Violet's Fingers Ch. 02 - Sex Stories

Violet's Fingers Ch. 02

Prologue Darkness and light, touch versus sight

Dilli.

The events described here first appeared as sketches made as I watched her, accompanied by my scraps of text. Then, while pregnant with Pim, I began recording my memories, as well as adding to my drawings. These were all used by Parnassius when he undertook the task of imagining how I might have told my story, as it was happening. As a writer and translator, he is good, and he did have the very best of teachers to prepare him for this task.

But this is all about Violet and right now the sound of her voice rings clear in my head, "Dilli, Dilli."

She loved to speak my name, repeating and twisting the sound, till tongue touching teeth became Tilli, and other things to make me frown. As we walked together, we sang, made verse, taking turns and teasing. I am good, but Violet was both quicker and trickier than I. Her words would at first seem simple and elegant, but as they echoed in my mind, I might notice how they rhymed in another tongue or reversed upon themselves to reveal some subtle snub.

I miss my Violet.

Here in my notebook, I have sketches of her tongue, teeth and lips. When I had time to spare, I would draw her hair, but more often it was Violet's fingers, strong as steel and quicker than my pencil, always holding the heart of my story. On this tattered page, I have sketched her hips balanced a little below me on one of the narrow rock shelves protruding from the sheer walls of our gorge. I have ...

... captured the butterflies over her chest with a few loose strokes, reminding me how they danced in the glance of the sun. Later I brought her to life, for an age shading and sharpening with my pencil the tangled lines of her hair, dangling dark through her fingers and over the edge of my page.

I remember how this drawing began, my heart racing as I crouched as near to the edge as my fear would allow. But these precious attempts to capture her were shadowplay, the real Violet lying involute across the chasm before me, precarious yet relaxed. She trusted the stone; I saw only the deadly drop.

Her world is not mine; if she could read these words, she would say they were tainted by my obsession with sight. As the butterflies alight to drink her sweat, I might describe how the light cast through their translucent wings falls upon her skin, how those colours merge with the warm glow from the sunlit side of the gorge.

"Dilli, my draznili filly," she teased, "come back to reality. Breathe in the scent of the flowers below, where I love to lie lazy, tell how it blends with the smoke from our juniper fire. And my armpits, admit they drive you crazy." The corner of her lip lifted a little. "Tell me your hidden desire, or I'll call you a liar."

She was being silly. Quite aware I needed her to stay still, my drawing unfinished, she twisted and lowered her legs over the sheer stone, her toes reaching for a hold, humming an exploratory tune. Leaving me, she descended sure as a ...