Under The Table

I like to dabble in the different points of view and perspectives.  Writing from the view of a man and a woman, so from time to time I’ll write something from first person perspective in a female characters voice.  I often find myself using first person perspective more often because I like how you get to put yourself in that person’s shoes and be a part of them and their experiences.  I don’t like to restrict myself to only a male view point in this way.  So, if you ever read I and its referring to a female character, that’s whats up.

And now, what I was talking about:

You made me feel safe when you did that.  When you touched my leg under the table.  I don’t know if it was what you were trying to do but it’s what happened.  It’s what you caused because I was nervous and shy and I felt out of place.  The table was loud.  The whole room was loud and it was overwhelming.  Your hand on my knee grounded me and I can’t thank you enough.

Well, I think I did thank you enough but you could have asked for more and I might have tried to pull the moon down and escape with you away on its swing.

At first when I put my hand over yours and gave it a squeeze it was because I was trying to say thank you without words.  Without turning my head to you because if I did I would have started to cry and that would have been horrifying.  But when I felt your hand in mine and the feeling of the moment something came over me.  I don’t know what it was but an urge of exhilaration charged through me like bird soaring through the air and in all of my anxiety and nervousness I wanted you right then and there.

We couldn’t leave.  Of course not.  It would be rude to disappear and then rip your shirt off right outside the door.  Surely someone would coming looking for us and find our bodies in half undress and then where would we be at?  I’d be in a state where no mere hand on my leg could bring me back from.  So I pulled your hand between my legs.  Well, at first, I pulled it up my thigh and you paused.  We both paused.  It was risky.

My dress came with our hands and you felt the softness of my thigh, the part that’s usually hidden by some a fabric of some kind in polite company.  But I wanted your company and I wanted it as impolite as possible.  So I pulled your hand up my thigh, dragging the hem of my dress with it until you squeezed my hand.  I squeezed back and tilted my head downward and whispered a soft, “shh.”

With that whisper I slide our clasped hands between my thighs, only parting them slightly.  Just enough to make it a tight fit.  We weren’t going to go all the way, we were just going to have some fun.  A little excitement.  A little naughtiness.  A little thrill.  This wasn’t going to be the night when I met your family in a loud restaurant and nearly cried because of how awkward I felt.  It was going to be the night we played a risque game under the table and between my legs.

Maybe that’s where I got my sense of thrill from.  It always was amazing how I’d like to speed down empty roads and peer over tall buildings and cliffs, but people scared the hell out of me.  Maybe it was always with me and I needed someone to let it out, or maybe its just you that does this to me.  Either way I’ll never forget that night.  The night when you put your hand on my leg and made me first think I loved you.

 

 

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