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/Hands
I tend to fixate on the sexuality of men's hands. They wrap around my throat, curve to grip my hips, they slap, they strip, they pry and penetrate. These associations flash through my mind when I glance at a stranger. Smokers attract my attention when they draw their hands to their lips, those fingers and wrists flaunted in plain view. I watch these strangers like a lecher, usually with a sidelong glance, half-hidden behind my hair.
If I'm checking you out, I'm thinking about your hands.
Cocks penetrate, but hands take possession, and I like feeling owned. When a hand slips into my pants to feel my pussy, it's aggressive and invasive in the best possible sense. Two fingers forced into my mouth become a prelude to a hard cock down the throat, and the hands almost always come first, warming me up to a hot hungry place where I'm eager to be fucked hard.
Hands tease. Their sensitivity to pressure and touch and the ease with which they shift from gentle affection to forceful aggression make them exciting.
I like the idea of being fucked by hands that make things, the hands of writers and photographers and architects.
It might date back to a shy adolescence, when the faintest finger touch was enough to send me into a private frenzy. I remember awkward dates in movie theaters when sex was distilled to a light brush of the hand and a slow, gradual creep up my thigh. The first time a boy touched my breasts, it was slow and secretive, so discreet it was as though he'd hoped I wouldn't notice. We didn't do much then - I don't think we even kissed - but the thrill of being touched there, at the side of my breast, to the underside, to a full palm over the whole, gave me masturbation material for a week. His nervous hesitation thrilled me. As much as I love aggression, I'm still excited by nervous men, especially when their hands shake.
Two fingers forced into my mouth become a prelude to a hard cock down the throat.
Cocks penetrate, but hands take possession, and I like feeling owned. When a hand slips into my pants to feel my pussy, it's aggressive and invasive in the best possible sense. Two fingers forced into my mouth become a prelude to a hard cock down the throat, and the hands almost always come first, warming me up to a hot hungry place where I'm eager to be fucked hard.
Hands tease. Their sensitivity to pressure and touch and the ease with which they shift from gentle affection to forceful aggression make them exciting.
I like the idea of being fucked by hands that make things, the hands of writers and photographers and architects.
It might date back to a shy adolescence, when the faintest finger touch was enough to send me into a private frenzy. I remember awkward dates in movie theaters when sex was distilled to a light brush of the hand and a slow, gradual creep up my thigh. The first time a boy touched my breasts, it was slow and secretive, so discreet it was as though he'd hoped I wouldn't notice. We didn't do much then - I don't think we even kissed - but the thrill of being touched there, at the side of my breast, to the underside, to a full palm over the whole, gave me masturbation material for a week. His nervous hesitation thrilled me. As much as I love aggression, I'm still excited by nervous men, especially when their hands shake.
Previous
And then our couch
I have an ex here in New York I see from time to time. While we're friends, just friends, the large silver ring on his thumb makes a magpie out of me. When it catches the light, it reminds me of the last time he pinned me to the floor and pulled down my underwear, the way his ring caught the light then, and the faint taste of metal in my mouth when I licked it. And it reminds me of the time I tied him up, cuffing his wrists overhead so I could treat him like a fuckable object. He loved it, he said, the way I used him for his erection to bring myself off, but he complained that he couldn't use his hands. I missed that too that night, because it's always so gratifying to be face-down, his hands over my mouth, pulling me back as he grinds into my cunt.
And my boyfriend now? I look at his hands often. I'm not sure he knows that. I fucking love his hands.
Someone once asked me if I judge hands, and I'm not sure that I do. I like strong hands, and I suppose there are practical issues to consider. Hard callouses and sharp, ragged nails are a problem. A man once shoved a jagged finger up my ass, and while I enjoy the balance of pleasure and pain, that ruined my hand-lust for the evening. But most men have such beautiful, sexy hands. When I'm being fucked, I turn to take two fingers into my hungry mouth, so that I'm penetrated completely, at both ends, by the man on my back.
So when I look at a stranger, I think about that too, being face-down in the carpet, penetrated mouth to cunt, by hands and cock, spanked and gripped and jerked back against his hips. But I rarely do anything about it. I just stare until I feel the blood rush to my cheeks, look away, and move on.
And my boyfriend now? I look at his hands often. I'm not sure he knows that. I fucking love his hands.
Someone once asked me if I judge hands, and I'm not sure that I do. I like strong hands, and I suppose there are practical issues to consider. Hard callouses and sharp, ragged nails are a problem. A man once shoved a jagged finger up my ass, and while I enjoy the balance of pleasure and pain, that ruined my hand-lust for the evening. But most men have such beautiful, sexy hands. When I'm being fucked, I turn to take two fingers into my hungry mouth, so that I'm penetrated completely, at both ends, by the man on my back.
So when I look at a stranger, I think about that too, being face-down in the carpet, penetrated mouth to cunt, by hands and cock, spanked and gripped and jerked back against his hips. But I rarely do anything about it. I just stare until I feel the blood rush to my cheeks, look away, and move on.
- 05/18/2009
