My hands have made a home of you. There are places, small expanses of skin, that they seek whenever I lay a palm on you. The front of your throat, so that I can tilt your chin up to meet me. The back of your head, to make sure you can’t leave the kiss until I decide it’s done.
The swell of your hip is a favourite one, if only because it fills my hand so very well, but it’s when I’m pressing down on your stomach, all four fingers and a thumb creating five identical craters, that I enjoy my hands the most. It’s the power of that position, and that you can only squirm away from it, or be forced to attempt to remove my hand at the wrist. It’s the knowledge that you’re mine, when I’m holding you down like that. No matter how nebulous the terms are the rest of the time, or how vague the dynamic, in that moment it’s crystalised and very clear.
It always starts with my hands, whatever I do to you. They’re the vanguard, the manipulators and the workers. They pin you down, lift you up, spin you around and get you off, when I want to control ever part of you without losing control myself. It’s my hands that do the heavy lifting, in pretty much every sense of the word.
Which makes it fitting that you fetishise them so very much. Run your lips over every wrinkle and vein, and suck every digit clean when they have reduced you to trembles and moans, curled and pressed confidently against that hard nub inside you. Found the cluster behind it and become ever so intimate with it.