And now you’re here, laying in bed next to her, watching her chewing her lip thoughtfully as she ponders your question. Not for the first time you notice how different her spots look in the dark, their iridescence gone, letting you see the many brown-black shapes making up the dense pattern. Their collective darkness cups the curves of her beautiful face, traces the line of her neck, outlines the white straps of her bra and the muted pink straps of her nightshirt, the garment hanging loose on her pale skin.
“I think,” she announces, startling you back to yourself, “I always knew. It’s hard to say - where I’m from ‘liking girls’ isn’t anything out of the ordinary, so it’s like trying to answer when you ‘knew’ you had two legs.”
You frown, not wanting to be insensitive despite how genuinely confused you are.
She looks over at you knowingly. “You’re thinking that I don’t have two legs, aren’t you?”
You eyes widen. “I… sorry.”
“It’s okay, you didn’t even say it! And,” she smiles cheekily, her lips warming to purple again, “it may interest you to know that I do, in fact, have two legs.”
Still watching you, she reaches down her body. You can’t help but watch her descending hands, and doubly can’t help finding it inappropriately sexy as she raises the hem of her nightshirt, fanning out the eight, darkly spotted tentacles making up her lower half.
She lifts two of them out from the rest. The brown-black spots visibly narrow, winking out down the gently curving lengths to leave those two tentacles pale and smooth, making it very easy to believe her as she says, “These two are my legs. They’re the ones I walk with and wear socks on.”
That had been something else you hadn’t expected today. You’d been so utterly focussed on facing the wall, getting changed into your night clothes as naturally as possible while you definitely didn’t think about the beautiful woman undressing behind you. Then you heard her warm voice again, asking for the second time that day, “Can you help me?”
“Uh, sure,” you wrestle your loose nightie over your head before asking the wall, “What do you need?”
“Help with this.”
Now you have no choice but to turn around, seeing her standing on the other side of the room, her long blue hair pulled over one iridescent shoulder, revealing the long zipper of her dress, stuck near the top.
“Ah, sure,” you try to sound confident as you cross the room, laughing nervously, “I’m still getting used to these myself.”
“Oh,” she asks with innocent curiosity, “you haven’t been wearing dresses long?”
Your eyes widen, “Uhm, I… let me help you with this.” You gingerly reach out, carefully feeling out how stuck the zipper is, surprised to find it unzip effortlessly down the length of her back. The garment opens as you unzip it, revealing the vivid white of a bra-strap and the gleaming rainbow grooves of her back.
She looks back over one iridescent shoulder, her voice warm. “Thank you very much, Cate.” And she stays looking back at you, her lips that warm shade of purple, becoming even warmer as she starts to lift the long skirt of her dress. You find yourself transfixed by her eyes again, even as a niggling doubt asks how she can reach the floor-length hem while standing straight.
Innocent curiosity, and no other reason, is why you look down, see her hands lifting from the top half of the skirt, the hem lifting apparently by itself… until it lifts high enough for you to see the curves of iridescent tentacles lifting it higher, all the way until her hands are holding the dress at her waist.
She’s not wearing any underwear, the realisation coming just before the realisation that you have no earthly idea what underwear she would wear around the bell of tentacles flaring out from her shapely hips, obscuring all underneath. Maybe she is wearing underwear.
She’s still holding her dress around her waist, still looking back at you over her shoulder, as she asks, “Do you mind?”
You remember yourself in a rush, blushing hotly as you look anywhere else, “Oh, yes, I’m so sorry I’m -” you start to turn away, find her holding your hand. She’s still smiling tenderly back at you.
“It’s okay, I want you to see me. I could just use a hand getting my dress over my head.” She pulls your hand to lay it squarely on her waist.
“Oh, right,” you breathe out all at once, “of course!” You turn back to her and obligingly slide your other hand under hers, then stop, finding yourself somehow with both hands held on her waist.
You breathe in.
You remember you’re meant to be doing something.
You breathe out.
You mentally kick yourself for forgetting what you’re meant to be doing, just standing there, holding her waist, looking into her eyes as she looking back over her shoulder at you, her glossy pink lips so very close to yours.
Your eyes widen, “The dress!”
You remember all at once, bracing yourself to lift the heavy garment, surprised to find it apparently weightless. At first you think it’s her hands on yours, helping take the weight, but the garment becomes no more heavy when she lets go and lifts her arms straight above her head, letting you and four of her tentacles pull the garment over her.
Her pale blue hair cascades back down around her, looking suddenly scruffy and uneven.
“Aaah, okay,” she pulls annoyedly at her hair, “now I do need privacy. But thank you, though, Cate. I’ll see you in bed?”
“Of course,” you kick yourself both for the squeak in your voice and for repeating that phrase so many times already! You frantically try to find a place to put her dress, laying it hurriedly beside her before turning back and leaping onto bed with all the grace of a cannonball, realising too late you hadn’t got under the blankets. But now you’re too busy agonizing over everything else you did wrong, laying there awkwardly until you see her cross the room with the dress in one arm, and what looks like two black, elbow-length gloves in the other. She opens the small wardrobe, hanging the dress and then both of the ‘gloves’, the name seeming even less accurate given that the ‘gloves’ don’t have hands, just tubes of rubber tapering all the way to the rounded ends.
But you don’t have any more time to ponder that before she closes the wardrobe and turns off the light, flooding the room with dark everywhere but her eyes. Those beautiful rainbow eyes, reflecting what little light there is and redirecting it into your eyes as she holds your gaze, crosses the room and crawls onto the bed next to you, laying beside you. She closes her eyes then, stretching out her arms and, from the shift in weight of the mattress, her tentacles too with a contented groan of enjoyment, becoming a haerty, happy sigh.
“So,” she asks with easy confidence as she lays a hand on your waist, and looks into your eyes again, “have you ever played Truth or Dare?”
And now, so much later in the night and so many, many Truth’s later, your eyes have adjusted to the low light, enough to gaze down the length of her bare, smooth legs, lifted up from the rest of the tentacles specifically for you to see.
They look so smooth, almost glossy. You reach out, then immediately stop as your impulse control catches up to you.
“It’s okay,” you look up into her gleaming eyes, “you can touch me if you want.”
You nod, swallow, and reach out to touch one of her raised legs. You instantly breathe out, groaning under your breath as your fingers effortlessly splay out over the impossibly smooth surface.
“Christ,” you mutter, your hand not asking permission from your brain before it strokes your palm over the deliciously smooth skin. “And I thought your hands were soft!”
“You like my hands?” her soft fingertips stroke down your arm, making you shudder even before she reaches the inside of your forearm. She runs the tingling touch of her fingertips down the sensitive skin all the way from inner elbow to inner wrist, making your breath shake the whole time. You’re still stroking her leg, not even realising your reaching higher until your wrist bumps something smooth and taut.
She yelps, and you immediately flinch back, finding your wrist now caught in her pale hand.
She eases her grip, breathing out, “Sorry, just surprised me.” She breathes out again, making all her spots return at once. Then she looks down at you, and frowns, “And I surprised you too, it seems. I’m sorry.”
You shake your head, “It’s okay, sorry if I,” your mind struggles to process what happened, “bumped you?”
Bumped you where is a question your mind struggles even more to process.
She’s still holding your hand, her lips warmly purple again, her voice smaller and breathier as she adds, “I’d… like you to bump me a little more, if that’s okay?”
Her hand gently raises yours between your chests. She reaches her fingers up to hold the back of yours, all while looking directly into your eyes, watching you attentively, asking for permission. You nod, and she stays watching you as she guides your hand down between your bodies, reaching under her nightshirt to touch your palm to her smooth stomach.
You breathe in, trying not to groan at the smoothness of her skin even there, gliding like liquid silk under your hand as she guides you hand lower.
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