Man Hands… I miss them in more ways than one…
There is so much you can tell about a man simply by rubbing his hands. Is he ticklish, are his hands used and strong, etc. Some say you can tell a persons life by following the lines on his hands… I enjoy them, and miss them, for entirely different reasons… I think the hand is very, very erotic. There is nothing like the touch of a man to sooth the intense ache of arousal that blossoms deep and unrelenting. Blush.
With the lightest of bushes it raises every fine hair on your skin. With a wiggle of fingers you laugh, squeal and moan. With the firmest of grasps you are butter at their feet. Yumm.
When you look at the palm of a man’s hand they are padded, muscled, and creased. The fleshy mound at the base of the palm is the perfect place to nibble, bite and tease. With my tongue I trace each line… Sigh. God I miss that.
The brush of the rough texture against soft skin raises goose bumps in its wake. The crisp bite of fingernails digging, pinching, and scratching up your thigh, or down your arms, sets you quivering straight to your core.
A Man’s nails are bitten or cut short. Some are dirty, some are polished and neat. I love to look at the lines on a man’s hand and as I do so to trace each finger with my own. There is something intensely personal about massaging a man’s hands that massaging any other part of the body does not create.
Their hands are much stronger, filled with muscles and a wider breath, they open pasta sauce jars and Martini shakers with a single twist. Their muscled fingers deftly work at tightening bolts, undoing bras, and pinching nipples.
I miss the grasp of a man’s hands on my shoulders, or hips as I am making dinner or doing a task. I miss the slap of his hand on my ass… wink.
I miss the brush of finger tips along my cheek as a strand of hair is tucked behind my ear making me sigh.
Hugs and kisses,