Page 65 of Tempted by Celestial Bodies

Explaining transgenderism to a person wholly unfamiliar with gender as a concept is not the sexiest way to spend our time together, so I rush through the rest. “I was born female, but I was uncomfortable with how that felt. So I changed some things, and now I feel better.”

After another moment of contemplation, Nuj says, “There are plenty of species who change sex.” Then they fold, dropping to their knees.

Tucking their thick toes in the space between my ankles, Nuj wraps their tail around themself, the tip slithering up the bottom of my pant leg. Their upper body twists, breastbone arching in a manner that would be impossible for an earth herptile, neck bending out of the way so they can see-smell my response. My face reddens both when I’m flustered and when I’m turned on, and right now I’m both, so I must look like a damned spectacle. Hopefully my approach—less smooth sailing and more floundering shipwreck—still manages to inspire arousal.

I consider Nuj with stunned wonderment and a bit of unavoidable discomfort at the unsettling anatomical positioning. The foreign visual further increases my excitement. Palms hot, pressed flat against the cool surface of the metal wall, I try to shake my hair out of my face so I can see better. Nuj smiles, shifting until their head looks dislocated on their neck—and pushes my bangs back for me.

I lose interest in musing on how I look when they lean in, allowing the tiniest edge of their teeth to intimidate the hollow beside my hipbone. The area is unbearably sensitive; I buck in terror so sharp it’s nearly painful, arousal surging to ripe agony.

“I liked that,” Nuj says, like we’re having a normal conversation, and repeats it with more insistence.

Screaming in pleasure might still trigger the distress sensors, so I cover my mouth and bite into the meat of my palm. Nuj continues working their mouth around that soft, vulnerable skin, right above the waistband of my uniform pants, and that’s when I feel their radia pat around between my legs. They know I have something erogenous in that area, but haven’t yet found where stimulation will reduce me to dust.

Anticipatory, I yank the zipper of my pants, forgetting that there’s an inner latch so that when I try to tug my fly open and fail, I let out an embarrassingly distressed sound.

Nuj must know how pants work, because they calmly bat my hands away, gentle like a warm ocean current, and perfunctorily unfasten the clasp. I want to shove the pants to my ankles, but I also want to see what they’ll do, so I make what might be a risky move and set my hands on the top of their head, stroking chipped-gemstone scales. Doing so seems to be the right move, when Nuj rubs their temple into my palm and makes a chittering sound that registers as their own pleasure.

I shudder when they lave their tongue up the inside of my wrist. “You’re so fun to play with, Chance,” Nuj informs me. Then they peel away the front panels of my pants, pushing them down to my knees, exposing my undergarments. Their radia prods the squishy material of my packer, held in place by my tight boxer briefs.

Another thing I forgot.

“This is human male anatomy?” The confusion in their voice has me realizing they’ve probably never seen a penis before—at least not a human one.

“An imitation of one, yeah. But let’s not talk about it any further, alright?”

Nuj huffs a quiet laugh. “Acknowledged.” Regaining control of the situation, they guide the stretchy material down my thighs, then arch to inspect the offerings of my crotch.

I keep my body hair trimmed, so the view of my testosterone-thickened clit is unobstructed, though I prefer to call it a cock nowadays. I’m near-embarrassingly wet, enough to feel slick between my thighs when I shift. Uncomfortable with my restrictive, disheveled clothing, I awkwardly toe off my shoes, then squirm out of my lower garments, leaving me in just my unbuttoned shirt when I straighten. I stand there, cunt fully exposed, and wait for Nuj’s next move.

In a way, we’re playing a game after all, except unlike chess it lacks defined rules. Flying blind—quite literally, in Nuj’s case.

After drawing in a deep breath—fuck, are theysmellingme?—Nuj smiles. “Very interesting, Chance Landfall. May I touch?”

A giddy laugh bursts from me. “Please.Please.”

I’m so turned on I might combust. I have no idea what to expect, but when their tongue slides up my inner thigh to wiggle up inside me, I just about die.

I try to be gentle as I cup my fingers against the back of Nuj’s head, dragging them closer while cautious of nicking myself on their teeth. Nuj seems unperturbed: their tongue moves within me like no toy nor dick ever has, and I’ve had fairly satisfying variants of both. They spread my thighs, then apparently decide there still isn’t enough room, because they lift my left leg from under me and settle it over their shoulder. I tense, but Nuj keeps me steady with their radia, increasing pressure on my hips until I stop my panicked squirming. Once I relax, I’m overwhelmed by the powerfully new sensation of their writhing tongue, only half-wondering how strong Nuj is to be supporting my weight as if it’s nothing.

I do my best to muffle the sounds that force their way out of me, and pray the distress sensors know the difference between being stabbed and being fucked.

Nuj’s tongue slithers so deep their teeth end up pressed against my pubis. By now I trust them enough to get off on the danger aspect without the unsexy sort of fear. After a few different attempts to stimulate my cock, Nuj figures out how to apply suction with their radia, pumping me like a full-sized dick. No longer able to control my harsh, desperate noises, I buck down, fucking myself on the powerful muscle.

Sex is enjoyable most of the time, but it’s not uncommon for me to approach partners with some level of self-consciousness. I can’t relax until I’m sure they won’t be put off by my body. In contrast, the whole point of this encounter is tonotrelax, and furthermore the person fucking me is so phenomenally, bone-chillingly alien that it’s impossible to waste brainspace on judging my potential anatomical shortcomings. None of the usual nerves are there when I seize up, orgasm ripping through me like a plasma ray.

Apparently, the sensorscantell the difference between an orgasmic wail and shouts of genuine distress.

“Fucking… tits on a plane,” I gasp when I can form words again. That wasfast, lightspeed compared to the effort previous partners have had to exert to force me toward climax. At some point Nuj returned my leg to the ground, but my muscles are so weakened Nuj has remained supporting me. Quite considerate of them.

“What are tits?” Nuj asks as they adjust, gently lowering my body to their level, settling me with my knees spread on either side of their knobby ankles. My cunt is still sensitive, and the movement alone makes me twitch.

“It’s what these used to be.” I touch my top scars, which healed more thickly than I’d have preferred, puffy and dark pink. When Nuj adds to the pressure of my fingertips with a brush of their radia, I shudder, even though the area’s sensitivity was reduced to nearly nothing after the surgical procedure. Endeared by their gentle exploration, I ask, “Now, how do I make you feel that good?”

Nuj whistles out a pleased chuckle, then pats my sternum. “Put your hand here, on me.”

I blink. “Where?” All I see are the four slits of their olfactory organs. Unless?—

When I don’t move on my own, Nuj leads my hand to the lower set of openings on their chest.

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