His Hands

I've been thinking about my man's hands today. It doesn't seem to matter what I start out thinking about I keep circling back to his hands. I love his hands.

They are not aesthetically beautiful hands by any means. They are working hands, rough and calloused. He often has cuts, nicks and scratches on his hands. Many times they are covered in oil and grease and dirt, the fingernails ragged.  I buy special industrial cleaner just for his hands, it smells like oranges. He doesn't particularly like his hands. I love his hands.

His hands are strong and could easily crush mine if he's not careful. He's always careful. Most nights we fall asleep holding hands.

His hands are very talented. He makes beautiful music on his guitar with those hands. Just watching his hands move across the strings is enough to turn me on. For a daydreamer like me it is easy to get lost in the thoughts of his hands strumming along my body in place of those strings.  Plucking the pleasure from me like the lovely tunes from his guitar.

His hands, as he reaches out to grab whatever part he can reach whenever I walk near. I've teased him for years that living with him is like living with an octopus, all hands. I love his hands.

His hands, roaming my body, waking me from a sound sleep. His hands, slowly tracing my lips, the urge to suck his fingers in too great to resist. His hands, buried in my hair, tugging gently but firmly until I lift my head to receive his kiss.

His hands buried in my hair, holding me firmly in place as I kneel in front of him. His hands, fingers entwined in my hair, pulling me closer until I have no choice but to open my mouth and take him in.

His hands, as he tosses me around the bed like a rag doll, positioning me for both our pleasure. His hands, as he spanks me. His hands, that hold the paddle he has learned to weild, because I asked. The anticipation of the next blow to fall is almost too much.

His hands, capable of giving the most exquisite pain, the most delicious of pleasures. His hands, one on each side of my face, holding me in place so I can't look away as he enters me. The intensity in his eyes burns soul deep. I would have missed it if it wasn't for his hands. I love his hands. 

His hands covering my mouth as I scream my surrender. His hands, holding me as I float back to myself exhausted, yet sated.

His hands exploring my face in the dark to check for tears. His hands, pulling me close to rub my back and offer comfort when the worries of the world become too much.

His hands, changing our first child's first diaper. His hands, baiting the fish hook and preparing the pole when he taught our kids to fish. His hands, tying ribbons into a little girls hair because mommy is at work and can't do it. His hands, throwing the football to our son, only to have it stolen by the dog. His hands, that built me a potting bench for Mother's Day. I love his hands.