Hand

Have I ever mentioned how I love to look at your hands? I enjoy caressing their shape with my eyes, running along every line and freckle, defining the shape of your nails with them, imagining what they could do to me.

Have I ever mentioned that I am lost in thoughts during the day, when I am on my own, and I think of your hands?

I imagine them travelling across my body, tugging at my hair, tousling it, your index finger lounging lazily past my eyebrows, on my cheekbones, hesitating on my lips, continuing their travels down my chin and neck, to that soft place where my breasts meet. They discover the curve, and suddenly your hand gently weighs my breast, the thumb accidentally crossing my nipple, which is instantly aroused.

I sigh out loud contentedly. My body hums to your tune. Gently but persistently your hand continues its discovery. Down my torso, and to my hips, testing my hipbone slightly, caressing my belly, and waits.

I feel you and I want you to go on. It's all I can do not to express this need, as I arch my back. The blood is singing in my ears, my body tingles and in between my legs all is moist and ready. And you haven't even begun to touch me.

I feel your hot breath on my lips. I look into your eyes drunkenly, submissively, wantonly. I lick my lips which are aching for a kiss. Bite them in frustration. But I know better than to ask. I wait.

Your hand travels to my lower lips, explores my soft insides; a finger teases. It is the best feeling in the world and my whole body encloses around your finger, a lifeline to my core, strumming to a song of love. I want more; I wait for that second finger; and the third; until you fill me with your love.

Your body moves across me and I feel your soft breasts brush my skin, and my hand reaches for your nipples. I caress them insistently and enjoy their arousal. Your other hand tugs my hair back. And I know what comes next as you rub me insistently, dividing your attention. My hips start meeting your hand halfway and I am half mad with desire. A ripple starts working its way up from somewhere deep inside me, a gentle wave at first, growing into a rumbling crescendo and all I can think about is your hands, on me, inside of me.

I come up gasping for air and shudder, with your one hand still inside of me while the other cradles my neck. I feel like a string instrument that is being played by a maestro. I moan gently as your fingers start to strum again.

I love to look at your hands and imagine what they might do to me.