I want his digits

…Those hands, those hands, those hands…

Those hands build things. Those hands make things, draw things, paint things, do things. Those are the hands of a pursuer, a doer, a shaker and a bustler. Those are the hands that leave wounds on brambles.

Those are the hands of a fighter. 

Those are hands of a guerilla artist, a craftsman, a challenger.

Hands. That. Do.

Hands that are dense with the scars of doing. 

Hands branded with wear, etched with exploitation, hands that are real because they made choices. 

Hands that are nimble from the constant movement, hands that are electric with inspiration.

I want those hands jammed up into my slippery, craving cunt.

I want those hands yoking the nape of my neck, knotting knuckles in my hair.

I want those hands grappling all my flesh, searing urgent red imprints all over my whiteness.

I want those hands probing the open welcome of my mouth, want those hands spreading the cleave of my ass, want those hands slowly rounding the winds of my curves.

I want those hands translating their vigor into my mounds, into my psyche, into the tender roves of my thighs.

                        I want those hands to steel my nerves.

I want those hands to do what they do: unapologetically, willfully, mightily, consuming and absolving.

I want those hands to clutch my body with a definition I’ve never felt before.

I want those hands hungrily digesting my figure; want those hands to chisel carnal hysteria from my motions.

Those hands, those hands that do.

I want them on me, in me, under me, spellbinding me. I want them obsessed with playing my body like a melody that won’t stop coursing through his fingertips.