F_f on Knotty Biscotti

Fooling Around

Fri, 03 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

“Frankie? D’you know anything about the Easter eggs I bought last week?” Rachel already knew the answer, before Frankie’s bedroom door opened, revealing fragments of colourful foil wrapper on her floor.

“Easter eggs?”

At least she sucks at lying, Rachel thought, rolling her eyes.

“WHAT DID I PUT IN MY MOUTH?” Frankie howled as she bolted to the washroom, focused entirely on the toilet.

“Did you mistake a foil wrapped grape for a foil wrapped chocolate egg?” Rachel had to cover her face with both hands to keep her wild giggles in check while she watched her girlfriend—her best friend since high school—dry-heave into their toilet.

“Why would you do that? Who wraps a GRAPE?” The look of betrayal was too much—Rachel worried she would pee herself if she started laughing now.

“Frankie? Where’re my black pumps?”

Frankie looked up from her spot on the couch. “Oh, yeah, I put ’em in the hall, they smelled!”

Rachel frowned, then shrieked when she opened the door. Her pumps were there, but the right was lying on its side, displaying a swath of lumpy, yellow-brown paste. She retched. “Fuck! I’m meeting my adviser in 20 minutes!”

Frankie appeared at her side, then knelt to study the fouled shoe. “What? It’ll wipe right off.” She ran her index finger along the sole of the shoe and popped the lumpy brown paste into her mouth.

“FRANKIE!”

“Chunky peanut butter,” Frankie replied, wicked mirth in her eyes.

Frankie emerged from the shower, only a little disappointed that Rachel had been too tight for time this morning to join her. They weren’t quite five months into their relationship and Frankie never tired of touching, of kissing, of worshipping her lover.

She towelled herself off then reached for the antiperspirant Rachel had bought her. She considered her figure in the mirror before rotating the base and deciding she would begin with her modest-but-full boobs. She lifted her left breast carefully and smeared not antiperspirant into the underslope.

Frankie shrieked, dropped the stick and stared at the thick white smear beneath her breast for a moment before she could identify the scent. “Cream cheese?”

Rach, babe, you’ll never top this, Frankie thought as she worked the bullet vibe into the cushion of Rachel’s desk chair. .50 Cal Bullet, the box proclaimed. External use only! it admonished. World’s most powerful bullet vibrator! Frankie liked that one best.

Rachel would probably know right away something was weird with her chair, but Frankie didn’t expect the prank to run long. It was Wednesday; every Wednesday since the start of the new semester Rach had spent the entire evening sitting at her desk, earbuds in, working on her term paper long into the night. Long after Frankie had given up and gone to sleep. Wednesdays were the only night of the week Frankie was sure she was sleeping alone. Rach never wanted to risk waking her up by sneaking into bed at 3am, or whenever the hell she finally stopped working.

Not this week, babe. Frankie brought up the app on her phone, set a two-minute delay after the vibe sensed contact, then plugged her phone in to charge. It was already at 2% battery.

“Shit, I’m late!” Rachel dropped her backpack by the front door, shrugged out of her jacket and left it on the floor in the entrance of their dingy apartment, and ran toward her desk.

Frankie gave her a bewildered look. “What? I made dinner.”

Rachel kissed Frankie on her way. “I’m sorry, babe, Bowen tonight! Video. All yours after!”

Frankie quailed. Dr. Bowen was Rachel’s faculty adviser. They’d missed connecting after her peanut-butter/animal-poop prank but they must’ve rescheduled for a virtual check-in. Tonight.

“Cool!” Frankie replied, trying to sound less than half as terrified as she felt. She waited for Rachel to sit on her chair, open her laptop and log in before bolting for the bedroom.

Her phone wouldn’t power on.

The charger wasn’t plugged in.

FUCK!

Frankie rushed back to the combined office/dining room/living room of their shared apartment. “Rach!” she hissed, only to be cut off by a sharp finger held in the air while Rachel put on her most casually friendly expression.

“Hey, Dr. Bowen, thanks so much for making time for me, I’m so sorry I was late on Friday.” She glanced angrily in Frankie’s direction for a heartbeat.

Rachel’s adviser responded with something Frankie couldn’t make out from her spot at the edge of the room, but it sounded positive enough. She took another step and Rachel’s finger appeared again. Sit your ass down, that finger said. You are on my shit-list right now, that finger said.

Frankie sat on the couch, eyes wide with growing panic.

Dutifully, as instructed by the app before Frankie’s phone battery died, the .50 Cal buzzed to life about 50 seconds into Rachel’s video call with Dr. Bowen.

Rachel squirmed. She squeezed her thighs together. The vibrator did what it did very well. Even through Rachel’s yoga pants and panties, it was very effective. Rachel shot Frankie a look as she tried to carry on a conversation with Dr. Bowen.

Frankie rose from the couch but was chastened again by Rachel’s threatening finger. She sat down, mortified, her stomach clenching.

“…but how do I earn that trust?” Rachel was asking—her voice was a full register lower than normal as she squirmed in her seat. Dr. Bowen responded with…words. Frankie watched Rachel work her flats off, kicking them away beneath her desk while she ground herself against the seat.

Frankie knew that motion. She unbuttoned her jeans and slid her hand down the front. Rachel was incredible! Frankie couldn’t imagine how she could keep a neutral face and (mostly) even tone while Rachel rocked her hips, drawing quiet creaks from the desk chair as she pressed ever harder. She locked her ankles together, then spread her legs wide. She clenched her toes then splayed them, eventually working her socks off without the aid of hands. Every minute or so she would glance over at Frankie, giving her a look that mixed anger and lust.

Frankie was equal parts terrified and aroused. She wasn’t even trying to hide it; she had worked her jeans down and was roughly stroking her clit beneath her plain cotton panties.

“…commitment to facts,” Dr. Bowen was saying when Rachel began her soft, hiccuping sound that Frankie recognised so well. “Are you alright, Rachel?” he asked suddenly and Rachel’s cheeks flushed.

“Fine! No, yes, I’m fine! I’m just—whew! I’m tired! And hungry! I’m sorry, no, my, um, my…roommate made dinner? It smells really good, I can’t wait to eat,” Rachel was almost shrill as Frankie watched her toes splay, then clench, then splay again. Frankie’s own climax was barrelling down on her as she watched her girlfriend struggle to appear casual.

“Well, okay,” Dr. Bowen said, sounding unconvinced. “Wednesday then? We’ll sync on Wednesday and see how everything is going?”

“YES!” Rachel gasped, kicking her feet out beneath her desk, causing her chair to roll back a few inches on the parquet floor.

Frankie heard sounds from Dr. Bowen. They might have been confused or awkward or completely convinced; she had no idea. Frankie was past understanding, instead simply watching Rachel—watching her girlfriend—orgasm on her webcam, in front of her faculty adviser.

This was the hottest thing Frankie had ever seen. She finger-fucked herself so vigorously she was sure Dr. Bowen could hear her. She slapped her glistening pussy, whimpering with each forceful thrust. Eyes on Rachel, she pinched and twisted and stroked her clit, watching her girlfriend denied the same relief. When the video call finally ended, Frankie was on her knees between Rachel’s legs before Rachel could even scowl.

The clock-radio in Frankie’s room displayed 1:15am. Rachel blinked slowly, combing Frankie’s hair with her fingers while Frankie drooled on her bare chest. “Babe?” Rachel asked softly, unsure if Frankie was still awake.

“Mmm?”

“Y’know you screwed up, right?”

“Mmm.”

“Cool.” Rachel smiled in the darkness. “Here’s how you’re gonna make it up to me…”

Knotty

Weathering the Storm

Fri, 28 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

“A Tibanna intermix regulator?” The Scrapper’s expression left Essa wondering if she’d accidentally slipped into her native Koeus language, Or’tena. Her frizzy shock of hair drooped at the thought that she had been rude to the delightful human.

“Yep!” Essa effused. “It’s a nexaride composite chamber about this big—” She was holding her hands shoulder-width apart, ready to slip into a full-on explanation before the Scrapper cut her off.

“I know what it is. I just don’t think anyone’s wanted one since my da’ ran the yard.”

Essa’s hair drooped further. It wasn’t hair in the human sense; the mane of platinum-coloured filaments around her head allowed her species to feel electromagnetic fields, but in her case, it also tended to communicate her inner emotional state. Like a dog’s tail.

“At the drydock on Vandemeer Gate they—”

“I got one. Your captain rob a museum?” The Scrapper cut her off again. Essa decided that this human’s Anglofran variant compelled her to speak immediately after grasping the other person’s intent. She would ask her new best friend, Briar, about it when she got home.

“Gosh, I hope not!” Essa had never considered the possibility. Captain Morgan seemed so nice!

The Scrapper rolled her eyes—Essa knew that expression! She was frustrated! With her?—and motioned for Essa to follow. “C’mon, I need help pulling it.”

Vesna Nováková hadn’t met an alien before. She’d expected if she ever did, she’d be awed by their very presence. Instead, this alien had wandered into her shop looking for fifty-year-old garbage, covered in grease and wearing threadbare bib-overalls so worn Vesna had a very generous view of a blue-grey alien boob.

Vesna didn’t object to boobs, not at all, and she wasn’t trying to get a good look at the alien’s boob, but since it was right there, she had to acknowledge that it was a very pretty boob. A little more than a handful, the bumpy areola somewhere between deep ocean and cetacean blue left Vesna wondering what the aliens might enjoy.

She shook her head in frustration; it’d been too long since her last personal day. She was overdue for a visit to The Velvet Deck. A vague prickle of concern stirred as she wondered whether Téreza would still be there.

“Hey! Shovelbum!” Vesna’s irritation simmered as the alien girl lagged behind. “Ass in motion! Unless you wanna wait a week.” The primary star, AU Microscopii, was notoriously unpredictable, but Vesna had been watching the elevated stellar activity. A storm was coming. Any day now. Any hour. That would bring comms and sensor disruptions. Trying to eyeball a flight, even in Vesna’s scrapyard, was unnecessarily complicated suicide.

Essa knew what shovels were, and she knew what bums were, but how they could go together was a mystery. Another question for Briar when she got back to Fomalhaut. Still, The Scrapper’s signals were loud and clear: they needed to hurry. Weirdly, Essa was already feeling a flutter of anxiety. Nothing about pulling parts from a derelict; something else she couldn’t quite name.

“Sorry!” she followed The Scrapper through the hatch and down a short passage to the airlock. “Oh,” she whispered, trying to smooth her hair surreptitiously. She suddenly felt very self-conscious around The Scrapper. A heat was rising, intense and uncontrollable, and it was distracting.

“Are we going EVA?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound nervous. Essa was uncannily good with machines that moved through space, much less so with moving through space herself.

“Shit, no,” The Scrapper shot her an enigmatic look. “We’re takin’ a tug, but the derelict’s not pressurised.”

Essa heard the reply, but a shiver down below and the uncomfortable tug of her overalls against her nipples made it harder than usual to focus. And focus was never her strong suit. “Yeah, of course!” she said softly, hoping that was the correct response, as she tried to not fidget too much, becoming more and more aware of the way her clothing felt against her skin.

“Damnit,” Vesna studied her suit’s display.

“Mmm?” The Alien had been nearly useless during the whole operation—distracted, clumsy, confused about the simplest things. She nearly broke the intermix regulator getting it free of the housing! But now she sounded drunk.

“C’mon! Panic room!” she grabbed The Alien’s suit and dragged her toward an exceptionally shielded compartment in the derelict. All ships of this age had one, being built before adequate EM and radiation shielding could be applied to the entire hull.

“Mmm?” The Alien said again as Vesna tugged her down a narrow corridor. She should just leave the idiot behind; might have, if The Alien had paid in advance.

Essa allowed The Scrapper to lead her in the strange, stumbling way everyone always moved in mag-boots. She was saying something, but Essa could only make out one word: “Storm.” That was enough; there must have been a high-energy particle event on the red dwarf they were circling. At just over 50 light seconds from the star, they’d have no warning at all.

Oh no, Essa thought, though it was from someplace very dim and very far away. At the front of her consciousness just now was how stiff her nipples were and how shaky her thighs felt. How the growing intensity of the particles passing through the ship—through her own body—was propelling her down a path that had only one destination.

CLONK! Essa reeled as her suit-helmet crashed into the frame of the hatch The Scrapper was pulling her through. “Sorry!” she called, her voice sounding shaky and very high-pitched in her own ears.

“Get in here! The ship doesn’t care if you hit it,” The Scrapper hissed, sealing the hatch behind them.

Essa staggered to a bench at one side of the tiny compartment. She couldn’t sit, not really, but it was very distracting still being on her feet while her entire body trembled with excitement.

The Scrapper was speaking again: “You alright there? The shielding’s gonna hold.”

Essa opened an eye—when had she closed her eyes?—and tried to interpret the human’s expression. She guessed it might be both curiosity and concern. I’ll reassure her, Essa thought but just then a powerful wave passed through her; she could only let out a breathy, trembling moan. The Scrapper’s expression became more … whatever it was, it was more of that.

“Fine!” Essa managed, and she caught herself unconsciously trying to cross her legs, desperate to apply some pressure and maybe speed up some release. The suit was much, much too bulky for that, and all she accomplished was frustrating herself. She moaned again.

“Are … you …” The Scrapper’s words were coming very slowly, but, for Essa, also from very far away. She caught herself rocking her hips, desperately trying to find any way to help herself along, but also utterly mortified that this was happening right in front of the very helpful, very nice human!

“Mmmhmm!” she moaned again, then took a shuddery breath and did her best to ignore the warm, wet heat building between her legs. Her legs—that she couldn’t even rub together, dammit!—clunked together hard in the stupid, stupid, bulky suit. She wasn’t going to last much longer. She hoped the storm wouldn’t either.

“Koeus,” she gasped, “we’re v-aaaah! very liira-seth — ah!” That wasn’t Anglofran; that was definitely an Or’tena word. She tried again. “Sensitive! We’re sensitive! To — oh my stars!” She knew she couldn’t actually touch herself, but it was getting so intense she couldn’t stop herself from trying. Her right hand crashed into the panel on her suit over her breasts, her left hand thudded uselessly against the crotch. “Electromagnetic fields!” She gasped again, whimpering as the leading edge of her climax took her. “Liira-braen!!!!” she howled into the mic, oblivious to everything around her.

Vesna felt so bad for the poor alien girl. She’d had at least three very intense liira-braen—if she was intuiting the meaning of the word correctly—while they were sheltering in the derelict’s panic room. Between the first and the second, Vesna had awkwardly asked if she should do anything, if the alien girl was in any danger or needed any help. During the second one Vesna mentally chided herself for the innuendo of offering “help”.

Since the storm had passed and they returned to the tug, the weird—but also weirdly cute—alien girl had barely said two words. Vesna tried once more to comfort her, let her know everything was alright. “So … I already got a girl. On Vandermeer. But she wouldn’t mind if I bought you dinner.” She glanced over and saw the alien girl look up just a little. “Feels like I should,” Vesna gently teased her. But as the girl looked up a little more, an excited, hopeful look on her features, Vesna understood she really did want to accept the offer. She chuckled. “I hate to say it, but I don’t even know your name.”

The Alien’s eyes opened wide, looking incredibly embarrassed once more. After a moment, she said softly, “Um … it’s Briar?”

Knotty