I often think about John Browstone’s hands, and what they can do to me. How they make me feel. What sensations they pluck from my skin.
At his hands, I scream or moan. Whimper and beg.
Pinching fingers on nipples. Plucking strokes on my clit. The sharp smack of palm against ass.
They are capable of nearly anything.
When he holds me close, cradling my spent or frazzled body, stroking my hair, I know there’s no better place on earth. Likewise, when he pins me down, sinks his fingertips into my flesh, leaving red marks, bruises, scratches, and palm prints, I know I’m in heaven.
His hands catch me before I fall, and they lift me up when I’m down. My greatest comfort is feeling the warmth seep into my skin whenever he holds my hand. He pulls me close when we’re alone or in a crowd. Without looking back, he puts out a hand, knowing I’ll grab on tight. In the car, he rests his hand on my thigh. I know it gives him comfort, but I wonder if he knows how much that simple touch provides.
And those same hands smack my face, pull my hair, and plunge in my cunt, pulling and dragging out pleasure — for my own good and his entertainment. They wrap around my throat, deliciously reminding me of his control. They skim across my back, over my stomach, around my hip in the most intimate caresses.
His hands are magic. They’re the hands of a hardworking man and of a sexual, sadistic, lustful, sensual Dominant man.
These are also the hands that grip his own cock with quiet confidence. I’ll never hold his cock the way he does, and I don’t want to. Much better to watch him work his own flesh the way he works mine.
I love his hands — how they look, the way they feel, and oh yes, what they can do to us both.
Welcome to Masturbation Monday! Not a lot of kinky fuckery in our world right now (not for lack of trying!) so I’m obsessing about John Brownstone’s hands instead. Want more and better smut? You know where to go, and this month, you have two options. (I vote that you check out both. You won’t be disappointed!)