tagMatureDigital Manipulation

Digital Manipulation

byAlessia Brio©

I wanted him from the moment I saw his hands resting on the counter that rainy Friday afternoon at the pharmacy. They were neither callused, like a construction worker's, nor effete. His nails showed no signs of the dirt or grease that would evince a farmer or mechanic. They were trimmed to the quick, but the beds were long—a perfect end to the shapely fingers they capped.

He waited patiently for his purchases to be rung, tapping his fingertips in time to the inoffensively boring music that wafted through the shop. I imagined that he worked in an office of some sort, for his hands bore no sign of manual labor. Yet they had a strength about them; an enticing dexterity that made me wish he was tapping them in a far more intimate place—a place that was growing warmer and wetter with each flex of his graceful knuckles.

Perhaps he had a hobby or a vocation that required strong fingers. Maybe he was a pianist or a masseuse. I sighed in relief when I found no ring on his left hand, although I was baffled as to how anyone attached to those exquisite hands could possibly be single. As he held out his credit card to the cashier, he glanced over his shoulder at me. That was the first time I looked away from his hands and took in the rest of him.

Unremarkable, really, in comparison to his hands. Neither tall nor short, thin nor fat. Roughly my age. Apparently in good health. Inviting mouth, with a welcoming smile and the white teeth of someone who eschewed coffee, tea, and tobacco. Not unattractive, but not stunning either. He smelled of a woodsy soap, rugged and pleasant. And he carried himself with a quiet confidence, a take-it-or-leave-it attitude that was more contented than arrogant. His hazel eyes held a mischievous sparkle, though, and when they caught mine, I fancied I saw a spark of recognition.

And a question posed with one raised eyebrow.

I not only saw it; I heard it just as clearly as if he'd spoken it—or, rather, kissed it onto the skin of my neck, just below my ear. And I felt it, down there, between my legs. There is no way he could've missed the shiver that passed through my body at that moment. I knew instantly that I would follow him wherever he led, just for the chance to feel those hands on my skin. He could be an axe murderer, I cautioned myself. My rational side was muzzled by a libido that would not be denied.

He signed his name and collected his purchases, stepping aside and turning toward the door. I wanted to call out to him, to tell him to wait for me, but my voice stuck in my throat. The clerk nudged my shoulder to get my attention, and I hastily attended to my transaction with a sheepish flush across my cheeks.

Outside, the rain fell in buckets, and I stood beneath the awning, steeling myself for the dash to my car while hoping I'd have enough private time to take the edge off my hunger before the kids got home from school. Wouldn't take long with the image of those hands in the forefront of my mind.

I took a deep breath and stepped off the curb—and there he was! He took my elbow, silently urging me to run with him. I fancied I could feel the heat and texture of his fingertips through the thick corduroy of my jacket sleeve. We crossed the parking lot in long, splashing strides. Without slowing, I pressed the button on my key fob to unlock the car.

He laughed as I ducked into the driver's seat, a throaty chuckle that made me wonder what he sounded like as he came. Circling the hood, he opened the passenger door and slipped inside. The downpour sounded marvelously loud in the metal confines of my little car, like a roaring train. My blood felt similarly as it whooshed through my veins; my pulse pounding from the rain and the run and—most especially—the touch.

We stared at one another for a few long seconds, until he accepted my silence as acquiescence. I was powerless to move. My body wanted him, ached for his fingers inside it. When he palmed my cheek, I groaned to his touch. He didn't speak, merely leaned across the center console and kissed me—tenderly at first, but quickly growing in urgency. I bit his lips, and he chuckled again.

He dropped his hand and grasped the hem of my skirt, tugging it until it bunched in my lap. His agile fingers bypassed my stockings and went straight for my pussy, like its heat called to them. I spread my legs as far as the steering column would allow, and I thought I heard him murmur in appreciation when he discovered my soaked panties. They provided no barrier to his delicious assault, for he wove his fingers beneath them, pulling them into the crack of my ass as his wrist stretched the flimsy satin.

I bucked against his hand, wanting—needing—him to fuck me with it. I may've begged. It wouldn't surprise me. My head was swimming with a desire so intense that it made me dizzy. I took my white-knuckled left hand from its death grip on the steering wheel and grabbed his bicep, pulling toward me until I finally felt a finger slip inside.

The base of his thumb rested against my clit, rubbing slowly as a second finger joined the first. I lost all sense of decorum, fucking his hand with as much vigor as I'd ever shown a cock. I was shameless. The storm curtained us, not that there was likely anyone outside to oversee—or overhear, undoubtedly—my wanton abandon.

Those long fingers played me, calling my orgasm to them. Come. Come to me. Come for me. It was building fast, fueled by the wickedness of the situation. A complete stranger. In public, even. I sucked his tongue and lost myself in the greedy pleasure.

As I fell into the bliss, riding wave after wave, I heard a raspy voice chanting in time with his rhythmic, powerful thrusts. "Fuck, yes. Oh, fuck. Oh, yes." And I realized the voice was mine.

When he withdrew, I opened my eyes and the world slowly swam into focus. He grinned at me as he licked his fingers, that mischievous sparkle still evident.

I opened my mouth to speak, but he rested a sticky finger against my lips and shook his head as if to say, "Don't break the spell."

Nodding, I straightened my skirt and put the key in the ignition. He palmed my cheek once more and with a wink, opened the door and stepped into the rain. I watched him until the grey curtains of water swallowed his form.

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