It was our fourth year together. Four years. That's...flowers, I think. Or fruit?
We had been happy. I thought. But she was acting strangely. Distracted. In bed, things were...She seemed distant. I thought she was having an affair. I went on her computer looking for...I don't know. But what I found. Pictures. Videos. Anime. Women being violated by things. Creatures with tentacles. Some were very graphic. I confronted her. She confessed. It was her fantasy. Had always been her fantasy. Since she was a little girl. Her parents took her to an aquarium where they let her put her hands in a tank and touch an octopus. It wrapped its tentacles around her hand, her wrist. Reached up her arm. She never forgot it. That delicious, alien feeling, she called it. Slick, wet, pressure. As she grew up, she hid it. Her desire. Her need. It became that thing in her life that she knew was missing. Would always be missing.
She promised to stop. Stop watching the videos. Looking at the pictures. When she made that promise, I saw something dim in her eyes. I told her, no. No, don't stop...I want you to be happy. I want to give you your heart's desire.
I went online. I found a doctor overseas. There were months of drugs. They made me very sick. Then the surgeries. Dozens of them. Our life savings. She never asked me to. Many times she said I did not have to do it. But I did. I loved her. I wanted to make her happy.
Our first night together after my...augmentation. She was waiting for me in bed. I disrobed. She gasped. Just that sound--that single gasp of joy, of anticipation--made everything worth it.
Then I went to her and ...Slick. Wet. Pressure. Every night. For weeks. Months. We fulfilled almost all of her fantasies. The ones we couldn't achieve, we approximated. I grew to love the slickness of my new skin against hers, my tendrils slipping inside of her, my new cock wrapping around her hand, her wrist. We were happy. For a while.

She went home to visit her family. She had not been in some time. When she returned, things were different. She was distant again. Her parents had spoken to her. They'd heard stories. Seen pictures of what I had become.. They were...ashamed. Confused. Disgusted. She carried a little of that shame and disgust back with her. It festered inside. Eventually she told me she no longer desired what she once desired. I told her I cannot change back. I do not want to change back. This is who I am now. She said, I know. And then she left. I was alone. For a very long time.
There was no one else like me. No one wanted what I had become.
I travelled to the ocean. I was going to walk into the water. I would either drown or find something beneath the waves that resembled me. Desired me.
I was walking across the sand when a voice called to me. Where are you going? I turned and saw her. Lying supine on the beach. She was stunning. Every limb had been planed and polished and sharpened to a razor's edge.
She gleamed viciously in the sun. She had made herself this way for a lover, she said. A lover who wanted to be cut, sliced, slit open. The lover had grown tired as lovers do. And now no one could touch her without bleeding. She was waiting for the sun to burn and bake her until she didn't care anymore.
I reached down and helped her up off the hot stones.
I took her home. We shared stories. Of lovers and fantasies and surgeries.
She is not my fantasy. I am not hers. But we are together. Because when we make love, she does not cut me. I wrap myself around her. My new flesh gives against her touch. I cushion her razor edges so that she can touch the world again. And she slides inside me and becomes the hot, hard center I never knew I was missing.