Fingers Are For Fucking

I watch, wide-eyed and sleep-silly, as his lube-slick hand pumps and slides, thick fingers gripping his cock, stroking for me.

I’m dizzy-tired and tight-wound, giddy from the completion of travel and desperately in need of release.  The happy-tense excitement buzzing through me, singing humid through hot-wire veins, is the rhythm to which my own fingers dance:  pressing, turning, sliding slick.

Through the camera, I watch him as he watches me, watching him.

Feeling both engrossed and distracted – with the lick-over bite of his lip, by the scchlucking squelch of his fingers gripping his cock – I whisper my wishes, pushing two of my own fingers inside my velvet wet and rocking my hips.

I wish I could kiss and nibble and suck, scraping my teeth over his fat swollen head and suctioning his thick into my hollow-cheeked soft.

I wish I could cup and slide and twist and stroke, using my hands in tandem turns over his cock to wring low-belly moans from his throat.

But most of all, I wish he was here – in the flesh, next to me in this bed – so I could penetrate his body with my fingers, and I could feel the demanding too-full push of his penetrating mine.

And with flash-frame images of a thousand tiny memory moments, my imagination plays a movie of Us while my fingers dance, and it is to the aching empty grip of my cunt around his invisible fingering twist that my nerve endings explode past the building tickle-pain and into tummy-tumbling vertiginous bliss.

Fingering – whether it’s me finger-fucking someone else, my own fingers penetrating my own body, or feeling another’s fingers penetrating me – is one of the first sexual experiences I encountered, and one I’ve _almost_ always enjoyed.  (I’ll save the ‘almost’ for another time, but let’s just say that some people are not well suited to the task.)  It’s one of those things that, for me, started as not-so-innocent adolescent heavy-petting sneakery and morphed from there into one of my favorite sex acts.

The first time I was fingered by another person, I think I was… twelve, maybe?  Eleven?  It was with/by a boy about a year older than me, and it took place when the two of us snuck off by ourselves during a small gathering of same-age peers.  I remember little of the details, but the impressions of the event are still with me.  The exploratory kisses between our youthfully inexperienced lips, the novelty of my own body’s responses, the adrenaline that came both from our daring (because not only was it a first, but What if we get caught?!) and from the not-quite-fear that comes with not understanding that level of arousal in one’s self or in another.  I remember the instinctual way my vaginal walls clamped around his fingers and the respressed-moan ache in my throat.

There is only ever one first time – for anything, sexual or otherwise – and my first time was the broad brushstroke background over which thirty additional years worth of sexual detail have been painted.  I’ve come (heh) to love the press and curl, the push and twist, the scissor and stroke of a lover’s fingers.  The way they stretch against my clench, the hard-armed force with which they can push, the tiny roughness of fingerprint abrasions…  Everything about the fierce-but-gentle assault on my creamy tender cunt just…

UNF.

Using my fingers on a partner – in his ass, pushing, curling, pressing, stretching; in his mouth, pumping, scissoring, tongue-stroking, fucking to the back of his throat; pushing my pinky fingertip into his urethral opening, pumping in and out in tiny circling flicks – is something I enjoy in equal measure.

And the good-boy eager acceptance of those sweet violations…

Again:  UNF.

Mmmm…

You?