As my chosen identifier shows, I have a passion for many things Japanese; chief of which is the art of Shunga (Shunga means ‘picture of spring’ a euphemism for sex) from which the image chosen for this week’s prompt comes. It is the Dream of the Fisherman's wife by the renowned Japanese artist Katsushika Hokusai. From the Edo period, it is one of the most well-known examples of Shunga, an art form often given to newlyweds on their wedding night. The image may appear to depict the rape of a woman, but the audience/recipients of such wood cuts would have seen it as entirely consensual. They would also have understood that the octopus has arms, not tentacles – tentacle porn is a Western label inferring horror, bestiality, rape etc stemming from some of the classic B Movies of the 1970s and 80s where ‘victims’ for want of a better word, are penetrated in every orifice writhing and in fear/pain. Recognising that technically, Octopus have arms not tentacles, the Japanese would have understood the sensual symbolism of multiple touch, the sensuality of complete pleasure, of heightened orgasm and full sexual release.
European/Victorian culture was the catalyst for the growing legislative interest in public sexual mores creating the concept of censorship in such things that would, post WW2, override the interpretive understanding of the art itself; labelling it as porn, with its negative connotations, led to a confusing overlap between the culturally understood messages and the need to circumvent censorship. In the back catalogue of Shunga art it isn't unusual to find lesbians, sex toys (confirming if you look nothing is new), transvestites, bondage, multiple partners and bisexual fantasies. If you google tentacle porn, it is almost invariably accompanied by the words, disgusting, creepy, with images of dead octopi draped over nubile young women, or an escaping tentacle from the deep recesses of vaginal or anal caves. This is produced almost solely for the American and growing European market. Hentai Anime depictions of sexual exploration by, and freedoms with, Octopi came largely from the work of Toshio Maeda who combined the storytelling of Shunga with a modern twist to bypass sexual censorship. Here, the critical difference between tentacles for the squeamish peeking through the fingers Westerners, and the arms of an octopus for the wider erotic experience of the Japanese is evident.
Which is probably why I vote yes for Octoerotica. The concept of multiple arms each with their own independent agenda, but linked at a central point, my determination to make you cum, beyond the norm, leaving you broken and in tears to rebuild whole and honoured before you leave.
I so enjoy the sensuality of touch, the multiplicity of arousal that is possible when the body is exposed to many variable sensations simultaneously. My most favoured moments of Domination involve subjecting someone, male or female, to a barrage of differing experiences confusing the mind, releasing the preconceived expectations of sex into submission to the unknown. By using any and everything to create a different world, to grow in your mind like ivy binds a building. Learning your body, your mind, your fantasies and fears, and envelope you in the deep ocean darkness where the smallest trace of light is something to treasure.
Like an octopus using each arm to explore, hold, restrain or offer you up so I use tendrils of rope binding your legs apart knees bent, available, open, and accessible. Suckers replicated by clamps, twine, hardening wax or my eager mouth tasting and biting. The sensation of the deepest darkest cave as I deprive you of sight then sound, a silken scarf covering your face the faintest hint of my perfume the increasing warmth as your breath moulds the material to your lips. Like the undulating pulsing body of the devouring octopus so I cover you, writhing, my trails of pre cum coating the pathway of my desires. Latex tentacles of a flogger that are dragged across you tugging at your skin, catching and pulling on a stray hair follicle as my octodeviancy ponders whether to tease or take. The careful placement of a paddle or a cane, the slightest weight upon you, a constant reminder of what might be.
Then there are other lips other hands, another submissive used as a tool to create further sensations, apply different versions of pain an pleasure, a switch in training. The many arms that hold, enfold, many fingers that probe, stretch, tease. You are tossed about in dark currents of another’s desires, rolling, edging.
Like the hard beak of the octopus I nibble at you sucking you deeply into my mouth, hands pulling at the body of another’s finger forcing themselves into willing orifices as they in turn harden against you. The wraps and turns of the rope that cuts into your flesh as your body cums, muscles flexing trying to relax and release the spasms but bound so that they have nowhere to go but back. Deprived of your senses you only hear in your head your own heart beating the tattoo of having been fucked, against you the radiated heat and powerful jolts of the other body being fucked. Your imagination tripping you into more convulsions as you feel us against you.
Then when untied, three hearts wrapped about each other, legs and arms interlocking slime shared the picture of tentacle porn.