Forward:
This story has also been published as an audio recorded by the incredibly talented
ResidentMadame.
If you'd like to listen to the audio version, it can be found at the link below:
Dancing Fingers - Audio Version
*** THEN ***
It was our third date. The first two had been innocent enough; long conversations over our favorite caffeinated beverages at the local coffee shop.
The movie date happened because we'd both expressed interest in seeing the film, and so decided why not see it together.
Turns out the hype surrounding it was overrated; all explosions, no plot, and I quickly found myself bored. That is, until your hand landed on my knee.
It was an innocent enough touch at first; but then, any physical contact early on in a relationship can spark excitement, even on such an innocuous body part.
It wasn't the first time you had touched me. Our first date had included some light hand holding as you'd walked me back to my car, our fingers entwined playfully, your index lightly tickling my palm. It had also included a kiss; nothing crazy, but there was certainly an ember of passion to it.
An ember that had ignited into a flame by the end of date two. And that time there was also a quite intimate hug, although you'd remained respectful, your hands not traveling any further than my hips and lower back.
And now, here we were, in a dark, half empty theater, with the row all to ourselves and your hand on my knee. I'm not sure what had emboldened you to make the move. Perhaps it was your own boredom with the film. Perhaps it was the fact that we'd been holding hands off and on throughout the movie and they would often rest together near my knee anyway. Or maybe it was just the fact that it was the first time I'd worn a skirt on our dates, and the bare skin had been a temptation you could no longer resist.
I didn't mind. Your touch was nice. You were nice. I liked you a lot. And yeah, okay, I admit it: you were adorably hot.
I let your hand linger there, curious as to your next move. For the moment it remained innocent enough, although your fingers soon found themselves twirling over my sensitive nerve endings, producing a giggle fit I struggled to contain.
I put my hand over yours initially to stop the tickling, but wound up leaving it there, on top of yours, simply enjoying the connection.
And then... you moved. Almost imperceptibly at first, but soon enough it became apparent what you were doing. And which direction you were traveling.
Just an inch to the side, pause. Up an inch on my thigh, pause. Fingers squeezing with gentle pressure, massaging the muscle beneath my quickly warming skin.
You turned to me, your gorgeous eyes asking a silent question. A question I answered with my sexiest smile of approval. Encouraged, your hand continued the journey north, soon disappearing under my skirt.
Your touch became light, almost feathery, sending tingles up my thigh to even more sensitive regions. Regions you were drawing ever nearer to.
Soon enough, you found yourself at the border, that spot where flesh met the confines of my cotton panties. The only question that remained was whether I would allow you to cross it.
Oh how your fingers teased, tracing the edge, and I took a moment to be thankful my recent razor burn had cleared up. I was already wet, throbbing with a dull ache that longed to be satisfied. But was it too much, too soon?
And then a single, solitary finger crossed the dividing line and brushed over the indentation of my cleft. My body jolted at the contact as my hand flew to my mouth to stifle my moan.
Again you looked at me. No words, just that intense, silent questioning.
I answered by parting my legs further, giving you easier access. The smile you offered in return was equal parts sweetly innocent and wickedly triumphant.
Further empowered, your finger no longer simply teased, but pressed. You knew what you were doing, the exact spot you were putting pressure on, and again I found myself struggling to contain my noises. Fortunately, the film drowned me out with yet another mindless action sequence.
Oh, how your fingers danced, how they teased, how they tormented. I was no longer simply wet, I was drenched, and I knew you could feel it, seeping through, along with my heat, my passion, my obvious desire.
I felt it again, that lone finger, wiggling, delving, slipping past the boundary between fabric and flesh, and then it was inside of me.
Oh, that feeling. That swirling, churning kaleidoscope of emotions. The sense of naughtiness at doing something so brazen in public, blended deftly with the fear of getting caught. The pleasure of such a simple yet intimate act of physical touch, coupled with the anxiety of how you would perceive me for allowing it, for encouraging it so eagerly, so wantonly.
But mostly the pure joy of you being the one touching me in a place few others had been allowed, the joy of realizing the trust I had in you in order to even consider permitting it.
Your finger pumped, a tiny piston priming my well lubricated engine. I surrendered myself to it, to the euphoria, to you, to your frolicking digits, coated now in my silk, the scent of me in the air, so strong I was sure the entire theater could smell it.
