[She gasps as the tendril grinds against her - this time, it is pleasure, or at least a cousin. She reaches up on instinct before remembering that there's no man or woman to cling to, to wrap her arms around the shoulders of and bring in closer. Her arms drop quickly to her sides, again, unsure if she should even taunt him with the possibility of her wrapping her arms around his body. Even his limbs are something she doesn't want to touch so much as let herself be touched by.

She spreads her legs for him, leans forward, her full breasts pliant and soft in his touch. She wonders if he's as fond of them as most men are.]

Don't thrust it in yet. [She doesn't know if he was even planning on that, or how much he's been told - but the tendrils are more exploratory than commanding, and so she imagines he might not know what to do with a woman.]

Grind more. Wrap your... limbs... around me. Make me aroused and flushed, make me ache for your touch. There is a procedure to this, a performative aspect. Like a fine play. [And then, suddenly, with a tragic mix of sympathy and pity-]

You've never seen a theater, have you?