The HandIt's just a hand. It happens to be a left hand, though it could, just as easily, be a right hand. There is really nothing particularly special about it. It has four fingers, three knuckles on each, plus a thumb. The fingers, since we are talking about them, are slim and delicate. Not so slim as to be considered oddly so, just slim enough to be considered quite beautiful. I guess you would say it was a nice, delicate, hand. A soft hand.
No, the hand by itself is not particularly different from any other female's hand I have seen. But It's a very erotic hand when it comes to the things it can do to me. Just looking at it causes stirrings deep in my psyche, as well as my groin. It conjures up all sorts of thoughts. Erotic thoughts. Very erotic thoughts, it seems.
I feel goose-bumps traveling from my neck all the way down both arms and my back every time the hand merely touches my ear. I can't describe what happens when it gently reaches inside my shirt and gently brushes across my chest, or rakes across my nipples. And when I feel it softly, gently moving down over my stomach, my eyes flutter closed and my mind can focus on nothing else. My entire body stiffens, imperceptibly. My manhood responds by filling with blood and growing to its full length and girth.
Anytime the hand touches any part of my bare skin, my mind reels with desire. A desire that burns through my body with the heat of a blast furnace. It's not something I can control. I know what the hand is capable of. The pleasure it is capable of giving me, or the pain. There is not a part of my body that the hand can touch and not bring to mind a very special erotic moment in my past.
When the hand touches my most private parts, it's like an electric shock. It can stroke my shaft, rake gently across my tightening testicle sack, or even smack the tender skin of my bottom. All of these actions bring back very fond moments in my life. Those memories excite and stimulate my mind in new and different ways.
The hand stirs up desires from the very depths of my depraved mind. Each time it touches me, in any way, the sexual tension inside me rallies and brings forth my deepest desires. Desires to be touched more, to be stimulated more, to be brought to the edge of sexual ecstasy and held there for hours on end, only to be denied the release my entire body longs for. The release that would put an end to my craving for lust. The end to my desire for sexual attention. Alas, the end of my desire for the touch of that hand.
Thankfully, the hand rarely brings me to that point. Instead, it prolongs the my delicious agony, my desire for more, my need to feel its touch. It leaves me wanting more, longing for more, begging for more. If leaves my mind filled with the memories and desires that drive me to do what must be done in order to convince the owner of the hand to touch me once again.
Yes, the hand is just a hand. It happens to be a left hand, though it could, just as easily, be a right hand. But my mind cannot stop thinking about the endless pleasure the hand is capable of giving me, my body, and my mind.
nemo, slave 7
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