Of memories. Tight black leggings with no underwear. The outlines of lips so clear, so obvious, so visible. Images that were not sexual at the time. I...ages that were the subject of playful words. Words that some people took offense at. I touch myself. The image is different now. The image is of lips that need to be touched. To be sucked. To be licked. I touch myself. The image is of folds opening, of pink dampness beneath the black outer shell of tight leggings. The image is of lips parting to. I could feel my pussy becoming damp with want, the juices trickling down my inner thigh like honey. It took all the self will I could muster to pull myself free from his grip, dancing backwards, wings fluttering slowly until my toes barely brushed the swaying grass. I blew him a kiss, blinking slowly, my alien eyesight drinking in, not only him, but the myriad butterflies that clung to the latticework of vines that covered the stone bluff above him, slumbering, awaiting the sun to rise once. More

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