Wandering Hands

Ah you would have me control my hands, you say? Tame them? Make them fold sedately into a pile on my lap? Would you really?

What would you do with your hair, then? How would your nipples know when to pucker or your skin to tauten? How would your muscles soothe and relax between moments of intensity? What would your fingers do but hang limply at your sides were they not able to twine with mine?

Would you have me restrain my hands as they place the bindings around your wrists? Would you keep them from closing over your ankles and holding them there, struggle as you might -- and do at times? And what about the hours they bring your face to mine? Would you have them imprisoned? Never to feel the manipulations of your delicate striata?

Were my hands bound as tightly as yours, they wouldn't force one finger before and after another between your full and lusciously moist lips. They wouldn't push in and pull out of your ora or your sex. There would be no taking your sensitive nub between firm and slightly calloused pads and the squirming wouldn't mirror in the rest of your constrained being.

You wouldn't taste your own excitement on my digits nor feel them drenched and smearing wetness around your opening. You wouldn't feel the slickness against your teeth nor the need to lick intensified with my command to leave it there. It wouldn't be still trying to drip from your lips when mine nibble at them, suckling the taste, reveling in the feel. My tongue wouldn't take the moisture from yours, it would have to be content with pulling it from your core. Or even abstaining from the flavour at all.

Would you have me confine my lips as well as my hands? Or my legs? Would you keep my skin from seeking your softness? Oh but my hands most of all! They would rove over your flesh and sinew, were they left to their own. They would pinch your nipple at the height of your need simply to give the shriek to my ears. They would press your body to the door, locking your wrists behind you and thrilling in the gasp they tear from you.

Oh, let them roam free and my hands would subdue your struggles. Force your arms above you so that your body hung open before me. They would clamp your legs in wide abandon. Leave you deliberate and exposed before my eyes. Completely denuded. Let them loose and they will invade your every sense. Flay your very nerve. Your writhing and desperation would be both squelched (and anticipated!) and sought. Quashed by the fingers relentlessly questing, inflicted by the same. Would you have them cease discovering your very heart?

Liberate my movements! Let them play upon your emotions with the subtlety of a concerto. A lilt of the scales, allegro then pianissimo then agonizingly lento. Would you stop the music before the electricity fills the halls of your spirit and delivers you unto the stars?

My hands would turn you to the door as you suspended there in space of time. How long would your arms hold? As long as my fingers would move over your inner thoughts? And if they moved you, pushed you facing the door, would you have them splay across your back, move inexorably up your arms and over your own? Would you have them move so far that my body presses you to the wood? Drives you into the grain with the directness of the penetration of your open, dripping portal?

My hands would deliver that. Would you stop it? Would you stem the sudden alteration to your building crescendo? The sharp slap. The stinging of firing neurons. A cry of frustration, a gasp, a moan, a gift to my ears? This is what my fingers are for. To give my eyes the vision of your sinuous attempts at allaying your agony, my ears the treat of hearing your whimpers. My fingers would pinch and press and poke and place should you release them.

And they would count time! The time until the next peak, minutes between valleys. Hours from head to ankle and back to knee and thigh. Aeons of ache and want. And hope. The play of gentle tracings and smoothly easy scratchings give aspiration and belief in restoration.

The palms that circle your back, firmly presenting your hardened nipples to the wood of the door. When your muscles fatigue and tremor, they smooth and comfort. When you despair, they lift under your buttocks, turn and impale you with a staff harder still. How deeply will my fingers impress themselves into your being? How far inside will your feelings be tantalized?

Should my fingers be allowed will and volance, they will inter themselves into your emotions. They will delve into your innermost transports. Let my hands not lie here fallow while your fields bloom so abundant. They would bring to you the measure of harvest and the traces of need incarnate.

They will dance in the evening gleaning of summer's abundance. Draw the moisture laden dew teased of ripened fruits and sate their fiery audaciousness. Let them! Let them caper and revel in the gardens of your felicitation.

When finally you turn to me, surrendered, shaking and ready to give yourself completely to the reins or the plow or the lash or the curry, my hands will be there to take you from the hook and set you on your bower. To deliver you from torment and give you that bliss that fills your every sense. Will you remember then that it was my hands that brought forth your rapture? Or will you set focus on my lips?

Give them leave to do as they wish, love and the time to your fulfillment will pass with generous agony and intemperate delight.