Strong, masculine hands seizing their craving, their want, their desire.
Coarse, powerful hands sweeping, grazing womanly skin silky and fine.
Commanding hands mapping the line of my back, lifting me high, spreading me wide, sating the ache that all but consumes me.
Hands, fingers, dexterous and greedy, that tease my clit, that work my slit, that crook to find my sweet little spot, that fill my tight cunt to the brim.
Hands caressing my face, my neck, the soft mounds of my breasts, vice-like grip on my hips as his thick shaft glides in to the hilt, as it savagely pounds my slick velvet heat.
Hands in my hair, on my head, digits mapping the curve of my lips as I slide your glans deep, deep inside, as my tongue licks and laps at your slippery head, as I fuck your pulsating cock with my mouth.
Hands tenderly fixing ties that fasten and bind, marking my form with the signs of possession for which I yearn and long.
Hands speaking their sensual passion, recording the rise and fall of my breath, the rhythmic, thudding beat in my chest, committing to memory the body laid bare before them.
Hands, hands, his glorious hands, weapons of worship and hungry invasion.
The hands holding me down, the hands setting me free.
The hands touching, taking, giving all that I need.