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Moon Jellyfish Woman

Moon Jellyfish Woman vol.1 a tentacle romance

A cold summer night on rugged cliffs, their sharp faces lit by moonlight. Long grass billowing against itself, petals of windflowers caught the wind. The sky was full of flinty stars a cold moon, full and white, wet as a new lamb. The cliffs swept up so high around her she felt like she could walk into heaven. Still, it was earth staggered up in its violent darkness an entire horizon of shadows clawing at the sky. Away from the jagged cliffs the ocean and the sky went seamlessly together, black and endless, sparkling with light as brittle as the starlight. She walked, wool shawl pulled close around her shoulders, making herby carefully among the stones.

Along the edge, she looked down the sheer raw faces of broken vertical rock at ocean pools, where eddies of salt and freshwater coiled and ebbed together. Even in the dark black of the night ocean, she could see them, Jellyfish, tangled and tied and in the tide, drifting in black water, thin as bolts of lightning, pale as the moon. She watched them for a long time, skin cool in the steady ocean wind. The Jellyfish drifted, shimmered and floated in the iron water.

In the dark, she touched her mouth, fingertips cold. Could nonhumans be artists? Did they know they were beautiful? Where they making beauty out of their bodies the way dancers did, or like knots of lace caught in the wind. She watched the Jellyfish for a long time, until the cold in her hands sank down into the bone, her joints stiff, and she could taste the salt of the wind on her lips. Before turning for home, she looked again over the cliffs that locked onto heaven and earth. She staggered in its violent light that froze an entire horizon of shadows. In the clouds shadow figures moved and drifted, a motion she would recognise if she could see them in the dark—the same motion in the air as that of a lover’s touch tracing a tense lower lip. The sky shivered softly, for a moment, the moonlight was obscured.

Her house was a swaybacked bungalow lost tough grass and low twisted reaching trees, was glowing blush white like an old bone in the night. When she stepped inside, lit the lamp in the hall, the kitchen, the little living room, the windows filled with a soft golden glow. The light beamed out, travelling for miles into the empty black, brushing the tops of the grass, it soaked the stone floor in steamy light as she moved around the kitchen, filling the kettle, turning on the stove. She filled a cup with loose dark tea, the broken crumbs of flower petals.

Jellyfish are found all over the world, from surface waters to the deep sea. They’d lived on earth for more than 500 million years one of the old complex life forms in existence. So long, floating ancient and lone and still, there were so many things about that them no one knew. No one even her, and she knows so many secrets about them. She sees the invisible ones. Impossible, not dreams, real and floating like clouds, drifting in currents of air through the grass seas along the shoreline.

There are so many questions about them that she can not answer: what are they and why can she see them? is she the only one who can see them? is she mad?

…so many questions that she has no way to answer, has never really bothered to put into words, except maybe to whisper softly to herself.

Who are you…

Where did you come from…

She wonders if there are other invisible animals that she can not see. Still, other people can, if there are other people like her out there, watching jellyfish float through the air. She’d seen them for most of her life. As a child, they were only whispers on her vision, glimpses of smoke or shadow. But as she grew older, as her body blossomed so did the Jellyfish, like the chorus of a Greek drama, the Jellyfish floated and drifted in her privet skies. But even if people besides her could see these invisible followers, would they see them the same way she did: drifting observers, blushing spies.

The kettle made low bubbling sounds, steam drifting out of it, growing steadily more frantic. But for now, she only listened to it, watching the steam gather at the window, turn to dropping water against the glass. Put her window, over the cliffs in the distance, huge in the sky as the moon, a Jellyfish drifted. The core of the airy, translucent sphere is solid, dark point of it’s presence. Always a point in the present moment, from which she assumes it to thank and observes the present moment, forward. In the dark sky, they cast a dim light from heir centres like angels, lit from just under the surface of their transparent membrane skin. Still, it is trapped moonlight, scattering around inside them, filling them with light.

When the kettle boiled, she made tea, steeping it for a long time. Watching out her windows, she sipped the tea slowly, letting it burn her tongue a little, just to feel the sharp tingle. For as long as she could remember, she assumed the Jellyfish were nocturnal animals, as she saw them drift mostly at night. Awake and watchful even in the small hours she would wait up late to catch sight of them, always hopeful. But she isn’t sure if she seems them more at night because they are mostly invisible in sunlight, hard to find in daylight brightness. It would be too simple to say she was in love with them, though she is indeed full of love. There is something else between them, the living transparent clouds, the giants in the sky and their small woman waiting by her windows, and then, turning out her lights.

Getting in bed was one of those steady rituals, made of many small closed circles of tasks. For a while the little house is awake with bathroom lights filling the sink and tub, the laughing sound of water as she washed her face and brushed her teeth, brushed out her hair.

Perhaps, she is bewitched. They feel full of magic, the way they look full of light. And it would be wrong not to wonder if she was mad, she’s wondered over and over. However, if she is, seeing the giant cloud-like Jellyfish is the only symptom, that and the prime honed agony of her sadness when she can not feel them near. A real spasm in the muscle of her heart, a motion the cells don’t know how to make. Primed by despair.

They are, she knows, impossible. She knows it. But nothing in her believes it, and she supposes this is either magic or madness. They turn her heart into a fluttering bird. She is transformed.


You are what you love, and that is all she ever really accept as true. Love makes her it’s object, it's captive observer. It is wrong to assume an object knows all the uses of it. One can never see the ends of things, can never know the fullness of ones own objectification. It is enough that she is allowed to see them, she dosen’t often wonder why… it is enough that they are. When she sees them, it is always moving, like something falling from a high sky into her hands. A gift. Like being hit by something not substantial but unexpected, a punch to the chest, a missed step, a sudden and vicious kiss. Every time she sees them there is the pleasant lurch of pain and longing (can she even tell the difference? ) hope…a muscular twist of her heart. Every time she sees them she is surprised, longs for touch, though they shouldn’t be surpassing because part of her is always waiting for them, because she would never say no.

Slipping between the soft cotton whisper of bedsheets that smell like salt and wind and the soft astringent of rose soap, sunlight, moonlight, the dark honey of her skin. She hunted sleep across a long still hour. For a little, while she watched the sky out her window, she always sleeps with it open, night air and moonlight spilling across her bed like milk. She watched the sky until she drifts onto the shores of sleep. When she closes her eyes, the sky is empty.

Her hands open and close in sleep, slow fists. The night was also and still and full of gusting summer wind. A long dark night during which she dreams of black water licking at dark rocks, her skin. Out her windows widow the jellyfish waft along the cliffs, glowing their limpid light, drifting through the darkened landscape toward her as though she were a light on a horizon.

In her dreams black water whispers against her skin, she can hear it, moving and rushing around her, the sound of her blood rushing, her heartbeat a steady rhythm, like listening to the inside of a seashell. In the moonlit darkness of her room, her body was still in her bed, hands curled, her hair a tattered fan tangled on the pillows around her. She sleeps, body warming, a shine of sweat on her brow, the round of her shoulder, under the blankets her skin is flushed, in places slick.

The atmosphere in her room diffused, her limbs loosend in her deep sleep, even in her dream of floating, she felt the most marvellous sense of ease, a relaxing weight. In her dreams, the black water grows warm like a bath and tastes like salt, fresh oysters, tart dry wine, a kiss, a kiss…

In her sheet, she shivers.

The Jellyfish slid through the dark, all it’s motion smooth as water, it’s body iridescent, bell filled with a soft glow. Moving like a ghost through mist, the Jellyfish’s tentacles wavered and moved, shimmering, vanishing into invisibility before the could brush the earth, It moved forward on a wave of low cool mist. Its tentacles were a mass of plump and billowing banners. Some thin as string, or thick as rope, bright heacy chords of smooth silk, long tendrils ruffled and gleaming like velvet, fat tentacles of light billowing softly, reaching out in the dark. They fanned apart and waved hungrily, coiling and braiding together, unwind, coiling again. As it moved forward it’ light wafted out around it, wafting from the dancing curtain of it’s tentacles.

Gravity suspended around it, darkness filled with languor, and in her sleep, still in her bed, she spiralled deeper into spellbound synchrony, her body warm and wet. The. Jellyfish swam forward on a current of her love for it, drawn to her sweetness. Soon the slide of it’s skin, made of light and some invisible silken tension, was shimmering with a wet sheen, like morning dew.

In her sleep, she stirred as pale light filled her window, fell on across her floor, her bed, spilled across her sheets, filled her palm. Touched her hair gently, sparkled on it’s strands. Her body responds to the light like touch, and in the deep of her sleep, she moans softly. In her dream, she floats in blackness, and in her bed, her labia grow slick, wet, flush so even in her dream, she sighs with the sudden weight of want—the close promise of pleasure.

The Jellyfish glowed, a blister, a pearl, it drifted toward her. Each breath sounded like the sea crashing in her chest, a the rise and fal of the tide, the opening and closing of her heart. Her body resonates like a shell, a spell, sleep closing deeper, so her limbs are soft, her breathing soft. A trace inside a dream. In her dream, her body is humming, a sweet, sharp buzz like she’s been stung.

The Jellyfish’s tentacles blow softly in the wind. Still, they lift with grace, a feminine softening of the ruffles into a rosy glow, borne along with the mist out her window. The gorgeous pouting tenticles unfurled, poured gracefully through her window.

The wanton languor of her sleep only grew more thick and deep, heavy at the proximity of the Jellyfish. The glow from inside the ropes and ribbons of its limbs filled her room, shimmered like the reflection of water on her ceiling, her walls and skin. They reached for her, finding her easy, gently slipping under her sheets, her blankets. The Jellyfish is so careful, tender, seemingly aware of how to move her so as not jar her deeply sleeping body. Everywhere the tentacles touch her glamed softly. Ornate and delicate patterns bloomed where the iridescent tissues brushed the heat of her skin. Brightening the pale membranes, graceful and tousled patterns coiling like smoke turning the pale tissue to radiant ivory, blush rose pink. The tentacles cradle her like a pair of hands.

They lifted her gently, smoothly, her sheets slipping off her skin, her hair uncoiling from the pillow. As they lifted her, the tentacles coiled around her, sliding around her ribs and waist, down her legs. Deep in the jellyfish heart colours bloomed in dark, magenta, pale ivory, passion fruit pink, the tentacles tips dug into her like fingers as stye carried her into the night. In her dream, colours flash on the water, and she felt herself shift and move in the shallows of sleep. Pleasure creeping along her skin where the water touched and splashed over her, a lover’s touch…

The tentacles lifted her through the window, carefully, gently.She shivered, eyelids fluttering under the twin sensations of fresh night air and the firm, taut warm hold, pleasure, pleasure under the Jellyfish’s tentacles, she sighed. The wind lifted her hair, tangled and tugged at the hem of her nightdress. She opened her eyes…

Why did she see them when no one else did? Why did this one flock to her bedroom window and reach out to touch her. Why, when she opened her eyes and found herself held in light, and almost invisible form half a dozen meters in the air, didn’t she panic. Did the Jellyfish produce some kind of calming toxin? An elixir of light touched and filled her with calm, even waking felt like a dream. Did her love for them defuse over all things, even fear? Their touch filled her, a spark of knowledge, some faint charge, lying in a dark night cradled by tentacles, that she was safe. The Jellyfish was lit from within like a dying fire, a golden line around the translucent profile of it’s body was tracing her form. While she watched she saw it’s thin almost invisible skin begin to shimmer. The tentacles holding her grew slick, a warm glassy fluid slid against her skin, squishing out where the tentacles pressed into her, pulled a taut closing of even pressure all around their length as the closed tightly around her. She moaned, fully awake now but body humming, skin alive and still somehow numb, tingling. Warm and cold at once, her mouth dry, her sex throbbing with a sudden horribly intensity. If she wasn’t so totally held, tentacles around her wrists and arms, gripping her ribs. Her hips, scooping around her ass, keeping every part of her…she would have tried to touch herself, instead, she only shuddered, moaned again as the tentacles drew tight, slid down her body, dripping with clear fluid.

She sighed and felt it move through her, move through the Jellyfish, and its light shimmered. They were two forms, one giant one very small, suspected in the dark, black shapes outlined in a thin thread of energy, gleaming, beginning to drip with colour. The line was due to a near-imperceptible flickering where their bodies touched, agitated pleasure into existence. Bioluminescence stalked over her body along with the slick slither of the tentacles.

There are so many questions about them that she could not answer, so many things she didn’t understand. Questions she cannot answer. And every single one of them fell away in long shivers of pleasure as the tentacles slid between her legs, cupped her ass.

Imagine a human body passing through air, leaving behind it, very briefly, a human-shaped tunnel. A hand would make a five-fingered tunnel as it travelled. But since air is a dense mix of particles and creatures--dust, spores, bacteria-as our skin passes through this thick mixture, it left behind a fleeting electrical wake.

Once they touched her…the Jellyfish slid into the hollow wake of her body, and they both shivered with light. The tentacle slide against her labia, the silk of her nightgown slick and wet, her sex wet, everything shimmering, more tentacles slid around her thighs. It lifted the silk and lace hem of her dress away from her hips, skin and silk and transparent slick ribbons of tentacles dripping, glistening.

The slick, thick base of a tentacle slid passed the dripping lips of her labia, so long and firm, sliding for endless seconds and she exploded into shivers of pleasure. Pleasure glowed like wildfire all over her. Every inch of tenticle moved with firm even pressure over her body. But nothing so wonderfully perfect as the tentacle firm between her legs, now waving and wavering, so she was panting, almost breathless.

At the core of the airy, translucent sphere the Jellyfish shone brighter, it’s presence a present moment. Touching and stroking her with many banners and strands of it’s body, everything dripping with long drooling strands of fluid, bright with moonlight. She fought against it only so much that she could thrust and writhe with it, pull more pleasure from her body, from it’s touch. She lifted her hips in the air, threw herself forward, they threw themselves together into each other. an irresistible collision.

Love is always happening for the first time. And whatever makes it like that is a mystery streaming down from all the places they touch. The moments of night and moonlight blur into a blush, from which it’s hard to extract the details, a natural enchantment. The moment is stunning.

Tentacles like fingers traced her tense lower lip, which unfairly makes her look serious because it holds back an avalanche of worries about how she isn’t enough, and at it’s touch all this falls away, her mouth falls deliciously open.

Part ii Coming soon

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