In Camera – [FM] [slow]

There’s a clattering noise as the camera is moved into position on the tripod pointing at an unmade bed. The subject is sat with his back against the headboard, one leg folded up so that his right foot rests against his left leg which is stretched all the way out to the end of the duvet. His toes wink and flex as he takes a long drag on his cigarette.

The subject is dishevelled, mid-to-late twenties, dressed in a white t-shirt and blue jeans. His hair has the same recently rumpled vibe as the bed and he looks curiously pleased with himself as he exhales, blowing the smoke toward the camera.

“The first time I cheated on my wife? Shit, man, it’s such a cliche. It was her best friend.”

There comes a muffled sound from somewhere behind the camera.

“Yeah, I know, right? Uh… no, she doesn’t have any sisters, just a brother and he’s not my type. Kind of a mouth-breather if you get my meaning.”

“It wasn’t like I intended to, no, there wasn’t like it was planned. I guess you could say spontaneous, yeah, except for the flirting beforehand.”

“The flirting? That started a few months before. We were -”

“No friends is too, uh, strong a word. She was friends with my wife as I say, and you know, we got on. I liked her. She was just this hopeless, ditzy hippy chick. Smoked like a chimney. Drank like a fish. Recovering from a misspent youth.”

“Haha. Funny, but yeah. I guess you could say that. Kindred spirit.”

“It started at a party. We were all pissed, I’d been drinking red wine by the pint. Literally in a pint glass, complete fucking carnage, and we were shouting about something in the kitchen, and laughing, and she kinda fell into my arms and there was just this moment, you know? We looked at each other, and we both just knew that – ”

“Spark, tension, something, yeah. After that we’d always take a few minutes to chat when I saw her, just the usual bullshit, how are you, what’ve you been doing? She was always talking about some new course she was taking. Indian head massage, or reiki, or some shit with crystals.”

“Yeah, ray key. It’s some new age healing hands thing.”

“No, it didn’t really go any further than that. There were a couple of moments when we were alone, and neither of us could think of anything to say, you know? It was like, not awkward? But .. heavy, I guess. Pregnant. That’s a good word. Like a storm.”

“Okay, yes, so basically what happened was my wife was away at a convention. She’s really into collectible dolls and she went to some meet up for people who are completely fixated on these dolls, so I’m alone for the weekend. And she phones me up, my wife, and she asks me can I go around to Laura’s house – that’s her friend, Laura – and pick up something.”

“You know, I honestly can’t remember? Uh, paperclips, or bookends or something. The kind of thing that boring middle class people pick up from one another’s houses at short notice. Heroin. Child porn. It doesn’t matter what it was honestly. Not relevant to the story”.

“Yeah, so I text Laura and say I’m coming over to pick up these paperclips or heroin or what have you, and I set off and it’s about a twenty minute walk over the common.”

“What? No, I don’t drive. can’t be arsed with all that, and I like walking. So the weather that night isn’t great, and there’s some drizzle and by the time I get there I’m cold and a bit damp.”

“Damp, yes.”

The subject reaches over to the bedside table to fetch another cigarette, lights it, inhales thoughtfully, and takes a moment to watch the smoke curling away. He regards the arch of his foot with a deeply furrowed forehead, tugs at his right earlobe and pinches the bridge of his nose before settling back against the headboard and continuing.

“So she answers the door, and she’s wearing a nightie. I mean it’s a big t-shirt, really, maybe her husband’s? and she says hi and how are you and she gives me air kisses, and as we hug I can feel her breasts against my chest and I realise she isn’t wearing a bra underneath. And she’s all like oh you’re all wet and I’m all like no, it’s just a little drop and we go in and she says to sit down. So I do. Uh… and she goes upstairs I think? –

“To find the bookends, yes.”

“I mean it’s unusual that she should be wearing a nightie, yeah, but it’s not like out of character. She’s shown up to our house barefoot in a dress she’s made out of curtains before, so it’s par for the course.”

“Right, so she’s upstairs and she shouts down to me there’s some wine in the kitchen and can I pour a couple of glasses? So I find the wine in amongst all the clutter, and I pour two large glasses of red and I sit back down and she, you know, comes back down the bookends and the heroin and she sits down beside me, and at exactly that moment the fucking skies just *open*. It’s completely biblical out there, real Noah’s ark type shit, and the wind is howling and the rain is lashing against the windows, and we’re all snug inside and we set to drinking our wine and since we’re not going anywhere we put on the television and start chatting.”

“It’s hardly relevant…”

“Fuck, um … I think it was a … nature documentary. David Attenborough.”

“No there was no fucking in it. It was, like, ants and shit. Not sexy, not relevant to the narrative. Have you got any more beer?”

There’s a few minutes of muffled clattering during which the subject scratches idly at his neck, stretches his arms, bites his left thumbnail meditatively, before you appear. You are wearing only your panties and the light from the window shimmers on your goose-bumped skin as you briefly enter the frame, seen only from behind, your hair is dark and curly and spills half way down your back. You hand him his beer and exit again, stage right. He sips at it for a moment, gathering the threads of his story.

“So we’re sat and it’s pissing it down outside and we’ve got wine. And this is the sexy bit. You were waiting for that weren’t you? Well, this is it.

Picture this:

I’m sat on the… riiight hand side of this sofa? and she’s over on the left, except that she’s got her feet up, on the sofa, up so that they’re next to my leg, and she’s basically lying on the sofa just watching this thing with the lifecycle of beetles and drinking her wine and occasionally saying something small-talky and there’s an atmosphere.

“Pregnant, quite. And I’m not a foot person, but I’m sat there and the ball of her left foot is just brushing against my left thigh and I’m trying to ignore her, because of that whole atmospheric situation, the pregnancy, but her legs are newly shaved and stretched out next to me and the nightie covers to just above her knee and while she’s watching the TV she’s chewing at the side of her lip and sometimes she frowns and curls her toes and touches my leg and there’s just something *really* sexy about the moment.

It’s the fact of her bare skin right beside me, and the way the nightie is draped over her body, following her curves, and now I can see clearly that her nipples are slightly erect, and I’m just thinking behave, man, just behave.

So her foot like makes contact with my hand, just touches the back of my fingers, and for a second it’s like we’re holding hands and I have a momentary frisson, and this thought rises up in me, wholly unbidden, that I want to stroke her ankle. Except, obviously, I can’t just stroke her ankle, so I’m ignoring the thought, and pretending to watch TV, but it’s playing on my mind and I’m kinda ‘absent-mindedly’ flexing my fingers in the hope of touching her.

I reach forward to pick up my wine from the table and, as I sit back down, I naturally, almost without intention, stroke the top of her foot with the backs of my fingernails, and she shivers. My breath catches in my throat and I stop moving for the space of three seconds, hovering over her skin, and then softly run my fingertip along the side of her foot.

She twists away from me suddenly and stands up and says I’ve finished my wine. come on dickhead, drink up, takes my empty glass from me when I drain it and walks off to the kitchen.”

“Where? Um… just where her ankle meets her … you know … proper foot bones. Metatarsals maybe? I’m not really a foot bone specialist.”

“Meta, with an M. Yes, it is a damned fine word. Probably cuts a disappointing figure on the Scrabble board, though. The letters are all pretty common.”

“Fuck, how should I know? Maybe 20? 25? Less than 30, and it’s like m e t a 5 6 7… 11 letters? Can you even have 11 letters in scrabble? I’m not sure how it would even happen. Can I continue now?”

“Right, right, so she gets up and she goes to the kitchen and I’m like oh shit, I’ve creeped her out with my weird foot stroking thing, she’s going to tell my wife I’ve been groping her, like perving on her feet and shit. I’m panicking, you know? And David Attenborough is still talking about ants and the rain is still lashing down, and she comes back with two full glasses.

She slides back onto the sofa, legs stretched out again, but this time her feet come to rest in my lap, like right on my lap, my uh … crotch. And she doesn’t even say anything just goes Wow, it’s really bucketing down out there, good thing you missed it. And I’m like yeah, really wow much rain such weather, because obviously I’m thinking Why the fuck are your feet even in my lap? She’s got to be coming on to me, right? I’ve never put my feet in the lap of a friend, or of anyone to be honest, but if I did put my feet on someone’s lap it would probably mean I’d shagged them at some point – ”

“Shagged? You like that, eh? Yeah, we really do say that”

“Like Austin Powers, yes – ”

“No, the second one was shit.”

“You have literally no taste. So her feet are in my lap and I’m all of a sudden not sure how to use my hands. Like where would I normally put my hands if her feet weren’t there? I can’t imagine I would hold them in the air, but to put them at my sides while I’m sitting down seems really weird, too, and in the end all I an think to do is rest my hand in my lap along with her feet. I’m holding my wine glass with my left hand, and my right hand is in my lap, and my um… my cock starts to stir. He’s like Something’s going on out there, and I’m getting involved, and even though I’m thinking Mate, let’s not be rushing into anything, he’s overriding my uh … my intentions toward like cool calm and clarity.

So my trousers are bulging slightly, and she must notice, because she presses her feet together and like *encases* my cock between her soles for just a second, like presses it gently, and when I look over toward her she’s got a slight smile and an expression of deep concentration that really isn’t warranted by David Attenborough.

So I summon my courage and allow myself to just barely stroke the sole of her foot with my thumb, softly up and down, and then run the pad along the ball of her foot, and back across just underneath her toes. She doesn’t respond so I curl my fingers and play gently with the bone of her ankle, like tracing circles around the … you know … nobby bit. I have no idea what that’s called. It’s not a metatarsal. Maybe a spur?

And she doesn’t respond to that either, so I play across the top of her foot and over to the inside of her ankle, and now she shifts a tiny bit and moves her feet apart to let me.

I’m sipping my wine, and stretching my fingers out and stroking the back of her ankle and the bottom of her calf, and her other foot is rubbing tiny circles in my lap. She’s running the arch of her foot back and forward so that it brushes over the head of my cock, which is now pretty obviously erect, and neither of us is speaking. We’re just watching this documentary and the leaf ants, I remember this, are making like a … ball… for getting across water, and I’m daring myself to touch higher up her calf, and each time I run my fingers back down her shin and then play across the tips of her toes.

I have no idea what would have happened if there had been adverts, by the way, thank fuck for the BBC. Throughout this whole thing we are both pretending to be utterly absorbed by the TV.

As my hand wanders higher and higher, I think I can detect her breath becoming more shallow, more focused, and I can hear my heart pounding in my skull. After a lifetime, my hand cups the inside of her knee, and she gasps under her breath and her legs part, and I know, beyond any doubt, that this is happening and that I want her. I *really* want her, more than I have ever wanted someone.

So I place my wine glass down, and now I have two hands free, right? so I just start massaging both of her legs and her feet, stroking all the exposed skin from her toes to just above her knee where the hem of her nightie – remember the nightie? – rests. And it seems like the most natural thing in the world when I run my fingertips up inside her thigh, where her skin is hot and slightly damp with perspiration, and she moans and pulls her knees up and apart to give me access.

I’m almost shaking, I want her so badly, but I take my time, and I brush one finger up and over her labia which – I’m delighted to note – are denuded, which doesn’t even strike me as strange at the time, so that my skin is directly against hers, and when I reach the top of her vulva, I pause to press gently the hood of her clitoris, and then run my finger tip back down, along her slit, like undulating from side to side to open her, until I reach the base where I find that she is *wet*. So very hot and so very fucking wet. Dripping. So I push the very tip of my finger and it enters her and she shudders and lets out a little mewl, and when I bring my finger away it comes with a string of her honey, so I bring my finger to my lips, look her in the eye and suck it clean.

She squirms in her seat, and pulls her nightie up to expose her pussy to me, so I slide from the sofa to my knees and lean in. Her scent makes my head spin, and I can still taste her on my lips as I bend forward and kiss, so gently, a butterfly kiss, on her clitoris, just grazing it, pushing back the hood, then running my tongue down her slit and into -”

The tape cuts off suddenly.

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Feedback welcome! I live for orange envelopes.

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/7c0qgl/in_camera_fm_slow