February 8, 2008
Lend Me a Hand…


cydypotd072.jpgLend me a hand. Not, however, just any hand. A hand blank and devoid of nuance, a hand blunt-cut as a cheap cigar, a hand without delicacy simply will not do. Nor will one too effete, too wan, too limpid and limp with lack of use. This lines of this hand cannot belie the power of its touch.

Give me this hand, a hand clean and manicured, but not too well-manicured. A hand that neither has the anxious red-ragged cuticles of the recently audited nor the great scooping nails of a Long Island goomah.  Give me this hand with its sensitive touch and tensile strength and knowing fingers. Give me this hand. Perhaps it’s attached to you, perhaps it’s not. Perhaps you just want to watch.

What I want from this hand is quite simple: Finger me. Ply my pussy lips apart like  the stuck together pages of a Maxim at Riker’s Island. Run a fingertip down my slit and cleave me like liquid rosy sand. Let those digits linger like a party guest. Tug on my labia like a shade. Pinch and roll them like a hand-rolled cigarette. Spread my pussy open like a peach.

Use lube, if only because it’s pretty on the fingers, making them glisten dewy and opalescent fresh. Smear  it like fingerpaint on the tender canvas that is my cunt. You can use your eyes too. You can look at your handiwork. You can see the snail trails of lube and my own pussy goo pool and coalesce. You can rub viscous liquid into viscous liquid until there is no difference between the natural and the manmade.

Ply the pussy with forceful certitude. Touch not with deference but with temperance. Respect is optional. Time is not. Time must be taken. Pull and prod and tweak and rub and diddle as wanted. Pry apart, pinch tight. The flesh feels almost liquid in its tacit acquiescence to the touch of the fingers. You who watch can see my pussy puddle and ooze as other bits grow plush and fat with blood. Two hands may become necessary.

One hand waits outside, on the wet-hot doorstep. The other-that one is intrepid; one twin is always braver-ventures  inside. One finger snakes near silently by the silken gates; only a soft sigh is heard from far off in the distance. One finger rolls a seeking circle; one finger takes a survey of the lay of the interior land; one finger canvasses. One finger searches, rubs and feels; like the tongue of a snake it seems to assess constantly. This, it finds, gives pleasure. This, it finds, does not. The finger looks for the fertile grounds.

Outside, in the cold hard light of seductive day, the other hand continues its lazy travels over labia and clit; it pauses from time to time, almost forgotten. Sly hand. It pretends to forget to attenuate the touch, to shock the body back into feeling when, roused, alerted, it rubs those silk-circles once more. A casual glance would reveal a gold ring winking and flashing under the finger’s furtive spirals.

Inside, another finger has joined. Two intrepid voyagers, looking, seeking, noting, and touching. The walls have been now nearly, if imperfectly, mapped. For this land is ever-changing, mercurial with pleasure, the ground grows beneath the fingers’ metaphoric feet. What had been dale becomes hill. What had been a welcoming opening closes, closes gently as a toddler’s fist around a sweetmeat, which is nothing if not an odd simile, however appropriate.

So the fingers spread. Spread and widen, one finger, and then two, now a third joins, Each one rubs the silken-tight rim, stretching it like a diphthong, prising apart and not taking no for an answer. Another finger, now four fingers wriggle like happy spelunkers without a lunch. The pussy feels full, full almost to bursting, full of fingers and blood and pleasure, clamping tight on the fullness like it wants to capture the feeling and hold it there for ever.

The hands, however, do not agree with this plan. The hands, shockingly, coldly, unbelievable withdraw. They withdraw with the calculation of a well-marshaled battalion. They withdraw and they gather a reinforcement of lube; shimmery-slick it coats the hands. One hand returns to the labia, to the wanting, greedy, keening, engorged, over-enthused, hyperstimulated as a kid at a carnival clit. The other hand returns to the pussy gate. One finger enters, another, another, another: that’s four. They spread and they pinch, the fingers tug and pull apart, pry and wedge. They rub and twiddle deliciously. The pussy nearly contracts around them. The pussy wants too.

The one hand departs. The other continues its slow-minded clit fiddling. The second hand, the fingers band together. They group and gather and glom; they form an iris-looking bundle, and this flower slowly, inexorably, unquestioningly, unhaltingly but politely grows into the pussy. It is a cave flower, or it wants to be. The hand feels the beleaguered walls of the pussy stretch to accommodate. The pussy itself feels impossible: impossibly open, impossibly tended, impossibly aching, and then, suddenly, after a crimson flicker-flash of pain, impossibly full.

The hand outside quickens its certain spirals. The hand inside, circumscribed by wet velvet walls, tiny-thrusts with gentle precision. It moves almost not moving. It finds itself captive, and while not struggling to free itself, the hand moves cautious slow, filthy-reverent as if in a temple. The hand, hard, huge and deliciously unyeilding, tiny-thrusts precisely, maddeningly, incredibly (and the hand outside never, ever, cannot, will not, must not cease is clit-circle-whirring) until that moment, that silver time, that liquid sweet brief infinity when thump! thump! thump! the pussy convulses, clenching the hard loving hand rhythmically, pumpingly as a handshake.
 


Comments

One Response to “Lend Me a Hand…”

  1. DevilBlueDress on July 13th, 2007 4:24 pm

    Nice. I love the images that this conveys, and the thoughts that it leads to!

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