There is so much I could say and write about around this week’s Microfantasy Monday theme, Hands. My hands are critical to my life. As a software developer, I use my hands to create applications and tools for computer users. As a writer, my fingers on the keyboard push all manner of words onto the screen. And, as a lover, my hands speak for me when words are inadequate.
JD’s hands always fascinated me, I always made sure I was sitting so I could see them. They weren’t the rough hands of my previous boyfriends, grease under their broken nails and insensitive to anything but engine blocks. They also weren’t baby soft like the boy who tutored me in English. He did have calluses on the fingertips of his left hand from playing guitar and a callus on the inside of his right middle finger, where his pencil rested. He was always scribbling away in a journal, or on pieces of paper that he’d quickly stuff into his pockets if anyone glanced in his direction. I asked him once what he was writing and he’d mumbled something about ‘songs and stuff’.
His hand was firm and steady when he held mine as we walked downtown after dark. His hands were gentle when he stroked the hair away from my eyes. I loved his hands not just because of the freckles and veins and muscle and sinew, but because of the things they knew how to do. He had some kind of magic in those hands because he could touch me in all the right ways.
When he reached inside me, it wasn’t just a hand and some fingers working me toward orgasm. It was him, him reading me through his fingertips, seeking out all my trigger points, knowing how hard to press or how gently to stroke, when to switch the tempo from fast to slow, to syncopated. He knew just when to use his fingernail to flick my clit and when to use the knuckles of his fist to grind against me.
I asked him how he knew so well what to do, how he knew exactly when to stay with it and when to change it up. He always blushed a little and turned away and mumbled something about how his hands just knew what to do. And I remember the look in his eyes, when he was stroking me to climax, a kind of distance, though he was also completely there, like he was tuning into something inside me.
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