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Longing, Loneliness, and My Left Hand


Baishun

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I’m lying here in bed now, the soft feel of the rose-coloured sheets cool against my skin. It’s a cold night, and the chill leaks in through the single window on the opposite wall, its black, pull-down blind blocking the light of the room across the courtyard from mine. The only light in here is the pale aquamarine from the digital clock on the desk, too dim to illuminate even the closest wall. The sound of a fan provides a constant low hum as it stirs the air and adds its negligible chill.

 

I have never met her. I have never heard the timbre of her voice, never smelled the scent of her or seen the light reflect back off her eyes. I have never felt her embrace, her strength and calm loaned to mine when I tremble. I have never tasted her breath, hot, moist, mixing with mine in a long slow kiss.

 

I have never experienced any of these things, but I can imagine. I can close my eyes and let my mind wander, far off, to a place where we are together, where thousands of miles and a crumbling world do not sit between us like some impenetrable wall. Where I can feel her around me, next to me, inside me…

 

I reach down with my left hand, nails freshly filed and polished, weighted ever so slightly by the white gold ring and single, small emerald that adorns it. My hand is not my own, guided by a force far distant, separated by place and time. I know what it does, but I do not command it.

 

It moves down beneath this cotton half-shirt, tracing a line beneath my left breast, the skin there so unaccustomed to touch that it rebels, hardening, prickling, glistening with the first beads of sweat cold against the chilly air.

 

The hand stretches, its palm flat against the concave of my stomach beneath my ribs. It runs a long, low circle around my naval, lighting each inch of skin along the way. Already, my breath quickens as I wait for its next soft play.

 

It moves slowly down, free now of the half-shirt, the cotton no longer trapping it to my skin. It lifts as if to leave, and I gasp. Noting my rising dread, it returns, fingertips only now, pressing lightly as it glides down from my naval, following the patch of soft, translucent hairs that form a trail to the place where a slow heat rises and boils.

 

The first finger lifts the small band of elastic surrounding the rich green silk of my underwear, as the other thin digits follow, sliding deftly between silk and skin. The elastic flap catches on the small ring, but without hesitation the hand reacts and rids itself of the obstacle, wrapping its nimble thumb around the band and pushing, quickly, the fragile garment providing no real resistance as it is forced down and to one side.

 

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The fingers, having left my skin for the briefest of moments to perform the hand’s maneuver, settle back onto waiting skin that trembles now from the sudden inrush of cold air and the anticipation of what is to come.

 

The fingers give way once again to the palm. It presses, firmly but gently, on the newly bared area beneath my belly, moving as it does ever downward, over the trimmed patch of courser, darker hair. My legs, sensing the coming invasion, instinctively close in defense; but the hand is undeterred. The first two fingers, knowing as they do that their target has been reached, dip down to that separation of skin between my legs, the middle finger parting the labia gently as the forefinger begins to trace a circle around my clit, gently nudging its tiny hood up and aside.

 

My back arches slightly, my breath catching for a moment in my throat. My legs offer no more resistance, falling to the sides in abject defeat. My right hand, still under my own will, reaches up and tugs lightly at my lower lip, separated as it is now from the upper one, as if a gesture designed to open my mouth to allow that caught breath to escape.

 

The left hand never loses focus, its fingers now plying and pushing and rubbing, softly, firmly around the ever-moistening folds between my thighs. The middle finger, having parted its targeted lips in much the same manner as the right did upon my face, now has access to what it sought, and dives quickly, deeply, pressing down and in before curling and pulling slowly back out.

 

When it exits, it is joined by the forefinger, having surrendered its playfulness around my clit to the thumb. Together, the two dive in again, deeper this time, as a well of fluids wash over their entry. They curl slightly, searching as they dive for the harder bit of flesh along the top of this sweltering tunnel, and the soft wall at the back.

 

The forefinger finds that bit, and begins to push and flick and knead. The middle finger, having reached the wall, presses firmly against it, rhythmically. This they do for what seems like hours...

 

I have no breath now, the smallest of cries trapped airlessly at the back of my throat. My back is arched, the nails of my right hand digging into the flesh of my face and chin. I can feel my lips, the ones on my face, hardening to blue and turning cold. My toes have curled, as if grasping for purchase on something that isn’t there. My body is rigid, my eyes are closed.

 

But I can see. I can see her, faceless but beautiful all the same. In the blackness of my mind I watch her eyes dart across my body, see this undefined smile—no, smirk—as she watches my left hand obey her commands. I see that smirk soften to a smile finally as her eyes meet mine, closed as they are but seeing. Her lips curl out into a broader smile, as she makes an almost imperceptible motion with her eyes, sending the fingers of my left hand into more furious, rapid motions. Those fingers, inside me, her proxies, pushing and kneading and rubbing through the floods that erupt again and again.

 

My breath has not returned. My lips are like ice, the color of deep water, and every muscle in my body is rigid, unyielding. Even as my eyes fall into the back of my head, I can still see her, still smiling, radiating a warmth that counters the cold of the air and the colder still of my lips.

 

These fingers, her puppets, perform the last steps of their dance, forefinger pressing hard against that bit of flesh, middle finger pressed firmly against the trembling wall, and thumb sitting still, lightly and tortuously teasing my unsheathed clit.

 

And there they stay, though I cannot bear another second of the exquisite pleasure, turned now to a perfect pain. My right hand races to the bed, grabbing first at the air, then at the slippery sheets. I feel the cramps form at the bottoms of my feet, arched as they are to follow the curling of my toes. And all at once, the fingers recede, the vacuum they create filled quickly by the gushing of my climax. My muscles, so rigid in the previous second, now convulse uncontrollably, and the soft cry caught in my throat escapes with a volume that defies its softness.

 

My body collapses. Spent. The only movement is the subtle stirring of the air, the quiet panting that comes from being so long without breath, and the trickling of juices from my abused and elated cunt.

 

With my eyes still closed, I see her, still faceless, still smiling, still warm. Now that my air has returned, I am warm—no, hot, perspiring. And I feel her warmth mingle with mine, the hot air of her breath lending itself to the furnace that now begins to cool in me.

 

And then I open my eyes.

 

I am alone. I am sated, almost. But alone.

 

I linger for a moment more in the heat that races around in me, my trembling subsiding, my lips regaining their reddish-orange hue, my breath slowing to normal once more. I reach out for that image of her, for the comfort of her smile. But there is only blackness, broken only slightly by the aquamarine digits of the clock. I grab my left hand with my right, hoping against hope that it will feel foreign, possessed; but it is mine.

 

I turn onto my side, bringing my knees to my chest, hugging them with both arms, wishing they were her. I sigh, and shudder briefly. I am alone.

 

I sleep.

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