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Fat, round, perfectly smooth fingers. I still feel them on my chest drawing circles and descending warmly until they press against my abdomen. Warm fingers, wet fingers, fingers that beg me for silence when you do the rest with your mouth. Why are you so forbidden? Why did you become my hell? My eyes only have time for the gift that awaits in your hands: those ten long pieces that flex in my body and scratch each fragment of my skin.
I remember the first night you took me to glory and my pants are ruffled. Your fingers and mine, intertwined, while I held my breath to prolong the passion of our bodies. You were silent, but wild; your hair jumped as hotly as your waist over my crotch. I didn't see your face, only your thick black hair that fell and jumped, fell and jumped. You didn't hold back and you strangled me, and I liked it... I really liked feeling your fingers squeezing my throat, snatching the air from me, filling me with pleasure. I would like to speed up time to repeat it again, but not yet, not with so many eyes on us.
Will they suspect?
I don't think so… we have taken care of every detail to sneak away to our furtive meetings; in the stables of the horses, in the paths of the oranges and in the river of the stars. That last one is my favourite. There our bodies shake the waters and make them warm, and your fingers hide in the warmth of my tongue; your fingers clean, free... indomitable. Memories guide my hand under my pants, dreaming of your shiny thumbs and polished nails. I am corrupt but you are not, you are different, you are not like the rest of the world.
The crackling of the fire smokes like my accelerated lungs, like my slimy hands, like my crooked toes. My breath calls to you, longing for you to appear out of the darkness and caress my broken cheeks. The song of night bugs shatters my hopes. But even though I can't have you with me during the long days, I look forward to those tiny moments when we meet again. We are so close yet so far away, so together yet so far apart. You're afraid, I know, afraid that they find out about us. Fear that they will also erase the purity of your hands just as they erased the purity of mine.
I stifle a moan in the dark, and the smell of horse wakes my brain cells. How I would like to feel the licorice fragrance of your fingers on the tip of my nose, and then those caresses on my ears, and on my chin, and in the furrow that opens from my chest to my navel. Nothing is sweeter than your fingers, not even the honey from bees on spring flowers. How did you notice me? In front of them you averted my eyes, but secretly you were unable to ignore me with your strawberry eyes. You knew that I liked you, and that I liked your fingers too...
Now we are two lovers probably condemned to an abyss, one where only our bodies keep the darkness away.
The first time I came here was on a Sunday in September. They dragged me on horseback and dust until I was at your feet. I kissed them; I kissed the little toes sticking out of your sandals. That's when I realized that you were different. You asked me to get up and give me a bath, and you spoke tenderly, but they gagged me and covered the water with my blood. I felt those foul fists bruise my ribs, and my tears splattered as they carved the burning mark on my hands: a new prison, a new hell. Even when I saw myself in the depths of death, you, my beloved, came to free me, to offer hope to my rotten heart.
Hidden from them… Hidden from my slavery.
You don't care about the color of my skin, or the marks on my hands. Only for you I am a slave, and only for you I feel free. Your fingers remind me of those days when my mother gently kneaded the flour for bread. And she stroked my knees scraped from my pranks, and she massaged my cramped bones. Those times were the best! Perhaps that is the cause of my obsession with you: your compassion, and your little innocence about the world. You are a woman who lives by what she sees, who thinks that the greatest sin is to love a slave. I hope you never discover the true face of the world, the one that condemned me too.
Now that I think about it, at some point they will take me away from you and your caresses. This is how it is: a seasonal hunt. Here in these cold and silent stables, I pray to God that time is as fast as a snail race. I will take advantage of every moment to feel the nemas of your fingers resting on my heart to accelerate each beat. I know that somewhere on this farm you smell my tears, longing to sneak away to come see me; to be together. I would like to run away with you, clinging to your waist while you brandish the reins of the horse with your fingers of freedom.
Your pure fingers… your innocent fingers. Your fingers… Your fingers aren't stained with blood! Mine yes, unfortunately. In these pieces of flesh and blood there is only destruction, and hatred, and a great desire for revenge. I think of what I lost, of what was taken from me, of every humiliation my body has suffered and of my fists crashing into the jaw of that wretch who took my mother to the stake. But you were able to give me back something of what I was... only under your arms I feel free.
And your fingers, your fingers! Is it normal to smile and sigh in solitude? Even the horses will think I'm crazy. And the truth is that yes, I'm crazy... crazy to feel your fingers intertwined with mine, filling them with that smell of licorice that makes me fly to the stars. Your fingers… the best part of you that reminds me of the small hope among the great rot that plagues the world from its foundations.
This story is part of WE88 and is inspired by the theme "Best Part" proposed in the original post of the initiative. Certainly when I see a person the first thing I notice is their fingers… LOL. Why? Because sometimes I think that our hands transmit a lot of what we are.
I hope you liked this Humble Post. I wish you a splendid weekend :D