Playful on Knotty Biscotti

Easter Eggs

Fri, 10 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Rachel emerged from Frankie’s bedroom—their shared bedroom any night Rachel wasn’t up late working—and smiled, surveying the bright, sun-soaked living room of their apartment. The afternoon sun was wonderful! The open curtains allowed the room to grow very warm and Rachel was glad she was only wearing a t-shirt and her gym shorts. Too hot for much more, she thought as a blush joined her smile.

“Still waiting!” Frankie’s voice carried mock irritation with a hint of genuine excitement.

“Keep your eyes closed!”

“They’re closed! Jeez, Rach!”

Rachel padded into the kitchen, nearly silent on her bare feet, then took a seat opposite Frankie, her best friend of nearly eight years, girlfriend of nearly five months. “Okay, open.”

Frankie opened one eye, grinned, then opened the other. Resting on the table between the two women was her first prize: a large egg made of pink plastic. “An Easter egg hunt.” Frankie laughed and looked back up at Rachel.

“This is how you make it up to me,” she said evenly, letting a pinch of amusement come through.

“Okay! Easter egg hunt!” Frankie sounded like a kid at Disneyland. She opened the egg, revealing only a slip of paper inside. She faltered for a beat, then recovered and read the note in a singsong lilt. “You hid something in this spot thinking that you were so smart / Start right here, where you nearly made me act like a tart.” Frankie snorted, failing to stifle the laughter.

“I’m a research journalist, not a writer! Go!” Rachel’s command was less commanding than she’d have liked as she was laughing too.

Frankie darted across the hardwood floor to the desk and Rachel sat on the edge of the kitchen counter to watch. Seconds later, Frankie was holding up another plastic egg, this one a rich purple. She twisted it open, confusion clear on her expression. Rachel imagined she was surprised by the weight.

“What is…” Frankie trailed off as understanding dawned. She put the egg down and held up a purple lace bralette, crop-style with racerback straps, and a matching set of lace boyshorts. “OH! Fashion show!” Frankie declared, giving Rachel a wicked grin.

“Yep, fashion show,” Rachel agreed, making a ‘shoo’ motion with her hand.

Silence from the bedroom, then a squeal of surprise. “Rach!”

“C’mon, Frankie! Fashion show!” Now Rachel was almost imitating Frankie’s earlier tone.

Frankie emerged from the bedroom wearing nothing but the lingerie. The bralette did wonders for her modest breasts, but the boyshorts, oh they were doing exactly what Rachel had been hoping for. They hugged Frankie’s hips, snugged tight against her mound, and when Frankie turned they left her ass completely bare. The shorts had a heart-shaped cutout that framed Frankie’s behind perfectly.

Rachel squirmed on the kitchen counter. Not yet, she told herself. She hadn’t counted on how hot it would be watching Frankie being so casual about this.

“Another clue!” Frankie giggled, reading it in the same voice as the last. “Where you hog all the space and steal the remote / If you look down low, you’ll find your next note.” Frankie glanced up, wheeled around and gave her behind a firm swat. “To the couch!” She ran across the room, knelt on the cushions and stuffed both hands between them.

Rachel stared. She’s doing that on purpose! She’d planned to watch Frankie from behind while she searched, but she hadn’t planned on Frankie in this position. Back to Rachel, knees spread wide, Frankie’s ass-cheeks hanging out of the boyshorts were even more tempting than Rachel had imagined.

“Found it!” Frankie announced, holding up a brilliant yellow egg in triumph. She opened it with a flourish, then squeaked. Rachel was thrilled at Frankie’s startled expression. “Is this…” Frankie’s eyes widened as she held up a tiny strip of orange and black fabric.

“Fashion shooooow,” Rachel teased, motioning to the bedroom again.

Frankie returned a moment later and Rachel couldn’t contain the gasp. This outfit was another two-piece. Sort of. The top was a leopard-print bandeau-style micro-kini with studded leather trim. It was barely wide enough to cover Frankie’s areolae, and her nipples stood out prominently beneath the fuzzy fabric. Around her neck was a matching choker, about an inch and a half tall, edged with the same black leather and tiny silver studs.

The bottom was a nearly invisible g-string with a leopard-print triangle covering Frankie’s crotch and very little else. Frankie’s auburn curls peeked out around the g-string’s almost laughable coverage. The afternoon sun caught them just right, made them almost glow, and Rachel’s toes curled. She hoped Frankie hadn’t caught that. “Very cute! You like it?” she asked, knowing her voice didn’t sound as casual as she wanted.

Frankie shuffled, adjusting what little she could. “Rwar!” she responded and made a little ‘claw’ motion with her free hand, but she seemed just a touch less confident. “Next clue!” she chirped after a moment. “Where you found the cream cheese, why was it there?” Frankie shot Rachel a look and Rachel couldn’t help giggling. “Go have a look, no tricks, I swear!”

Maybe moving a bit more cautiously, Frankie watched Rachel for a moment, then entered the bathroom. Rachel had to hop off the counter to follow. When she reached the bathroom door, Frankie had already retrieved a powder-blue plastic egg from the shower caddy. She eyed Rachel sideways, twisting it open.

Rachel’s tongue-tip grazed her lower lip. “Fashion show,” she said softly. When Frankie had disappeared into the bedroom, Rachel allowed herself a trembling exhale. Almost there.

“Rach?” Frankie asked, sounding uncharacteristically shy as she emerged from the bedroom again.

“Oh,” was all Rachel could manage. It was better than she’d imagined.

Frankie was wearing a black leaf-pattern lace bodysuit that hid nothing. Her nipples strained against cups so sheer Rachel could count every one of the little bumps scattered across Frankie’s areolae. The bodysuit was held in place with a string of pearls acting as a halter neck; the sides and back were almost completely cut away. Most beautifully, the bodysuit ended just below Frankie’s hipbones. Another string of pearls looped between Frankie’s legs, connecting the front and the back of the outfit. A few of the pearls were completely lost in Frankie’s pubic hair and the strand nestled perfectly between Frankie’s outer lips.

“Rach?” Frankie asked again.

Rachel swallowed. “One more,” she responded, handing Frankie an orange plastic egg.

Frankie opened it carefully. Like the first, there was only a slip of paper inside. “I never imagined this would bloom / Now follow me into your room. Love, Rachel”

Rachel was guiding Frankie before she’d finished reading the note. She walked Frankie backward through the bedroom door and onto the bed, then lay between her legs. One hand stroked the inside of Frankie’s thigh while her other carefully explored the bottom of the bodysuit. She had to search for a moment before she found the clasp that released the string of pearls, but the way Frankie twisted and moaned, Rachel was sure she didn’t mind.

Pearls removed. Rachel’s hands urged Frankie’s thighs open just a little more. She breathed deep, drunk on Frankie’s scent already, then took her long-awaited lick at Frankie’s pussy. Frankie’s reaction was intense and immediate. She groaned, her thighs pressed against Rachel’s hands, and she arched her back. “Yummy,” Rachel purred and pressed closer. She loved the feeling of Frankie’s labia against her face. The warmth, the smell, the way Frankie tasted, it was all so perfect. She drove her tongue deep, wiggling and rolling and curling inside Frankie. She nodded, pressing her chin against the base of Frankie’s pussy, then drew her tongue back out and made a loud, smacking sound with her lips.

She moved to return to her place between Frankie’s thighs when she felt Frankie’s hands on her head. “Babe, wait.” Rachel paused, confused, until Frankie removed Rachel’s glasses. “Poking me,” Frankie gasped, then directed Rachel back down.

Now that everything in the world was a blur except for Frankie’s glistening folds, Rachel was even more eager. She licked and sucked at Frankie’s cunt. She ground her nose into Frankie’s clit. She pulled back a little and pressed her tongue-tip against Frankie’s anus. The moan and shudder this drew from Frankie gave Rachel a thrill she felt through her whole body.

Finally Rachel returned her whole attention to Frankie’s clit. She licked it roughly with her whole tongue, bit at Frankie’s dense pubic curls, then bit her clit just as two fingers slid deep inside. “Fuck, Frankie. Cum, please? Please, cum. Please, Frankie! Cum for me!” She pounded her fingers faster and deeper, watching Frankie’s face for that moment. When she saw it, she moved down again, caught Frankie’s clit between her teeth and flicked it rapidly with her tongue-tip.

“Rach-Rach-Rach-Raaaaach!” Frankie’s orgasm crushed them both.

The clock-radio in Frankie’s room displayed 6:19pm. Both of them had been in and out of sleep for the last few hours. When they were awake together, they made love again. Now it was just Rachel. Frankie was, as usual, cuddled against Rachel’s naked body, her head on Rachel’s shoulder, a puddle of drool forming between her cheek and Rachel’s breast.

“I love taking care of you,” Rachel whispered in the fading light of the day.

Knotty

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

New Year’s Resolve

Fri, 02 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

“FOUR!” the party chanted in unison.

“Yeah, but what’s your naaaaaaame?” Rhiannon slurred, spilling her drink without noticing.

“THREE!”

“I tol’ ya already! Trystan.” He was gorgeous—square jaw, swarthy, all angles and muscle, with the sort of dark stubble Rhiannon wanted to absolutely grind against.

“TWO!”

“No, you din’t! Tell me!”

The pillar of pure manliness before her stumbled a little and shook his head. “Nah! Tell me yours first!” She imagined climbing him like a tree.

“ONE!”

“Shuddup!” Rhiannon grabbed his shirt with both hands, completely forgetting the champagne she’d been holding only seconds before. “Fuckin’ kiss me!”

The morning sun had the utter gall to shine directly onto Rhiannon’s face, dragging her back to the waking world like she was a toddler at the candy rack and it was her mum.

“Where’s my fuckin’—” her thoughts crashed to a halt. Everything? Aw, fuck. The night came back to her: Cassie’s New Year’s Eve party, the cocktails, the pot, the shots!

… the guy?

She shifted in the county-sized bed and looked around the room. She was completely naked, of course, and dangling from one of the blinds was her shiny pink (crotchless!) panties. Her tiny tube-dress was in a heap by the door to the en-suite bathroom. No sign of her stockings, shoes or coat.

She’d decided a bra would only spoil the fun last night, so at least she didn’t have to find that.

She groaned, piecing more of it together: too many drinks, impending panic over being alone at midnight, that hot guy appeared out of nowhere. Her body ached in the best way; her pussy sore and sticky from whatever wild shit they’d done last night.

Where was the guy?

The fuck was his name?

Were the sheets made of pure cloud or something? She’d never felt anything so soft and smooth against her skin.

“Good morning!”

Whirling as best she could while naked and sitting in the middle of a larger-than-king-size-bed on the kind of sheets Rhiannon imagined literal fuckin’ royalty might sleep on, she pulled the overstuffed duvet up to her neck. For all the good it would do. Memories from last night and their little ‘after-party’ were flooding back to her now and letting him have a good look at her tits in the morning light would be maybe the tamest thing she’d done since meeting—

“Trystan!” Thank FUCK she’d found his name before it got really awkward. “H-hi. Good morning. Hi?” Rhiannon’s head hammered and she thought she wanted to puke, but her tummy also did a girlish little flip-flop at the sight of him standing in the doorway.

He was tall. Fit, but not muscular, with the most perfect little swirl of pitch-black hair on his chest between his pectorals. He wore only a pair of thin, cotton pyjama pants that left no doubt he was going commando. He looked weathered but also perfectly polished.

“You remembered my name,” he said affably. “That’s pretty great.” He chuckled as he entered the bedroom, a Greek statue come to life. “I, um, I made breakfast.”

Holy shit! He’s shy! Rhiannon thought wildly, and the butterflies in her stomach had moved further south.

“It’s just coffee and scones.” He sounded apologetic as he approached the bed, carrying his tray bearing a thermal carafe, two mugs, an earthenware cream pitcher, and a plate laden with golden brown squares embedded with peach chunks and covered in a frosting drizzle.

“I’ll get you a car if—” his comical earnestness after last night threatened Rhiannon with a giggle fit, but she knew that would ruin everything that might come next. Her crotch throbbed with growing eagerness at the thoughts of what might be next.

He was big. She remembered that. Like, gasping-for-air big.

It’d be stupid to leave now, right?

Putting on her most casual, “bad-girl” air, she offered him what she hoped was a lusty smile. “It’s New Year’s Day, where do I gotta be?” She lifted the duvet away from the bed—an open invitation—revealing her modest breasts, small nipples, and raspberry-dotted areola.

Trystan looked shocked, then chuckled, handing her a mug. His eyes raked over her as if he wanted to devour her right there. The coffee burned her tongue, rich and bold; the scones flaky and warm, crumbs and warm peach chunks tumbling down her chest. She licked her lips slowly, watching him watch her.

“Somethin’ I don’t recall from last night,” she began, finishing her scone and washing it down with a mouthful of hot, bitter coffee. “I don’t remember gettin’ a proper taste for myself.” Rhiannon’s fingers brushed the patch of hair on his chest, then slid down, between his abdomen and his pants, finding the thick, wonderful warmth between his legs. “You put it all somewhere else, didn’ya?”

Curling her fingers around him, she squeezed, stroking, fascinated by the feel of his skin. Not clean, not at all; his cock was coated in a sticky, slightly grippy film—her own dried juices. Rhiannon had marked him; he belonged to her now.

The ache surged again, heat pooling between her thighs, her filthy mind already racing. No way was she leaving without round two. She released him, set aside the breakfast, and raked her nails lightly over his abs. “I’m gettin’ down on the floor over there and you’re gonna fuck my pretty mouth. Okay?”

She slipped from the bed, blushing a little herself as she stood fully on display, noting the way his attention settled on her waist, then her hips, then her slit—freshly shaved just before the party last night—and shook her head.

“Nuh, uh. Maybe for dessert.” She knelt on the floor and opened her mouth wide, waiting.

He hesitated again; she didn’t think he was used to taking such blunt direction. She gave him a smirk. “Trystan, get over here and fuck my face!”

She sat on the floor, her sopping wet pussy leaving a smear across the wood, arching her back to present her mouth and modest tits as an offering. She wanted to be below his cock, so he could use her throat from above. The position felt exposed, animalistic—exactly how she craved it—her offering a willing, wet hole and asking nothing in return but to provide primal gratification.

He responded quickly to her second command, shoving down his pyjama pants with the force of a dam bursting. His cock bounced free, already leaking pre-cum. He was thick. And long. With a slight curve toward the tip she didn’t recall from the previous night.

“Oh fuck, yeah!” Rhiannon breathed, then opened wide for him.

He climbed out of bed and took the two steps he needed to be standing right over her. The heat from his dick, the smell of his body, and the lingering scent of their fucking the night before filled Rhiannon with desperate need. She didn’t wait for him to take the lead, instead catching his cock with her mouth and drove it down until he bottomed out at the back of her throat.

“Fuck!” he gasped, sounding utterly shocked. He started to pull back, but Rhiannon drove her nails deep into his ass-cheeks and pulled him hard against her face once more. Tears welled as she struggled to relax, as she pulled him harder still, as she tried to force him down her throat.

Then she felt his fingers in her hair, gripping her tight and she nearly climaxed from that alone.

“Uuuh, kay,” Trystan said, mostly t0 himself, and pulled back—pulled Rhiannon away by her hair—and began pumping into her mouth. The first few strokes were slower than Rhiannon would’ve liked, but the way he was pulling her hair more than made up for it.

She encouraged him with her tongue, rolling and flexing, curling it against the underside, fluttering against the tip each time he nearly pulled out.

“Your fucking mouth,” he groaned as he rammed his cock back in, causing Rhiannon to snort and twist a little on the floor. “Fucking hell!” He slammed against the back of her throat again, and Rhiannon stifled a gag. “Mouth made for dick!”

Rhiannon made a whimpering sound she hoped sounded like agreement, but the way he was thrusting, the way he was slightly pulling her head to one side or the other with each attack, she knew he didn’t need any more encouragement.

“I bet—” thrust “—you got—” thrust “—cock—” THRUST “—in here—” thrust-thrust “—all the—” THRUST “—time!” He was in!

Rhiannon shuddered beneath his rough usage of her mouth and those words. She was holding one tit, squeezing and kneading it, and rubbing her clit furiously with two fingers, but the moment he finally entered her throat, she stopped completely. She gagged once, managed to control it, then waited for the real fun to begin.

“FUCK!” Trystan howled. “Tight!” He managed again, then yanked Rhiannon’s face off his throbbing cock only to bury it back down her throat again. Rhiannon gagged again, snorted again, and went back to masturbating on the floor while he used her head.

Again and again, he pounded her mouth; Rhiannon’s only sounds now were labored, desperate breathing, the wet sounds of her fingering her cunt, and the ‘gwack’ she made as he face-fucked her faster and harder still.

Finally, mercifully, just as she began to fear she might pass out—it was so hard to breathe like this—Trystan let out a growling wail. His smooth, shaven balls rested on Rhiannon’s chin, and he shot load after load of his hot cum directly down her throat. She tried to focus on milking him, but by now, she was cumming as well, sitting in a little puddle of her own sweat, spit, and sex juices.

The sun had left the bedroom, well on its way to its zenith, while Trystan and Rhiannon snuggled once more under the duvet.

“Hey.” Rhiannon’s voice was soft with a hint of mirth.

Trystan said nothing, just made a quiet, questioning ‘mmm’ sound.

“I still didn’t get proper a taste. You’re gonna need to try again.”

Knotty

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

Fri, 05 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

The night air was bitterly cold. It was the first week of December, but this was the sort of weather Alex associated with the depths of winter.

She didn’t care one bit.

Two months ago, on a whim, she’d gone leaf peeping, a guided hike for “city folk” led by Harper. They’d spent every weekend since that one together, and now, tonight, the two women were cuddled together, standing at a chest-high barrel table beneath zigzagging fairy lights, listening to a band perform a mix of standards and holiday songs on a stage somewhere near the temporary skating rink. The Christmas Market was overwrought and overcrowded, and Alex was having the best night of her life.

Every night she’d spent with Harper had been a new “best of her life” night.

It might also have been the steaming, fragrant mulled wines they’d been sampling since arriving. At some point, they’d decided they were going to sample every one on the menu, and while Alex wasn’t regretting it yet, she knew she would be in the morning.

“Another round?” Harper asked, her sun-kissed cheeks practically glowing. From the cold? From the wine? From the company? All of it, Alex decided.

“We should go. I’m so cold I can’t feel my toes!”

Harper laughed softly and threw her thick woollen poncho over Alex’s shoulders as well, drawing Alex into a cosy tent that smelled like woods, smoke, and Harper. “Should’ve worn real boots, City Girl,” she teased gently.

Alex glanced down at her heeled ankle boots with the shiny silver buckles that had looked so cute in the store. “They’re perfectly practical! They’re waterproof!”

Harper didn’t reply with words, just that low, thrummy sound she made deep in her throat whenever she chose to let Alex enjoy a fantasy about life outdoors. Alex was about to protest when she felt Harper’s hand sneaking first up under her coat, then beneath the waist of Alex’s stretch corduroys. How drunk was Harper? … how drunk was she? Maybe “drunk enough”?

“Harper!” she hissed softly. “People will see—”

“Lexi?” The voice sent a chill down Alex’s spine. Andy!

Alex looked up, blushing furiously, noting the way Harper’s questing fingertips had suddenly stilled. “Andy?” she said, incredulous, hoping she didn’t sound too wicked.

Andy. Until September, she and Andy had lived together. Had been a couple since they were high school juniors. Everyone they knew “knew” they were going to get married and raise a family someday.

Until they weren’t. Until Alex figured out why she didn’t want that. Andy was sweet and kind and caring and would only ever be the star of his own story. There’d never be space for Alex. So she left.

And then she met Harper.

Harper only wanted Alex to be the star of her own story.

Who was the woman with Andy?

“Lexi?” felt, rather than heard, Harper ask softly in her ear. Those impossibly warm fingers had resumed their adventure beneath Alex’s waistband.

“Lexi!” Andy seemed genuinely overjoyed at the chance encounter. He manoeuvred himself and his female companion through the crowd, then bellied up to the barrel table Alex and Harper had half-filled with earthenware cups. He gave them only the briefest, but still judgemental, glance. “How are you?”

Alex grew cold at the same time a heat was building below. Thanks to Harper. “H-hey, Andy! H-hi! Merry Christmas!” The last bit came out a little shrill as Harper’s fingers somehow found their way beneath the waist of Alex’s panties, all very hidden by the dim light and the thick, warm poncho slung over them both. Alex still felt fully on display.

“Merry Christmas!” Andy responded almost on instinct. “I, um, heard you had a new … friend?” Poor Andy, he was trying so hard, and he was so unprepared for this. He awkwardly shot a hand out toward Harper. “Andy Travis! Alex’s … Alex and me … I was … hi!”

Harper fixed him with the smile Alex had come to recognise as the one she reserved for the greenest of the city folk who signed up for her hikes. “Harper. Ellison. I’m a park ranger up in Foxlight Highlands State Park. Nice to meet you, Andy.” She practically purred his name as her fingertips found the top of Alex’s dense pubic curls. She gave Andy’s hand a firm shake, then turned her attention to the woman at his side. The intense, attentive look Harper gave this other woman filled Alex with a tiny flare of jealousy. “We haven’t met, I’m Lexi’s girlfriend. You can call me Harper.”

The pretty woman at Andy’s side looked nearly scandalised at the open admission, but recovered herself admirably. She took Harper’s offered hand, gave it a light squeeze, and said softly, “Lindsey. Lindsey Hartwell.”

Harper smiled in an almost predatory manner. “Hi, Lindsey. It’s really fuckin’ cold tonight, huh?”

They made small talk for hours—or so it felt to Alex. Andy kept pretending to be nice, his bland, hollow persona he used around new people on full display; polished and superficial, like a bowl of cold oatmeal that looked comforting but lacked any real warmth or substance.

But Alex was too lost in Harper’s secret touch beneath the heavy poncho to dwell on it. Harper was relentless. The moment she had understood the dynamic, her fingers slipped past the waistband of Alex’s pants, teasing and firm, igniting a molten heat that spread through her body. Every slow, deliberate stroke made her gasp softly, her knees trembling as she struggled to keep her composure.

While Alex, Andy, and Lindsey made small talk, Harper’s hand persisted, unashamed—her fingertips exploring with unyielding purpose, driving Alex to the edge of control. Harper alternated between dipping her index finger deep, deep inside Alex, curling and petting the most sensitive ridges along her “front”, and pinching and twisting her sensitive little nubbin at the top of her pussy. Each touch sent shivers down her spine, her breath hitching as desire pooled painfully low, threatening to drown her in a wave of pleasure she could barely contain.

Harper was revelling in every sensation, her pleasure raw and unmistakable. Alex knew she’d make Harper apologise later—once they were alone—but right now, she was equally consumed, her body trembling under Harper’s electric touch, drowning in the heat, the shame, and the overwhelming rush of desire.

“Y’know what?” Harper suddenly announced, voice loud and unapologetic, enough to turn a few heads at nearby tables. “I’m really sorry, but I think I’ve had too much mulled wine. It’s so good, I just—” She fixed Andy with a look that was half-challenge, half-confession. “I gotta go.”

Her hand was still deep inside Alex’s pants, her middle finger still buried inside her, insistent and sure.

“No!” Alex shot back, sharp and desperate, voice trembling on the edge of protest.

Harper knew with complete certainty, there had never been, nor would there ever be, anyone more perfect for her.

“No,” Alex repeated, voice steadier this time; though Harper was flexing her finger, tormenting those sensitive spots inside her with slow, deliberate teasing. “You can’t drive! I have to take you home. I promised, Andy. Nice to meet you, Lindsey.”

Alex’s toes clenched inside her impractical but irresistibly cute boots as Harper curled her finger again, pressing hard before slowly dragging it out, savouring every second. Alex hoped she wasn’t whimpering, but she really couldn’t tell. Harper knew exactly what to do to send her spiralling over the edge—she was just holding on by a thread.

“You’re such a horny bitch!” Alex hissed, straddling Harper in the pick-up truck as the engine rumbled and the windshield fogged behind her. Alex was naked from the waist down, but the interior of Harper’s truck was warm, inviting, and thick with anticipation. “We could’ve gotten arrested!”

Harper chuckled softly, her fingers curling around Alex’s most sensitive spots again, teasing and demanding. “Your boyfriend and his new girl are going home wishing they were us,” she murmured, her lips brushing Alex’s ear. She stretched lazily, offering her lips as an invitation, eyes hungry.

Alex glared for a moment, then burst into a breathless, heated laugh. “No more stuff that’d get us arrested,” she said, trembling with need. Some nights were just for her—nights where she surrendered entirely to Harper’s touch. She pressed down hard on Harper’s fingers, desperate for the release Harper owed her, body trembling with anticipation.

Harper nipped lightly at Alex’s neck, her voice low, sultry. “I wanna meet this ‘Lexi’, I bet she’s hot.”

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

Giving Thanks

Fri, 21 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

“Welcome back, dear listeners. Or if you’re just joining us, welcome to it. Where it is feeling like the frozen end times out there! The city’s buried under an inch of ice, the airport’s been shut down since nine this morning and that’s, uhhh, fourteen hours now? Check my math, willya, Rach?”

“I can’t do math anymore,” Rachel’s deadpan delivery was always the perfect counterpoint to Frankie’s theatrical style.

“You’re right, Rach! Time’s got no meaning anymore! It’s just you and me in this studio, probably the last two human voices on earth! But seriously, listeners, EMS are asking everyone to stay home! The storm’s gonna move on by morning, just settle in for the night. I’m Frankie and with me, as always, is Rachel. We’re three hours in to our unplanned hosting marathon because we’re the only two people crazy enough to be here! You’re listening to WCRU-FM, Your College Crush. We have one space heater, half a bag of pretzels and enough coffee to kill a horse. We’re here all night keeping you company. Until Rach finally murders me for flirting on the air.”

“Oh my god, Frankie!” Rachel sounded exasperated but she couldn’t keep a hint of amusement out of her voice. They’d been inseparable since they met, the first week of high school, now, both students at Ashford College, working at the college radio together and roommates to top it off. Some of their long-term friends had started teasing them about being married.

“So for those of you who got your travel plans ruined by Old Man Winter today — I keep hearing today’s the busiest travel day of the year — how about we kick off this hour by reflecting on the stuff we are thankful for! Rach! Why don’t you start?” Frankie peered across the soundboard at Rachel with an expression of impish glee. They hadn’t talked about this during the news break and Frankie knew Rachel hated these kind of surprises.

“Frankie!” she replied, her face flushing as she tried to mentally steady herself. “Okay, fine, um, I’m thankful … the space heater is still working! Have you felt how cold it is in the hall?”

Frankie rolled her eyes dramatically and giggled into her mic, “Ugh, mid! Let me show you!” She leaned forward, over the desk locking eyes with Rachel. She pulled her mic right up to her lips and spoke in just above a whisper. “I’m thankful I’m here with my bestie and that I work with her every day.”

Rachel’s blush deepened and she felt her stomach flutter just a little. The way Frankie had looked at her. The way her voice sounded …

“Alright, I’ll go again,” Rachel said after clearing her throat. Her tone was a little uncertain now. “I’m thankful you talked me into applying here at Ashford so we —” she cut herself off quickly as the butterflies in her belly grew more active. “Um, still hang out,” she finished lamely.

Glancing up at Frankie, she was startled by the uncharacteristically disarmed smile. “There y’go!” she recovered quickly. “Let’s do this! I’m thankful for how you take care of me! You make sure I eat right, I do all my assignments, all that stuff! I’d be lost without you!”

Silence fell. The studio was decently sound-proofed; not even the howling winds and the punishing sleet reached the two women. Frankie’s eyes were wide with nervousness bordering on genuine fear. She could hardly believe she’d said those things out loud. Had she just blown up the longest, dearest friendship in her life?

“I’m thankful you’re the first person I see every morning and the last person I see every night,” Rachel said softly, though she could tell from the meters on the soundboard that her words had been picked up and carried to Frankie’s headphones.

Silence again. Far longer than it should have given they were still live on the air. Finally, Frankie recovered again and started speaking into her mic once more. “Alright, listeners, time for some music, let’s start of with, um, Wreck by Neko Case.”

The music started, Rachel flipped the switch, the red “ON AIR” light went off and she stood up from her chair. Frankie slowly removed her headphones but otherwise sat perfectly still as Rachel rounded the desk then stood in front of — over, really — Frankie.

“Rach?” she asked softly, her voice unsteady.

“Yeah,” she replied, gently pushing Frankie’s mic away, then sat in her lap, straddling Frankie’s thighs. “This okay?”

“Yeah.”

Frankie’s shirt came open slowly, Rachel’s nervous fingers undoing one button at a time. She shivered as she felt Frankie’s hands on her hips, then pulling her t-shirt out of her jeans. She broke into a teasing smile as the thick flannel shirt revealed enough for her to be certain.

“No bra?” Rachel asked and bit her lower lip softly.

“Laundry tomorrow,” Frankie replied, her hands gliding up Rachel’s bare skin, over her ribs, approaching those breasts Frankie had thought about so many times. “Mine aren’t big enough anyway,” she teased tenderly while freeing Rachel’s breasts from her bra, still beneath her t-shirt.

“They’re perfect,” Rachel whispered as she shifted, kissing a line down Frankie’s chest then taking one of her stiff nipples in her mouth. “You’re perfect,” she whispered before biting down on Frankie’s nipple firmly.

“Rach—” Frankie trailed off; trembling fingers exploring the warm swell of her best friend’s breasts. She made soft, yearning sound as her fingertips explored the stiff tips, getting to know all the little ridges and bumps of Rachel’s areola. Then, a sharp hiss as she felt Rachel’s fingers unbuttoning the front of her jeans. “No, Rach, I haven’t — I’m — it’s winter.”

Rachel stopped, confused and bordering on upset before she could follow Frankie’s thoughts, then she broke out into giggles. “Yeah, I’m not shaving either,” and with that, her fingers were where Rachel had so many times imagined they would be. Tight against Frankie’s mons by Frankie’s jeans and her underwear, exploring her coarse, dense curls, Rachel gasped with pent-up desire as she found that brilliant pearl just beneath her hood. “It’s okay?” she asked softly as she unconsciously ground herself against Frankie’s thighs.

“Oh fuck yes,” Frankie whispered back. Her hands were becoming clumsy on Rachel’s breasts as her excitement grew.

“Fuck, yes,” Rachel agreed and she began the slow, careful, reverential movement of her hand against Frankie’s crotch. Two fingers trapped Frankie’s clit between them as Rachel stroked. Slowly at first, then gradually speeding up as the studio filled with the sounds of lovemaking. Soft, urgent gasps and breaths as Rachel ground and stroked and Frankie squeezed and rocked her hips as much as her position would allow. Slick, beautiful, wet sounds as the women both barrelled toward ecstasy. Frankie accidentally kicked a water bottle under the desk and sent the metal cylinder clattering away but neither of them gave it any notice at all. Rachel was moaning, bent over and biting Frankie’s nape as her fingers worked furiously at Frankie’s clit. Frankie raked her oft-bitten nails over Rachel’s back and down her sides. She made a brief, futile attempt to get her hands down the back of Rachel’s jeans before she was finally lost.

“RACH! Rach-Rach-Rach!” Frankie whimpered and in response Rachel moved her hand ever faster, her fingers pinching tighter and sucked hard enough on the tender skin on Frankie’s neck it was sure to leave a mark. Rachel had marked her. Frankie couldn’t be happier.

“Sorry about the dead air, dear listeners,” Frankie purred into her mic. “Fear not, Rachel and I are still here on this stormy, stormy night.”

“That’s right, Frankie,” Rachel purred right back, beaming at her from across the sound board. “Just us two, all night.”

Knotty

Pumpkin Spice

Fri, 17 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Lightning split the night sky, casting the rain-slick sidewalk in stark relief, startling pedestrians with the ferocity of the crack. It was close, no doubt one of the taller buildings that loomed over the street like shadowy sentinels. The rain hammered mercilessly against the windows of The Perkatory Café, as if the storm were a living thing trying to claw its way inside.

The door swung open on hinges that sounded to be in pain as Lydia stumbled in, being chased by the vengeful storm. She’d covered her head with her ancient satchel and as she forced the door closed – against the objections of the storm – shaking the rain from it to the floor.

“Hey Lydia!” Rowan called from behind the counter. The chaotic barista was only an employee but Lydia couldn’t remember a time when they weren’t working. The tall barista had their sleeves rolled up, showing off intricate sleeve tattoos on each arm, patterns of densely packed sigils they swore made the coffee better.

The café itself was cozy like the witch’s cabin in Hansel and Gretel. Everything slightly too warm, too inviting, it felt ominously homey. Behind the counter, the shelves were overburdened with a collection of mugs, no two alike, and everywhere one looked were glass jars holding lit candles. The chalkboard above the counter read:

Try Our Haunted Latte! Taste The Moans!

Lydia squinted at it, wrinkling her nose as she considered. Rowan, Lydia concluded. They just couldn’t help themselves with the bad jokes. “That’s filthy.”

Rowan seemed to appear behind the counter, directly in front of Lydia, a self-satisfied grin on their lips. “That’s what I was going for,” they said. “Want one?”

“Haunted?” Sceptical.

“Or filthy,” Rowan shrugged, teasing.

Sighing in defeat, but happy to be out of the storm and talking to her favourite coffee-slinger in the world, she said, “Surprise me.”

Rowan gave their favourite customer a slow once-over. Probably reading the energy clinging to me from the rain, Lydia thought, not unkindly. “Haunted it is.” They turned to the espresso machine which made a low, contented hum.

The latte arrived in a mug the size of a cauldron. It was steaming, golden-brown, and the foam moved! It formed a spiral that shimmered and pulsed; a heartbeat.

Lydia regarded Rowan, raising her eyebrows,“That’s not … normal, right?”

Rowan shrugged. “Sometimes.”

Lydia raised the cup to her lips. Rowan had a knack for brewing exactly the right temperature for Lydia. She closed her eyes and took her first sip. Heat, sweetness, spice and … something else. Something velvety smooth and teasing that slid over her tongue and down her throat like a promise.

The tension left Lydia’s shoulders, and her cheeks flushed as something deep inside sighed.

She sipped again, the air shimmered. Lydia’s thoughts were drifting to … bodies. She opened her eyes slowly to find Rowan smiling at her, expectant, and Lydia’s cheeks flushed more. She was thinking about touching, teasing, tasting … not Rowan, not anyone, really, just the idea of …

The espresso machine exhaled a long, steamy rumble.

Lydia blinked in surprise, struggling to ignore the heat not just in her cheeks now but also further down. “Did the machine just … purr?”

Rowan laughed softly, “He does that sometimes.”

“He?”

“Hmm? Oh, that’s Obadiah. Former barista. Real nasty accident with the steam wand. He’s still committed to customer satisfaction, though!”

Lydia laughed, “Rowan!”

The slowly throbbing spiral in the foam shifted; now there were faint lips, curling in a smile. Lydia stared, gobsmacked. The lips dispersed back into the pulsing spiral, and the warmth surged again. In Lydia’s mouth, over her chest; like hands caressing her lips, her breasts, down her arms, her hips…

“Rowan," Lydia kept her voice perfectly even, “don’t panic, but I think your latte’s touching me.”

Rowan’s eyes flicked up. “He’s friendly.”

“He’s fresh!”

The espresso machine let out a hiss that sounded like laughter.

“You can tell him to stop,” Rowan offered, but Lydia shook her head quickly and took another sip as she sat at the bar. The over-warm, over-cozy air in the coffee house felt thicker somehow, there was a sensual charge that made the tiny hairs on Lydia’s arms stand up. Lydia sat perfectly still, clutching her mug like a life-preserver in a sea of cinnamon-scented lust.

“Okay,” she said, mostly to herself. “It’s fine. Totally fine. It’s not even real, just the caffeine and the storm and—”

The chair beneath her shifted. It didn’t move, it caressed her butt.

“Rowan?”

The barista’s head appeared above the counter. “Hmm?”

“My chair’s grabbing me.”

“Oh. Sorry, he gets really touchy at night.”

“He?”

“Obadiah,” Rowan said, as if discussing the weather.

The espresso machine gave a low, throaty groan and Lydia was sure she could feel something delicately caressing her ankles. She tried to stand, but warmth pulsed through her and her legs already felt weak. She bit her lip trying to focus on anything other than her growing need.

A couple at the corner table laughed too loudly, another had started kissing passionately, heedless of the other customers. At a booth near the back two women had opened their male companion’s shirt and were licking his chest.

“Okay,” Lydia said, breathless. “This is weird.”

“Define ‘weird’,” Rowan was stirring a drink with uncommon focus. Lydia thought their voice might be a little higher pitched that normal.

“Everything’s vibrating.”

Rowan their face a little flushed as well. “It’s supposed to do that.”

Lydia squirmed in the very friendly chair. “Excuse me?”

Before Rowan could answer, the lights flickered. The speakers pulsed with static for a second, then the lo-fi jazz was replaced with something sultry and full of bass.

Soft, amused, distinctly masculine, a voice that seemed to come from nowhere said, You missed me, didn’t you? Lydia jumped. “Nope. Nope. Note a bit. Don’t know you, latte ghost.”

You do, the voice purred. Every lonely night you wished someone would warm you up… I was listening from the grinder.

“Gross,” she gasped, still trying to ignore her building lust. “Also kinda hot?”

You smell like rain. I loved customers like you.

Rowan was bent over the counter now, their head hanging low as they supported themselves on their elbows. “He’s been like this since October ‘07. The night he w-went out miii–” they gasped then went on, “mid-doppio. T-tragic.”

The steam wand was hissing constantly now, filling the café with humid warmth, fogging the windows. Out of the billowing clouds appeared a shape. A torso outlined in mist, eyes glowing faintly amber, a smile like a burn mark.

Every breath Lydia took made the air taste of espresso and something darker. She wasn’t scared. She was aware. Aware of skin, of pulse, of sounds filling the café; sounds normally reserved for bedrooms. Shy, curious sounds, sounds of discovery, of exploration. Laughter deepened, sighs lengthened, limbs tangled under tables.

Lydia gasped, her toes curling inside her very sensible flats. “Is this happening?”

Rowan, red-faced, grinning, tried to shrug as they squirmed behind the counter. “It’s an i-immersive experience.”

A decorating pen in a half-full frothing pitcher clattered in approval. Lydia half-laughed, half-gasped. “You should charge extra for this!”

“Please don’t give him ideas,” Rowan groaned, looking like they may be about to lose their footing.

Steam filled the café like fog at a séance. A bar stool toppled with enthusiasm. The couple who had been kissing a moment ago were now standing, facing each other, hands down one another’s pants. One of the two women at the back had disappeared, the other broke her kiss with the man long enough to look down in horror, “Stop it! You’re vegan!”

Don’t fight it, the ghost murmured. I just want to feel alive again.

Lydia’s laughter melted into a shiver. Unseen hands pulled her panties to the side, ghostly fingers finding her sensitive bean, sending a thrill straight to her core. “Buy me dinner first?” she giggled wildly.

Done. As Lydia felt a new sensation between her legs, one that immediately brought to mind other lovers, other places, she was dimly aware of a charcuterie snack box leaving the display and approaching her, completely unsupported.

Dawn came slowly, softly, filling the day with new promise. The storm was gone, the windows were still fogged, but the café was empty save for Lydia and Rowan. Everyone else had departed in groups of twos or threes during the night.

Lydia was on her third mug of black coffee, sitting at the bar once again, Rowan leaning against the bar nursing their own strong, black brew. “That got steamier than usual,” they said, giving Lydia a playful grin.

Lydia snorted into her mug, “I’ll help clean this up before someone calls the health inspector, but you owe me!”

The espresso machine released one long, satisfied hiss. Rowan hip-bumped Lydia gently as they started preparing for the morning rush.

Knotty