Gamer Girl’s Trekkie Dream

Red. Throat to hem, poured on, no give in it anywhere. I put both hands on my hips and I let you take your time.

Take it. I’ve got nowhere to be.

I walk the long way down the deck because I want you watching me do it, and my boots land hard, and under that is the squeak, thigh past thigh, high and ridiculous. I take a longer stride to make it happen again. Twenty-six years old, in a cargo bay, making noise with my legs, and not one part of me embarrassed with you standing there.

Halfway across I stop and turn. Slow. So you get all of it.

The light comes off me in a stripe down my thigh when I move and I move again so it happens twice. My hair goes with the turn and lands late across my back, brown with the rainbow through it, stuck a little where I’m damp at the shoulders.

“Yeah,” I say. “You see it.”

Hands flat on my hips, thumbs forward, and I press in hard, and I don’t give. That’s me under there. It holds me exactly where it wants me and I press again just to find that out a second time.

Then I shift my weight onto the other foot, and the seam drags across my pussy about an inch, and my mouth comes open, and I let you watch it happen to me.

An inch. That’s all it takes. It’s been sitting on me like that since I turned up, warm as I am now, exact, no accident in it, and every time I move I know precisely where it is. I do it again. I’m not going to pretend I did that for any other reason.

“Still looking?”

Course you are.

Both hands down the front of me, chest to hips, slow as I can stand it. The latex has gone the heat of my hands and it catches and drags and catches, and every catch pulls at my throat and my tits and my pussy at once, because it’s one piece and I’m sealed into the one piece and nothing in here happens in only one place.

Back up, over my chest. My tits are up and held and the suit tightens under them every time I breathe out, which means I am being squeezed in rhythm by my own clothes while you stand there, and I know exactly how that looks from where you are.

Flat on my stomach. I breathe against my own hands and it refuses me half the breath, and I do it three more times so you can watch my ribs go out and get nowhere.

“Come on,” I say.

Then I pose. Properly. The one you’ve seen a hundred times, hand on the waist, weight back, chin up, and it lands on me the way it lands on them, and I know it, and I hold it well past the point where it’s a joke.

Turn. Other side. Hip out. Hand flat on my ass and I leave it there.

“Say something.”

Nothing. The overhead takes my voice and hands it back smaller and my face goes hot anyway, and that’s the best part, being embarrassed in an empty room by somebody who isn’t in it.

I walk to the far wall, slow, and put a palm on the bay doors and stand with my back to you, legs bare from the hem down, weight on one hip, taking my time about it.

I’m soaked under here. Collar, hairline, the small of my back, and none of it gets out, and I don’t want it out. The bay air is cold on my legs and nowhere else and the line where cold stops runs across my thighs like a waterline. My pulse is going against the inside of the collar and you can’t see that and I want you to know it anyway.

I turn around.

“Okay,” I say. “Now do you get it?”

Because it fits. Every inch of me at once, no gap at the back, no air anywhere, nothing to pull straight or hold closed. My arms hang at my sides because they have nothing to do for the first time in my life. And when I move, I go and the red comes after me a half beat late and lands back down on me, and that half second is worth more than anything I own.

I put a hand on my hip and press in hard and it says no, and I say oh, out loud, where you can hear it.

“There.”

I shift again, slower, and feel the whole length of the seam go across my pussy and settle back, and my breath goes short and I don’t hide it and I don’t apologize for it.

I want you to keep looking. That’s the whole of it. Somebody watching me in red in an empty bay, and I get to be exactly this much, out loud, hands wherever I put them, chin up, nothing in me checking whether it’s allowed.

“More,” I say.

To you. Straight at you.

And I put my hands back on my hips and stand in the middle of all that empty floor, soaked and held and grinning, waiting to see how long you’ll stay.