*”Now: set your timer for 45 seconds.*
*Place one hand on your cunt, and one on your tits.*
*Begin to stroke, rub, squeeze, pinch.*
*Visualize one hand from someone you’ve fucked this year — that’s on your tit.*
*And think of another — that’s on your cunt.*
*When the timer goes off, switch hands.*
*With each switch, change visualizations.*
*You may repeat people, and you should include people you want to touch you* *but haven’t yet.*
*After the timer goes off 6 times, you may come.*
*That should be just enough time.”*
I read these texts in bed a few days ago. Late December reflections. Like a Best Albums of 2015 list, only with fucking. Freezing and bundled up under the covers, those initial strokes, rubs, squeezes and pinches were of course about you. I could’ve come just from that, no doubt. But you’re not that sort of dom, not that sort of friend.
I like hands – I like your hands – strong, long, elegant fingers, not the hands of a nail-biter, cuticle-picker like me. Hands are *on the one hand* a natural choice for this exercise – a simple translation of another hand onto mine. But they’re also a profound choice, as I don’t necessarily know what tons of people’s hands are like, unless I’ve been with them a lot- sexually or not. I don’t remember the hands of everyone I’ve ever fucked; nor do I necessarily notice the hands of someone I’ve just met, flirting.
Hands encourage a particular intimacy, and unlike faces, don’t take me outside of myself. I’m not forced to reckon with them or please them in these fantasies – I’m simply touched in tandem and in turn.
I often interact with your hands as the agents of your will: forcing my mouth open, excavating my oral cavity, pushing my chin back so our eyes meet, bringing one hand down my jaw and to my neck, pressing and gripping.
The last time I saw you, I was too exhausted to go out. We talked and cuddled, and huddled up against the cold, under blankets on your bed. You slipped your knee between my legs, and I pivoted slightly to ride it, grinding against your bare knee, only the fabric of my tights and underwear between us. My tits wanted you, but ensconced behind dress and bra, they remained, hard nipples rubbing up against the lace. My mouth wanted you, but was soon occupied with simply breathing. You push the hair out of my face, stubborn locks and curls, you push them behind my ears and I wonder what’s next. Your smooth hand against my cheek, your finger dancing over my lips, I kiss it, but you move on, and stare deep into my eyes, a mischievous smile appears, your tongue in the corner of your mouth: you’re focused, and enjoying yourself. My breath is quickening, my panties wet, I want your hand in my cunt to feel how wet you make me. Then smack, your hand comes down hard on my cheek, and a momentary reflexive part of me notes that, yes, I like being slapped in the face, at least by you, at least like this. I’m not just letting you, though that is one way of narrating this moment. The intensity and frequency increase with my gasps for breath, until I can scarcely tell the thwack from the contraction of the muscles in my pussy from the moans and gasps for air and the flickering in your eyes— so hot I can’t tell the difference between your hand on my skin and the moments of anticipation.
But now they are my agents, doing my bidding, as they pass through a mental revolving-door-rolodex of hands, spurred on by you, and a chime from my phone, alerting me to switch —
I get through three switches – you featured prominently – twice, if I recall – and what the! Why six? Why do I have to wait? And what the fuck do you mean “That should be just enough time.”? Have I been dating some sort of sexual Rain Man, counting the seconds until I succumb? Are you taking into account the difference between masturbation and what we do together – how I come for full minutes from your hand on my neck, your knee in my cunt and your words, your voice? Are you averaging over some lifelong sample of sexual partners?
And I switch again, calming down. I’ve been won over by your little game, and I hold on until the sixth and come all over my hand, beads of saliva escape my mouth and dribble down my face, I lick my fingers and want to fuck you. I want to fuck you now, too, flinging my laptop off my bed, kicking my chucks off, you pull down my pants, and without looking me in the face, pull me by my legs toward you, so my hungry cunt is at the edge of the bed and I hear the clang of your belt and you push in me, and fuck me hard.
(Did I mention my birthday is coming up?)
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/4r9mw6/mano_e_mano_mfds