Limitless Evolution As a Snake

I pull back, creating space between us, slightly conscious of my new, intimidating size. I’ve transformed from a 30 cm snake into a two-meter-long crimson coil.

Sorry.

I apologise, my voice deeper and rougher than before, scraping the bottom of a register I didn’t possess five minutes ago.

I was mid-evolution, a bit of a growth spurt. I hope this doesn’t scare you.

Her eyes slowly travel up my body: my folded wings, my flared hood, my new crimson scales catching the light and reflecting it back iridescently. I brace myself for her scream, her dash for the door, the typical normal reaction to a talking snake the size of a man.

Instead, her breath hitches in her throat.

"Actually," she says, "it’s kind of hot."

Then, quieter and a bit embarrassed, "Oh God, I said that out loud."

Laughter rumbles up from within me before I can suppress it, and the sound seems to unnerve her further. Yet she steps closer, one hand lifting, fingers trembling as she reaches out and lays her palm flat against my scales.

The touch rolls through me like the first sip of something strong. It starts where her skin meets mine and spreads outward in slow ripples; she feels it too- her shoulders jerk, her breath comes out ragged, and her fingers curl against me as if she fears I’ll pull away.

I don’t.

I’m Matt, by the way.

Realising halfway through that I never once mentioned that. After everything we had been through together, I never got around to introducing myself.

I skipped that part; yesterday I couldn’t even talk, so I’m still working out what order things go in.

Her blush deepens to something fierce, spreading down her neck. Her lashes go glossy, her stance shifts, one bare foot sliding against the other as if she can’t quite hold still.

"Matt," she breathes, testing it. "Nice to, um. Officially meet you." She glances down at her own fingers still pressed to me, and her lower lip catches under her teeth in the smallest pout, as if she’s angry with her own body for enjoying this so much.

I lean in, my hood folding back down, and let everything drop soft and steady.

Well, Lyra, there’s no graceful way to ask this, so I don’t try for graceful, but I need to do something. Do you give me permission to bite you? Gently, it won’t hurt; it should feel warm, actually like sinking into a hot bath after a long shift.

She looks up at me, her eyes glassy and shining, a single tear catching at the edge, though nothing in her expression reads sad more like a woman standing at the edge of a diving board she’s already decided to jump off.

She nods slow and certain. "Mm, y-yes." Her fingers press harder against my scales, holding on now instead of testing. "I do."

That’s all I need. Permission, clear and simple, no take-backs.

Follow me, I say, and slither ahead toward the bedroom door, and my brain just about short circuits the whole way there. Holy shit. Holy actual shit, I’m about to lose my virginity. As a snake? Sort of a snake, a snake with a working brain and a stupid amount of nerves firing off at once.

How do I even do this? How does a guy with no hands and no hips and no idea what he’s doing manage to make a girl feel good? Think, Matt, think. Every video I ever watched, every late-night tab I swore I’d clear from my history, all of it scrambles together into useless noise. Hentai, please, I need you now more than ever, some kind of instruction manual, anything.

Are elf ears sensitive? I feel like they’re sensitive. Everything I’ve ever consumed says they’re sensitive. Would she even want me like this, in this form, coils and scales and no normal parts to speak of.

The bedroom opens up in front of me; its floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the far wall, and beyond the glass the Undercity sprawls out in layers of neon, the Twawi market glowing gold and pink and electric blue far below like a spilled box of jewels. The room itself is all black and white, sharp lines, cold surfaces, the kind of place that costs more a month than most people make in a year. It screams money in a way that almost embarrasses me for noticing.

Lyra moves past me and sits on the edge of the bed, bare feet against the dark floor, hands folded in her lap like she’s waiting for a verdict.

I rise up on my coils until I’m looking down at her, and something about the height difference lands differently than I expect.

Lay down, Lyra.

I command it, and it comes out rougher than I mean; my new voice just doesn’t do soft yet. I didn’t mean to sound like that. But she doesn’t flinch. She lays back, hair spilling out around her, and just looks at me with those glassy eyes like she’s waiting for whatever I do next.

I slither up her leg slowly, taking my time, feeling every inch of her skin against my scales.

"Haah-" she lets out this small moan, soft and broken, "fuck that feels good, mmpf." Her hand flies up to cover her mouth, like she’s embarrassed at herself for saying it out loud.

I stop moving.

Please don’t, I like hearing you.

A weak little yelp slips out from behind her fingers, and then, slow, she nods, eyes glassy, hand dropping back down to the sheets as it costs her something to let go of that control.

Good girl.

I don’t know where that comes from, some instinct buried deep, but her whole body shivers when I say it, so I figure I’m doing something right. Her fingers grip the sheets so hard her knuckles go pale.

I keep sliding up, coiling around her legs, tightening then loosening, over and over, some rhythm I don’t even plan, my body just knows. I get to the edge of her skirt, and I stop there, just for a second, looking up at her face.