Preview: Catgirl Got Your Tongue, Part 3

Where Etci kissed enthusiastically, and Vikki kissed desperately, Jerrie kisses deliberately. Her wet lips explore yours, the tip of her tongue tracing the shape of your gasping mouth. Her tongue entreats your lips for entry, and you open your mouth gladly to let her explore further, then inhale sharply as she sucks your lower lip into her mouth and applies the slightest pressure of fangs. You feel her smile against you as she lets it go to kiss it better, her chest vibrating against your arm.

You feel Vikki’s hands shaking as they clench and unclench on the sides of your waist, fingers tensing as if they want to grab on firmly. A point slightly past each fingertip presses into the fabric of your dress with every tense, making popping noises as the tips of her claws tease through the fabric repeatedly. The heat between her legs is still pressed firmly against you, and you swear you feel wetness through the fabric of your dress. You also feel the tensing effort of her legs wrapped around your hips, her calves flexing against the outside of your thighs, a strange mix of silky fur and hard, taut muscles, staying motionless with painful effort.

You hear Vikki whimpering, Jerrie’s lips and tongue slowing and drawing back into an emotive kiss goodbye. She breathes out hard.

“Okay,” she purrs under her breath, “okay. Before Vikki explodes, I need to ask you some practical questions. Last STI check?”

You blink, struggling to make your memory work. “Uh, a few months ago, as part of hormones. All good, and I haven’t been with anyone since. And I’m sterile,” Why did you add that? “As part of hormones too. And surgery.” Stop talking!

You can feel Vikki’s legs flexing around your hips, hear Etci making a half moan, half chuckle behind you. Her fingers run playfully up the sensitive sides of your neck, fingertips tracing the edges of your ears and making you shiver.

It’s difficult to focus on Jerrie as she takes another deep breath, “Okay, good. Same for us three with STI’s and on birth control, right?”

“Yeah,” Etci whispers in your ear before taking your earlobe into her mouth and and a rush of overwhelming sensation, letting go to add, “I’m clean and safe. Dirty and risky in other ways though,” she playfully licks the back of your ear.

You dimly register Jerrie’s voice asking, “Right, Vikki?”

You hear Vikki whimper assent, hands grabbing at the front of your dress, the tips of her claws sinking just into your skin on the tender edge of pain, her legs tensing and untensing rhythmically around you.

“Okay,” Jerrie purrs, “sorry I really should have asked all this before we started,” Etci’s sucks your other ear into her mouth, the fingers of her other hand tracing the same movement as her tongue around the shapes of both your ears. You dimly hear Jerrie take another steadying breath, “Okay, is there anywhere you don’t want to be touched? Etci!”

Etci lets go of your ear with a giggle, “Oh you can touch me anywhere you fucking want!”

You postpone dealing with that to give yourself a moment to gather your scattered thoughts, “Um, no, no I’m good with,” you feel Vikki’s heat pressed against you, tensing with the mounting effort of not moving, “I’m okay with being touched anywhere.”

You can hear Jerrie breathing in deeply, “Okay, last question.” She breathes out a heavy purr. You hear and feel her leaning closer, feel her arm move before Etci lets go of your ear with a disappointed moan. You hear Jerrie’s lips part right next to your ear, before she whispers: “Are you okay with cumming inside of us?”

You make a strangled noise, as much for the question as for Vikki’s flinching against you, her hips losing the battle and tensing against you in brief spurts of intense half-movement.

Jerrie places a hand on Vikki’s leg, stilling her at the cost of another louder, even more pained whimper. You feel Jerrie turn back to you. “You don’t have to if you don’t -”

“I want to,” you blurt out, “I’m okay with - that.”

Vikki whimpers again, legs tensing even as Jerrie’s hand holds her still. Vikki leans in, her chest pressing warmly against your front, her small hands holding bunches of the top of your dress, her lips breathing against yours. You realise you’ve closed your eyes, opening them again to see Vikki’s pink eyes turned almost black, her pupils so dilated they all but flood out her pink irises. She’s breathing hotly against your lips, making little whimpering noises that morph into her pained voice asking, “Oh please, please, please cum inside me, please!”

You lean in and kiss her.

Her breath explodes out of her and into you. She throws her arms around your neck and kisses you back all at once. You reach in and hold her waist, instantly feeling her hips eagerly thrusting over you, making you cry out even before she sucks your tongue into her mouth, moaning as she sucks up and down its length in a way that is absolutely indecent. You struggle to remember her as a meek little thing, even before her lips break free in a wet gasp so she can frantically kiss down your neck, pulling at the fabric of your dress with pained whimpers.

“Do you,” you breathe, “do you want me to take it off?”

She nods emphatically, hips still grinding against you even as she frantically yanks the hem of your dress out from between her thrusting legs, letting you feel the silky contact of her legs wrapped tightly around your hips, thrusting over them. Breathing hard you struggle to concentrate on pulling the hem up your waist.

“Here,” you hear someone say, unsure if it was Jerrie or Etci, both helping you pull your dress up your body. You raise your arms, letting Etci pull your dress up and over your head and past your raised hands. You try to lower your arms again, but find Etci hugging them, kissing your skin, turning one hand to kiss your sensitive wrist. She runs her fingertips down the inside of your forearms, making you shiver even as your whole body moves with the rhythm of Vikki’s hips. You feel Etci’s lips moving down your forearms, from one intense kiss to the next, moving with purpose down to the inside of your elbow where she sucks and makes you gasp into Jerrie’s waiting lips. At least you think it’s her based on the deliberate way she kisses you, matching your pace as she finds your tongue, purring around your moaning breaths. A moment later you feel Vikki laying her hands on your bra and burying her face between your breasts, inhaling against your skin and groaning out a long purr. She starts lapping at your skin, moving out across one half-covered breast as her hips keep thrusting faster over the building pleasure in your lap.

You feel Jerrie’s hand slide in behind your back, finding the clasp of your bra. She stops kissing you to ask with a breathy voice, “May I?”

“Please,” you gasp, and she does something complicated and deft, hooks popping free one after another until the band springs apart, your bra hanging loose from your shoulders. Vikki lifts your bra up and gasps out a purr, her lips still vibrating as she takes your nipple into her mouth.

Continue

Preview: Catgirl Got Your Tongue, Part 2

There are three couches, around a table with folded bedding waiting for when the four of you went to sleep… on three couches. You postpone handling that to consider the much more immediate question of whether you should sit on one of the free couches, while Vikki is sitting there all by herself, very clearly having made room for you.

Your heart racing with the fear you’re both over- and under-thinking this, you make your way over to where Vikki waits, carefully sitting beside her with enough room not to touch. She instantly moves closer until her thigh is pressed against yours, her white fur silky soft against your leg.

Jerrie moves up to you, holding two glasses perfectly level as she gracefully sits on your other side. She leans over to offer your drink, her soft chess pressing into your upper arm.

“Thank you,” you squeak, somehow taking the glass without moving above your elbow. You look up to see Etci standing there, tight red top and black short shorts leaving precious little to the imagination. Where is she going to sit? She seems to be figuring that out herself, before smiling knowingly, walking up to the Jerrie’s armrest and nimbly climbing up and around to the back of the sofa. You lean forward to make room, hear her lay down behind you, feel two hands taking your shoulders and pulling you back, the back of your head resting against something both soft and firm.

You don’t dare look back to confirm what you’re touching, distracted by her hand letting go of one shoulder and tracing up and into your hair, fingertips sinking in and playing. It feels nice, her fingers lightly stroking and gently pulling, and with a start you feel her fingernails scratching the most intensely pleasant sensations into your scalp. You shiver, dimly remembering that she didn’t have fingernails, but unable to reconcile the image of extended claws with the most blissful points tracing tantalising circles around your head.

“Comfortable?” Jerrie asks, at least you think it’s Jerrie. She still leaned forward, her own softness still pressing into your arm.

“Mhmmm,” you try to nod, Etci’s other hand instantly holding the back of your neck.

“Careful,” you hear her say behind you, feeling the vibrations of her voice against the back of your head. Gently her first hand resumes its magic along the top of your scalp, her voice felt adding, “No sudden movements please, I don’t want to scratch you. Not if you don’t want me to.”

Vikki on your other side leans closer, her arms pressing up to hold yours. You hear her whisper something.

“Sorry?” you struggle to focus, “What was that?” It takes enormous effort to focus over your thundering pulse enough to hear her only slightly louder words.

“You can put your arm around me. If you want to.”

You feel like your heart just exploded. Without daring to say a word you shuffle your arm out from between the two of you, your forearm brushing the soft tips of her ears as you move your arm behind her head.

“Sorr-” you start, interrupted by her lunging into your side. You feel her arms wrapped around you just below your chest, her face buried into your side, nose pressing into the side of your breast, drawing in a deep breath. She starts purring loudly, the rumbling sound vibrating against you.

You half flinch as Jerrie lays a hand on your leg, immediately letting go.

“Sorry,” you manage, “just,” you struggle to breathe with Etci repeatedly splaying her fingers out over the top of your head, sending shivers down your spine, and you don’t know if it’s your shivering or if she’s purring against the back of your head too. Meanwhile, Vikki is snuggling into your side, inhaling and purring deeply. You lay your arm down over her small shoulders, feel her press against you harder. You swallow, “Just caught me off guard.”

“It’s okay,” Jerrie soothes beside you, more gently laying her hand on your bare leg, fingers stroking your skin. You think you hear her purring too, softly, her voice low but earnest, “If you’re overwhelmed or need some space, just say so.”

“I’m okay,” you manage as Etci uses both hands to scratch blissfully around both sides of your head, Vikki snuggling up higher against you, nose moving towards your armpit, inhaling deeper, purring louder. She somehow snuggles closer, crawling half into your lap with one leg sliding between yours. Her skin feels like warm silk, her smooth fur making your nerves sing.

You hear Etci purr behind you, “Hey.” At least you think it’s, um, what were you…

“Yeah?” you manage, not really sure who you’re talking to.

She stops scratching your head, the sensations still singing everywhere she touched as she runs one hand down to the back of your neck, the other sliding round to cup your chin. You feel her move behind you, your spine like putty as she cradles your head, letting it fall back until you’re looking up into her golden eyes, bright in the dark as they smile down at you. She licks her lips, their gloss catching the light as she leans down, and presses them to yours.

You kiss her back, feeling her breathing you in, her tongue inquisitively tasting you, feeling her moan into your mouth before her tongue hungrily seeks out yours. You can taste the milk and vodka on her, drinking in the shivering richness as she kisses you with steadily increasing fervour.

You feel Vikki moving in your lap, straddling your hips, the hem of her dress felt on the outside of your legs. You feel her silky fur wrapped around your legs, her front pressing warmly against yours, her hands reaching around your head, pushing under Etci’s grip and angling your head forwards into another much more ardent kiss. You hear her moaning sharply between kisses, which is not a sound you expected Vikki to make, but that’s not half as surprising as the absolute desperation with which she kisses you, moaning each time she tastes your lips or laps at your tongue, her hands shaking as they pull you into her overwhelming need.

“Vikki,” Jerrie’s voice sounds like it’s coming from far off. You feel her sliding her hand between you and Vikki, slowly but firmly pushing Vikki back, who whimpers as her lips leave yours, hands trying to pull you closer despite Jerrie stopping you.

You feel Jerrie’s softness move against you as she leans closer, a new kind of tension in her purring voice. “Is this okay? Do you want this?”

Vikki, still trying to pull you closer, unintentionally moves herself in your lap, making you gasp as she moves over something hard. She gasps too, adjusting and moving a part of her that’s much softer and hotter over you, moaning sharply as she does.

“Vikki,” Jerrie cautions, Vikki whimpering again as she holds herself still with a great effort.

Jerrie lets go of Vikki, cupping your chin and turning you towards her, those jade irises almost crowded out by her dilated pupils. She’s breathing heavily, purring under her breath, but swallows to ask with a voice barely level. “Are you alright? Are you good with this?”

Now it’s your turn to whimper, as you emphatically nod.

Jerrie beams, “Good”, and leans in to kiss you.

Continue

Preview: Catgirl Got Your Tongue, Part 1

It'd been a great party, the first you’d attended in far too long. Working from home was a luxury you were unbelievably grateful for, but still, just being in the same room as people, being able to wander up to groups of people and start conversations had felt nothing short of magical. You’d missed people, old friends, new friends, and even:

“More milk!” Etci demands, slamming her white-stained glass down on the table. A few drops run down her chin, creating lines in her fine white fur at the corners of her pink lips, where the tips of her fangs are just visible. The white of her face stands in stark contrast to her already unruly brown and black hair, streaks of orange speckled throughout, her darkly furred and pointed ears most visible for their light pink insides.

“Say please,” Jerrie insists, the tall woman taking Etci’s cup and adding it to her own with a clink, “quietly if you can.” Her hair is long and glossy orange, striped darker orange down its considerable length, the same stripes cupping the outside of her orange arms and legs, accentuating their length too. Her orange furred ears are slightly smaller and rounder than Etci’s, angled forward attentively, her lighter orange face fixed on Etci with infinite patience.

Etci throws up her hands, “Fine!” Then she smirks, turning to Jerrie to drawl with sickly sweetness, “P-lease.”

Jerrie sighs as she takes Etci’s glass, who stays smirking to herself right up until her ears and body tense straight, her fur standing on end as Jerrie ever so lightly steps on the end of her tail while passing.

Across the table a small voice politely asks, “Please?” Vikki reaches out a small hand, white as the liquid staining the glass she holds. Her entire body is glossy white, her dress too, in contrast to the light green of Jerrie’s dress and the tight red of Etci’s top each offsetting their owner’s fur. But Vikki is all white, her quartz hair long and wavy, large ears pointed attentively, their bright pink insides focussed on you.

Not for the first time you worry your own simple blue dress is far too, well, simple.

Jerrie stops beside you, resting a warm hand on your shoulder, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try some?”

“Um,” you try, “What is it?”

“Ha!” Etci’s golden eyes are alight with amusement. “It’s just fermented milk,” she raises up a mostly empty bottle of vodka, “with a little extra kick, for those who like it rough.” She smiles broadly, showing her fangs, and not for the first time you worry how much that excites you. Or maybe it’s just the look in those large golden eyes, the angular outer corners raising with her smile, slitted pupils dilating as she openly stares at you.

Jerrie’s hand squeezes your shoulder ever so slightly, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, no matter what Etci says.”

You’re still looking at Etci as she runs her tongue from fang to fang. You clear your throat, “I… think I’d like to.”

You look up to see Jerrie smiling broadly. She’s very beautiful, not as scandalously attractive as Etci, but definitely more beautiful, the tips of her fangs a little less visible in the corners of her generous smile, the jade green of her eyes smiling reassuringly down at you. And her light green dress is very well cut to emphasise two parts of her you are pointedly not looking at.

Still smiling, she reaches past you for your glass, her dress brushing the top of your shoulder and making your whole body go stiff. You're still stiff, trying not to think about which part of her just softly rested on your shoulder, as you hear her crossing the dark living room to the open kitchen occupying one side, the opening of a fridge followed by the tinkle of glass bottles.

You look across at Etci, seeing her still smiling knowingly at you, making you aware of the heat in your cheeks. Are you blushing? Instead, you look over at Vikki, who's still sitting small in her chair, both hands fiddling with a silver pendant she’s pulled free of her dress. It’s small and slightly tarnished with age, making the tiniest clinking sounds as she moves the interior parts. Her ears are still focussed on you.

“So,” you ask, desperate to make conversation both as a distracting from the heat in your cheeks and from Etci’s gaze, and as a way to involve Vikki in the conversation. You point at her necklace, “is that a time turner?”

She looks up at you, pink eyes wide. Then she looks down, “No. I have a time turner necklace, but…” she trails off into a small nothing.

“So you’re a fan then?” You gently try to coax her out of her shell.

“HA!” Etci laughs hard enough to make you flinch, “Is Vikki a fan? She only read them all on the day of release. And when she was waiting in line for the last one and some guy started yelling out spoilers, fuck, the look on his face when she landed on him!”

“As I recall,” Jerrie adds, placing a tall glass full of what appears to be milk before you, “we both had to drag her off him.” She goes around the table, placing a glass before Etci which is immediately topped up with a disturbing amount of vodka. When she comes to Vikki she places the glass before her, then leans down to wrap her arms around her from behind, hugging her close.

Vikki’s voice is an emphatic whisper, “He was being selfish! Ruining it for everyone!”

Jerrie kisses the back of one large ear, “Yes, and all the other people waiting in line and the security guards somehow hadn’t seen a thing, so I think they were grateful.”

You stare at Vikki, at the shy little thing, struggling to imagine her flying through the air at someone. You clear your throat, “I would have been grateful too. Those people were the worst - I’m just glad I got my copy without any of them there.”

Vikki looks up wide eyed at you again, “You like it too?”

“I… did? I’m,” you shake your head, “I’m still figuring that out, trying to reconcile something precious from my childhood with the author’s recent… opinions about people like me.”

Vikki tilts her head to one side, “People like you?”

“Trans women.”

“Yeah, fuck that noise,” Etci announces beside you, leaning forward to pour vodka into your glass with a clink. “Thought that helps explain your deliciously complicated scent.”

You just stare, not even noticing your steadily rising drink, “Complicated scent?”

“Etci,” Jerrie interjects with a tired tone, “What did we say about respecting boundaries? For the drink as well as… whatever you’re doing.”

“Oh, come on,” she says, still staring into your eyes.

“Etci.”

She pouts and stops pouring, putting the bottle on the table without looking away from you. She leans even closer to whisper in your ear, “You smell very good by the way.”

Jerri squeezes Vikki goodbye, then comes around, tail flicking behind her. She shoos Etci back as she moves to replace your vodka’d glass with her own.

“It’s okay,” you interrupt her movement with a voice slightly higher pitched than you’d intended. You clear your throat, “I’m okay. I think I could use a drink.” You recall the amount of vodka added to the glass, “Or three.”

You’ve been pacing yourself all night, nervous after not drinking socially in so long. But now everyone else has gone either left, or gone to bed upstairs, and you’re barely even tipsy. Well, you look around, Etci’s eyes and Vikki’s ears staring at you, almost everyone.

Jerrie hesitantly takes her hand back as you take your drink, smelling it. You smell vodka.

“Here,” Jerrie sifts through the mess of empty bottles and forgotten drinks on the table, finding a clean straw and using it to stir your drink. “Try now.”

You smell again, and still smell vodka, but also the rich smell of milk, somehow smelling richer than you’d expect it too. You take a sip, tasting a mix of the cool burn of good vodka and the soothing warmth of very flavourful milk, followed by a creamy and every so slightly sour aftertaste. You take another sip.

“This is good!” you announce, “Really good! Why haven’t I ever seen this before?”

Jerrie sighs, “There aren’t many nekos in this country, so there isn’t really a market for it. Not while everyone thinks of it as a weird ‘cat’ drink anyway.” She squeezes your shoulder, smiling down at you again. “I’m glad you like it.”

It’s true you hadn’t seen many nekowere, and never had a chance to really sit down and share more than a few words with one. And now you're at a table with three of them all focussed on you, painfully aware of your ignorance. You have so many questions you want to ask, but fear all your questions are the ones everyone insensitively asks.

As their conversation continues on around you, Etci and Jerrie having firmly opposing views about which movie was the best one, both making room for Vikki’s quite but forceful interjections, you surreptitiously turn on your phone in your lap and tap a question into a new browser tab. You’ve just opened the first result and scrolled down a little when you realise the room’s gone quiet. You look up into Etci’s gleaming eyes.

“What’s that,” she demands, pointing at your phone with a sly smile, “Boring you are we?”

Jerrie’s tone is low with warning, “Etci.”

“No - not boring, I,” you stammer, lifting the phone, hesitating between handing it over and hiding it in your chest. Before you can decide Etci plucks it from your hand, pupils narrowing on the open page. She makes a strangled laugh, and reads aloud:

“What You Can’t Ask a Nekowere. Question 3: Are you in heat?”

“Etci!” Jerrie snatches the phone back lightning fast, turning it off and passing it back to you while still glaring at Etci. “Don’t be so rude!” Her tone softens instantly as she looks down at you, “I’m sure she’s just curious, right?”

You mutely nod.

Across the table, a tiny voice whispers something.

You look over to Vikki, not sure you’d heard it. Did she just whisper: ‘Yes’?

You definitely hear Etci on your other side groaning. “Gaaaahaaaa! It suuuucks!” She leans back in her chair with her glass at her lips, sculling the very alcohol contents before slamming the glass back to the table. She’s still leaning back in her chair as she turns to look sidelong at you. “Talking about questions you can’t ask, human hormone cycles also sync up, don’t they? Like if you have a group of women living together eventually their cycles all align, right?”

You feel Jerrie’s hand tighten on your shoulder.

“I’ve heard that,” you interject, trying to keep the peace, “but I wouldn’t know myself - different hardware.”

Jerrie leans down, glaring at Etci but saying with barely strained warmth to you. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about this.”

“I don’t mind, really” you answer honestly. You’re not sure if it’s normal, but you personally enjoy talking about something that’s an enormous part of your life, something you’ve done a lot of research on as part of a very rewarding journey of self re-discovery. At least, you enjoy talking about it with well-meaning people, and while Etci straddles that line, you think she’s well-meaning, deep down.

She groans again as she leans back further on her chair, on the edge of overbalancing. “Well nekowere cycles do sync up, and it is not fun having a group of horny girls in a house trying not to kill each other over who ate who’s sandwich.”

“Etci,” Jerrie cautions, “Vikki already apologised for eating your sandwich… and for trying to take your throat out.”

Etci barrels on regardless, “And the only way to remedy it any time soon also comes with a very serious risk of being treated like a fetish. So no, you can’t ask a neko if they’re in heat, not if you expect the answer to be ‘yes and I’ll do it with anyone, where’s your car?’”

She looks sideline at you, grinning. “But,” she lowers her chair, her tail swishing behind her, “if you expect the answer to be ‘yes, interesting person I’ve gotten to know and quite like, and I would really really enjoy you riding me six ways to Sunday,” she leans forward, purring under her breath, “then maybe you can ask.”

“Oh,” you manage, “that sounds… nice.”

You groan inside, mentally kicking yourself over and over for saying the stupidest thing possible! You take another long swig of your drink, enjoying the frigid burn of the vodka.

Jerrie’s hand is still on your shoulder, thumb stroking thoughtfully. “Maybe we’d be more comfortable if we moved over to the couches?”

You hear movement, look across the table to see Vikki’s empty chair rocking to a stop. You look over to the three deep grey couches arranged around the large tv, the darkness and dark couch fabric only serving to highlight the white shape of Vikki sitting innocuously on one of them. She’s not sitting in the middle, but off to one side, looking forward but very clearly waiting, her ears pivoted over to you.

Jerrie leans down to ask, “Would you be more comfortable here?”

You swallow. After everything that was just said, two equally strong emotions war in your head: the excitement that someone - that three people may be propositioning you, and the terror that you’re reading a proposition into something by being a narrow-minded assuming idiot. But… Vikki is over there, sitting forward with her hands resting on her knees, radiating the fact she was waiting for you without making a sound.

“Sure,” you announce, seeing Vikki’s ears perk up. You start getting up, finding yourself sandwiched between Jerri and Etci still leaning forward, grinning up at you. She barely moves back as you get up, your crotch much closer to her smiling face than you’d meant to. You reach for your glass, see Jerrie is already holding it, shrug and make your way over to the couches.

It was just a change of seating, right?

Continue

Preview: Succulent, Part 4

You’re addicted to masturbating, and it’s all because of that smug pla - “Aaah!”

You’re seated on one of the smooth rocks that encircle the pond, smelling crisp with the slightly musky undertone of the glowing blue hydroshrumes below the water. It feels like all your senses are on overdrive, feeling the slight movements of the water lapping around your feet. You’re halfway between sitting on the rocks and kneeling in the water, the position naturally opening your legs to your willing hands.

One hand relentlessly pumps your cock even as the fading aftershocks of your last orgasm seep into the pool, the plant's tendrils positively writhing above it. It’s so stupid, you huff something like a laugh at the thought of the plant assuming you’re here to feed it. How wrong it was.

Your other hand is stretched to reach between your legs, two fingers impatiently spiralling just inside your hole, having finally stretched yourself enough to allow those fingers to sink deeper insi - “AIII!”

Your fingertips recoil and you gasp for air, your whole body shuddering. Your hand on your cock has let go and is seized, motionless and not quite touching, but even without friction the radiating warmth of your hand on your shaft is incredible. All other sensations are heightened so much more with that slight brush of fingers against your prostate. You bite your lip, unable to resist the urge to continue. You press with your fingertips into that soft spot, feeling it respond like electricity crackling through all your nerves at once, the feeling arcing into the pressure in your hips and sparking an explosion that fills your whole body with that sense of imminent need.

You keep pressing, again and again, your legs lifting your barely seated rear up off the rock as you press harder, your hand slapping between the water and your balls as you thrust your fingers into yourself over and over. You can hear and see the water rippling in increasingly uneven splashes around you. Each thrust of your fingers feeling like they’re lifting you up off the ground, again and again, unable to stop while your other hand is trying in vain to start touching your cock again, knowing how impossibly good it will feel. Your moans are so high they sound like crying, begging, and you whimper as your dazed vision focuses on the plant, its tendrils writhing with uncontained eagerness.

“Go - go fuck - gaaah -” you try, glaring at the plant as you thrust into yourself.

It had taken just 24 hours to do this to you, make you like this! It wasn’t your fault, you’d been so careful, keeping notes on your wristcomp of the effects every three hours, sorted by body part, sensitivity, arousal response. The intensity of your orgasms. So many orgasms. You’d had just as many here in the last hour of relentless pleasure with no end in sight, your whole body drenched in sweat, skin burning feverishly in the cool water your remember being warm, your fingers straining to reach deeper and pound into you harder, faster, right into the overpowering joy building in your thrusting hips, getting closer, almost, almost enough, your cock tensing madly in your open grip.

You’d even taken blood samples, isolated the unknown ingredients and graphed their deterioration, forcing yourself not to return here until it you were sure it was out of your system, that it was safe. And only when it was safe, had you returned and fed the thirsty plant an entire carton of milk, receiving an entire beaker in exchange.

And you’d drank it all.

But this, you tell yourself as you keep thrusting, keeping trying in vain to touch your aching cock, this will be it, this will be it! Your hips keep thrusting and your fingers keep driving relentlessly into you, into the promise of a final orgasm so intense it will have to be enough! You can feel it, you’re close, you’ve never done it before but you know you can make yourself cum with just your fingers, building the pressure within you, feeling it filling your entire tensing body. You can do it - but it would be so much easier if you could just bring yourself to touch your cock!

Before you the plant is reaching out to you, tendrils straining taut, one almost close enough to touch. You grab at it, instantly slipping off, your hand slick with the clear liquid that coats it. The grab seems to only make more tendrils want to reach out, and you grab at them too, half laughing with a manic energy, half swearing with frustration as you keep trying to push yourself over the edge, seeing your free hand glistening with the tendril’s clear liquid.

With enormous effort and the ardent promise of greater rewards to come, you force your other hand to slow, slow, ease to a stop, leaving your fingers pressing deeply into you, holding you there tensing hard. You’re breathing so hard, skin burning, nipples aching, pulse pounding in your ears as you stare down at your slick hand, breathing in the oily, vaguely salty sent nowhere near as pungent of the smell of sex radiating from you. With effort you close your eyes, force your addled mind to focus, to remember your analysis of the clear liquid. Water, mostly, thickened with glycerine and some moisturising elements and a few unknown -

“Mostly water,” Desyre’s mocking voice interrupts. You open your eyes to see her there standing in the water before you, her grey hoodie and pink pants both conspicuously dry, your imagination more focused on her face staring down at you with superior contempt.

You glare up at her, and smear your hand over your chest, struggling to maintain eye contact as you touch the liquid to a nipple. It feels so cool against your skin, somehow making your nipple ache even more, your fingertips reflexively squeezing -

“AAAHAAA!” you’re staring up at the ceiling, breathing even harder with your splayed hand trembling before your chest, slick nipple throbbing so hard it hurts. Wincing, you try bringing your hand in flat, tenderly touching palm to nipple, gently pressing, moving in slow circles that draw your shuddering voice cooing out of you, a whimper becoming a sigh as fingers roll across your nipple. Stars above how does it feel even better?

“Because of the ‘mostly water’,” Desyre chides, arms crossed, “did you want to try drinking some of that too?”

You glare again. “I only - I only did that - aaah -” you struggle to speak with your fingers rolling the sweetest sensations over your nipple, your hand tensing inside you, the dual sensations pooling the most unbearable need in your tensing cock “I only did that - to show you - to show you -”

“That I was wrong?” she’s leaning down over you, hands on her hips, wearing that damnable smirk. “That you knew better than me?”

“I DO know better than you!” Your hands have stopped. “I’m a fucking expert! I’ve spent years working with the best Xenobotanist and the best samples and - and I know what I’m fucking doing!”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“Oh, will you fuck off or help me please?”

“Help you, how?” you can hear her still smirking, but her tone no longer sounds superior. It’s more coy. You look down, seeing Desyre on all fours before you, her pale ass raised up towards you, glistening just above the pool. She shakes a few drops off her creamy hips, asking mockingly “How can I help you, Miss Expert?”

You make a sound halfway between a moan and a growl, and before she can comment you see yourself reach out to grab her hips, making her interrupt herself with a yelp of surprise. She giggles, wiggling a little in your grasp as if threatening to escape. “Oh no,” she looks over her tattooed shoulder with a mocking smile, “are you going to use your botany on me?”

“I might,” you extend a hand to the still reaching tendrils, letting a few of them generously slick your palm, before bringing it down and gripping your shaft.

Your vision whites out for a moment, and when you come back to yourself you realise you’re moaning, breath coming in gasps and desperate mewls, your spine buckled forwards over Desyre as you delicately try to apply the mostly water to your skin.

In this position her voice so much closer, and much more pouty. “Why do you get to have all the fun?”

“Just - wait a damn - second - I - don’t - want - to hurt - you!”

“Afraid I can’t take it?”

“Will you just -”

“Well, I guess you do know better.”

“Fucking!” you grab her hips again and pull her back, your imagined aim true as you feel your tip touch her wetness, making you both cry out, panting in the aftermath. Just touching the liquid to your tip feels so intense, so sweet, making it all too easy to believe the brush of your slick fingers is the slick of her body rubbing against you, your moaning breaths of apprehension and anticipation sounding like hers.

“Oh, Sue, don’t make me beg.”

“Maybe, maybe I want to hear you beg.”

“Pleeeaaase, Sue. Pretty please.”

“Please what?”

“Pretty please, Miss Expert. Please fuck me!”

You make a pained sound, as much from hearing those words as from sliding forwards into your parting grip, into Desyre in a long, unbroken moment, feeling her body opening before you, shuddering around you, worrying you’re hurting her even as she pushes back needily against you. You’re still fighting your body’s resistance, felt as her body’s resistance as you slowly part her tightness, overcome with agonizing slowness as you push slowly deeper and she impatiently pushes back against you and you both moan in beautiful unison.

You slow for a second, breathing hard, so hard it's almost all you can do, seeing your hands holding onto her perfect hips, not daring to give in to your desire to pull, feeling her pushing anyway, making you sink further inside. And with your fingertips pressing into your hole - no with her fingertips - but she’s on all fours, using her hands to keep herself panting above the water. With the plant’s two tendrils pressing into your hole, their pink length stretching so much longer than you thought possible as it reaches between Desyre’s arms and breasts and legs and reaches up to press perfectly and directly into you, making it feel like your whole body is pulled into your cock. You feel every singing moment as you slide steadily deeper, deeper, deeper, pulling back when it’s too much only to hear her moan disappointedly and push you in deeper again, and again, her hips rocking back against you, yours rocking back against hers, shaking as your body's rhythm fights your impulse to not be too rough, not hurt her, not go too far, not, not - seeing your bodies thrusting into each other, hearing your desperate moans as her beautiful voice begging for more.

“Oh, oh Sue, my Sue, please Sue, please fuck me hard!”

Something breaks within you. You see yourself grab her hips firmly, fingers digging into her pale softness and pulling her into you just as the tendrils drive up into you, the slap of your hand heard as the beautiful sound of her hips smacking into yours, seeing her back arching as you hear the sound of her voice.

“Oh - oh fuck, fuck!” she’s breathing so hard you can feel it, tilting her head with a desperate look and keening, “Harder! Please harder!”

You can’t contain your response, crying out as you push her hips and pull back her into you as hard as you can, over and over, the tendrils thrusting into you just as hard and driving you on. You hear the water splashing and the beautiful sound of your hips joining together over and over, faster and faster, a rhythm you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to, and never would with Desyre there begging you to keep going, keep going.

“Fuck, I’m close, don’t stop, don’t stop!”

You can’t tell her you’re already there, can’t stop thrusting as you feel it start, can’t stop even as you feel the pressure within you give a whimper of defeat, and explode to fill you. Your hips shudder and keep thrusting again and again, the feeling cresting into a shock of joy then another and another, each building atop the last and higher and greater and oh sweet fucking -

“GA-!” your scream is cut short as you fall forwards, splashing into the shock of cool water and catching yourself on your hands, propped there and shaking on all fours. You keep thrusting into the feeling, still feeling it, tasting the intensity filling your whole body and fading both too fast and too slowly, dragging itself back towards a feeling you can even comprehend, your hips shaking in shorter and shorter bursts.

You’re staring into the water, only just seeing it. You're breathing so hard you can see it rippling the surface, your hips still shuddering in aftershocks, your arms barely keeping yourself up. They feel weak, empty, like your strength was never there, replaced by the heavy burning of every muscle in your body, nowhere more tense than between your legs. Wait.

You groan in desperate misery, your wet hair slapping your shoulders as you adamantly shake your head, coloured violet and plastered to your face as you kneel there panting in disbelief.

You can’t STILL be hard! You can’t be! YOU CAN’T BE! But you are - you’ve had so many orgasms you’ve almost lost track, each more unbelievable than the last, and now you’re still hard and you’re too damn tired to do anything about it!

“Why did you drink it?” you hear Desyre ask above you, her voice full of concern. “Why, Sue-Bear?”

“To… to prove you wrong.”

“And the beaker today?”

“… Because you’re not here. You’re not here. You’ll never be here no matter how much I want you to be.” The water ripples with your tears.

You feel her hand cupping your cheek, beckoning you to look up, the contact feeling so real, so warm and wet and like she’s really there! Hoping against hope, you look up.

The plant towers above you, reaching down tendrils to cup your cheek, stroking softly. You can’t help but smile.

Maybe it does like you. You believed that once, before it became easier to blame it for your now permanent erection. You’re the one that drank the mostly milk, this time with full knowledge of the effect it had. And now it’s reaching down to you, stroking your cheek, so many other tendrils reaching, coiling, beckoning, like open arms waiting just for you.

You’re so tired, your arms so heavy. You can’t go on, and even if you could, it’s so difficult to go on, fighting your own stupid body every time youo tried to touch yourself! And when your trick yourself into it, you can only barely able to hold on as you start cumming, feeling the pleasure getting better and better and starting to touch something so much more, the briefest taste of something divine. But that briefest taste is more than you can take and you stop just short of it every time, leaving you gasping in awe with the aftertaste of what you almost reached!

But maybe you don’t have to do it alone.

The water feels cold around you. You remember it always being warm - it’s just a measure of how hot you’re running, which is something else you’re far too tired to be worried about as you drag a knee forwards through the water, shuffle an arm forwards, focussing what’s left of your mind on not crushing the hydroshrumes as you crawl on all fours the heavy distance to the plant. You can feel its warm tendrils touching your shoulders, coiling around your arms, pulling, lifting. With infinite gentleness it embraces you, and you let it pull you up.

Continue

Preview: Succulent, Part 3

The guest bathroom is larger than your bedroom at home, and much cleaner. Even after days of tentative use, every surface still gleams in spotless contrasts of black, white, and chrome. The glossy marble counter is far too large for your meager collection of bargain store makeup and moisturiser, the garish plastic shades tackily out of place in their surroundings. A little more appropriately, the counter also contains a neatly folded black dress with gold jewellery and a clear wristphone neatly piled on top.

Your off-white underwear lies discarded on the floor in a trail from the counter to the glass wall of the shower that runs the length of the room. The glass is clouded and running with condensation, the shower stall thick with a fog of steam that makes your bitten-off groans somehow muted.

You still feel bad about making noise, especially in this room where it echoes so readily, and it seems like the entire world might hear. But it feels so damn good. The oily and fruity smell of body wash is still thick in the air, your body-wash slick hands glide in circles over the glistening skin of your breasts, fingers running over smooth skin and the pebbled, aching hardness of your nipples, twisting almost painful need into sweetest joy, each wave filling your chest and shaking your shy voice out of you.

How does it feel this good? Your nipples are normally sensitive, but fucking hell! Just touching them with your own hands feels better than it has any right to, and it’s impossible to stop your wet touch gliding over and over and over you. You're breathing hard, the steamy air wet in your mouth and heavy around your trembling body, the sound of the water almost covering your voice-edged breaths. With effort and promises of more to come you force your hands to pause, shivering fingertips pausing on your nipples, and with a steadying breath, you squeeze.

The noise you make startles you, the moan choked off into a gasp as your head spins and you fall onto the wall, face pressed open mouthed into the arm that props you up.

Okay, what the fuck was in that liquid?

The unidentified parts of the ‘mostly milk’ are having a pronounced effect on you, and you think not for the first time that you should be worried, should be calling emergency services, be calling Desyre - but that last thought makes your whole body freeze.

What if you called her? She said to call if you weren’t okay. If you needed help. Needed her. What if…?

Your heart is racing, but not for the worry you can’t make yourself feel. You bite your lips, let the hand still on your breast give another careful squeeze. You’re ready for it now but you still bite your arm hard enough to hurt, your voice caught in your throat as you massage your palm against your breast, as the feeling builds and builds and is so damn good - and yet still not enough. The better it feels the more it stirs the aching need lower down, your hips writhing with it, like you're trying desperately to squirm your way out of the unbearable pleasure that’s not happening on your cock.

If your breasts feel this good… your heart races with equal parts excitement and trepidation at the prospect of more, felt thudding against your palm as you cradle your breast. After more than a few false starts, you manage to drag your hand free of your chest. Your fingertips glide lower down your stomach, sinking into the guiding groove of your hips, shivering as they draw closer, closer, feather-light as they just barely touch your taut skin. Your whole body is shaking as you let your half-touch encircle that aching tenderness, cautiously gripping, then carefully moving your grip -

“Fuck! Hmn, hmng,” even with your hand clamped over your mouth, muffling your outburst, you’re sure that first raw word was loud enough that the house would have heard you, leaving you listening to the tense silence of a house you know is empty. If you thought your nipples were impossibly sensitive, stars, that slightest movement of your cock had been - your hips shudder with just the remembered feeling, your hand tentatively leaving your open mouth, moving down and trying to touch you again, recoiling from making contact. Your body seems unsure if the intensity you felt was pain, your hand flinching away from touching you, even though you know it wasn’t fucking pain! Fuck, how should, how could, gah if only… you close your eyes, take a long, deep inhalation of steam. And when you open your eyes, you see Desyre standing right before you, smiling mischievously.

Wait, that’s wrong - you’re leaning with one arm against the wall, so she physically can’t be standing in front of you. Quickly your imagination adjusts to place her kneeling before you, looking up at you with those pale blue eyes full of anticipation, the image making your heart leap. And, and you’re both in the shower, so she should be naked, her pale skin glistening in the steamy air, nowhere paler than around her glowing white tattoos. Their thin lines encircle her shoulders, tracing her slender muscles before curving in and over her collarbones. That part must have hurt. But maybe not as much as when the inked lines curved down lower, her pale skin becoming white as the lines whorled out again under and around her small breasts. The lines become thinner as they spiral inwards, tracing one last delicate ring around the pink shapes of her areolae, the tips of her nipples dimpled inwards. Her ‘little secrets’ she’d called them, only found by those that went looking for them.

Is it normal for you to know what your roommate’s nipples look like? It had been enough of a shock when she answered your polite enquiry about her first tattoo session by her whipping her top off, the thin lines a little red over her collarbones, stopping before they reached her bra. The next time she’d whipped off the bra too.

You’d wanted to be a good friend, to support her and reassure her that an expensive and painful procedure had been well worth it, that it looked good, really good! You’d tried to tell her so, awkwardly and without going too far and making it weird, but she kept asking you for more details. She’d wanted to know how it looked good, tracing one finger along the swirls and spirals as she looked at you with big eyes, asking you if the tattoos emphasised the shape of her breasts. If people liked girls with lumitattooed breasts. If you did. If you wanted to help her apply the healing cream.

You feel hot even thinking about it now, along with the heavy, shivering guilt of indecision. I’d stammered an excuse about work and left, and the next time you’d seen her it was like it had never happened. Like she wasn’t sad, like you weren’t, like you didn’t regret so fucking much just being honest with her and telling her that -

“They look fucking amazing,” you finally say to your imagined Desyre.

She raises a dark eyebrow. “What do?” Between her sly tone and her cheeky half smile, you know she knows. She’s just making you say it.

“Your - your breasts, they look amazing, are amazing, you’re amazing and you’re so hot it hurts and I every time I see you my heart sings because I love you and -” you cover your mouth, squeeze your eyes tightly shut, feeling the heat of tears behind closed lids.

“Shhhh,” you hear her say, now earnest and caring as she promises you, “I feel the same.”

And with four words she’s stopped the sickening guilt and doubt and worry in your chest, turning it to hope so fierce you fear it’ll shatter if you speak too loudly. “You do?”

“I do - I think your breasts are hot too.”

You laugh despite yourself, opening your eyes to see her smile hovering beside your breast, lips parted, pale eyes staring up at you. “May I?”

“Please,” you watch as her lips press against you, into you, kissing your skin so gently you can scarcely feel it. You watch in heady awe as she kisses closer and closer to your nipple, closer, stopping close enough you should feel her breath on you. She must be holding her breath, holding the moment, staring up at you with that cheeky smile now parted over you. Her lips draw inwards to kiss you.

You cry out, your own slippery fingers feeling like lips either side of your nipple, your wet fingertip slick as a tongue tracing lazy circles around you, flicking a startled cry out of you and a giggle from her, collecting together again to feel like lips pressing and sucking.

You can’t help making noise now, cursing and crying out as your nipple is sucked again, and again, looking down and seeing your hand holding her head against you, every detail vivid, fingers running through her wet hair, tattoos glowing on her shoulders and the groove of her back tracing all the way down her to the imagined curve of her pale ass. Gods you want to know what that looks like, what all of her looks like, want to really feel her sucking your breast and gently bringing in teeth to squeeze.

“Fu-uck!” you don’t let her ask if that’s okay, holding her more firmly against you, feeling her testingly using her teeth to squeeze sharp bliss into you again. “Fuck, more, more please please more!”

She knows exactly what you’re asking for, as you feel your hand, her hand running down your side, fingertips tracing the groove of your hips, sliding confidently onto your shaking cock, wrapping snugly around it, moving.

Your previous shyness is forgotten, your lips open and screaming against the tiled wall as you feel her mouth sucking your breast and her hand pumping your cock steadily and firmly, completely and blissfully beyond your control. It doesn’t matter how good it feels, that it’s so much more than you can take, than you can barely stand, barely hold on, because Desyre’s the one doing it, keeping you safe and guiding you relentlessly towards the most unstoppable orgasm you’ve ever felt coming!

“God, please Desy - fuck,” you gasp for air, almost sobbing now, “Fuck! I - I lo - I love you!” And despite everything you feel, everything you want, everything you can’t stop rushing closer, it’s Desyre’s sweet voice that pushes you over the edge with just four words.

“I love you too.”

You wail, your voice exploding in a long and broken cry, punctuated by your whole body clenching all at once as your orgasm overflows in time with your voice, once, twice, three times and it just keeps rising, rising, oh fuck - your body spasms and lurches forwards, leaving you trembling with both hands braced on the wall. You’re still shuddering rhythmically in the most intense aftershocks, the fading pleasure still so much more than you can take, yet so much less than it could have been if she’d kept going just a moment longer. But fuck it felt good!

You just stand there, collapsed and breathing hotly against the wall. “Hah, huh. Fuck!” is the only way you can describe it, another shudder making you giggle madly before Desyre can make a comment about your eloquence. You're smiling so much it hurts and you couldn’t care less, joy and a need to share it overpowering your groaning muscles as you push yourself off the wall so you can kneel down and kiss the living hell out of -

She’s not there. No-one's there. You’re alone.

You hear a muted buzzing sound, realise it’s your wristphone vibrating atop the dress on the counter. A heavy shower door and a few unsteady steps later you're holding the wristphone, pressing with a wet finger to display a rounded-edged rectangle above it, roughly the size of a face, showing two words:

‘Desyre calling…’.

You watch the blinking words, and keep watching them until the ringing stops.

Continue

Preview: Succulent, Part 2

The woman in the holomirror has your face, but still you barely recognise her.

You’ve worn fancy things before, but not expensive things. The solid gold hoops in your ears are surprisingly heavy, the feminine but thick gold chain gleaming weightily around your neck. And the dress, so costly it has no need to be elaborate, just a simple, form fitting garment of glossy black silk. It feels luxurious against your skin, if a little stifling, but it's worth it for the look. Up both your sides runs a line of gauzy shimmersilk, the clear window of skin encouraging the imagination to linger on your covered cleavage, making it somehow more scandalous. Though with your extra cup size on the Professor the emphasis is hardly necessary. There’s also your extra height hitching the hemline of the dress far higher than is remotely decent, very nearly short enough to glimpse the cheap, off white of your underwear.

You try not to notice that, instead looking at the holographically reflected face, smiling full and gently shimmering lips back at you. The makeup was one of those brands you’d never dared guess the price of, effortless to apply and generous in how it made your lips look naturally fuller, your eyelashes longer, your cheeks rosier. It almost distracted from your freckles, and from the small mole beside your right eye, and the dimple in your left nostril from a long gone nose-stud.

But nothing could distract from your short, vibrantly purple hair, which grows slowly less vibrant the longer you look at it.

You look down, your hair fading to a matt grey. No-one who wears clothes like this would have mooddyed hair. Still, you breathe in, looking back up at your stunning reflection, your hair shifting to a light, hopeful orange, streaked with a cheeky yellow as you bat your long eyelashes, bite your full lips, touch a gold-painted fingertip to a kiss, leaning back with the slightest gasp as you trace that kiss down your neck, the touch clinking past the gold chain and out over the taut fabric across your chest. Taut enough to see the outline of your cheap bra.

Your hair fades again, becoming a teal blue as your heart sinks into a guilty hollow. The Professor had said in triplicate to make yourself at home, but you doubted that included this, and definitely wouldn’t include trying on her bras, not that they’d fit you anyway. You bite your lip again, this time in worry about stretching the dress, so clearly custom tailored for the Professor, your hair turning a sad blue with the knowledge that she’d never even notice.

In your three years as her full-time assistant you’d helped her get ready more than once for hastily remembered award or a gala or dinner, or worst of all a speech. On that occasion you suggested this dress, tucked away in the very back of her enormous closet, hoping it would give her confidence. In a way it did, as it gave her the confidence to wear her regular lab coat, leaving you to return the garment to the back of the closet where it remained, untouched and utterly forgotten until just now.

It was like the Professor knew that rich people owned these kinds of things, but not what to do with them. She’d received so many accolades and acknowledgments, not to mention the royalties. Stars, even your mooddyed hair was derived from one of her xenobotanical discoveries, the Europan Empath Trees. Then there were the pharmaceuticals derived from the Martian Morpheus flower, the aerospace materials from the Venusian Vanadium Fungi and the Titan Petrochemical Peach. So many discoveries, and so much more money than any person would know what to do with, least of all the Professor.

Your hair is flushed an envious green, but not for long. You do envy her boundless wealth, but find it impossible to really resent the woman for not noticing it. She’d scarcely notice she was hungry if you didn’t remind her. And her utter indifference to her wealth did come with perks, like the top of the range wristphone she’d insisted on buying for you, or the fact she would definitely not notice you having some light harmless fun with her least worn dress. So you give your guilt and the holomirror a final kiss, letting your former purple confidence return, flushed with redder tones you can only assume are for the anticipation you feel unfurling in your chest.

You look so different. What will she think?

You turn away from the mirror as you bring up the clear bangle of your wristphone, and make the call.

Light forms a rounded-edged rectangle above your wrist, roughly the size of a face, showing two words:

‘Calling Desyre…’

Almost instantly the words give way to the image of a young, almost monochrome woman. Her dark grey hoodie looking nearly as black as her hair in the dimly lit room, especially with the stark glow of her computer screen making her pale skin almost luminescent and her blue eyes almost white. The eyes widen with disbelief.

“Daaaaaaamn Sue, you look hot!”

The warmth overflows from your chest as you look down, cheeks and hair both blushing.

“S-shut up, Desy,” you manage, marvelling at how she always manages to do this to you with just one comment.

“Oh come on Sue-bear,” Desyre chides from the holoscreen, “you’re meant to look sexy - people pay a lot of money to look as sexy as you do.”

“I guess.”

“Great, now tilt your wrist so I can see the goods.”

“No!” you flush even redder as you keep your wrist perfectly level with your face, trying not to smile, or feel the butterflies in your stomach. She’s always making jokes like this.

“Kidding, kidding,” Desyre holds up her hands in exaggerated surrender, before smiling coyly, one finger tapping her chin, “Or am I?”

You stare at the line of her smirk, the butterflies rioting. What would she do if she saw what you looked like, all of you? If you turned back to the mirror and showed her -

When you don’t respond she props her head on one arm, acting as if nothing had happened. “So, how’s my favourite roomie?”

You swallow, finding a fond smile. “Your only roommate is feeling harassed.”

“Uh-huh, and how’s the place? You’ve never shown me around you know.”

“The Professor is a private woman.”

“The Professor’s not there.”

You consider that for a long while, looking around the Professor’s bedroom. You’d never seen the room yourself until this evening, instead sleeping in one of the many empty guest rooms as you built up the courage to come in here. And imagine your surprise when you found not the secret plant dragon you were expecting, nor a kinky high tech sex dungeon, but the biggest surprise of all - a rather boring bedroom.

Most of the furniture is white with silver accents, but no two styles match, probably because the Professor had ordered it all online, selecting the colours then picking the first item in every category. The vanity too is just like her, holding an army of shapely bottles and containers, their ranks close to mutiny. They’re orderly at the very back where you’d sampled a few things, unopened and barely used items neatly arranged in colour gradient rows, but the closer you get to the front the more the well-meaning order devolves into eclectic chaos.

The room tells a story, of the Professor’s life pitting good intentions against nervous reality. It's a private story.

“Suuue?” Desyre’s quizzical tone drawing you back to the holocall and her raised eyebrow.

“Yes?”

“Your hair’s that teal colour you get when you’re overthinking something.”

“What? I -” it blushes back to red, “I just - okay! Tour of the house!” You leave the bedroom before pressing your wristphone to make Desyre’s image flips around, mirrored from your view as she sees what your wrist sees, “The main hallway.”

“… Fascinating.”

“Oh, keep your pants on.”

“Who says I’m wearing pants?”

“Anyway, right in here” the door opens with a hiss of and an explosion of humid sunlight and vibrant colours, “we have the main arboretum.”

“Gods, that is more hues than I thought plants came in. And did you say the ‘main’ arboretum?”

“Oh yeah, this is mostly the ordinary stuff. A few new winter strains of grainvine, a few crossbreeds and gene-repo experiments, like this miniaturised walking trees…” your voice trails off as you eye the conspicuously empty patch of soil. "Which apparently needs a taller pot… where are you?”

“Walking trees. Ordinary. Right.”

“Aha! There you are. Don’t you rattle your leaves at me, mister! Damnit, I’ll need to get the tongs again. But first,” you announce as another door hisses open, “let me show you something actually interesting.”

“Actua - oooooh! Okay that's cool!”

“Isn’t it! Mercurian Chromatic Ferns.”

“Preetty! Is it what’s making that tingling noise - are the leaves crystal?”

“It’s a silicon based plant, which means it really doesn’t like water. We think it uses its bioluminesence as a kind of hunting tool, so it can hypnotise prey before eating them.”

“Hypnotise… eating… what?”

“Oh don’t worry, they’re not that smart. They keep shining their leaves at these tanks of Callistan Swimvines - and they can’t even see colour, poor things! Sorry guys I’ll be back in a minute with your fish.”

“Swimvines? See… the plants eat fish?!”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it eating exactly, but here what I really want to show yAAA - sorry -”

“What was that, why did you just duck?!”

“Sorry that damn creepvine gets grabby if I forget to rub it down.”

“… What?!”

“But here -”

You enter a new, very special room. The outer edge is floored in wood, cool and a little wet under your feet. A few feet from the walls the decking meets the smooth curves of a large circle of grey rocks, edging the small pond at the centre of the room. The water gleams a gentle blue, lit from underneath by clusters of hydroshrumes, different ones slowly winking on and off as their shared glow shimmers through the shifting water.

“Preetty!” Desyre exclaims again, as you hold up your wrist to pan her view around the pool, circling up to show your her favourite plant of all. It sits a proud and glossy red atop its own little island of rocks, its pink crest of tendrils waving a gentle greeting to you, and now to Desyre too.

“What the fuck is that?” she flatly exclaims.

“Don’t be mean. It’s pretty.”

“Does ‘pretty’ mean something else to Xenobotanists?”

“Oh, come on, it’s fascinating! It’s a Ganymedian… actually we don’t know what kind of plant it is, but it seems fine living above water too, if the air is humid enough. And it doesn’t photosynthesise - it has a rudimentary gastrointestinal tract for straining protein from liquid! Isn’t that cool!”

“… Okay, so I take it ‘cool’ is Xenobotanist for ‘bat shit insane’. Are you saying that is yet another monster plant that eats things?”

“Drinks, actually. Here, I -” you remember your attire, double check how short the dress is, suddenly very thankful for it. “- Okay, watch.”

You make your way to a small bar fridge in the corner of the room, which opens to a wall of identical milk cartons. With the unconscious smoothness of a long repeated action you take the open carton out, pour a generous helping into the glass beaker waiting atop the fridge, seal and return the carton and, beaker in hand, head for the pool. The water is warm beneath your feet, rising barely above your knees, well short of the dress as you wade carefully to the centre of the pool.

The pink tendrils wave faster as you approach, reaching out to you with coiling grips, beckoning. With both arms raised you need to take extra care to balance as you take a shaky step half up onto the central island, thankful when the slick tendrils reach out to you, coiling gently around your wrists, their grip tightening and staying firm as you pull yourself up and onto the island.

There’s barely enough room for your feet, your toes pressing against the red skin, which feels very smooth and warm to the touch, its pink tendrils gyrating from below your waist to just below your chest.

“You see, it’s even pleased to see me.”

“See you?”

“Okay, I haven’t quite figured that one out yet, but shut up and watch!”

The plant’s tendrils start to still, their grip slackening on your wrists. Together the forest of tendrils begin to part from the centre, even before you start to raise the beaker. Rings and rings of pink fall and roll apart from the approaching beaker, laying flat until they’re all stretched away from a central, pink opening. It looks almost like a mound, puffy and soft, the gleamingly smooth skin cresting in a pair of round, glossy lips. The lips open with a wet sound, the interior a deeper pink and dripping wet, droplets of clear liquid running down inside, rippling over ridge after ridge, curling around the small fleshy bumps that spiral the opening all the long way down into an unseen darkness.

Desyre’s tone is empathically flat, “That, is the single weirdest thing I have ever seen.”

“I told you not to be mean! It’s just thirsty.” Before Desyre can ask more questions you raise the beaker of milk higher, carefully pouring it into the very center of the open mouth. Instantly it reacts, contracting inwards around the stream, pulsing around it rhythmically as the entire plant seems to undulate in time. You can hear it greedily gulping down the liquid as you and Desyre both watch, her face wearing a distinctly horrified expression.

“What… the actual fuck?

“Isn’t it amazing! It’s a plant, but it’s drinking milk! It’s the protein, it just can’t get enough of it! And you want to see something really weird?”

“Really -?”

“Look!” the plant is still rhythmically gulping long after the stream of liquid has stopped, as if it believes it hopes it still squeeze more out. Eventually though its tendrils start to raise again, one raising higher than the others, turning towards you, pointing up at your mouth. It’s end has gone from pink to white, a drop of liquid bulging at the tip.

You offer the beaker, and after a moment’s pause the tendril obediently curls into it. Waves of contractions run up its lengths, pushing along pulses of white that bulge out the end and pour into the beaker. It’s more viscous than the milk, and less than you originally gave it, barely filling the bottom of the beaker.

You press a control on your wristphone, flipping Desyre’s still mortified face to see your triumphant smile and purple hair as you confidently hold up the beaker, “See, it even gave me a present. Even you can’t deny that’s cool.”

“I can and I will. Why - how - why is it even doing that?”

“I have no idea! It started it a few days ago, giving back some of its daily milk, like it wanted to make sure I got some too.” You regard the plant below you with fondness, letting its slick tendrils spiral around your offered fingers and wrist, coiling and tugging. “It’s sweet!”

“Sweet… you mean you drank it!”

“What, no! I mean sweet as in kind. Thoughtful.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure the monster milk plant will be very thoughtful as it’s nomming your arm off! You know people are made of protein too?”

“It doesn’t have any teeth Desy. Nor any stomach acid, nor a stomach, more like an intestine for straining -”

“Oh no no no no no, do not tell me monster plant has intestines. This is something I cannot know.”

“It’s not a monster! It’s perfectly safe.”

“It’s -trying - to - drug - you!”

“This is just milk,” you offer up the beaker of viscous liquid, sheepishly adding, “Mostly.”

“Mostly!”

“I ran it through the analyser. There's a few extra enzymes and fructose and some other things I can’t identify yet,” you force a smile, your hair ends flashing a deep, annoyed red that you weren’t able to recognise the other compounds. And Desyre’s histrionics aren’t helping your confidence. “But it’s nothing harmful. It’s fine!”

“Fine? And when it sprays it in your face and -”

“It’s not going to do that!”

“It’s a monster!”

“It’s sweet!”

“It has organs!”

“It’s safe!”

“How can you -”

You grit your teeth, “LOOK!” You raise the beaker and, before Desyre or your brain can object, down the contents whole.

It’s sweet, very sweet, not a synthetic sweetness but rich, feeling warm and gooey as it flows into you, gulped down and gone far too quickly. You breathe out the delicious aftertaste, momentarily distracted, then look smugly back at your comp. “See, safe!”

Desyre is just starting at you open-mouthed, with an expression you’ve never seen her wear before. You don’t know if you like it.

She shudders, “I can’t believe you did that.”

“It’s just milk.”

“MOSTLY!”

“Well, if it proved to you it’s harmless and I’m fine then -”

“What part of you drinking alien monster milk was meant to make me think you’re fine?”

“The part where I didn’t explode afterwards? Or turn green, or start floating, or anything at…” Your face drops. You look down.

“Suuue?” Desyre asks after a few seconds, “Why is your hair white?”

“I, uh, I gotta go.”

“WHAT! Oh hell no, I’m coming over there right -”

“NO!” the word comes out far louder than you meant it to. “No, I’m, I’m fine. Really. Just busy, lots to do, plants to feed and water and tend and de-egg.”

“… Okay now I now you’re making stuff up to distract me, especially because your hair’s gone teal again.”

You glance up to your fringe to see a lock of the incriminating colour. “Damn. Okay but I am fine. Honest!”

“You’re a terrible liar. Just,” she takes a deep breath “just tell me your stomach hasn’t melted or an alien plant baby hasn’t exploded out your tits or anything, okay?”

You smile, trying to mean it, “I’m fine, really. Just busy.”

“Bullshit. But I trust you. And I trust you’ll CALL ME if you’re not okay, rather than just trying to deal with alien tittybursters by yourself.”

“I promise,” you sigh, trying not to laugh at the image of Desyre with both hands shoved up under her hoodie, pretending her breasts are hungry aliens. “Goodbye, Desy!”

“I’m not Desy, I’m the Ravenous Breastblatter Beast of -” you cut the transmission with a final press, then take your own steadying breath, and look down again at the sudden and very prominent bulge of underwear jutting out from beneath the hem of your dress.

Why, the fuck, are you so unbelievably hard?!

Continue

Preview: Succulent, Part 1

You’re addicted to masturbating, and it’s all because of that smug plant!

It just sits there on its nest of wet rocks, silently mocking you. A red column a meter wide and tall, glossy flesh a stark and rosy contrast to the blue-lit water around it. It's waving at you, the red skin lightening to a pink crown of tendrils that flow and undulate as if underwater. Some of their glistening number reach out to you. Coiling. Beckoning.

“Fu - fu -” you gasp for air, “FUCK you.” Your head thumps back onto the wooden decking as you moan and gasp at the feeling of your own hand squeezing your breast, your other hand frantically pumping your shaft, wishing you had more hands - but you’re barely able to take this! You can barely breathe, can’t stop, can’t believe how fucking good this feels. You’re close, again, you can feel the pressure building within you, pulled forth by every relentless stroke and squeeze of your clutching fingers as you frantically work yourself towards another, another, another, oh fuck -

Your legs tense and your back arches from the floor as you cry out again, white hot bliss spurting out of you with each thrust into the air. Waves of pleasure fill you so completely you can’t breathe, each overlapping the last and hitting you stronger and stronger until you can’t think, can barely even hold on, can’t do anything but cry out with disbelieving joy for what feels like an eternity.

You slump back onto the floor, arms thudding heavily beside you. You’re panting hard, sweat slick skin burning and freezing in the open air, body shaking with aftershocks so strong they tense giggling smiles out of you. With enormous effort, you raise your head, struggle to focus as you look down between your legs, and instantly stop smiling.

You’re still hard. And on the other side of your impossibly still there erection, squats the damnable plant, waving at you.

This is all that mocking plant’s fault - and now, you groan as you prop yourself up on your elbow, now you're going to get even.

*   *   *

“And I’ve shown you how to water the balcony plants?” Professor Akume asks without looking up, dark eyes and hands rifling through the contents of her silver briefcase as she checks her holopapers and datapads for the third time.

“Yes, Professor,” you patiently repeat.

“And how to rub down the creepvines? You know they get grabby.”

“Yes, Professor.”

“And how to prune the hydroshrumes?”

“Twice, Professor.”

“And how to water the balcony plants?”

“Professor.”

“Hmm?”

Professor Akume looks up, a lock of black hair falling from her tight bun as she looks slightly to the left of where you’re standing. You reach up, brush aside the hair, and tap the side of her thin hologlasses. The white text that was scrolling past the lenses fades out and she blinks at you, somewhat lost.

“Oh, I, what? What was -?”

“Everything will be okay, Professor.”

“I, um… yes. Yes, it will.” Professor Akume closes her eyes, and does what you’ve only ever seen her do twice before in the three years you’ve known her. She takes a breath.

When she opens her eyes she seems more focussed, pulling her white coat straight and moving to close the briefcase, stopping just before it latches.

“I have told you everything, haven’t I, Miss Sura?”

You reach out and give her thin arm a reassuring squeeze, smiling warmly. “Yes, Professor, everything. And you wrote it all down,” you hold up a datapad scrolling with messily written digital notes.

“Oh, yes.”

“And you emailed me,” tucking the pad in your back pocket, you tap the clear bangle of your wristphone and a white holo-image of scrolling text floats above the device, a sidebar showing several attachments.

“Oh… yes,” she looks down, somewhat sheepish.

You take her arm again, gently, “Don’t worry, Professor. I’ve been your full-time assistant for three years now. I can handle a few weeks without you here.”

“But what if, what if something -”

“Then I’ll call you. Europa and Mars is what, a 30 minute time lag?”

“32 at this time of year.”

“And your shuttle has the best comms unit money can buy, so I can easily call you wherever you are if anything goes wrong. Which it won’t, because I can handle it, okay?”

“I - I know you can,” she breathes out, and you’re starkly reminded how much shorter she is, something she usually makes up for with boundless nervous energy. But not right now.

She awkwardly rests a soft brown hand on your elbow, smiling weakly. “Please don’t think I doubt you. I just… worry, is all.”

“I know Professor, and I don’t want to make you more worried, but if you don’t leave,” you check your wristphone “three minutes ago, you’ll miss your hyper-window.”

“Ah, yes… Yes!” the last word is startled out of her as all her frantic energy returns at once. She looks down at her briefcase, reaches to check it again, and slams it shut instead before bolting for the door.

She stops, rushes back, and hugs you forcefully, mumbling some combination of ‘thank you’ and ‘call if you need me’ before properly bolting out the door, the sound of it hissing shut leading into a long, empty silence.

You’re alone. Suddenly and starkly so, alone in the spacious, ultra-modern, and now much more peaceful kitchen of Professor Akume’s home. Or for the next three weeks, your home, with instructions (in triplicate) to make yourself comfortable in this multi-million dollar, secluded, luxury residence, fully stocked with every comfort money could buy and every fascinating alien plant known to exist.

And there you stand, young Xenobotanist Sura Ci, with three weeks to enjoy it all.

But where to begin?

Continue