"Oh," someone says, their voice blurry and distant. "Oh, it's pretty now." 
You tilt your head, blinking, one eye moving slightly slower than the other. You don't feel pretty right now; you feel damp and squishy and odd, your feet moving a hair too slow and your body a bit too stiff, even though you're more powerful than you've ever been before. 
"Isn't it?" Another voice, closer now. A tentacle lifts the creature's chin, pink warm and wet against green. You stay up into vicious yellow eyes, so very like the ones you have now. 
(For a second you remember kneeling in a sewer tunnel, bloodied and shaking, an unrecognizable face peering back from a filthy puddle. Maybe you were always going to become something like this). 
"Such a lovely color..." A tentacle caresses your waist and you stiffen, jolted out of the memory. You live to serve, not think. "It suits it quite well, don't you think? Much better than that hideous yellow." 
A tug. Your shorts slip down your thighs, pool around your ankles before getting nimbly tugged away. Something slips between your thighs, pressing over the bulge in your slit, and you whimper. 
"Very nice." They rub at your back and forth, and back and forth, touching you, exploring you. You're theirs to explore, after all, theirs to conquer and ravage. A little churr slips from your twisted new mouth, your warped tongue lapping at the air. 
"That's it." A tentacle wraps around your tail, pleasure spiking through you, and you lean back into the touch. "Greedy little slut, aren't you, darling?" 
N-no. You're not a slut, you're...you're a...you're a t-teenage, mutant, ninja... 
Your tail is tugged away, thoughts sputtering off into a little burst of pain. You whimper, leaning forward a little so that your already exposed rear sticks out even more, and they laugh, the sound ringing through your tender skull. 
"That's it, sweetheart." Tentacles rub over your crotch, teasing your slit open. More tentacles pass over your thighs, squeezes and caress your muscles, entangled with your tentacles in a way that sends electricity humming sweetly through your veins. "You want us to use you, don't you?" 
One of them gives you a nice big smack on the ass and you jolt to attention (good little soldier). More laughter as they reach out and tug your legs apart, exposing you even more. 
"It's a big one," they muse. A tentacle reaches out to wrap around your cock as you drop down and you let out a strangled moan. "I think it'll be able to take all of us, don't you think, brother and sister?" 
"It should," the female muses. She rubs her tentacle down along your rear, squeezing and fondling your stinging flesh. Your cock seems to swell against its will, straining against the confines of the tentacle holding it, and you let out another, pitiful little churr. 
"Yes, it likes this." The tentacle around your tail tightens, forcing you forward again. Your ass is sticking out and your face is pushed into the grip of a slick, slimy tentacle and you must look obscene, your brothers would-- 
What? Who? What brothers? The tentacle around your cock squeezes again, as if chiding your foolish thoughts, and you're grateful. You deserve to be corrected, don't you? You are so lucky to serve, so grateful. 
A rumble in the distance, a sigh. "We don't have much time, I'm afraid." More tentacles cluster your ass, poking and prodding. "We'll have to be quick about it, at least for now. Just a little something to get the blood up--you like that, wouldn't you, sweeting?" 
You try to speak, but it comes out as a strangled whimper. Your hips thrust and your tail wag, your body shuddering with a relentless, sickening want. 
"Of course you do." A tentacle nudges ever so gently at your cheeks, pushing them apart, and you gasp. "It's what we made you for." 
You didn't make me. You didn't-- 
The tentacle they've got toying with your ass feels wet all of a sudden, even wetter than the others, and for a second you think that's why you feel something squelch damply as they nudge at your hole. Then you notice the liquid dripping down your thighs, the buzzing in your senses dying down as you finally get a good sense of what's really going on under your tail. 
You're the one who's wet right now. And your memories are blurry, but you don't really think you could do something like that before. 
What have they done to me? someone screams in the back of your mind, or tries to, but then the tip of the tentacle flicks inside you, pushing past your dripping rim, and you lurch forward with a strangled squeal. You lose your balance, but there are tentacles rubbing up to meet you, caressing you, touching every single part of you. 
They push you back, back as the tentacle shoves in, in. Your arms and legs thrash wildly, beating at nothing, your breath coming so fast it hurts. They press around you in walls of pulsating flesh, choking you with the scent of their want. 
You wail, and they chortle, so loud and close your head hurts. "Oh, it likes us!" A tentacle shoves down your throat and you gag, nostrils flaring. "I can taste its drool." 
The tentacle pushes further and farther, straining against your inner walls. You wriggle frantically, almost instinctively, and the creature fucking you sighs. 
"That's it, slut." They shove you up suddenly, gasping and hissing as you slide back down the tentacle before pushing you back up again. "Bounce for us, dance for you--it's the least you could do after all we've done for you." 
The tentacles wrapped around yours sing with power and you squeeze back desperately. Don't let go, guys, don't let-- The one inside you flexes and your eyes roll up in your head, muffled gibberish spilling from around the one in your throat. 
When another tentacle nudges at your hole you think it's an accident, at first. But then it pushes again, and again, rubbing and tugging at you the way they rub and tug at your poor swollen cock. Your hips jitter, breath coming painfully fast, and you can feel yourself getting slicker. 
It's not enough, though. "Milk it," a Kraang orders, and you feel something pressing that one spot inside you that sends you shuddering, boneless with pleasure. They greedily scoop up the white froth dripping from your cock and bring it back to your ass, adding it to the rest of the slick. 
One of them lets out a grunt of effort as they rub it in, giving your hole just that little push it needs to open up a bit more. Pain blooms through your body as the next tentacle slips inside, but they don't let up. 
They'll never let up. Not when you're gasping with overstimulation, not when your breath strangles in your throat as the second tentacle slips inside. The Kraang push and they touch, and they push and they touch, and they fuck, using you as carelessly and relentlessly as they would any other toy. 
"It's an honor to serve," they growl, their voices coming from everywhere at once. And you have to believe them, don't you? If you didn't, then whatever excuse for a mind you have left would come apart at the seams by now. 
So, you serve. You spread your legs even farther and you lift your tail even higher, and your tentacles squeeze theirs with everything you've got, your claws lashing hungrily at the air. You suck the tentacles in your mouth and wiggle around the tentacles in your rear and when they tell you to come, again and again, you let them. 
They push a third tentacle inside your hole and you should burst, you would burst, but that's not what the Kraang want from you, so you won't. Simple as that. They've made you indestructible now, they made you worth something, and tears of joy spark in your eyes at the idea of proving it. 
"Good boy," one of them says. A tentacle pushes into your eye, past your brain, and from a distance you think it should hurt, but it doesn't, it feels good--so good. You're so happy to serve and you want to show them you’re happy, you want to reach for them and never let go. 
They're playful, your masters. They make sure never to establish a good rhythm, one always pulling out while another pushes deeper in and a third simply wriggles around inside. They're putting a strain on your guts, shoving far enough you can feel your stomach start to bulge, and you think you should be scared, but you're not. You simply don't have room in your mind to feel anything but overwhelmed and broken and needy. 
"What a little cumslut," the biggest one says, gently shifting you back and forth. The term doesn't bother you anymore, though, because it's true. And you're proud of it--at least, you think it's pride you're feeling right now, this feeling burning through you. What else could it be? 
"Yes," the Kraang murmurs to each other, their voices echoing in and out of your mind. "We picked well, didn't we?" The words make you come again, weeping tears of joy. 
When they start pushing a tentacle inside your aching, puffy, overused slit, you let them. When they order you to come despite that, you do, thrusting your hips and shoving back and putting on the very best show you can, until cum starts leaking, painfully from your stuffed cock. 
"So responsive." You honestly don't know how many tentacles are in your ass right now, or to be frank, how many there are in your mouth. "So sturdy." Somehow, they manage to drag your legs even farther apart, until you honestly think they might break something. It'd be worth it. 
The heat, when it comes, is almost subtle, as subtle as anything can't be right now. You really only notice the change when the tentacles inside your ass start to swell, when the pace picks up until your teeth are starting to rattle with how you're being jerked around. 
That's when you notice the tension building around you, the air practically sizzling in your half-strangled lungs. The tentacles jammed inside you twist and unfurl, raking over your tender flesh until you practically convulse. You shudder, the world flashing in and out of sight as you do your level best not to pass out. 
It feels like dying. It feels like being reborn. 
"You want," they growl. "Want us want us want us want us want us--" they say it like it must be true, they say it so that the words echo right through your bones, and you're coming yet again, weeping, when the first ripple passes up inside you. 
The ripple-it's a bulge, a traveling, churning bulge, reaches the end of the tentacle and then beyond, splitting off to heal you with a bright, round little ball of heat. Then another, and another, the tentacles either squeezing you tight enough to leave bruises or pulsing with the weight of more lumps of their own. 
Another lump pushes inside you, and another, and another, your stomach roiling with the gifts as your rim flutters wildly around each new entry. You will yourself to relax, to keep your mouth and legs open wide as you eagerly, greedily accept everything your masters give. 
It's hard to tell how long it goes on for you, not least because you pass out at least twice. You know that they gasp and pant and spit, their voices scraping against your earslits. You know they call you whore, and fuckdoll, and bitch, and that none of it matters because you have been chosen for this special honor. 
You don't really realize things are coming to an end until the tentacles start pulling away, one by one. They take their sweet time dragging out of you, rocking and twisting until you give them one last orgasm for old times' sake. They chuckle merrily among themselves, satisfied with a job well done. 
They let you fall, thudding to your knees, raw and aching and slick with fluids both familiar and alien. You hunch forward, shaking arms pressed to your stomach almost of their own volition, tentacles wrapped around your own shaking shoulders. 
Later on, after your family sets you free, you'll find your arm twitching into place over your stomach for no reason you can remember, at least not right then. You'll pull your hand away as if burned, without really knowing why.
One of them smacks you on the shell. "Come on," they say. "You've got work to do, slut." 
You force yourself upright, knees wobbling, your pleasure-burnt mind settling back into place. Your masters are right, as always; you have work to do. This world isn't going to cleanse itself and it must be cleansed, for your three masters and for--but you can think about them later on. The present is what matters, not the future. 
The Kraang start for the door, and you trot obediently in their wake, dripping with every step. There's a glistening trail behind you, droplets of filth splattered across the stone like tears.