When Marla's Away

When Marla's Away 2

Present day...

As I stepped out of the shower, a towel floated up from the rack and began drying me off. I hadn’t expected that, since my washcloth hadn’t once moved by itself during the shower. I didn’t know whether the towel would simply dry me off or take time to play while it did so. I figured the best thing to do was just to raise my arms and wait.

The towel was all business, it seems, as it wiped the water from my upper body. But when it got below the waist,  it slowed down a bit, and pressed against me a bit harder for a few moments. Then, I guess, it decided it wanted to play a bit more. Up to that point it was, for all intents and purposes, a towel that had come to life. But then it changed -- I could feel the shape of a hand through the towel, though the towel’s movements didn’t show any evidence of an invisible arm attached to the hand.

The hand began to squeeze me though the towel, as two other hands -- presumably also generated by the towel -- began caressing my sides. I should have been really turned on by all of this, but wheels had started turning in my mind...

Marla hadn’t said anything about her props bringing my own clothes to life, yet that had happened. Sometimes those clothes were quite adamant about returning to lifelessness on their own terms. (And, a few times, those clothes were just a little too playful for my tastes. I mean, I know they’re just clothes, and they’re mine at that, but still...) The clothing that had brought my clothing to life always outlined a shape more slender than the curvaceous constructs Marla herself favored, though shapely in their own right. She also hadn’t said anything about towels, cutlery, dishes, pots and pans, and whatnot, but each had come to life at times, and though they were often -- but not always -- under the control of Marla’s props, it seemed that each time a non-clothing item came to life for the first time, it was the doing of those shorts...

I reached out in front of me, above the towel, only for two more invisible hands to clamp onto my wrists, one on each, and raise them above my head. An idea popped into my mind about why the unseen hands would be holding my arms up, rather than at my sides, when some... things began poking lightly into my armpits. They didn’t feel like fingers but they were too substantial to be feathers. They felt kind of fur-like, like fur gloves or something odd like that...

Anyway, those invisible points, whatever they were, dragged around in my armpits while equally invisible somethings of similar texture began dragging up and down my sides. Those were more like outstretched fingers than fingertips. I started twitching, reacting to the caressing and rubbing without wanting to move too much when there was a hand clutching my privates with a towel. But once laughter burst out of me, the hand towel and the hand-shape manipulating it floated away from me, leaving room for more furry-textured invisible hand-shapes to began pressing and rubbing all over my body.

I howled and hollered in reaction, and in moments my feet broke contact with the floor as I floated out of the bathroom and into my living room, with the hovering towel leading the way. There was a floating sheet awaiting me in the living room, about a foot above the floor. And standing next to the sheet -- actually standing -- were the white shorts, over white tights, with a nicely-filled wifebeater inside an unbuttoned white dress shirt. At the end of the shirt’s sleeves were white satin gloves, which the shirt held against the hips of the shorts. I’m sure it was only coincidental that the gloves were also holding the shirt open, allowing me a generous view of the shapely wifebeater underneath. As I approached the sheet, I rose into the air until I was hovering above the sheet parallel to the floor, when suddenly all the tickling hands withdrew and I was unceremoniously dropped onto the hovering sheet.

As I took a moment to catch my breath, the shirt extended one sleeve toward the floating towel, with the fingers of its glove open as if to shake hands. The corner of the towel shaped itself around the outfit’s glove as if there were a hand underneath, and they shook. I asked the outfit. “Why’d you let them just drop me like that?!” The outfit just shrugged and raised its sleeves to wave the fingers of its white gloves at me, then went back to holding the shirttails against the shorts. Just then I realized -- both the dress shirt and the wifebeater were mine. So now the shorts were “wearing” my clothes, not just animating them? And why where the outfit and the towel shaking “hands”? It looked like the towel and its unseen hands had just delivered me to the outfit, but had that been previously arranged?

A mesh laundry bag floated into the room, full of clothes and things I needed to wash. As the bag opened itself to accept the approaching towel, the unseen furry hands that had apparently been used by the towel began pressing against me yet again. Not tickling this time, just... making their presence known. By this time the towel was in the laundry bag, which had closed itself up again. But it was still in the room, so I had no real way of knowing whether it was the towel or the standing outfit -- or something else -- that was responsible for these unseen hands. Most of them just held themselves against me -- I felt at least twelve distinct furry surfaces against my arms, legs, stomach, chest, and soles. But one surface wasn’t content to just grasp -- that was the one softly taking hold of my manhood, beginning to rub and squeeze

I wanted to object but a shuddering moan was all that came out of me. At that, all the hands except the ones against my feet began softly rubbing their chosen spots. The ones against my feet increased their coverage area, now feeling like an actual fur glove or mitten was holding each foot, rather than just pressing against my soles. But just holding, not tickling or squeezing.

“Come onnnn,” I managed to say, between involuntary cackling and moaning. “You have to stop! I got things to do today!” The laundry bag pulled itself open again, and I saw things moving around in there, before a white baseball cap that could never have fit over my big head floated out of the bag, hovering just about a foot above my eye level. I thought it would have stopped above the outfit that was directing all the tickling activity, but I guess that was considered not necessary...

The cap’s bill was facing me, as if the unseen wearer it represented was regarding me, and it shook back and forth. The outfit, for its part, had crossed its sleeves below its shapely bosom, still plainly outlined by the wifebeater inside the still-open white dress shirt.

“Is that you?” I asked the outfit, pointing at the floating cap. The shirt shrugged. Apparently it preferred to keep me in the dark.

“OK, well, whatever,” I said. “But I have do have things I need to do today.” The shirt shrugged again.

“That means you have to let me go.” The cap shook back and forth again. I noticed that the outfit turned ever so slightly toward the cap when it did so. So what did that mean?

I decided to change tactics a bit. “OK, so maybe you don’t have to let me go,” I allowed. “But will you? I do have things to do today.” No apparent acknowledgment from the outfit or from the cap, but I got the impression there was some communication going on there.

“OK, let’s try this, then,” I said, directing my comments to both. “What do I have to do to get out of here, fully dressed, before lunchtime?”

I’m sure that, if there had been a visible face over the outfit or below the floating cap, at least one of them would have been smiling deviously. All the unseen furry hands suddenly left, as I was levitated upward from the floating sheet. A hovering pair of what I immediately recognized as boxer briefs -- my boxer briefs -- hovered down by my feet, pulling themselves up my legs. There was no other clothing of mine in the room anywhere that I could see. Why was I just being given a pair of drawers?

After the boxer briefs situated themselves, I was placed back on the floating sheet, but just about in the middle of it this time, instead of near the edge, where I had been dropped earlier. I was also rotated upright, with my knees bent. The white outfit walked over, kneeled on the sheet -- tossing aside its gloves as it did so -- and crawled over to me, extending its sleeves toward me as it drew next to me.

I returned the embrace, surprised to feel... lips pressing themselves against mine as the unseen hands rested against the base of my neck. This was the closest the shorts had come to approximating a whole, fully-dressed body since they had first made themselves known -- I wasn’t sure what to make of it.

The outfit began pulling me down to a horizontal position on the floating sheet, and I realized why it wanted me to be wearing something over my midsection -- just in case I “forgot” this was an animated outfit and not actually a woman. Since none of these outfits had been worn on actual bodies, they didn’t have to be washed. I guess this outfit didn’t want me to change that...

As we rolled around on the sheet, me locking lips and pressing my tongue against the invisible lips and tongue of this shapely outfit of clothing, I couldn’t help but hope this would turn out differently than that day with the orange zentai suit...Two weeks earlier...

I wasn’t sure if the zentai suit was just feeling experimental, or what, but I sure hadn’t expected anything like... wait a minute, maybe I should tell you what happened first.

I yielded to the suit, which was pulling me into my bedroom to allow some privacy to the clothes that were apparently getting intimate in my living room.  How clothing could get intimate when there were no bodies inside them, no peg A to put into slot B, was beyond even my imagination at that moment. And they were lying -- thrashing, probably -- on a linen sheet wrapped around... nothing? I also had no real idea what this zentai suit had in mind, though the fact that it had led me into my bedroom, not, say, the kitchen, gave me some idea.

The suit picked up my TV remote, aimed it at the TV, pressed the power button, and... let go. The remote floated there, flicking from channel to channel just about the same as it would have if it had been in my hand. Stopping at the same type of shows, lingering on channels for about the same amount of time, before apparently deciding there was nothing suitable on -- it clicked the TV off, then floated back to the spot the zentai suit had taken it from. But then my stereo remote, which was also on top of the television, rose from the TV without first being picked by myself or the suit, turned itself 180 degrees to point at the stereo, and turned it on, tuning in to a smooth jazz station I listen to fairly often.

As the suit turned toward my bed, the bedspread pulled itself away from the pillows, which propped themselves up against the headboard as I would position them to sit up and watch television. Two more pillows floated into the room, from the hall closet, each one dropping onto the one already in place, as the zentai suit lay down on the far side of the bed, leaving me to take the side closer to the door.

The suit propped itself up on one side, facing me, and began to... fondle its chest. The suit looked mighty inviting lying there, but if I was right about what it wanted from me a change would be needed.

I lay propped up against the pillows on the other side of the bed. “You know,” I said to the suit, “if you want me to give you a hand, then I think you need to shift around a little bit.”

The suit gave me a thumbs up and shifted around so that it was lying in my lap. That is, its nonexistent head would have been in my lap, meaning basically that I was staring into the suit’s open neckhole as it resumed cupping its boobs.

I decided to do something a little different, since the situation at hand was “different.” I reached into the open collar and began rubbing the swell of the suit’s chest from the inside. Once I started that, the suit withdrew its hands from its chest and began rubbing its crotch. But as the suit’s hands moved it seemed more and more like there was a bulge down there. I didn’t look directly at first, not willing to actually see a bulge if there was one.

But curiosity finally got the best of me -- I actually grabbed one of the suit’s sleeves by the wrist and pulled it away from its crotch and yes, there was a bulge there that looked totally out of place with the empty suit’s chest bulge.

Yeah, I knew it was still an empty suit, not an invisible female of any kind, but still, the bulge unnerved me a bit. Enough so that I drew my other hand away from the suit’s chest and tried to make some order of all that was swirling around in my head right that moment. It occurred to me that the suit could have created the bulge just to play with my mind. If that was the case, it was working.

In the middle of it all I unintentionally blurted out, “What are you anyway?”

The suit used its hands first to gesture toward its empty collar, then to cup and squeeze its boobs, then to cup and squeeze its bulging crotch, then made a sweeping motion to encompass all of... itself. Then, finally, it shrugged.

“Yes, I can see you’re a zentai suit with --” I had to pause to find the right word “--bulges. But what’s with that bulge down there?” I said, pointing at its crotch.

The suit gestured at its chest again, then swept its hands around in the air just beyond its empty neckhole, then pointed at its crotch and shrugged. It amazed me that I had already been able to pick up what these gestures meant without having to have them explained to me.

“If I understand right,” I started, “you’re wondering why I’m objecting to a crotch bulge when I already know you’re empty. Is that right?”

The suit gave two thumbs up. I sighed.

“Because I like to think of Marla’s things as female, and that bulge makes me uncomfortable, that’s all.”

The suit reached towards its chest, pinching a bit of fabric between a thumb and index finger and pulling it away from the form giving it its shape, then let go, allowing the fabric to cling to the unseen breast-shape inside it. I couldn’t help wondering how it was able to do that and only get fabric, not the breast-shape under it.

“Yeah, I know, you’re not female or male, just cloth. I can’t really explain it. It’s just...” I trailed off as the suit reached for a well-hidden zipper over its crotch and unzipped it. The bulge disappeared, as the zipper yawned open. The suit motioned toward the opening.

“What are you trying to say?” I asked, stalling. I figured it was inviting me to see that there was nothing down there, but why? Was it some kind of trick?

The suit gently took hold of my right wrist in its right hand and pulled it down toward the opening. Part of me wanted to pull away, thinking I might actually make contact with the “equipment” making that bulge. But part of me also wanted to be reassured there was nothing down there, and that part won. I let the suit pull my hand down to the opening, then reached inside, and...

Nothing. The suit was just as empty down there as it was up top. I had no doubt that it was empty up top, because not once had it ever created the shape of an invisible head pressing against a pillow, or against me as it lay there propped against my thigh.

I pulled my hand away, satisfied that the suit was empty through and through, only to have the suit’s hands immediately begin rubbing and squeezing at something above the crotch opening, something that plainly was not there. I started to reach down there again, but decided to just wait and let the suit enjoy itself, even if it was only trying to make my mind spin.

Until I decided to make its “mind” (?!) spin, by rubbing its chest again, while it rubbed and squeezed itself -- or something -- down below. The shape of nipples began pressing against the fabric as I dragged my fingernails softly back and forth over cloth tits, as the suit’s hands kept busy down below.

I was sure that the unseen something that the suit’s hands were pressing against was only there to make me tie my mind in knots trying to resolve it, so I said, a bit testily, “We both know there’s nothing down there, so why don’t you stop?”

The suit pulled its hands away and motioned toward the opening again. I knew I would not find any evidence of what the suit wanted me to believe it was squeezing, so I reached into its crotch opening again, waving my right hand around inside the empty suit, until...

My hand made contact with something wet. Not expecting that at all, I started to pull my hand away, reacting like I’d poked a cactus or something. But I was only able to pull away for a second or so, before the suit firmly grabbed my right wrist and pushed it through the suit’s opening again, and this time I knew what the wetness was that my fingers had brushed against...

It was a... tongue?! Unseen lips -- from an unseen mouth -- softly closed around my hand, as I felt it licking and sucking my fingers. After a few moments, the invisible mouth pulled away from my hand, as my fingers were somehow separated. Then each finger was enclosed in a separate pair of invisible lips, with its matching tongue licking and sucking against its finger, while two more tongues bathed my palm and the back of my hand.

Six tongues, four mouths, all inside the opened crotch of an invisibly-filled zentai suit, because I’d told it to stop playing around. And as mind-blowing as that was, it would have been worse if there had actually been something solid creating the impression of male equipment inside the suit...

So now not only were the shorts intent on pushing the limits of Marla’s decree, but it was also using my own clothes as well as some of Marla’s to do so.Back to the present

Naturally I began to writhe around against the white outfit, conscious of the fact that it wasn’t going to... well, open up and let me in. Even though the shorts was making it more and more clear that they weren’t quite bound by Marla’s rules, it was also apparent that they were -- as Marla’s things were -- content with teasing, rather than going all-out. The shorts, and the items they animated, were just willing to take things  farther than Marla’s things, that’s all.

And yes, I was soon humping the outfit, a bit frustrated about the limits but not the least bit interested in creating any possible conflicts with Marla later. But this outfit was willing to go all-out.

Just not with me.

As before, an outfit of my clothing walked into the room. It was a pair of my pajamas, with button-front bottoms. In spite of the visual evidence of an erection tenting the bottoms, I was sure that the pajamas were as empty as the suit I was rolling around with on the floating sheet. Nonetheless, knowing that a change was about to happen, I begrudgingly pulled away from the outfit, rolling off the sheet and gesturing toward the pajamas.

The top raised a sleeve toward me, elbow bent. Was the suit preparing to bump an invisible fist with me? I moved my fist toward the pajamas and, yes, an invisible fist met mine.

Immediately I opened my hand and reached for the sleeve end and, naturally, found nothing but air.

I sighed and stepped aside, watching as my pajamas kneeled on the floating sheet and crawled over to the reclining shorts. The shorts outfit unbuttoned its crotch button, then the shirt  reached over and unbuttoned the pajama bottoms. I shook my head and left the room…I have to say, though, that with all the other stuff going on, Marla’s things (and mine) did a good job of taking care of cleaning, cooking, and other chores. For all I know, they could have been doing that all along, maybe even without Marla’s direction. Who knows?

I came home one day with a bag from a neighborhood fast-food place -- chicken, fries, cole slaw, biscuit -- only because I didn't feel like waiting for dinner… to cook itself, basically. It’s entertaining to watch things hovering around the kitchen on my behalf, sometimes at the direction of some outfit or article of clothing and sometimes by themselves, but hey -- when you’re hungry, you're hungry.

When I walked into the kitchen, a cabinet opened and a plate floated out. One of the many perks of having Marla and her stuff around was that there was no more need for paper plates. I used to buy them because I didn't like washing dishes. But when the dishes can wash themselves, there's no need for supposed time savers like paper plates that let grease soak through, or plastic utensils you feel guilty about throwing away after a meal.

I opened the bag and pulled out the plastic throwaway fork the fast-food place gave me, but it was yanked out of my hand and flung toward the garbage can as the utensil drawer drawer opened to let a real fork float over to the table.

At the same time the bag floated from my hand toward the table, as a chair slid away from it.

“How do you know I want to sit there?” I said. But my food was shaken from the bag onto the plate. My invisible helper(s) even shook some of my homemade spice mix onto the fries as I approached the table.

I didn't even need to worry about napkins, at least not for my hands. When my hands got greasy, all I'd have to do is hold them up and an invisible mouth would lick grease and crumbs from my fingers. Sometimes there would even be a filled maid uniform of some kind to tend to cleanup...a few days later...

I got up in the middle of the night to get myself a little snack.

Before Marla came along I used to have to turn on a light so I wouldn't stub my toe or trip over something. But thanks to Marla, and now to the white shorts, things would usually float or slide out of the way if I took a wrong step.

I got to the kitchen, originally intending to get some cookies from the cabinet. I headed for the fridge instead, figuring I’d get some ice cream.

As I approached the fridge, the door swung open and an aerosol can of whipped cream floated out.

“What’s that for?” I asked aloud, watching the can come to a stop right next to me. The kitchen light came on, and I turned and saw the white shorts walking in, over translucent white hose. White gloves floated on each side of the shorts just above waist level.

The outfit walked up to me, a glove grabbing the floating can of whipped cream and giving it a good shake.

“I know you didn’t come in here for a snack,” I said. At least, it wasn’t looking for food...

The glove holding the can stopped shaking it and held it pointing downward over the empty space above the shorts, the nozzle about level with my mouth, and pressed the button, spraying whipped cream into empty space. The cream disappeared from the tip of the nozzle, surprising me – I would have expected to see the cream being compressed by the confines of... some kind of invisible container. The sound was compressed, though, just as it would be if the nozzle were inside an actual mouth.

I had never been a big fan of this particular game – I dare anyone to spray something sweet into their mouth and not start drooling – but in this case, since the whipped cream was spraying itself into a construct rather than an actual mouth, no drool. This just might be fun.

The glove let go of the whipped cream can, which hovered a few feet away as the outfit then turned to me. Momentarily unseen lips began pressing against mine, and almost immediately the unseen form’s tongue pushed its way into my mouth, treating me to dessert and a spirited kiss at the same time. And this time the construct seemed to be an entire face, not just free-floating lips – when the kissing began, a nose brushed against mine as the unseen face turned slightly counterclockwise, more or less forcing me to turn a little bit clockwise.

I reached in front of me to find an invisible torso, so I put my arms around the form and drew it closer. Its invisible arms wrapped lightly around my shoulders, their fingertips brushing lightly against the back of my neck. Another set of unseen hands cupped my butt and began to squeeze, while the gloves caressed my sides through my pajama top.

The arms and hands kept holding, rubbing, and squeezing as the lips and tongue withdrew. But the unseen face stayed in place, its forehead lightly touching mine. “So I guess you did come in here for a snack after all,” I said with a grin. The invisible head nodded slightly, and I felt slight movement in the unseen face’s features, which I took to be a grin. “But why’s the whipped cream still hovering?”

A chair slid away from the kitchen table, revealing a box I hadn’t seen before under the table. The top flaps ripped open, revealing brown plastic bottles of chocolate syrup. Two of the bottles rose from the box and uncapped themselves, joined in midair by a couple more cans of whipped cream from the fridge.

“Does Marla know you play like this?” I asked. The smile seemed to fade just slightly, as the leaning face shook back and forth, which I could tell by the movement of the face against mine. “And I’m betting you don’t want her to know.” Another shake. This was gonna be awkward when Marla returned home. But I’d worry about that when it happens.

“So just what did you have in mind?” I asked. The gloves withdrew, along with the unseen arms and hands, as the form backed away a few steps. The cabinet below the sink opened, allowing a pair of yellow rubber gloves to float out and firm up with invisible hands, flexing their fingers.

One of the white gloves grabbed the original whipped cream can, upturned it, and began spraying its contents into cupped rubber gloves. The rubber gloves then floated close to the shorts and began spreading the cream over thin air above the shorts about level with my upper torso.

Pretty soon the construct was covered with whipped cream and syrup, from neck to waist, including the parts -- like the *ahem* upper torso -- that seemed to be missing during the long, drawn-out kiss. I was particularly looking forward to licking the frosting off the unseen boobs, as messy as that might make things.

Speaking of messes, I expected this to create a mess on the floor, but the shorts somehow kept every bit of cream and syrup on the construct, even managing to keep the themselves and their sheer white leggings free of syrup. The construct even began flexing its boobs. Not jiggling, mind you, but flexing — nothing was moving but its goo-coated chest.

Once the show was finished, the gloves beckoned me forward, and I gladly complied. I was a few steps away when unseen hands pressed lightly against my chest, stopping my progress. One by one the buttons on my pajama top undid themselves, after which the gloves pulled it off me and carried it a few feet away. They let go of it, but instead of dropping to the floor, it hovered in place. The gloves pushed themselves down the sleeves, moving as if being worn by an invisible woman, though they had come into the kitchen under the control of the shorts. The gloves then began buttoning up the pajama top from the bottom up, but as the buttoning progressed upward the pajama top began to take on proportions much larger than any the shorts had ever emulated up to that point. it was plain that, if the form held, and the gloves continued trying to button the top, it would rip the buttons off my pajama top, or tear the top itself. The top three buttons stayed unbuttoned, as the pajama top conformed to the curves of a busty Invisible woman.

I came closer to the first construct, watching as it began to move very enticingly, making its chest jiggle in the process. Again I expected the cream and syrup to began dropping off, but it held as if it were part of the construct, not semi-liquid coatings covering it.

I decided that, since I was being offered such a large, sweet dessert, I’d start with the best part. I began eating away at the coating over the form’s chest, anticipating brushing my tongue against those nicely rounded curves. But my tongue seemed to find a... hole?! I reached a spot where there was no coating, but there was also no apparent skin underneath.

I pulled back and, yes, there was a bare spot in the coating. A spot where I had licked off the whipped cream and the syrup, to find that underneath there was... nothing?

I poked at a well-coated spot nearby, and there seemed to still be a boob underneath all the goo. But I could see where I had licked a hole in it. I even put a finger into the gap in the covering, finding no invisible skin in that spot.

“Are you still there?” I asked. Direct approach is always best...

The construct just kind of bobbed up and down, bending its knees and sending its chest bouncing again. With no visible head, and no coating on the form above the neck, that was about the only way to answer the question, I guess. Later it occurred to me that the construct could easily have given me a gooey thumbs-up...

“Okay...” I said. “Was that supposed to happen?” I asked, pointing at the apparent hole in its right breast. It shrugged. I knew better than to think that it actually didn’t know, so I took the shrug to mean “maybe.”

Hmm. This was disappointing. Not totally a surprise, since it was apparent from the beginning that these forms were just as comfortable playing games and tricks as they were making me happy, if you get my drift. Plus, Marla had made it clear that making me happy could only be taken so far. I was still under the impression that the shorts weren’t bound to Marla’s stipulations to the same degree as everything else – they definitely took things further than Marla’s clothes did – but there were still boundaries that they either could not or would not cross.

I decided to change tactics, starting with the extremities this time and working my way towards the breasts. I moved toward the outstretched right arm and moved in to suck the coating off the extended fingers. But when I did, fingers still remained, unseen though they were, although slightly outlined by the sticky residue of what I had licked off them.

“Hmm...” It occurred to me that maybe I should have taken this tack from the get-go, but I didn’t dare say so out loud. At least, not yet...

Once I was finished with the arms, I could finally start on the tits. I took only a few seconds to consider the situation -- I was looking forward to licking cream and syrup off breasts that weren't really breasts, but were actually part of a form constructed by a pair of shorts that could simulate an invisible body inside themselves.

Whatever. They were round, they were firm, they were perky, and I hadn't finished dessert...

I'd been on my feet more than a few minutes by that point, and wanted to sit down. I turned toward the kitchen table and took a couple of steps, when the chair closest to me rose a couple inches from the floor and hovered closer to the construct, landing right where I had been standing. I sat and started licking away the cream and syrup on the invisible stomach, finding that as I got higher my head would sometimes brush against the goo covering an unseen boob, getting it on my forehead and in my hair.

After this happens a couple of times, it can be a bit exasperating. I mean, sure, the construct could easily lick the stuff off my face -- and maybe even out of my hair -- but that's beside the point. Isn't it?

There was still cream extending about six inches below the underside of the boobs, but I was also sure that if I tried to jump ahead, I'd find myself licking the coating off thin air... again...

I sighed. It was a "problem," but there are worse problems to have.

I started to get up from the chair when I felt invisible hands press gently against my shoulders. The hovering pajama top was moving closer, its sleeves reaching toward me as it approached. The shorts moved back a few steps, leaving room for my floating pajama top to approach. It extended its sleeves toward me, invisible fingers lightly resting on my shoulders as a tongue licked the cream and syrup from my forehead, and then... from my hair?!

Obviously if I was gonna allow this to continue, I couldn’t look up, so all I could see was the lower portion of my partially-buttoned pajama top floating in space as I felt a tongue-shape pressing against my hair where I knew there was goo from the white shorts-construct. (Well, I guess I could have looked up; the pajama top would probably just float upward to stay at the same angle, and keep on licking...) I actually flinched at the thought of a tongue in my hair, before recovering. After all, this was not a biological or even a physical tongue, which I can’t see getting anywhere near somebody’s hair, even -- or especially -- if it had cream or syrup in it.

Once the tongue was finished with my hair, I felt a light peck on my forehead, which I took to mean it was finished. I also took that as a hint that it -- or the pajama-top that generated it, anyway -- might be looking for more than just a little peck. Did I really want to kiss my own floating pajama top? Of course I did, or at least whatever was giving it such a nice feminine shape?

The top wasn’t letting me back out of this, though. By this time it had moved its sleeves around my neck. I looked up at the space above the top, where I saw a bit of cream and syrup hovering, and shook my head.

“Sorry, but I don’t want that in my mouth, after it’s been in my hair,” I said, motioning at the floating goo. The sound of water running made me look toward the sink, where a dishcloth was wringing out excess water. It floated over, wiped the floating goo out of the space above the pajama top, and hovered back to the sink. But the top made no motion to move away.

I looked over at the shorts-construct, which had started tapping a foot against the floor. “See what you st--” I began, before a rather assertive invisible mouth pushed against mine. A tongue pushed its way through the unseen lips, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to reciprocate, what with the other construct standing right there, impatiently waiting for me to finish what I had started. The invading tongue was in my mouth only a couple of seconds, though, before it simply wasn’t there anymore. My pajama top fell limp against me, sliding to the floor as its unseen support just fell away.

Well, that took care of the interruption, but it also killed the mood. “Um,” I started, “that took care of that, I guess, but um...” I wasn’t sure how to continue. “Sorry, but that was a lot of sweets, you know? I think I’ve overdone it already. I’m gonna pay for this in the morning, I think, if I even get back to sleep tonight.”

The shorts and tights stomped out of the kitchen the way they had come in, leaving the remaining cream and syrup floating in place, still outlining nonexistent floating boobs and stomach. I thought about playing a bit with the floating sweets but thought better of it; after all, the shorts could still be watching. A towel hovered over from a closet just outside the kitchen, coming to rest on the floor under what was left of the construct, which then unceremoniously plopped onto the towel.

I really was looking forward to removing that last bit of stuff myself, but I had just watched this construct pass “life,” or animation at least, to another garment, then take it away when it became a nuisance. What else would happen down the line? What would happen if i made it upset? And, most of all, after it had apparently laid claim to me, what would happen when Marla returns?