My arm is still through the bars. I could grab hold of her, slam her head into the bars and threaten her until they release me. But I can’t bring myself to hurt her.
I made this choice, and I need to find a way to live with it.
I lift my hand, mirroring her pose. She takes the tape measure and measures from the tip of my thumb to the tip of my little finger. The corner of her lips turns up and her heart beats faster. There is a change in her scent and signal, and I am sure she’s not thinking about measuring my hand.
If she wanted to measure my meq before it hardened, she has missed that moment. It presses against the rough fabric of my pants as if begging for a to turn with the tape measure. Will she measure the length as well as the girth?
Her cheeks become pink, and I wonder if she has noticed a change in me.
“Can you take off your shirt?”
Are you sure it’s my shirt you want me to remove?I don’t say it as I once again toss my shirt onto the bed.
Her gaze drifts over me and there is a small crease between her eyebrows. I don’t want to be the one suggesting that she open the cage to take measurements. But it is clear that is the only way this will work.
“Let me do the other hand, and then I’ll do your arms."
I sigh. “I can take some of the measurements myself." It’s not what I want, but it’s the right thing to offer.
“You can’t read the marks.”
“No, but I can hold it while you read. And I can learn."
Her tongue darts over her lip. For a moment, I wonder if she wants the excuse to open the cage. Interesting…is she wondering what her sister found appealing? “I’ll see how it goes; I want to make sure the measurements are accurate.”
“Of course.” She measures from wrist to elbow and elbow to shoulder. She measures around each part of my arm as well. This was not some ploy to get me to take my shirt off, not that I would've refused, anyway. “Can you measure your neck?”
I move close to the bars so she can see if I am holding the tape right because I can’t see what I’m doing. When she notes down the measurement, I release it from around my throat.
“And around your head."
We repeat this a few more times. My head, my chest, my waist. She wants the distance from my bellybutton to my collarbone, between my nipples.
“How many ribs do you have? I would love to do an x-ray or scan, but I don’t think the use of resources will be approved.”
"I have 14 ribs."
“More than a human. Do you have more vertebra in your spine?”
“I don’t know…I have never counted the vertebrae in a human spine." I turn around so she can look. She does more than that. Her fingers land on my lower back.
“May I?”
“Yes." My voice is rough. I need her to touch me.
Her touch feathers up my spine, tracing over each bump. Then her touch smooths over my shoulders as if she can’t stop touching me.
I draw in a slow breath, not wanting to startle her or make her pull away.
“Can I feel your ribs?"
You can feel whatever you want.
I turn to face her, my toes against the bars so I'm as close as possible. Her fingers brush over my stomach then up my sides, with just enough pressure that I can tell she is feeling for ribs to verify my count. But when her hand slides lower, she isn’t counting. My meq is hard, pushing against the front of my pants. I should be embarrassed that it only took a few touches, but I don’t care. I want her to examine me further. I want her fingers to wrap around my shaft and count each pleasure bump.
Her lips are parted when she looks up at me. “Should I keep going?”
“That depends on what you want to measure next.”
