Naoko whimpers, pulls at the fleshy tentacle that encircles her body. Her sense of time has blurred to a sludge. The icy treasure chest glimmers gold coins from the center of the room, wrapped tightly by the creature's other suctioned appendages. She slides her body in paroxysms of jerky stutters.

And the tentacles shivers across her bare abdomen, inches up to her crop-top tee, just nudges over her bulging chest, and up to her sweat-drenched face. Her lips are open. The room is a buzz of moans and squeals. The coins slosh and clink in the chest. We've been in this room forever, for what seems like a save point or a mechanized loop. And we yearn to grip oblivion, to squeeze tighter and feel the oily thickness like syrup and be drenched in the milk of an Elder God or a demonic beast from a pink dimension. Smothered in electric tethers.

Each tip sends a splendid trigger of joy sliding wet up Naoko's spine. 

Each tip tickles -- as the tip of a tentacle on the upper thigh. 

Each tip is a creeping under cotton, a warm thrust or a smile. 

To know that you care. To know your anonymous satisfaction. It's enough for her. Naoko smiles, wets her lips, and sputters out a song of utter relief.

"Thank you," she says. "Thank you for all of it, for all of you."