One Finger

The Sunday story today comes by way of a little experiment. I managed to persuade, cajole, and otherwise arm twist the wonderful D.E. Maizefield (aka Der Erzahler) to co-write a short story with me (actually, no discipline, punishment or other delicious persuaion was necessary as he was utterly brilliant!).

This is a dual viewpoint story—exactly the same story told via the thoughts of the two protagonists involved. I went first, followed by Der Erzahler’s character’s viewpoint in italics. We had a great deal of fun writing it, and would love to know what you think!

 

One Finger

by Der Erzahler and Ina Morata
I stand in the doorway, biting my lip. Can you see? Can you see the silhouette of my nakedness through the flimsy nightie, outlined by the light from the hallway that allows me to also see a shadowy, darker version of you? I wondered what you would do while I was getting ready; t-shirt and boxer shorts, then. Is that what you normally wear? I want to ask you, but I’m not sure I should—you’ve already picked up your book and put in down on the bed three times since I began watching you. Maybe I should sleep on the couch after all. I’m sure it’s not as uncomfortable as you say. But you smile, and it disarms me.

I was caught a bit off guard when I first noticed you standing there. The way the light shone over your form, I could make out all your curves beneath your nightgown. Seeing you that way, I had to swallow the lump in my throat, and hoped that my nervousness wasn’t evident to you. I mean, you did offer to sleep on the couch, even after I said you didn’t have to. Now, as I stand here in my boxers and t-shirt—seeing you underneath that light…I don’t know what to do. I want to invite you in, to let you know that I see you. But, my nerves keep getting in the way and I hope you will make the first move. So, all I do is keep picking up and putting down my book. Finally, I muster up the nerve to look directly at you and smile…

I know that you’re looking at me now. You flick on the switch by the bedside lamp, and the room is suddenly awash with shadows of your movements against the pale blue of the walls and the rich, deep turquoise of your duvet. Like being a voyeur to a subterranean world. I pull the door half-closed behind me, as you smile and your index finger signals me to enter. I can’t look at you as I slide in between your covers because it makes me gasp: the coolness of the sheet caressing my legs; the way it fondles my backside. I feel you slip in beside me while I bend to get a book from my bag. You have one; I’m sure it will make things easier if I have, too. Oh my, have you seen the way my nightie rides up and bares my flesh? I forgot—that it always does. Do you wish I’d worn a longer one?

Seeing you acknowledge my smile, I turn on the light and am temporarily blinded by the glow that fills the room. It doesn’t take long for my eyes to adjust. Seeing you pulling the door half-closed behind you, I can’t help but crook my finger at you and silently signal for you to enter. Just seeing you in the full-light is enough to take my breath away. But, hearing your poorly contained gasp as you slip beneath the covers, makes my heart race. It doesn’t help matters when you bend over to get a book from your bag. Seeing your nightie riding up, I can’t help but admire your soft flesh and exposed curves. The way my heart is pounding now, I am almost amazed that you can’t hear it yourself.

My eyes widen at your profile in the lamplight, as I watch the way you lick your parted lips every so often, your chest rising and falling in time with your breath that carries through the silence. Silent, all except for the clock ticking. How difficult it is for me to keep my hand to myself and not cave into the desire to run it over your t-shirt. Your eyes remain glued to the pages, your little finger crooked as you hold your book. Are you really reading? Are you absorbed in another world as I lay here beside you, doing nothing more than fingering my own reading matter? Fingers; fingering; mmmmm. My skin feels flushed in my nightie. If I was at home, I’d remove it…

Your finger fascinates me; so peculiarly emblematic of the polite Englishness I am usually used to. An instinct overwhelms me to reach out to it, to see if it’s real. To see if you’re real.

I wonder if you know just how difficult it is for me to concentrate on this book? With you so close to me, and barely dressed at all. My mind is already wandering over the possibilities I dare not dream of. It doesn’t help that, even glued to the pages before me, I can feel your eyes on me. I can feel them looking me up and down, taking in everything, like you have never seen before. Granted, you’ve never seen me like this. But, it isn’t like it’s the first time we’ve seen one another. We’ve known each other for what seems like an eternity.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see you move slightly. Your hand reaching out, touching my finger. It feels so innocent, yet, so intimate at the same time. That slight touch, makes everything seem so real.

My fingertip makes the connection, tentative skin against its hardness, tracing the curve that points to you. You can’t hide the motion of your eyes, leaving the pages and fixing on my finger that lingers on yours. And it gives me courage to ask—”Do you normally sleep wearing that?”

Your eyes remain fixed on our interlocking fingers as you reply, “No, I usually sleep naked.”

And I stare hard at your finger high in the air, my heart racing, not quite believing that I’m uttering the words—”Don’t be uncomfortable on my account. After all, this is your bed.”

You put down the book; remove your finger. And your clothes.

The feel of your soft finger, tracing mine, excites me in ways I didn’t think possible. I can’t help but wonder where this is going to. Will it be nothing more than your finger touching mine? Or, is there more on your mind? Like there is on mine. But, I dare not ask my questions. I don’t want to break this intimate moment that I am enjoying, watching and feeling your finger interlocking with mine. But, your question,“Do you normally sleep wearing that?” catches me off guard. So, I can’t do anything else, except answer truthfully and your response is what I am longing to hear. So, putting down my book, I slip off my boxers and t-shirt. All the while, I can feel your eyes still taking in…everything.

Half propped up on the pillows, in an ocean of blues, lamplight rippling against my trepidation and leaving me awash with an excitement I can’t voice, my eyes begin to close. My book is open in my hand; I can’t concentrate on a word. The sound of your breath drifts towards me, waves of proof that I’m here, next to you. And in the stillness, I feel the touch of your fingertip, tracing a circle on my bare shoulder. I hardly breathe; your finger lingers on my skin, finding my collar bone, the gentlest of touches pricking my flesh and impregnating my blood with desire. It flows through me and I embrace its journey between my thighs, culminating there, filling me, making me swell, and leaving an ache wherever it flows like a dam that knows its fate is to burst. I daren’t open my eyes.

Turning back to you, I see you there, with your eyes closed. As I lay there, now fully nude, I watch your chest rise and fall beneath your flimsy nightie. I see your nipples hardening to thick nubs, betraying your body. It is a beautiful sight to behold, watching you struggling with your own excitement and desire. It insights my own desire, as blood rushes through my body and I grow hard with my own need.

My desire for you is overwhelming, and I can’t resist taking this further. I can’t resist the need to touch you, and feel you. So, I reach out and tentatively touch your shoulder, tracing slow circles on your bare skin. When I feel no resistance, I move my finger up to your collar bone. All the while, just watching your chest rise and fall, hoping you won’t pull away.

Your finger is like a flame igniting within me, and all the wetness I create in this ocean room cannot extinguish it. A tentative touch—circling my clit, investigating my folds. I am on fire, consumed by my own need for you to burn me completely or to quench this fire between my legs. What will you look like if I open my eyes? Oh, you have turned out the light! You are darkness—just your shoulder glimmers in the light that peeks beyond the door. But I feel you as your finger slides against my wetness on this bed of blue. Oh, the exquisite agony as it enters me, its night-time coolness against the heat of my throbbing cunt. Beyond all hope, this slow burn, in and out. But there’s more I need from you. I need to be burned. Do you wish I was on the couch?

With my finger resting on your collarbone, I watch as you shift your body. Then, shifting my own body, I reach over and turn off the light. Using my one finger, the one that you touched, making it all seem so real, I lightly trace over your nightie. My heart pounds with anticipation as I feel your soft flesh beneath the flimsy nightie. Your legs seem to part of their own accord, giving me access to the sweet folds nestled between them. Tentatively, I touch you, encircling your engorged clit and exploring your wet outer folds.

I can feel, more than see, your eyes pop open when I penetrate your folds. The heat between your legs is so wonderful, so inviting, as I push further into you. As your sweet heat envelopes my finger, I think (not for the first time), that I am glad you joined me in the bed.

I sit there over you, astride you, the half-light we have catching the side of your face. Your cock is deep inside me; I hold onto it with everything I am. You are my life raft, saving me from my own desperation. But I am burning you now with my desire to have you, lifting and thrusting myself down onto your cock, your balls squashing against my backside. You remove my nightie, find my nipple, let your fingertip make it hard. My skin is alight; it should incinerate us both. You must stop me moaning. The moans will turn to screams soon. Let me take your finger, too. Push it in my mouth. I need to suck it. I need to fuck. Help me. Your cock is so hard. Fuck me.

Our mutual need and desire reaches its boiling point, as you slide your body over mine. Grasping my already throbbing cock, you guide me into your wetness, and take me fully inside. Feeling your heat wrapping my taut flesh, and your sweet stickiness coating me, is as close to heaven as possible. The cool air of the room tickles my flesh every time you raise yourself up, only to impale yourself once more, taking me as deeply as possible. Removing your nightie, I take in the beauty of your body in the dim light.

Using my finger, I play with your nipple, feeling it grow impossibly harder beneath my touch. Then, still covered with your sweet juices, I place it against your lips. As you open wide, tasting yourself on my finger, I begin thrusting upwards, hard, to meet your downward descent. I know nothing more than my desire to have you, and claim you as my own.

You move deftly, laying me down. There’s a curve of light over your back. My nails follow it, burning lines into your flesh as you push into me. I look up at the shadow you are, know the reality of you inside me, the thrust that sets alight every nerve in my body. You drown me. Inside me, on my belly, between my breasts. Everywhere you can. I hear your breath catch in your throat, your chest still heaving against mine. The fire appears quenched, but the burning embers remain. It would take nothing for them to glow bright once more, and you only have to say the word and I will let you engulf me in your power, take me as yours, wholly, completely. Always. Say it.

Remaining inside of you, I grab your shoulders, and turn our bodies until I am covering you. My hands now on the side of your head, gripping your hair, holding your eyes to mine, I push in deeply, thrusting passionately. I want to fill you, every inch of you, and savour the feel of your pussy clenching me tightly. With a low roar, I release my seed into you, hearing you moan as I fill you up. Then pulling my still pulsating shaft from your tight embrace, I watch as I cover your body with me. It is a beautiful sight to behold, seeing you covered with me, marking you as my own. Still, I wonder, do you want to be mine? Or, is this just a passing in the night?

Can you read me through the finger I place on your lips? Why can’t you say it? Sh, we’ll never mention it, then. I’ll be gone in the morning. Then the embers will smoulder until they cause another blaze. Or—they will be drowned by the fear of being burned.

Your one finger, says it all. It tells me that this is a one time thing, and something that was to be enjoyed only for the brief moment that it was. But, is it enough for me? To be caught in this fire, only to let it die? Now that I have tasted you, I know I will want more…

 

You can read more of Der Erzahler’s work here.

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11 thoughts on “One Finger

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  1. My finger released the blinds where I had peeped through and watched the dance of lovers. The brilliant blue of fabric extinguished abruptly by a twist of fingers. My eyes slowly adjusted to the pale light: the silhouettes elongated and twisted in a shadowy pantomime of lust. The gasps and the moans were accentuated: the whimpered call and response of two friends caught up in raging desire. The wet passion unfolded behind the window and I was caught up in their desperate need. A finger reached out to touch the glass: a finger reached down to touch myself. I whimpered in time to every thrust. I stroked in synchronization to every roll of hips. I came in simultaneous spasms and rested my flushed cheek against the rough siding. I had tasted true ardor with my finger through the blinds. I wanted more.

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    1. Ooooh! No-one told us there was a voyeur on the loose! Glad to be of…er…service!

      You want more, huh? Maybe… Who knows what they might get up to next! Or maybe the voyeur would like an invitation…

      Liked by 1 person

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