06 April 2014
Your hands. Held in mine. It is I that captures them. Captures you. It is I that holds them and it is my grip that pulls you close. That pulls you to me. Against me.
Your hands feel my strength. My touch. My control. My need. And your own hands are giving. Touching. Wanting. Needing.
A gentle touch, a gentle kiss, a tongue tip gently flicking around your out turned palm. Drawing patterns, leaving a trail of warm saliva as it teases each of your fingers. A look between both, a look that draws you deeper, that brings you in, drinks you in. Takes you in.
Eyes locked, gaze not broken for one moment as I take one finger, lips gently closing as I feast upon your skin. I am filled by you. By the taste of you. By the sight of you. By the sound of you. All of my senses filled in that one moment. My need to devour you, consume every last part of you as my lips close tightly around you.
They are your hands. But it is I who has captured them. Taken them. Taken you.