christmas movies and eat snacks and snuggle and do all sorts of endorphin raising activities."

"I would like that, Dean Miller," Art murmurs, his voice soft.

I'd like to ask Art to stay forever, not just the weekend, but logically I know there isn't any rush. We have plenty of time for those kinds of conversations. I smile as his breathing evens out, and I let myself drift off wrapped up in his warmth.