“They’re amazing!” you hear yourself exclaim before you even realise it, “I mean, I, um, they’re very pretty. And very soft!”
She smiles warmly at you as her spots swell, her hue becoming pink again, warmly so. She closes her eyes, takes a steadying breath, her hue cooling back to a paler pink. “I like your legs too.” She raises one of her two leg tentacles from amidst the rest, the spots on the appendage winking out until it’s perfectly smooth. It looks remarkably similar to your bare leg, now right beneath hers.
She licks her lips, gesturing with her leg down towards yours, “May I?”
You nod, watching as she lays her leg over yours, your eyes closing as you groan at the feeling of the impossibly smooth appendage resting on your own. It’s lighter than you expected, and somehow smoother than you remembered, her skin tingling yours everywhere you’re touching, making the outer-side of your leg feel far better than it has any right to!
You open your eyes, notice the spots of her arms becoming narrower, look up into her eyes to see her watching your attentively, carefully. “Is this okay?”
You nod eagerly.
“Would you like more?”
You nod even more eagerly.
Her pink lips smile as, very gently, she curves the tapered end of her tentacle around your ankle. You shiver hard, but keep eagerly holding her gaze, your breath coming in short bursts as you feel her slowly curve the rest of her leg around yours. You gasp, and keep gasping as you feel that tingling contact spreading around your bare skin, the feeling building until the uppermost coil slides over your inner thigh, making you bite your lip with the delicious feeling.
Your whole leg is flinching rhythmically, moving her against you in short spurts. You try to control yourself, finding it difficult while looking into her hungry eyes, her lips warmly pink and her voice husky in a way that reaches deep into you and grabs hold of something base and eager, as she asks, “Is this okay?”
“Very!” you insist, momentarily worried you’re sounding too enthusiastic. Desperately you try to make conversation. “So, um, you don’t have suckers then?”
Before you can groan at your own thoughtless stupidity, she leans closer, her breath tickling your nose as she answers, “I do actually. Would you like to see?”
You nod, and she leans back, giving you room to try to hopelessly catch your breath as she turns half away and sweeps her pale blue hair back over one shoulder. She reaches behind her head, returning holding a handful of thinner tentacle.
You stare transfixed and confused as she runs her hand down the length of tentacle, like she’s stretching out a limb, accompanied by a contented sigh. Except this limb ends in a flat, rounded kite shape, coloured pale pink-white like the rest of her, except for the much pinker sucker dominating the centre, the shade making it look like a private part of her.
The tentacle end waves at you.
“Hello,” you manage.
She bursts out laughing.
It’s beautiful to hear, and you laugh too, “Sorry, I think now I’m the one out of my depth.”
“That’s okay,” she smiles warmly, “this is all new to you, right? And you have questions, right? Questions you don’t want to ask because you worry they’re insensitive?”
You swallow, “How, could you tell?”
Her smile becomes gently serious, “Tell me - would you rather that people you liked ask you potentially insensitive questions, or be too afraid to engage with who you really are?”
“Hmmm, depends entirely on the person and how wilfully ignorant they are.” A niggling thought repeating the words: people you liked.
“Well,” she smiles, “I would rather than you,” she taps your chest again, and you can’t help but gasp, “ask me the questions you really want to ask, okay?”
“Okay,” you swallow. “Then…. truth: you say you have two legs,” one of which is still warmly wrapped around yours, making you aware of every tiny movement you’re forcing yourself not to make. “What are the, uh, the rest of them then?”
“These?” she raises the flurry of other tentacles, making your heart momentarily leap with possibilities that you are definitely not thinking about! “These outer six are my arms. You see,” she lowers your hand in hers, lays it on the crest of the leg wrapped around yours. She guides your shivering hand up the impossibly smooth skin, you groaning all the way until your wrist touches that taut frill that makes her gasp again. “See,” she breathes through pink lips, “my legs are the ones that come from the middle, while the arms are the ones around the outside. Kind of like a dress, or a skirt of arms… except less creepy than that sounds.”
“It doesn’t sound, um… but if, then, uh,” you try to order your thoughts and not think about how it feels distinctly like she’s guided your hand under her ‘skirt’ to hold the top of her bare thigh, “if these other six are your arms, then what are your, um…”
“My arms,” she raises her hand, leaving yours still holding her leg, paralyzed with the indecision of whether to stay there, to let go, to move higher. She waves her fingers, “these are my honéarms. Uh my,” she chews her lip, “my bony-arms I guess - it loses something in the translation, as does the name for these,” she waves with her suckered tentacle, “my two ‘ponytails’ let’s say? Speaking of which, truth: how on earth do you manage at meet-and-greets with only two arms?!”
You blink, remembering trying to balancing your plate in one hand while eating with the other, already so worried about making a mess you didn’t dare try to add a drink to the awkward mix. “Badly,” you conclude, but then raise an eyebrow as you look up at her, “But then, why were you only using two arms.”
She raises her shoulders in an extended shrug, her voice coming out through the side of her mouth, “Weeeell, I was trying to fit in. People stare a little less openly if I just look like a shiny girl with long hair and a long dress.”
You swallow, “I’m really sorry for staring at you.”
She smiles warmly, “Thank you for explaining why, in perhaps the cutest way possible!”
You blush, feeling the impulse to draw inwards to hide, but finding that difficult with one hand up her skirt and one leg snugly held in place. “Still,” you insist, “I know what it’s like to be stared at, and I’m truly sorry if I made you feel like I was doing that to you.” You shrug weekly, “I guess that’s my ‘Truth’ then: I’m sorry I screwed up meeting you.”
You hear the bed creek as she sits a little up, resting on one elbow as she leans in closer. You look up to see her eyes right above yours, her breath felt on your lips. “Apology accepted. But if you really screwed up that badly, why am I in your bed?”
You swallow.
“But now let’s talk about something more fun.” She licks her pink lips, and you swear you almost feel the movement on yours. “Truth: I’m guessing you’ve never been with an ikawere before?”
You breathe out, “Never!” Your eyes widen, “Not like that!” You’re waving your free hand insistently between you, it feeling like an ineffective t-rex hand between the two of you flailing with your impotent need to explain, “Not because, not like, I’ve never…. been… with anyone… before.”
Those words hang in the air between you, unable to be taken back.
Her hue becomes the warmest purple again, vividly so between her densely packed spots. Her hands reach in to tightly clasp yours, so tightly her hands are shaking. Her leg is coiled possessively around you and her bright eyes are full of the most heartfelt concern, as she asks: “Why ever not? Wait,” her eyes widen, her hue flushing blue again. “Sorry, that was really insensitive of me. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, it’s your turn anyway so -”
“I was afraid.”
She stops.
Slowly, she leans closer. Her purple hue is as warm as before, but her spots narrowed, making her paler, softer. Her tender eyes stay earnestly focussed on you as she squeezes your hand in one of hers, using the other to reach up and gently cup your cheek, her soft, warm palm making you feel so very safe. Her voice is so very gentle, like a familiar blanket wrapped gently around your shoulders, holding you close. “May I ask, why you were afraid?”
You breathe in. How can you explain it? You know why, but that’s only because you’ve spent a year reflecting and re-contextualising a lifetime of thinking you were broken and wrong and not good enough and, and, and how can you compress that all into a single coherent sentence?
You can’t, and so you just let the words flow:
“I found girls, intimidating. I wanted them, I wanted them to see me, to notice me, to like me and Christ I wanted them to want me! But no-one was ever going to notice the shy, wimpy nothing of a boy, too nervous to even talk to them. So I was just left wanting, so much it hurt, and it was only after I… changed, that I realized it was more than complicated than I thought. I didn’t just want them, I wanted to be them, to be one of them, to be happy and pretty and have girl friends and girlfriends and be happy and to be… me! But back then I didn’t know that, so it all just came out as a yearning so strong I couldn’t keep it down, and afraid that if I tried to do anything about it they’d see how desperate and sad and alone I was, so I just… stayed alone.” Your voice is so small you can barely hear it yourself. “It was easy, no-one ever noticed me. No-one ever liked me. No-one ever wanted me. How could they, when I didn’t even want to be me?”
There’s silence for the longest time.
You hear the bed creak, see out of the corner of your eye another one of her arms curl up towards you. You feel the arm curving around your waist, her arm and her leg around yours both pulling you close into her body. She’s soft, and so very warm, the feeling of her enveloping you so completely, so safe.
Your hand and hers are still clasped together between your chests, hers squeezing yours so tightly it almost hurts, her other hand cupping your cheek so very tenderly. She uses that hand to turn your face, making you look up to see her over you, right before you, the spots around her face so vividly, hotly pink. When she speaks it’s with that huskiness from before that reaches deep within you, as she says. “It’s your turn. Ask me if I noticed you?”
You swallow, unable to look away, and never wanting to. “Truth: did you notice me?”
She leans somehow closer, her breath tickling your open lips. “I noticed you. I like you. I want you. So truth: do you want me?”
“More than anything!”
She smiles, and licks her lips. “Then ask me to kiss you.”
“Truth… please kiss me!”
“I think you mean ‘Dare’.”
“Please!”
She leans in the last inch to press her lips to yours.
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