Is this sexy?
Your brain has one answer for that, an answer so forcefully affirmative it lacks any coherent words to express it. But what you really want to know is: is this sexy to her? Are you reading into this, are you just interpreting this how you desperately want to interpret it, that someone wants you? That she wants you? After all, you’re just touching her stomach, sliding your hand down lower, guided down between her hips, her eyes locked with yours, lips parting just as the skin beneath your fingers becomes soft and taut at the same time.
She breathes out heavily, her lips vividly pink. Her skin too is far from its former blue-white hue, now a much warmer pink-white, the space between her spots vivid with the colour.
Her eyes are still focused on you as she breathily states, “This, is where you bumped me.” You look down, see her front two tentacles parted, your hand pressed in between. That sight alone makes you feel like you’ve just swallowed your own tongue, the rush of excitement feeling like it’s going to burst out of your chest. Your mind focusses on every detail at once, as if wanting to remember this precious moment forever - the few visible inches of her pink-white stomach, the spots of her sides hugging the pink colour down the grooves of her hips before curving out again to travelling down the outsides of her tentacles. The insides of her tentacles are the same pale pink-paleness as her stomach, a colour you seem hard-wired to find unbearably sexy. And at the root a frill of semi-transparent skin is stretched between the parted two limbs, the soft skin stretched taut and feeling impossibly smooth beneath your hand.
You move your fingers just a little, hearing her breathe in heavily beside you. You look up to see her eyes half closer and pink lips parted beautifully, invitingly. She focusses on you again with difficulty, stating with great import, “That’s particularly sensitive. And delicate, which is why I yelped when you bumped me.”
“I’m sorry,” you start, before she smiles very warmly, her voice deepened with satisfaction:
“Oh, please don’t be. Or,” she smiles cheekily, “you could make it up to me?”
“How,” you breathe out, feeling so far out of your depth but desperate to keep going.
“Like this,” she moves her hand on yours, and you happily let her guide your fingers to stroke along the amazingly smooth surface, all while trying to keep your heart from exploding. She guides your hand down further, making you reach just over the edge, feeling distinctly like your reaching under her skirt. Her grip adjusts your fingers, lightly pinching your index finger and thumb together over the hem.
You hear her moan softly, look up into her eyes, open and staring at you, pink lips open and breathing so hard you can feel it on your cheek. The colour between her spots is so hotly pink now, standing out starkly against her pale blue hair, framing her face as she stares wantonly at you, half-voiced breath sounding like she’s trying to beg.
You move your hand, running that point of contact slowly along the delicate edge, making her eyes flutter shut as she breathes out harder. Her other hand reaches out and unconsciously grabs a bunch of your loose nightie, squeezing it rhythmically as you run your touch along her, making her beautiful voice moan in each breath as you try not to think about how very close her hand is to your chest.
As if the sound and sight of her couldn’t be any more captivating, the spots on either side of her face seem to move, and it’s only when it happens again that you can see the spots winking out in sequence, a ripple of lightness pulsing up her face. You look down, see the next ripple travelling up her shoulders and neck. You look down further, see the spots of her tentacles winking out in frantic ripples, pulsing out from where your fingers are touching. You see her tentacle rising and tensing in time with the ripples, see the ends curling and uncurling, gripping repeatedly at nothing, the vivid colour between the pulsing spots burning so hot it's almost red.
Suddenly her hand on your chest pulls you towards her, finding yourself staring directly into her hungry eyes. Her spots slowly stop rippling, settling into a distinctly crimson hue, the same red as her parted lips, open just before you, each hot breath felt directly on your open lips.
With visible effort, she closes her eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath, the red colour shifting back towards pink. She opens her eyes, her voice deeper than before, breathy with effort, “I’m, I’m sorry.” She closes her eyes and takes another steadying breath to shift her hue all the way back to purple, her vivid colour leaving the spaces between her spots as they seem to shrink back to their original size, leaving her looking now much paler and softer. She breathes out, and adds more normally, “I’m sorry about that. I just got a little… grabby.”
She lets go of your top, abortively reaching out as if wanting to pat the spot she grabbed, her colour shifting all the way back to a cool blue-white. “Did I hurt you?”
“You didn’t hurt me,” you manage. Surprised is another matter entirely. You want to ask what just happened, but can’t quite think how to phrase it: ‘out of curiosity, why did you turn red and hungry?’ “Are you okay?”
She laughs weakly, her pale skin flushing back to purple-white as she looks over at you with great tenderness. “Yes,” she breathes, reaching up to cup your cheek, “Yes, I’m okay. I’m just sorry if I scared you.”
Her hand feels so warm against you, the feeling of her touching you feeling so distinct and good - almost as distinct as the wonder at how very close you just came to your first kiss. “I wasn’t scared,” you hear yourself say, and you know it’s true. “Surprised, but not scared.”
She looks at you then, like she looked at you back when you met, seeming to be see all the way into your thoughts. Slowly, she smiles again, “Interesting.”
You just stare, knowing you’re missing something but not yet sure what.
“So,” she says with her former, cheeky voice, “it’s my turn, isn’t it?”
“Um, sorry?”
“Truth,” she gleefully states, “when did you, as you put it, ‘know you liked girls’?”
Ah yes, Truth or Dare again. And now you had to tell her the Truth, the one you’d been avoiding all evening, repeatedly trying to work it into the conversation but chickening out at the last second every single time.
You could dodge it now, answer without telling her.
But… you wanted to tell her. You wanted to risk it.
You take a deep breath. “I… guess, it was similar to you, in a different way. I always liked girls, but that wasn’t ‘anything out of the ordinary’ either, not until…”
When you don’t finish the sentence, she gently reaches out, taking your hand in hers, her smooth fingers sliding between yours to warmly hold your hand between your chests. She’s still holding your face, her spots narrowed, making her look much paler, her skin that same fond purple-white as she look at you, eager and expectant. “Until?”
You take a last, deep breath, before you ruin everything. “Until I transitioned last year.”
You wait.
You wait for her to pull away. You wait for her to push you away, to sneer in disgust, to scream at you to get out of a girls’ cabin and never ever come back!
You wait, breath held, heart deflated, ready.
What you’re not ready for, is her to squeeze your hand. What you’re not ready for is to look up into her earnest eyes as she happily remarks, “So that’s what you meant by being new to dresses?”
You breath out all at once, “Exactly,” you breathe again as if for the first time, smiling almost manically, “And new to, well, 'liking girls being a thing’! I was so used to thinking of myself as straight, it’s been weird now thinking of myself as a lesbian, when nothing about who I like has changed!”
She’s still smiling at you, still holding your hand and face, those precious points of contact still impossibly, joyfully there! “So then,” her skin and lips flush a little warmer as she bites lip, “what kind of girls do you like?”
Your heart stops. How can you say ‘you’ without being so obvious?
“I, um…” your eyes widen, and you smile with what you hope is cheekiness. “Actually, it’s my turn.”
“Okay,” she smiles, eagerness in her eyes as she leans closer to you, filling your world and holding you transfixed gazing at her. “What do you really want to ask me?”
“Uhhm,” you try to swallow the quaver in your voice, but find no room in your chest, already filled with the beating of your heart. “I… Truth: have you ever been with someone, like me?”
“There’s no-one like you. But if you mean, have I been with a - what’s your word for it?”
“A, um, a trans girl.”
“Yes, a trans girl, then yes, I have.”
“Oh.” You kick yourself for having that be your response, and end up kicking yourself even harder when you try to fix it by adding, “Was it… good?”
She smiles cheekily, “I think it’s my turn, but given your so seem so invested: then yes, Adira was lovely.” She looks away wistfully, her voice full of fondness, “It felt different with her, more honest, more me. I think it was because she didn’t treat me like a kinky fetish, probably because she knew what that felt like herself.”
She laughs, “For Uvash’s sake, I was even comfortable letting her see me without my -” she suddenly stops, looking back down at you. “But,” she visibly changes tack, leaning a little closer, “to answer you question, it was good. It was just her, and me,” she lets go of your face, using her suddenly pinker fingertips to run down the inside of your arm again and make you shiver, “eagerly exploring each other’s bodies and making the sweetest love to each other.”
“Oh.” you’re breathing too hard to kick yourself, “That sounds, nice?”
She smiles eagerly, “It was, but,” she uses her free hand to poke you playfully in the chest, making your heart skip a beat, “now it’s my turn.” Her spots wince narrower, making her paler as she asks in a smaller voice “Truth: what do you think of my legs?”
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