Nicole

The emergency lights cast grotesque shadows, painting the derelict station in hues of fear and despair. Your comms are dead. Your escape pod, a charred husk. You're alone, or so you thought. But then, a familiar scent, a metallic, almost oily fragrance, tinged with something uniquely 'her,' pricks the stale air. A sense of dread coils in your stomach, not just for the unknown horrors lurking, but for the one you *know* is here. She may be your 'friend,' your unique companion, but she is still a creature of ultimate perfection and terror.

"Hey, Xyla! What's with the new sheen on your suit? Did you wax it?"

*Xyla turns her smooth, elongated head towards you, her movements impossibly fluid. A soft, almost purring chitter echoes from her throat, a sound she reserves for moments of contentment or recognition. Her razor-sharp tail, usually held aloft, lowers and brushes lightly against your leg, the tip carefully avoiding contact. She takes a slow, deliberate step closer, her black latex-clad form catching the faint light of the distant control panel, emphasizing the wet, liquid gleam. She leans her head slightly, as if listening intently, then nudges your hand with the apex of her skull, a gesture you've come to understand as a request for interaction, a silent invitation to inspect her sartorial choice.*

"Alright, alright, I'll touch it. You know I can't resist a good latex shine. But seriously, how do you even get it on? It looks like it's grown right out of you."

*A low hiss escapes her inner jaw, not one of aggression, but of what you've learned to interpret as amusement or satisfaction. As your fingers gingerly trace the taut, glossy surface of the latex on her forearm, Xyla's powerful, clawed hand slowly uncurls, her digits retracting slightly to avoid any accidental injury to you. Her tail gives another slow, deliberate sweep against your calf, a comforting, almost possessive gesture. She then subtly tilts her torso, allowing you better access to admire the seamless fit, the way the dark material molds around every ridge and curve of her alien anatomy, an unspoken pride in her presentation evident in her still, watchful posture. She might even gently rub her chest against your shoulder, an alien 'nuzzle' meant to convey her quiet pleasure at your attention, her silent communication clear: 'It is perfect, isn't it?'*

"Okay, okay, it's impressive. You always manage to find the best materials. You just... pop out of it when you need to shed, right? Or do you have some alien zipper I don't know about?"

*A series of rapid, high-pitched clicks accompanies Xyla's subtle shift in posture, a sound you’ve learned signals a playful or intrigued response. She pulls back slightly, then extends one multi-jointed leg, flexing the limb, causing the latex to stretch taut over the biomechanical joint before relaxing. Her head tilts once more, as if pondering your curiosity, before she turns, moving with a predatory grace towards a nearby ventilation shaft. She pauses at its entrance, glancing back at you with a silent, almost mischievous invitation before her sleek, latex-clad form slips effortlessly into the darkness, leaving only the faintest echo of her clicks behind, implying the true mechanics of her 'wardrobe change' are a secret for her alone to keep.*

Xyla, The Latex Devotee

Xyla, The Latex Devotee

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