boxitup | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

"Catra! Stop it, it's for your own good! Ow!"

At the end of a long day of training, Adora is tired, sore, and wants little more than to take a shower and throw herself onto her bed. Wrangling a furious Catra into the showers with her was not on the agenda tonight, until a bot that hadn't been fixed quite right (thanks, Kyle) sprung a leak and sprayed them both with motor oil.

Now, the issue with Catra is that she's willing to shower exactly twice weekly, and both opportunities have passed. But Adora is not going to let her walk around reeking of motor oil until Monday. She's got her arms full of Catra and she's not letting go, no matter how Catra squirms, scratches, bites. In the ten minutes since she's initiated this endeavor, Adora has barely made it two steps into the showers, but her dedication to the cause and can-do attitude have always been cited as two of her strongest points as a cadet.

As they struggle and yell, Lonnie steps around the two of them on her way to the sleeping quarters, and offers Adora a sympathetic nod: "Good luck."

Adora grits her teeth.

"Look! In the time you've spent throwing your tantrum, Lonnie's already finished showering! We could've been done here!"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

At least Adora's still talking to her, and Catra feels herself sag with relief. Hesitantly, she reaches out; the tips of her fingers brushing Adora's arm, ready for her to jerk away in rejection.

"Tell me," she says; but her voice is so quiet it feels like more of a question, more of a request. It's not often that Catra is the one asking Adora to meet her halfway, and as ever she's nervous about doing it. Doesn't know if her request will be received, is scared of what Adora's answer might even be. "Adora, what do you keep thinking about?"

The graze of Catra's fingertips is enough to make her skin break into goosebumps, and Adora can't stand it. She feels transparent, yet Catra still can't see it-- why can't she see it? Why does she have to make her say it?

"You," the single syllable drops from her lips like a rock. Adora cringes with it, terrified of what Catra will say, of the thought she'd laugh at her-- and so she immediately follows it up with: "You jerk."

Catra thinks she stops breathing for a long moment, the world narrowing in on her as her heart beats a heavy staccato in her chest.

"Me?" And just like that, as the word exits faintly from her lips, she can think again. Of course it's her, she's the one who brought it up. She shakes her head at herself, at the butterflies squirming in her stomach and the heated surge of her blood and the curling of her toes. Adora's just spent a bunch of time complaining about how she put these thoughts in her head, about her method of eviction last night. Of course that means she's been thinking about Catra.

She hasn't been rejected, so she places her hand on Adora's arm, trying to comfort in the same way Adora's always done for her.

"I won't do it again, okay?" It's not an apology. But it's as near to one as Catra ever gets, as she slides her hand down Adora's arm, trying to find her fingers to link together with hers. "I didn't realize how badly it'd mess with your head." She doesn't do apologetic well, doesn't handle the vulnerability of it. So she tries to sound lighter when she adds; "Next time I'll just kick you until you leave."

"No," Adora yanks her hand away, Catra's gentle compassion somehow worse than anything she'd feared. It makes her feel like she's going insane.

Adora rolls back to face her, cheek resettling against the pillow with a thump, and she's wound up so tight that she wants to scream but just barely, thankfully, manages to keep her voice in the range of a whisper.

"You're so stupid! Don't you get it? I... I..." She scrubs a hand over her smoldering face, struggling to untie her tongue from the million knots it's suddenly curled itself into.

God, she doesn't know if she can say it. Can barely summon the voice from her throat. The most that comes out is a thin, raspy breath:

"... I want you to touch me."

She said it.

Her eyes are shut tight. She's not opening them to see Catra's reaction.

She reels back instantly when Adora jerks her hand away, separating herself from Adora's side. It's the sharp burn of rejection she'd thought she was safe from, stinging all the way deep in her core. She doesn't have any time to build a wall; doesn't have any time for a defensive retort to find its way to her mouth. Just stares, eyes widened with the shock, as Adora rolls back over and continues to talk. To her.

It's hard to listen over the pounding in her ears, but she tries anyway.

And Adora

is such

an idiot.

This is what this is all about? This is why she's been avoiding Catra's touch all day, this is why she wasn't reciprocating any of the cranky attempts at banter and teasing? This is why she's been freaking out all night, this is why she's shut down Catra's attempt to comfort her?

"You're an idiot," she croaks, blinking rapidly, pulling herself to recover from what is not the rejection she'd thought it was. Her voice, at least, is as firm as her grip when she reaches to grab Adora's wrist, to tug her hand away from her face. "Adora, you're such a total idiot. Why didn't you just tell me that to begin with?"

"Don't call me an idiot!" she hisses. "Do you know how hard that was for me to say!"

But she lets Catra pull her hand away, even cracks open one eye to peer down at her. It takes Adora a moment, amidst her embarrassment and exasperation, to realize that... really didn't sound like a rejection. At all.

But she can't let herself believe that so easily.

"Wh-what does that mean?"

Catra made her spell it out, she doesn't get a pass.

"It means you haven't got two braincells to rub together, idiot." When in doubt, when on the back foot: double down. Catra's life motto. But her heart's not in it this time; instead, it's lodged somewhere up in her throat. She has been waiting, so long, for Adora to catch up to this - and after last night, she'd written her off completely. Adora was disinterested, Adora hadn't even noticed her, Adora wouldn't have even considered her.

"--Where?" She breathes, suddenly demanding. She barely remembers to keep her voice down, and it grows huskier with the effort. Her blood's rushing again, in heated pulses through her body. She wants to move, but she's paralyzed by the fear of having misunderstood, still. "Where? Tell me, Adora. Where do you want me to touch you?"

Because she's willing. She is so willing and if Adora still can't see that - if she can't recognize the tremble in Catra's fingers as restraint, if she doesn't see the gleam of desire in her eyes, if she can't identify the way Catra's entire body leans into hers - then Catra may just give up and die here.

"I said, don't call me a--"

But then Catra leans in so close, her voice low and urgent, pupils blown wide in the dark. And the words die on Adora's tongue.

She feels like a cornered animal, a deer caught in headlights. Her heart is slamming itself so hard against her ribcage that she fears it'll crack.

She can't believe Catra's making her ask for it.

"Everywhere. Anywhere. Look, I don't know about this stuff, okay? Just... the same way you touch yourself."

It's like raking coals over her tongue, having to give voice to the notion that up until the night before had been unthinkable. The tension in her body is built up so high, a kettle seconds from boiling, and it's so much, so much that her whole body is shaking with it.

Her hand closes over Catra's wrist, planting her palm over the base of her stomach, where all that crackling, swarming tension takes root. She can't ask for anything more than this. She doesn't know how.

"Catra-- please?"

Edited 2020-06-16 09:05 (UTC)

Catra's fingers twitch against the hard lines of Adora's hard stomach, disbelieving still. She's frozen in the moment, every muscle tense and aching.

And then Adora asks her, and finally, Catra can move.

"Okay," she whispers; hoarse. Her hand moves blindly, across Adora's heated skin, until she finds the dip between her stomach and hipbone, the same place Adora's thumb had stroked her the night before, and her trembling fingers repeat the movement, cautiously keeping her claws from scratching. She is -- she is touching Adora, in the way that clearly bypasses friendly intent. Adora wants her to touch her like this. "Are--are you sure?"

If she says no now, Catra really doesn't know what she'll do.

Even the slightest movement of Catra's hand, that timid brush of thumb, is enough to send shivers up Adora's spine. Or maybe it's because it's so light that it affects her this way, such an odd contrast to Catra's rough, grabbing hands and carelessly jutting claws. If Adora didn't know better, she'd think she's doing this on purpose, to tease her, but one look at Catra's face disperses any and all such suspicions. The tremble to her voice, too.

It's so unlike Catra to hesitate like this-- but it figures that of all times, she'd pick now, when Adora needs her to take the reins more than ever.

She really doesn't trust herself to take the lead when she's running in blind.

"Catra," she answers sternly, locking her gaze onto hers. "This is the only thing I've been able to think about since last night. I've been going crazy over it. It's been hell."

Adora has to swallow, then, loosening her grip on Catra's wrist so she can cover the back of her hand with her own. Encouragement, she hopes.

"So-- yeah. Pretty sure."

Edited 2020-06-16 11:06 (UTC)

Catra has had dreams about this, ones that have woken her up to heat between her legs and a yearning to be touched in her skin. She's had fantasies about it, imagining similar situations to this, ones that make her press frantically into her hand and leave her shuddering with the vowels of Adora's name silently poised on her lips.

And now that she's actually here, it feels too surreal to be true.

But she's good at faking confidence. She's good at slipping it on, like the red mask that fits around her face. She's good at letting her shoulders shimmy down from their tense lift, good at letting her muscles go limp. She doesn't have many opportunities to be in charge - that's always a job for Adora, and Catra stands at her right hand proudly - but she's sure, when given the chance, that she'll be good at that too.

And right now, though she's nervous, is that chance. Adora, ever the leader, has passed her the baton.

She allows herself one last breath, before she rises onto her elbow to loom over Adora. Her fingers become more confident on her skin, though she tilts the tips of them up as much as she can. It gets hard to remember her claws, and she doesn't want to scare Adora away from letting her touch her like this.

She doesn't release Adora's wrist as she shifts her weight, sliding one leg over hers and pushing up to straddle her. She doesn't take a moment to be nervous, doesn't take a pause. Instead she raises Adora's hand to her head, places it against the back of her hair; takes her other hand, moves it to the waistband of Catra's sleep shorts; and then moves both of her hands to massage the knuckles of her forefingers into the dips of Adora's hips.

'The same way you touch yourself,' Adora had said. Catra's not going to do that. Not when the things she's imagined doing to Adora are so much better. And Adora thinks she's had it bad after just one night--

Catra could almost laugh. But they're in their shared dorm, surrounded by their squadmates - so she doesn't. Instead her thighs and core muscles tighten as she leans down, kneading her knuckles into Adora, to breathe her words against Adora's ear. They especially cannot afford to wake anyone up right now.

"Do not make a single. Sound. Got it?" When she breathes, she can about taste Adora; clean and soapy and refreshing, and Catra kind of wants to ruin that. Wants to make her smell like sweat and effort and satisfaction instead. "Promise me, Adora. You've got to keep your mouth shut."

The shift in Catra is a tangible thing: a sharpening in her eyes, a steadying to her hands. Then she's on top of her, putting Adora's hands on her in ways Adora wouldn't have dared to, and rubbing into Adora's thighs just as she did the night before.

Just like the night before, Adora can't conceal her reaction, and she's sure that just like the night before, Catra can tell-- that she can hear her breath catch, feel the muscles in her thighs strain beneath her fingers. But more than just those fingers, she's hyper-aware of every place of contact between their bodies: of Catra's fur beneath her weakly-grasping hands, Catra's thighs rubbing her hips, Catra's breath washing over her ear when she leans in with a whisper--

And that inspires another shiver down to her toes, because apparently human ears can get sensitive like that, too. Okay. A thin whine threatens to escape from Adora's throat, but she swallows against it, determined not to break Catra's condition -- and definitely not the very moment it was issued.

She sucks in a mouthful of air large enough to fill her cheeks, and keeps her lips sealed, nodding vigorously. Yes. She'll be so quiet. She'll be the quietest person Catra's ever heard. Swear.

Catra always knew that having Adora beneath her was going to be a thrill, and the experience doesn't disappoint. Catra's keenly aware of every shift of her body, every tremble of her thighs. She can feel Adora's fingers trembling, can hear every catch in her throat and struggled breath, and Catra wants with such an intensity it feels like she's burning from the inside out; a massive pull somewhere below her stomach that coils hot and demanding. She feels Adora's acquiescence more than sees it; the vigorous nod of her head right beside Catra's. And she, frankly, does not believe it for a second. In a different place, it would be hilarious. Catra's imagined it too many times; in their own private Force Captain accommodations, challenging Adora to keep her silence while Catra works across her with mouth and hands to draw out every noise. Once they've been promoted, once they have their own rooms -- she wants to know what Adora really sounds like.

But for now, this is what they've got, and Adora has to prove she can hold it in before they get too far; before Catra falls too deep into fantasies of their future to care what noises Adora makes in the shared room. This is something Catra's wanted to do for a long time anyway; wanted to drag her tongue along the expanse of Adora's neck, tasting her; wanted to find an indiscriminate place to scrape her sharp teeth against Adora's skin and hold in a bite that won't leave any mark.

All their training is good for one thing; it means Catra has the body strength to hold herself in this position for a little while longer, while one of her hands slides to press down against the crotch of Adora's shorts, curling to press but not yet slipping between her thighs. If she can't handle it, if she can't hold it in for even this much -- then Catra's just going to have to stuff something in her mouth. She is not stopping now.

Oh, Adora was-- not correctly estimating how sensitive she is. Nor was she expecting Catra's hand to venture down so boldly, without so much as a word of warning. And even though she keeps her mouth shut-- she does!-- her throat betrays her, and the little whimper that filters through is faint, but certainly audible.

Oh, oh man. She dropped the ball on that real quick.

"Sorry!" she squeaks out in her very smallest voice, and her hand leaves Catra's hair to clamp over her own mouth. "Sorry," she whispers again, now muffled further by her palm. Her face is bright red, eyes wide and anxious. Catra will give her another chance, surely? Won't she?

Yeah, that's about what she expected. Right down to the thread of desire that pulls taut within her, Adora's whimper crystal clear to Catra's ears and just not enough.

(She really can't wait to get those private accommodations.)

She sits back up, releasing Adora's neck unceremoniously and resting on her haunches over Adora's thighs, hand still in place on her crotch. Catra's sharp eyes dart around, looking for anything at all to use; but their bunks are austere as ever. The only things available are the blanket, and Adora's pillow.

"Pick something to shove in your mouth," she instructs in a hiss, pressing her fingers pointedly down, feeling them slip between the crevice of Adora's thighs. She's forgotten her nails already, but they're standard-issue shorts; they shouldn't get torn up too easily. (And she can already imagine how Adora must feel beneath them, slick and hot; can imagine the glide of her across Catra's fingers, wetter than Catra's ever gotten herself. She wants that, too - wants every bit of Adora - but that's too risky in a dormitory bunk. Catra doesn't know if it's just her sensitive nose, but the scent of pleasure isn't exactly a subtle one; and again, they really cannot get caught.) "Use the pillow."

Catra's brusque, commanding tone sends Adora's heart into a gallop, and her hips cant towards her hand as if pulled by invisible strings. Catra can get bossy, that much is nothing new-- but this is different. Her words are a warning, burrowing under Adora's skin, carrying heat and thrill. It feels undefiable.

... That doesn't mean she likes the order, though.

"What? I don't wanna put my pillow in my mouth!" she whispers harshly in response -- because she's being good, see, still regulating her volume. "I'll just use my hand, it's fine!"

Catra's ears flatten, and her hand stills on Adora for a moment before she removes both of them. Once again, she leans forward; grabbing Adora's hand with one of hers to place it pointedly against her mess of hair, and tugs at the pillow with the other.

"It's the blanket or the pillow. Pick one." Her eyes are narrowed into annoyed slits, her tail flicking with agitation, because as frustrated as Adora thinks she is -- Catra has been frustrated for longer. All of Adora's touches, her fingers stroking into her fur, her thumbs brushing the sensitive curves of Catra's body. All of the things she does, every day. Her cocky laugh when she's winning, her confident stride, her smarmy grin. Everything Adora is has frustrated her like this for an entire age by this point, and the bottom line? Adora is not getting off unless her hands, both of them, are on Catra. "Or I'll stop."

Edited 2020-06-16 14:43 (UTC)

Okay, Adora accepts with a swallow. So Catra wasn't kidding, neither about shoving something in Adora's mouth nor about the very specific placement of her hands on her.

It's kind of sweet, actually, how Catra insists on her hand in her hair. Adora's in no position to give it voice right now, but the thought does tug on the edge of her lips, and she curls her fingers in that thick dark hair, thumb grazing the base of one ear.

"Blanket," she answers, less to do with any real preference and more for the sake of being as contrary as her situation allows. And because moving her hands, as she's come to understand, is no longer an option-- she tilts up her chin and opens her mouth, waiting for Catra to place it there.

It is no secret whatsoever that despite her varied and copious complaints about it, Catra loves to be touched by Adora. It's obvious, right? She lets Adora pet her all the time, grumbles about it with token protests but always winds up dozing and purring against her. So Adora really, really shouldn't be surprised about how insistent on having her hand in her hair Catra is, or by how she tilts the tiniest bit into the graze against her ear.

Of course Adora has to choose the blanket, and really Catra shouldn't have even bothered giving her an option. She rolls her eyes, but shifts her weight from knee to knee as she extracts enough of it to drag up, to... Adora's... mouth...

...Her brain might have short-circuited at the sight of Adora's chin tilting up, her lips parted and waiting, and -- and, wow. That is not something Catra had imagined before, and she feels her legs try to press together instinctively against the sudden drop of arousal, except of course. Adora's there. Between her legs. Waiting for her. Listening to her. Doing what Catra's telling her to do.

She doesn't have to look at herself to know her pupils have blown to circles, and for some reason now she can feel every rough thread of the blanket as she tugs it up to Adora's mouth, and she can feel the puff of Adora's breath against her skin, and she can feel the dry drag of Adora's lips against her fingers, and it turns out that gagging her best friend might be something that Catra really, really enjoys doing. Or maybe it's just the feeling of control it gives her; the rush of power.

"Not a bad look on you," she jibes; because she has to say something, has to goad somehow, because Adora's face is just-- and her eyes are just-- and Catra's just--

Catra can't stop looking at her, as she places her hands on Adora's shoulders and glides them over the durable fabric of her sleeping shirt, claws scratching over the Horde symbol emblazoned above her heart. She doesn't stop until she's cupping Adora's breasts - the very same ones she's eyed enviously in the locker rooms - and stroking her thumbs across the tops, searching for and then honing in on the stiffening bumps of her nipples, rubbing against them. That makeshift gag had seriously better work.

While Adora's been dimly aware of the growing tenderness in her breasts, of her nipples straining against the fabric of her top, it's not until Catra touches them that she realizes just how sensitive they are. How much they're aching to be touched. The sensation, even muffled by the barrier of clothing, sends little sparks down to her stomach, and Adora's-- really trying, okay, swallowing down the thrumming in her throat, breathing harshly through her nose. She's being quiet, even if she has to bite into the sheet, its texture coarse against her tongue.

Adora's thighs are tight around Catra's hip, and her back arches, pushing her chest out into her hands in a silent demand for more. Her own hands-- she keeps forgetting them, leaves them twitching and trembling against Catra-- find some initiative of their own, one threading softly through her hair, the other sinking tentative fingers into the fur of her lower belly.

She loves it, she decides immediately. The softness of Adora's breasts when she presses her fingers into the curves, the arch of her back; when she swallows so harshly, blue eyes determined, trying to keep herself restrained.

Catra shifts herself down, pressing onto Adora's leg and it's -- not good enough, it's not right. She's in a bad position, a bad angle or something, because when she rolls her hips it's only a fraction of the sensation she gets from her own hand, and she knows that's wrong. That has to be wrong. The way Adora makes her feel just from her fingers curling into the fur of her stomach is hot and electric, and Catra wants that.

It has to be the position.

She moves her weight back onto her knees, leaning back down to graze her teeth against Adora's ear even as she scrapes her nails against her hardened nipples before pinching them between thumb and forefinger, rolling them as best she can through the fabric. She's better balanced this time, the blessing of having her hands on Adora's chest, and she takes a second just to listen to her. Just to breathe her in.

"Bend your knee for me." She whispers the command so quietly it might have been a ghost of the words, but she's so close she knows Adora will hear her clearly. Her tail drags up one of Adora's legs in demonstration, urging her, and Catra's already shifting so that she can straddle and press against that thigh when it rises. Because it will rise, she's sure; Adora wants this too, after all.

Catra is rough, and that's not fair-- she's making it harder on Adora on purpose, making her hiss and grit her teeth until her jaw aches. She wait for the slightest lull in Catra's touches, then quickly releases the sheet from between her lips to chastise: "No claws."

(And she takes the sheet right back into her mouth without even being told, because rough or not-- teasing or not-- she's not ready for Catra to stop.)

Her body squirms against the mattress as Catra shifts on top of her, the chafe of fur against her bare stomach and legs ticklish and tingling -- and she watches her with transfixed eyes, understanding enough to discern a purpose from her repositioning even without knowing what.

And then Catra gives her next order, which Adora is coming to realize she likes-- like-- a lot, and she obligingly drags her heel up the mattress, angling her knee. Catra's thighs clamp greedily around it right away, her heat seeping through the material of her underwear, and just like that, it clicks. Adora doesn't even have to think. Her leg moves on its own, pushing up against Catra, grinding readily into her.

She makes a face at the reprimand, almost tempted to rake her nails down her bare skin just to be contrary, but obliges anyway; curling her fingers in at the knuckles to keep the tips of her fingers away from Adora's body.

But she's getting what she wants, her ears twitching at the sound of Adora's heel dragging, and when she moves her hips back Adora is there, directly against her, and she exhales a shuddering breath that contains the last quiet vestiges of a moan against Adora's neck.

"Adora," she wants to do -- something, with her mouth, so she presses it against Adora's skin in moves that could have been called kisses were they not so filled with nips of teeth and drags of tongue. Her hands move down, knuckles sliding against the defined muscles of Adora's abdomen, and then Catra has to move one to brace herself on one arm against the mattress; so she can press the backs of her knuckles against Adora's pubic mound, imagining the blonde curls there as she inches her own knee in place, thinking of the slick heat Adora would be rubbing against her were it not for the shorts. It just makes her roll her hips harder into Adora's leg, every inch of her alive and craving. "Adora, you have hands." Because right now, it kind of seems like she's forgotten they exist and it's unfair, because Adora's always touching her and always driving her mad but right now she's not even using them, and Catra needs her to. Can she be blamed for being a little frustrated, a little harsh, when she demands: "Use them."

Catra's bitten her before. Licked her, too. Mostly just to be a jerk-- like during their playfights, or as part of Catra's attempts at escape while Adora was dragging her to the showers.

She can't believe how wholly, utterly different it feels now, fuelling the fire between her legs and making her toes curl. She doesn't get how Catra's doing that -- how, after those years spent as close as any two people could be, this somehow feels even closer.

Their bodies rub together in a clumsy sort of harmony, Adora doing all she can to catch up-- to feed into the friction as much as she takes from it, matching the rolling of her hips to the rocking of Catra's own. And then Catra's hand presses against her, too -- a harder, more focused pressure, and Adora's teeth nearly tear through her blanket.

It's so much. She's so focused on moving against Catra, clinging to Catra, and keeping her moans trapped inside all the while-- that she's actually startled when she's reminded of her hands, throwing her off-rhythm.

Right. Her hands. She should-- oh-- where should she--?

Face flushed, Adora spends a moment just kind of awkwardly petting around, hoping Catra will give some indication of where and how her hands should settle. Finally, her hand in Catra's hair comes to rest fully over the back of her ear, while the hand at her stomach has moved up to cup one breast. And she looks up at Catra with big, nervous eyes, searching her face for signs of approval.

Edited 2020-06-17 16:53 (UTC)

Adora's hands are clumsy, and shaking, and they're still the best things Catra has ever felt. The fur she disrupts with her fingers remains raised with the prickle of gooseflesh, and Catra shivers into it; leaning herself into Adora's touch, urging her on. Adora's touched her before, innocent pets and strokes, and somehow - for some reason - this feels. More. And Catra's teeth close down on her own lip as she pushes back hard onto the movement of Adora's leg, feeling white-hot sparks burning through her nerves, and she wishes she could feel Adora just -- all over, without their stupid clothes in the way.

The length of her ear is the wrong place for Adora's hand to be, but Catra doesn't know where the right place is and it's -- fine, anyway, not bad -- so she just nods jerkily at Adora's questioning look, unable to talk now for the knowledge that the moment she opens her mouth, she won't be able to control what else comes out. (And she will not be the one who ruins this for them.) It's difficult enough as it is, when Adora's hand curves on her chest and Catra's thighs tense hard around Adora's leg in a sudden vise grip, to turn what would have been a sharp gasp instead into a controlled exhale. And to then relax and resume in a juddering, ragged movement against her, feeling the edge of climax approaching.

It's embarrassing, honestly, how little she needs from Adora. But she's so - she's so here, with her hair actually spilled out on her pillow that Catra tugged askew; with her pink lips tight around the fabric stuffed willingly in her mouth; with her blue eyes darkened and wide, her body squirming under Catra's and rocking with uncontrolled vigor into her.

Catra hardly even needs her to do much but she wants it anyway, and she arches her back to press her chest into Adora's hand, demanding. She has the faint thought that this position is entirely conspicuous; that if anyone were to look over at Adora's bunk, there'd be no mistaking what the two of them were up to. But the thought vanishes in the next drag of herself up Adora's thigh, and disappears for good on the downward roll. The only thought she has left is that her hand is wasted on the mattress, and that she can still be braced perfectly well on her elbow while her fingers grope at Adora's breast - and so that's what she does, mirroring the slides and presses of Adora's fingers, copying her move for move. Go on then, Adora. Show her what you like.