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At first her hand is eclipsed by mine. Fingertips and palm feel warmth; and the closeness of a kindred spirit; and the gentle press of a need that may, for now, just be enjoyed for itself.
But before long that urgency is given a little rein, to allow fingertips to move to one side, and lose for a moment their contact with my skin; though her palm still presses mine, dragging a little as it turns. I watch the whorls and spirals, coloured by returning red, and hints of pale nails, and wonder at the detail and the delicacy there; but then they curl around the back of my hand, four teasing brushes, coming and going as they trace across the lines of my tendons.
Now her nails are shown in full: tiny gloss white eggs, as they lead fingers onto my wrist, bending backward to let her palm follow. Stretched out straight, her hand seems tiny: a long closed flower, in danger of coming loose from the stem of her wrist.
For a moment the fingertips trace onward, onto my forearm, four points of affection, like a vanguard. But then with a sigh she lets her palm down, and her fingernails round downward out of sight, to close her hand fully over my arm. I know she is smiling, and I can feel my mouth stretch, but for now all my world is that hand as it flexes gently to understand what it grasps.
Her fingers have reached my elbow; her thumb moves on until nestled in the bend in front. I let my arm drop a little, in readiness; and as her hand begins to climb I flex my bicep to greet it. A tiny gasp escapes her, and my smile widens with the glow of desire.
She pauses with her palm pushing upward, relishing the shape. But the lure of exploration quickly makes her move on, squeezing firmly now, dragging a small wave of skin ahead of the heat of her palm. I can hear my breath now, like the distant march of an army.
With the hand so close, I trace its outline with my eyes: the stretch between thumb and fingers; the flex of knuckles; the light hairs interspersing the intricate patchwork texture of skin. How can something so perfectly functional be so beautiful, so tantalising?
Thumb leads palm onto my shoulder; I shrug a little, accepting the pressure, sighing, and the flesh forms a rampart for her to follow, down, to where I must have her go. As her hand embarks I close my eyes, because I can feel its arrival in my mind; but I must wait, must savour. I know her mind too, and the effort with which she stretches time, filling herself with the feel of me.
All at once the base of her palm is pressing into the rise of my breast; and with a delicious crescendo it quickly reaches my nipple, not stopping, lifting further, dragging, her fingers becoming the flaming tail feathers of the phoenix as they pass.
I was not aware of holding my breath; but when the whole hand returns, blazing with passion, to cup my breast, I let loose a deep animalistic groan. The pressure that was met in kind upon my arm cannot be matched here, and it feels as though the hand is pushing inside my chest, to be welcomed by my racing heart. The power pulsates now, exploring the warmth, twice, three times, urgent and strong.
But I want more. Too much is at stake to rest upon this moment; and she knows it too, though her hand pushes a last time, lifting, as though to steal the softness from my body. Then gently, with a sigh, the contact lowers, diminishes, lightens. The fingers trail around the bottom of my breast onto my chest, once more brushing gently.
With precisely wrought suggestion, they turn; and begin to work downward to my solar plexus, just fingertips, and now and then a hint of sharp nail. I feel them rise and fall over the undulations of my upper abdomen; one finger pauses as it falls onto my navel. The hand is turning again, though the fingertips glide inexorably further. A part of me wants the hand to slow, to let me breathe, but the desire is stronger; desire that would wash away mountains, a gushing flood that cannot be staunched.
The fingers are catching in hair; there is a faint scratching as they follow on down, rising away from the inward curve of flesh, and the palm returns to cup the shape there. I am groaning softly with anticipation as the hand pauses, consummation so near, so intense. Ring and index finger bend inward to touch my lips, press a little, pause again.
And then the inside first knuckle of the middle finger is upon me, pushing hard into wetness. It consumes me: the finger, the hand, the presence, the pressure.
Yet even as I feel the whole hand slide back and forth, once, sending a crashing wave of sensation up my body, I know I will have to wait again. I will have to wait for the final scene: because there is another player, yet to join this play, who demands an equal part.
My other hand. I laugh quietly to myself as I lift my right hand away from my body, and press my palms together again. This time my left hand will take the role of lover; and this time there will be no sudden end, to the ecstasy.
