Is it possible to be in love with
a man for his hands? Well, I’m not in
love with him FOR his hands, he’s an amazing man without question but I’m
definitely in love with his hands. I
can’t explain it. His hands actually
turn me on. The shape of his hands, the
length of his fingers, even the way he holds his fork drives me to
distraction. I think I love his hands
more than I love his dick. Okay, let me
not go off the deep end, it ain’t that extreme, but his hands give me a special
thrill that I just can’t explain.
I love watching him
masturbate. It’s like sensory
overload. Seeing him stroke the length
of his dick, his fingers gripping it tightly, seeing the cum flowing over his
fingers thrills me in a way that words can’t describe. I can suck his fingers or his dick and both
arouse me beyond belief. One Sunday
morning he brought me breakfast in bed.
He thought he was being cute by dipping his finger in the honey and
putting it in my tea. I grabbed his
finger and started licking and sucking every bit of that honey. We had to go to IKEA and buy a new headboard
that afternoon because things got so heated after that.
Who knew that hands could be a
sex organ? The first time we kissed, he
held my face gently in his hands and I felt my heart skip a beat. When I’m riding him, and his hands grip my
hips, for a brief second, all my attention is focused on the feel of his hands
on my flesh. We walk in the park and
he’ll reach out to hold my hand . . . and I feel safe, protected, and secure in
the connection.
His hands represent strength to
me; the centuries of labor our ancestors endured building this nation that
hates us so. His hands represent
tenderness to me; his gentle nature is reflected in the movement of his
artistic hands. I’m mesmerized when he
wears his ring; it reminds me of a sunset over a beautiful horizon.
His hands pleasure me in ways
that defy definition. When my body is
warm and relaxed after a bath, he’ll anoint my body with oils and massage me to
sleep. Well, his intention is to massage
me to sleep but feeling his hands slide sensually up and down my body,
caressing my sore spots and stimulating my hot ones . . . who can sleep?
We went out for drinks the other
night, enjoying a few Afrotini’s and a little jazz. He pulled my chair close and whispered in my
ear that he wanted me to spread my legs.
My heart started pounding out of my chest. I felt the heat of his hands on my thigh as
he moved up my leg, sliding my panties to the side. There, in the middle of a very public place,
he took his finger and started rubbing my clit, causing me to signal for the
waiter to bring the check and get the hell outta there. He had other plans. I grabbed the edge of the table and held on
tightly as his fingers penetrated me, making me bite my lower lip to keep
silent. Tease that he was, he stopped,
leaving me desperate to cum. He ordered
dessert and would wipe his sexy mouth with his cloth napkin, which was really
nothing more than his discrete way of smelling my pussy juices on his fingers,
inhaling my fragrance. Of all the things
that I love about this man, it’s his hands that hold the key to my
arousal. I know he was made for me, I
for him, because even his hands fit me.
1 comment:
You're opening my idea box. Thank you.
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