Alex & Joshua - Story 2 - Hands
From Gaynity Wiki
Author: qwb
A friend asked me once what I loved most about Alex and I replied immediately, “His hands.” I suppose they expected me to say ‘his smile’ or ‘his sense of humor,' and I do love those things about him, but his hands are what I love most. His mouth is a close second, the softness of his lips against mine, the incredible things it can do to my body. But his hands were the first part of him I touched, that day we met in the park, and I’ve loved them since. They're large, the fingers long and blunt, and he keeps them well manicured.
He once told me, in an intimate moment, that the greatest pleasure of his life was the feel of my body under his hands. He grew up in an affectionate family, so he thrives on physical contact, and he touches me often. A hand on my shoulder in passing, a kiss on the back of my neck as I’m reading, his knee rubbing against mine under the kitchen table. When I glance up at him, he’s always waiting for my look and gives me that little smile, just one side of his mouth, then goes on with whatever he was doing. Those small moments, those seconds of time, are what come to mind when I think about us.
He’s an architect, a partner with a small firm in the city, but in his younger days he worked construction, learning the business from the ground up. He still does most of the work around our place himself, so his hands are a little callused. I can only feel the calluses on the most sensitive parts of my body, and the sensation of those slightly rough areas skimming up my belly to scrape gently across my nipple is exquisite.
That first evening in his apartment, he laid my hand palm down on his thigh and lightly ran his fingertips up and down along the insides of my fingers. No one had ever touched me there, and I was amazed at how arousing it was. As the pad of his index finger glided up the smooth skin of my middle finger, I closed my eyes and imagined his fingertips touching other places on my body. During our years together they have touched me in all those places, and with little effort I can feel each one as if it were happening now.
Sometimes he’ll lay me face down on the bed, naked, and give me the kind of full body massage that people pay good money for at the spa across town. The oil he uses for these massages smells faintly of coconut and it heats slightly as he rubs it in his hands, warming me even more than his touch alone. His hands are very strong, and he’ll grip me firmly and knead my muscles almost to the point of pain.
Almost…
He’ll stop at the backs of my knees and circle his thumbs firmly. I love this because I know from experience that he’ll soon move up to the insides of my thighs, then higher where he'll perform his own particular brand of magic on me. Running his hands firmly up my thighs, each finger drags a deep furrow into my muscles, impressions I can feel for several seconds after he's moved on. On the return, he'll trail his fingertips lightly, swirling them in circles and arcs, brushing the hair on my legs just to the point of tickling, so that I squirm a little, struggling to keep still.
Finally, on an upward sweep, he'll continue on, rotating his wrists, pushing his thumbs deeply between my legs to glide down my perineum, and holding there, motionless, while I quiver. This first intimate touch always seems to stop time for me. He knows this, and waits for me here. I drift a little, feeling the firm heat of his thumbs against me and the cooler wash of his breath on my warm oiled skin.
When I arch my back to increase the pressure of his hands, he'll spread me further, circling, pressing, almost inserting a blunt slippery finger until I’m clutching the sheet, begging him to. When he does enter me, it is very slowly, so that I can feel the successively larger entry of each knuckle as he sinks deeper. No foreign invasion, this; my body welcomes him with liquid pulses of pleasure. It is a feeling like no other – possibly my most favorite of purely physical sensations.
When he is moving easily, a second finger will join the first, easing in with only a soft moan on my part to acknowledge the increased pressure that it brings. Unlike some men, penetration only stiffens my erection and I’m very hard now, leaking precum onto the sheet. He turns me gently to lie on my back, never leaving my body, and I begin to anticipate my eventual orgasm, the mind-emptying initial surge, the pulsing wind down.
Sometimes he’ll wrap those strong fingers around my penis, bringing me to the ragged edge again and again, never pushing me over. When he strokes me, those calluses add texture to his palm, an extra little thrill among so many others. He learned early and well how to masturbate me better than I can do myself. When I die, I want it to happen just as I’m coming into his fist, as I twist up into his grip, hands fisted in the rumpled sheets, teeth bared, eyes clenched tightly shut, groaning with a pleasure too intense for words.
Other times, like tonight, my erection goes untouched by either of us. It throbs with every heart beat, slapping against the knotted muscles of my belly when he rolls my nipple or squeezes my testicles gently.
We both know how good a firm grip would feel, warm and snug, but the very absence of it is sometimes more arousing. My fertile imagination supplies all that and more – texture, temperature, rhythm; a slippery palm gliding over the tip, once. . . then once more. The dark ribbon of hair that flows from my groin to my belly button is wet and matted, glistening, and a thin strand of desire sways from the tip of my penis to my stomach.
I can feel the skin of my scrotum rippling under his fingers, responding to his touch, the wrinkles smoothing and reforming as he rolls one testicle, then the other, in his hand. He watches me as he does this, enjoying the play of emotions that travel across my face, with that little smile at the corner of his mouth.
Alex enjoys the massages also; he is as hard as I am, and as ready for the finale. He begins to lightly drag the underside of his erection in the valley between the base of my penis and my thigh; the wet, sliding sound it makes is very erotic. The scent of our arousal is strong now, and all my senses except taste are filled with us.
As he brings me closer to orgasm, I can feel the impending release gathering deep in my gut, filling me to bursting, pushing rational thought aside. I can think of only one thing, and as he feels me tense, he drops back to two fingers, grazing my prostate with every thrust. His other hand trails lazy circles on my chest, brushing my nipples in passing, and I freeze for an instant, then begin to shudder. A deep, wrenching groan accompanies my first convulsion as hot semen bursts from my penis in a thick strand, skidding up my chest.
The second pulse is less forceful, but equally satisfying and I grunt softly with it. The third barely clears the tip of my erection, filling my belly button to overflowing; the rest pulses out in small gushes, a fountain of ejaculate. Alex places the tip of one finger on the little fan of wrinkles just below the head of my penis and presses it down to my stomach, milking me dry. Touching me breaks his control, and his face twists with the pleasured anguish of a strong orgasm.
His testicles clench tightly as his climax ripples up his penis, and he grips my thigh with iron fingers as he empties himself onto me. Our eyes lock as our breathing evens out, and he reaches for my hands, lacing our fingers, spreading our joined arms out to our sides as he sinks down onto me, our cooling cum sealing us together from chest to crotch.
His hands have brought us to this, his magic hands.