If I’m checking you out, I’m thinking about your hands. – Anonim bir han’fendi.
I tend to fixate on the sexuality of men’s hands. They wrap around my throat, curve to grip my hips, they slap, they strip, they pry and penetrate. These associations flash through my mind when I glance at a stranger. Smokers attract my attention when they draw their hands to their lips, those fingers and wrists flaunted in plain view. I watch these strangers like a lecher, usually with a sidelong glance, half-hidden behind my hair.
Two fingers forced into my mouth become a prelude to a hard cock down the throat.
If I’m checking you out, I’m thinking about your hands.
Cocks penetrate, but hands take possession, and I like feeling owned. When a hand slips into my pants to feel my pussy, it’s aggressive and invasive in the best possible sense. Two fingers forced into my mouth become a prelude to a hard cock down the throat, and the hands almost always come first, warming me up to a hot hungry place where I’m eager to be fucked hard.
Hands tease. Their sensitivity to pressure and touch and the ease with which they shift from gentle affection to forceful aggression make them exciting.
I like the idea of being fucked by hands that make things, the hands of writers and photographers and architects.