The tips of the fingertips, that’s where it lives– the tips of the fingertips and the dim curves only barely visible in the slivers of light slipping like splinters through the shades. You touch her like a frying-pan that might be hot– the places you’re touching her… any moment you expect her to shriek and turn bright-pink and slap you, those are the sorts of places– but she doesn’t. No, here, now, with her… it’s okay. It’s allowed. All those thoughts you were having all those times you sat behind her in class, they’re allowed here, now. All those things you thought of doing.
The tips of the fingertips, the very tips, that’s where it lives, and the very tips of your fingertips are tracing down her like raindrops, finding every path from the bone of her cheek to her thighs– they trickle along the soft sides of her neck, they drip-drip-drop along the smooth crest of her collarbone, they run as a river, they carve out her cleavage over what feels like eternity– time slows down when you touch her, and you touch her, and you touch her, and at last, at last your touches pool in the gentle sink of her hips.
She looks down at you, and the corner of her mouth, just the corner, it curls into the littlest smile– “So shy…”, she murmurs. You can feel her weight on top of you– her shins are digging into your sides just slightly, but it makes you feel strong, you like it. “Why are you being so shy?”
Why *are* you being so shy? Shy isn’t what got you here, shy isn’t what she likes, you know that. You should stop being so shy– but before you can stop being so shy, she’s already taken your hands in her own, she’s already putting them where she wants them– all the places your raindrops had been afraid to go. Not the bone of her cheek but her lips, the tips of the tips of your fingertips, a kiss, and not the soft sides of her neck or the smooth crest of her collarbone, but your palm in the dead center of her throat– she wants you to squeeze, and you do, lightly, until she squeezes down harder and gives you a little nod; that’s how she likes it. Not her cleavage, but her breasts– your other hand is guided up and over and across– another squeeze, lighter, and then she takes your fingers, your fingertips, the tips of your fingertips, and she pinches them onto her nipple.
“Like this”
“Okay”– you do what she wants, and you see the change on her face– even in this dim light, it’s an impossible thing to miss.
“Just keep doing that”, she says, quiet, breathy from the pressure on her neck– and for a moment the cut of her shins gets worse– she’s lifting her hips, you try not to wince, you don’t want her to catch you wincing at the sharpness of her bones. A moment later, the pain is over anyways– she’s shifted her weight backwards, shifted her pelvis right over yours. Her hand reaches down– a sudden shock of cold as she takes hold of you– cold, why is her hand so cold?– or maybe it’s just you who’s gotten so hot, and you’re just feeling the difference; it must be. Your heat, all your blood gathered together, stiff, against the cold of her soft hand, pulling you, nudging you perfectly upright– it’s almost enough to make you gasp. But you don’t gasp, you don’t want her to catch you gasping.
And then she sinks herself down. The cold of her hand is gone, and now there’s only heat again– her heat, a hundred times hotter than yours– are you cold inside her? How could you not be cold to heat like that?– heat, and wetness, and softness– you don’t want her to catch you gasping, you do everything you can not to gasp.
You gasp anyways.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/g4vzgo/figured_id_try_one_from_a_male_perspective