Fingerprints on My Heart
© 2017 Chloe Tzang. All rights reserved. The author asserts a moral right to be identified as the author of this story. This story or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
Well, okay, this one's a kind of First Time Romance (?) written for the 2017 April Fool's Day competition. As always with my stories, it's not a short one -- it's around 11 LIT pages so be warned before you start reading. That said, of course it's worth reading. LOL. And ratings and comments are, as always, more than welcome. I do hope you enjoy .... Chloe
That you left on my heart
You played a game of love
And then you said we had to part
You left me all alone
And as the teardrops start
I feel the fingerprints
Of sorrow on my heart
"Hi Kylie," he says as I walk in to the restaurant with my parents. He's right in front of us with his wife.
I blush and say "Hi" back. I wish I could think of something else to say but words desert me. With him they always do. Not with my boyfriend, not with anyone else. Just with him.
I have a crush on him. A totally major crush.
His name's Nick. He's thirty four. He's married. He has two young children. I'm eighteen and I'm a freshman at College and, well, I know what this thing I have for him is. I'm eighteen and I'm supposed to be an adult but this is a teenage girl's crush on an older guy kind of thing and I don't care. It's a crush. I know that. It won't last forever but right now, my feelings for him are so intense. I can't stop thinking about him. Fantasizing about him and me. I know it's a fantasy, I know I'm being ridiculous but still, he's just so hunky and every time I see him I want to melt all over him.
Some of my friends have had crushes like this. Some about guys our age. Some over an older guy. One or two have even had crushes over a married man. I've seen them. I've laughed at them, I've sympathized with them. I've sat there while they cried on my shoulder. If I tell them how I feel about Nick, it'll be my turn for my friends to laugh at me. Maybe they'll sympathize with me. Maybe not. If I tell them. I'm not going to though, because I know this is silly and nothing will ever come of it and I'll look like an idiot having a crush on a guy that's almost twice my age.
I'd laugh at myself as well except whenever I see him I want to stand so close to him. My heart pounds. My cheeks flush. I'm breathless. I can't take my eyes off him. It's ridiculous, I know. I can't help it. Its teenage hormones or something, I swear. But it's not like there's a pill for hormones. Not for these ones anyhow. What's worse is that I have a boyfriend and he doesn't make me feel like this at all. I wish he did, but he doesn't and really, it's a little disappointing.
Tonight, we're out at a restaurant as part of a large family group and Nick is there. My boyfriend isn't. I didn't ask him. He'd have been bored coz it's a friend of the family birthday dinner thing. My family, other families, family friends. That kind of get together. Nick's family are friends with mine, have been for years. I've babysat for him and his wife. That's how I know him so well. I've known him for years, all my life really, but this crush thing only started recently. It's weird.
We're all swapping seats throughout the meal, moving around, talking, laughing. Halfway through I sit down next to him. He flirts with me. I smile. I giggle at his jokes. His eyes meet mine and then, very deliberately, very slowly, unseen by anyone else, he places his hand on my leg under the table.
Just above my knee.
We both look at his hand. My heart jumps. Pounds. Races. My cheeks are burning. I glance back at him. Our eyes meet. Neither of us says anything. I don't remove his hand. I don't move my leg. I don't do anything at all. He too does nothing, except in his case, doing nothing means his hand remains exactly where he placed it. On my leg. I'm wearing a skirt. A short pleated skirt and his hand isn't on my skirt. It's on my leg between the hem and my knee and I'm not wearing pantyhose or leggings or anything else that covers me.
His fingers burn into my skin. He starts talking to someone on the other side of the round table. His hand remains where he's placed it. I do nothing. I sit there and his hand on me, unmoving, is the most sensual thing that's ever happened to me in my entire life. I can barely breathe for the excitement that's sweeping through me. My skin flushes, burns, tingles. I sit there, quite still, not quite trembling but I'm limp with excitement and if there was no-one else here besides him and me, I'd moan out loud. He glances back to me. We look at each other. My face burns.
He smiles. He's still smiling as his hand moves higher, slowly stroking my leg, out of sight under the tablecloth now. Now I move. Not to remove his hand though. Instead, I lean in towards the table, flick the tablecloth up to cover my legs, rest my elbows on the table just so as to make sure no-one can see. I'm so excited. His hand slides higher, it's brushing the hem of my skirt now and my skirt isn't a long one. His fingers are on the skin of my inner thigh and I'm mesmerized. Enthralled. Shaking.
Higher. His hand moves higher.
It's not a tight skirt. That's what makes what happens next so easy to happen. His hand slides under my skirt. My heartbeat is frantic as his fingers almost brush my panties. Again and again. My knees twitch a little apart. Further apart. I'm making more room for his hand, for his fingers to brush the soft skin of my inner thighs. My cheeks are pink. With trembling hands, I sip on someone else's wine to make an excuse for the pink. My nipples are swollen, hard, aching. I'm melting inside the way I do in my bed at night when I'm fantasizing about him. This isn't a fantasy though and I know my panties are wet.
I'm so wet.
Even wetter than when I fantasize about him at night because this isn't a fantasy and it's his hand and it's under my skirt and I'm dying here. I'm disappointed when his wife joins us, she smiles at me. I smile back, not feeling guilty at all that his hand is under my skirt as I smile at her. I'm disappointed when his hand eases from me. I'm disappointed but I'm not really surprised. Why should I be? She's his wife, not me. It wouldn't be good if she saw where his hand was.
It doesn't happen again, even after his wife moves off to talk to someone else. He smiles at me but his hand doesn't return. When we're leaving, he smiles at me but he says nothing other than the usual inanities. How could he? His wife's next to him. I smile back, still flushed, still excited. Still wet with that overwhelming excitement. They tease me about my pink cheeks.
My Dad asks me if I've been drinking. He's laughing at me. "You've got your Mom's Asian no-alcohol genes, Kylie," he says.
I giggle, thinking that no, it's not the no-alcohol genes, it's another set of genes entirely that are kicking in to turn my cheeks pink. The same genes that kicked in years ago to set my Chinese Mom chasing my very Caucasian Dad. When I look at Nick, I know exactly which genes those are. They're the genes that tell a girl that she needs to find a man like Nick. Nick's successful, he's fit, and he's handsome in a rugged kind of a way. I know I have the teenage crush thing to end all teenage crush things on him. Nick laughs. I think he knows it too. I wonder if he'll do anything about it. I hope he will. I'm going to do my best to help things along.
Nick does say one more thing to me just before all of us head for home. We're in the parking lot next to the restaurant, everyone's talking loudly. He walks across to where I'm standing by Dad's car. Waiting. He's smiling. "Did you enjoy this evening, Kylie?"
I smile back. I'm blushing, thinking of his hand under my skirt. Touching me. Almost touching me where I've never let my boyfriend touch me. Where I think I would have let Nick touch me if no-one else had been there. Where he touches me in my fantasies about him. Except tonight wasn't a fantasy. "Yes," I reply.
"Everything?" He raises an eyebrow. I love the way he does that.
I giggle. My cheeks flush pink all over again. "Especially everything."
"Well, you should drop by my office on your way home from college sometime," he says. "I'd love to see you. Just you and me." He smiles. I smile back, saying nothing. My heartbeat is frantic.
My parents join us, there's no time for him to say anything else just to me but my mind is a whirl. My mind is still whirling all the way home. He's asked me to drop by? He's interested in me? But he's married. Do I care? So many thoughts, all of them confused, mixed in together, formless. His hand on my thigh. Stroking me. I close my eyes and I feel his fingers on me.
Later, at home, in my bed, I'm still thinking. I can't stop. His hand on my leg, stroking, stroking all the way up under my skirt, so high, almost touching me. I've touched myself before, I know what my own fingers feel like but his? They felt so different. Heart-stoppingly different. I'm breathing faster just thinking about it.
Tonight I have to touch myself. I need to or I'll be awake all night fantasizing about his hand under my skirt. I don't do this very often but when I do, it's because I'm hot about a guy. It's funny, but I've never done this while I've been thinking about my boyfriend. It's always been some other guy. A couple of months ago it was this lecturer at College. Tonight, it's Nick that has me all steamed up. I undress, take a quick shower, climb naked between the sheets, closing my eyes, my hands sliding over my thighs. I'm remembering Nick's hand there, touching me and it's so recent that it's easy to recall.
My recall is vivid. It's almost like Nick's hand is stroking me there now, high on my inner thigh. My other hand moves upwards and I'm imagining it's his, sliding over my stomach, onto my breasts, stroking my nipples, teasing them to a rubbery firmness that I like, down over my ribs to my stomach and back up to my breasts again, rolling my nipples between thumb and forefinger. The fingers of my other hand brush my thighs, the soft skin of my inner thighs. I part my legs the way I'd part them for Nick, slowly, my knees edging apart.
Wider apart. My hand strokes, my fingers tease my labia, my hips jerk at my own touch and if it were his fingers there, I'd moan out loud. My fingertips brush lightly. I think of Nick's fingers touching me there and my lips swell, they moisten, they're wet and slippery as I brush across my entrance, circling, teasing. My other hand runs across my breasts, my nipples, moving from one to the other, backwards and forwards and I wish it were him doing that to me.
Not my boyfriend's hand. Nick's hand. I want Nick touching me like this. I want Nick's hand exploring my body, revealing my body for his eyes to see. I'd like that. I'd like to be naked for Nick. I push my sheet and duvet aside and now I'm lying naked on my bed and I spread my legs wider apart, exposing myself. If Nick were here, he'd be beside me and I'd be lying like this before his eyes. I'm breathing hard now, fingers stroking my slippery labia, my knees spread wide apart as I close my eyes and imagine him next to me, looking down at me.
He'd see me like this, on my back. His hand would brush and touch my nipples like this. His hand would caress my skin, circle on my stomach, slip down to stroke my inner thighs; touch me tenderly where I'm now so swollen and wet. His fingertips would run through my sparse pubic fluff. They'd slip down and touch me ... here! I gasp as I slide my fingers downwards, as I press one finger inwards, feel myself part easily as my fingertip presses inwards.
I sigh as my fingertip finds my entrance while my thumb brushes backwards and forwards across my clitoris. Little ripples shudder through my body as I picture Nick touching me like this. His finger, not mine. My fingertip slides inwards, slides inside me, I'm touching myself inside and it's good but if it was Nick's finger it would be so much more exciting. Just thinking about Nick doing this to me is more exciting. I'm sobbing now, excited little noises as I slide my finger in and out, simulating what a man would do to me.
Now I want more. My other hand leaves my nipples, slides down. One hand concentrates on my sex, the other hand circles my clitoris and this is even better. I roll over, face down on my bed, my face buried in my pillow to muffle the noises I'm making as my fingers move. I wish it were his fingers doing to me what I'm doing to myself, inside me, rubbing and gently stroking in and out while the fingertips of my other hand roll across my swollen clitoris, massaging myself as my orgasm draws closer and closer.
I think of Nick doing to me what I'm doing to myself. I would, I'd let him do this to me in an instant. There'd be no resistance, no refusal, I'd willingly let him do this to me and I know it would be so good. Him and me. Together. Naked. I try to imagine that. It's exciting. My boyfriend wants me to touch him, touch his cock, but I never have. I've always said no. I think I'd touch Nick's.
My fingers work faster. I close my eyes tight and my hips are moving. My finger inside me is sliding in and out. Nick's cock in my hand. My heart's pounding now. Beating like a drum. He's in me. His cock in me where my finger is in me. I'm sure that would feel really good and I think I'd do it with him if he wanted me to.
"Oh Christ, yes ...yes ... ohhh yes...." I would. I would. Yes, yes I would.
"Ooohhhh." It is. My orgasm, it washes through me and it's a good one.
"Oooohhhhhh yes ... yes ..... yes..." I cry out rapturously, hips jerking, my sex spasming around my finger and it's a wonderful feeling. Somehow, I think it would be even more wonderful if it was Nick doing this to me. I think it would feel even more exciting and wonderful than this. I know it would.
Afterwards, it doesn't take me long before I fall asleep but when I do, I dream of him.
It's the Friday of the following week. March the thirty first. I'm walking home from college through the city center. It's almost five and I know where Nick works. This has been in my mind all week. It's not like I don't know him well, but I've never been to his work before. I could have visited him earlier in the week but each time I walked into the ground floor foyer of the building he works in, my courage has failed me. This morning, I told myself that today was the day. I was really going to drop by his office this time. I picked my clothes with flirting in mind.
Actually, I've been doing that all week. Every morning. Today I'm wearing s short pleated black skirt that's almost a miniskirt but long enough that no, it's not. Underneath I'm wearing lacey black French short panties that are slit almost to the waistband on either side. They're very loose and very sexy. They're the sexiest panties I own and just knowing I'm wearing them has been exciting me all day.
My top is a long sleeved black silk shirt that buttons. I'm not wearing anything beneath it. I wore a bra to college, but I took it off before I left and it's in my bag. I daydream of Nick touching my boobs. It's not going to happen, I know, but it's exciting to walk towards his office dressed like this and thinking of flirting with him. If I was by myself, I'd touch myself. I'm that worked up and on edge.
Flirting with Nick. That's what I've been thinking of all day as I sat through my classes at college. What to say to him. How to respond. I'm not sure what to say to Nick but I know what guys say to me when they're interested. My boyfriend's been good practice. He's in his senior year at college and kindof cute, but he doesn't inspire that heart-melting excitement that just looking at Nick does for me. I'm supposed to be going to a party with my boyfriend later tonight but I still have lots of time to get home. He's picking me up at nine.
Which makes me think of Nick picking me up. Momentarily, I shiver. I want to squeeze my legs together and just moan out loud but I can't, the foyer is busy, mostly with office workers leaving. They all have the weekend in mind, they're probably rushing home to their families. Most of them ignore the vaguely Asian-looking college girl in her spring coat and boots.
Except that I'm Asian-looking, there's nothing to distinguish me from the other young women my age leaving the building. Even my bag slung over one shoulder looks like the sort of bag many of them are carrying. Men glance at me, but it's that fleeting "check her out" look that brushes over me when they don't see anything to hold their gaze and hidden inside my coat, there's nothing to catch their eyes.
This time I'll do it, I tell myself. I've stood in this foyer twice before this week and each time my courage has failed me and I've turned and left. It's Friday, it's the last day of the week. The last day of the month. The last day of the first quarter. I take a deep breath. Almost, I turn away. Almost. I think of Nick. My nipples brush against the silk of my top. My panties are loose, they remind me of his hand and that's enough. My sex pulses. That's enough to have me walking to the elevator bank, I don't even have to press the button. The doors are open, a horde of office clones pours out. One of them holds the doors for me.
Inside the elevator, alone, I press the button for his floor. Now I'm nervous. My stomach sinks as the elevator rises, slows, comes to a stop. The doors whoosh open. My heart beats faster. I step out of the elevator. I'm on his floor. Reception is ahead of me. There's no-one there and the floor is wide open. There's a corridor to my left, with offices of it. I pause for a moment to unbutton my coat before I walk down the corridor confidently, as if I know where I'm going. I don't of course, I've never been here before but I know this is his floor. He must be here somewhere. There aren't that many people around and their security is terrible.
There are name tags beside every office door. I haven't seen his name yet. I turn the corner, walk down another side of the building. I see washrooms. My heart is doing that pounding thing all over again. I'm so alive, tingling everywhere, butterflies dancing inside me as I remember his hand under my dress last Friday. I take a deep breath, turn and walk into the women's washrooms. It's empty. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do this right.
Putting my bag and my coat down, I look at myself in the mirror as I brush my hair, gloss my lips. It's obvious I'm not wearing a bra. My black silk top isn't transparent but it's a little translucent and I can clearly see my nipples where they brush the material. I swallow. Blush. I'm panting a little. I hope I don't run in to anyone. I hold my coat and my bag in front of my chest as I leave. I'm glad I do because there's two older women walking down the hallway when I walk out. They don't even look at me as they pass me.
Apart from those two women, the place is empty. Does anyone else actually work here? My heart's beating faster. Did I get this wrong? Turn again. I'm half way around the building and thinking maybe I made a mistake when I see his name beside a doorway. My heart pounds furiously. My mouth is suddenly dry, my head spins just a little. I take a deep breath. Another. I look inside. There's a large workstation. There he is, working on a laptop, peering at the monitor, half turned away from me so he doesn't notice when I step inside the door.