Hands of Man
I am sweat in masculine and specific palms.
My mind stalls in the company of manly hands that toil.
Conversations no longer entertained and time is no more evident.
My eyes fixate with no fear of capture or notice.
The hands of a man... my covet, my lust, my fetish.
Calloused and dirty, rough and stained, my body stills
as my brain shares her fantasized imagery's with me.
I drift between reality and temptation weaving in and out of
sexual harassment against unknown hands.
I must have it in my mouth, in me and upon my body.
Courtesies is not needed, only self satisfaction,
I don't know his name nor do I care..
How blessed are the things they make their own.
Veins and muscles flexing its physique into my chalice of weakness.
Like a shade shifting in the sun, I sink in his hands that shadows
my softness and dampens these silken valleys.
Let their scars and beaten surfaces scratch and paw at my offerings.
The force and anger as they fist my hair and steer his stride.
I cannot deny my cravings, I am the whore eager to engage.
Fingers wide and delicious my mouth is fed, resting on my lower lip,
I bite the naughty tips that tease my vulnerability.
Without words they obey the begging of my bedded dance upon saturated sheets.
I arch and sway like swells of the ocean rising and falling into its own wetness.
My breathing sirens the felicities of his workers clench around my breast and given hips,
feeling it's evident labor scraping against my delicate caramel hues.
Large hand tightens it's white knuckles around my wanting throat as the other
perfects it's grasp behind my single knee. We both take selfishly from the other.
Ferocious fucking to tire the demon that feeds my cursed crave.
Mistake not my quietness for feminine handling's of a lady....
but instead, notice the invite reflecting from seductions pupils..