[Her heart almost breaks for him, and the more she thinks about it the more it goes from half-joking pity born of her own interests to actual sympathy. He's been here his entire life, hasn't he? He's never known a poem, or a play, or a song.

But she's distracted, so the feeling is fleeting, she can't decide on what to do about it. She breaks her own train of thought with a gasp as he grinds himself against her, her body responding in ways her mind might be hesitant to. When he grabs her knees, she's almost flattered by how forward he's being. Sex should have some passion to it, after all.

She's grateful for the attempt to prop up her back, too, the position having rapidly become uncomfortable. She rewards him by reaching one of her hands to the tentacle at her back, patting it nervously. Are they closer to hands, or something else?]

My hips, too. My thighs. You have to touch there, as well - they aren't quite as supple as my breasts, but they feel quite nice. And you're free to touch my rear, as well.