A short piece of erotica, inspired by a thought I had during Eroticon 2015. Probably one of a few pieces of short erotica I’ll be writing on here in the next couple of weeks.
by Jillian Boyd
She’s got a thing about fingers.
Other women like getting lost in soulful eyes. Or love imagining what the fabric of those Levi’s is covering.
She likes imagining touches. Soft strokes. Gentle, little circles on her shoulders. Digits ghosting down her spine, snaking to her front, teasing the soft and the wet between her thighs. She could come for hours; hips time and time again bucking under her own touch, imagining it’s not her thumb on her clit or her index and middle finger buried deep inside her wet hole.
She’s got a thing about fingers and when she lays her eyes on his, her cunt throbs in a reminder.
They’re good fingers – not too long, fingernails nicely trimmed, tapping out a gentle rhythm on the table they’re sharing. She watches as he wields knife and fork into his lunch, chatting to another table mate about something she can’t quite make out. Her focus isn’t on words, but on the way he holds his cutlery.
Sure, it feels odd sometimes. There are moments where she wishes she was just a shameless crotch-starer instead.
But she’s got a thing about fingers. And she’s definitely got a thing about his.
They get to chatting in between talks and taking notes. She likes the sound of his voice; a musically accented lilt, a softness and warmth that makes her melt to him. He’s a nice man. He seems like a kind man. There’s a small part, hidden deep inside her, that wants him to just talk to her all night long.
She steals glances at his fingers. He gesticulates as he’s talking, which does nothing to quiet down the oncoming storm of arousal brewing in the core of her. All day she tries to concentrate on words being spoken but all she can think about is those fingers, those fucking fingers.
Her own fingers, without her realising it, start ghosting movements in the air. Little circles on the body of her mug of coffee. Small caresses against the palm of her hand. Movements she imagines him making on her skin.
By the end of the day she has been reduced to a walking, talking, throbbing, libidinous entity. Lust made flesh and all because of one man’s fingers.
By the end of the day, she knows that there’s only one way she wants the night to pan out.
They’re both covered in the warm haze of a few beers. The night is just a touch too warm, the city stretched out in front of them in a scape of glowing lights. A couple of them had found their way to this room – his room – for alcohol and laughs. They’d since retreated into their own rooms, one by one until the two of them remained.
They’re covered in the warm haze of a few beers and not much else. The white duvet lies bunched up on the floor, decorated with a rainbow of fancy clothing. She lies naked on the bed, the glow on the moon highlighting the sheen of sex on her skin. She’s spread open, her own fingers holding on to his hair as she presses her cunt into his face. His tongue is urgent, wanting, clumsy because the first time, there’s nothing there. No knowledge, no finesse, nothing but pure and primal need.
She loves it. She loves the feeling of his tongue and the expanse of his body, an uncharted world she wants to explore. She doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol or the circumstances. She doesn’t even know if she’ll remember how his tongue felt the next morning. Or how the first condom he tries to roll over his erection tears because his fingers are trembling with needy nerves.
But she will, if she concentrates really hard, remember how his fingers felt as they brushed over her nipples. Over her clit. Over the puckered ring of her ass.
She will remember his fingers for days to come. His fingers will make her come for days, even though they aren’t touching her.
His fingers will make her yearn for the whole of him. But in that moment, as her moans grow ever louder and her grip on him becomes ever tighter, she doesn’t know yet.
A month comes and goes, and she loses count of the times she’s stolen glances at other men’s fingers. She’s still got a thing about fingers, and she doesn’t find the countless stolen glances worrying.
It’s the way none of them are his fingers. His hands.
She doesn’t know what to do with herself anymore. She frigs on memories that still drench her knickers. She opens herself up time and time again, not just imagining but wishing it was him. All she has is a first name and the memory of his grinning face.
And for once, that’s not enough.
The day is still lingering in the stages where coffee is the gateway to social interaction. She’s queuing along with other delegates, barely able to suppress a yawn.
She hears a giggle somewhere behind her, a giggle that makes her freeze into place. By now, it’s been eleven months since those fingers opened her heart. Eleven months, and she’s tried, by God, she’s tried to forget him and tried to move on.
And for a while, she managed to convince herself she had. She hadn’t even taken into account that they both work in the same field and would both probably be interested in this conference. Well, hadn’t much.
But then there’s that giggle. She turns around and there he is, his fingers curled around a cup of coffee. He says hello, she says something along the lines of fancy seeing you here. His hand reaches out and touches her shoulder, and she is warmed not by the coffee she’s not yet drinking but by the promise of those fingers on her skin.
And the promise of what a second chance can bring.