She finds herself focused on visceral things these days… Things that we tend to take for granted and overlook as utilitarian or even just there…
A person’s character flows through their hands, it shows in their hands - in how they use them, how they care for them, in the overall portrait they create with them.
From a handshake, we can tell of a person’s confidence and personality as well as their type of profession. From their touch, we can also tell of their mood as well as their well-being.
But the best part is that we can sense their desire, their affection, their need, their desperation and even their love…
Without hands, how would we trace the delicate planes of each other’s faces? Mould the curves of each other’s bodies? Feed her lush mouth when her ravenous appetites is roused?
How would I bathe her sweated body between bouts of long lingering sex? Dipping and delving into all the same luscious intimate places where my tongue and lips have led me to so many times before… Would I learn them by blindman’s bluff as my fingertips coaxed their way back for more, climbing her ribs before scaling the slippery peaks that moan and howl with the winds of desperation and our kindred soul’s damnation (it is not as if we count the times we have closed our eyes and taken the full body plunge into the most sinful of ravines).
I tangle my fingers in her hair as I bruise her hips, already bearing the reddened outline of my full handprint. My shoulder and back bear the crimson stripes laid bare by her delicate fingertips, clawed. Passion’s voice screams through our palms as they join and strain overhead; a triumphant crown bruised by the wrought iron of the headboard… crashing into nature’s staccato’d crescendo… The joyous release, the ebb and flow of great tidings we’ve offered up.
It is these, our hands, that we wield has tools, as weapons; as aids to please each other. We pleasure ourselves and in turn we torment and tease together.
We have become fascinated by hands lately… “after all, it all begins with just a touch…”