He grabs me, taking me by surprise, I gasp and begin to speak but his hand across my mouth silences me.
His hands are rough and careless. They feel urgent and aggressive as he tugs at my clothing, removing every item to reveal smooth, supple flesh, ripe for grabbing and fondling by his large and calloused hands.
He grabs my arse as he pushes himself against me, I can feel his cock straining against his jeans. The denim scrapes against my freshly shaven cunt as his long, thick fingers dig into my arse cheeks, claiming them, wanting them, needing them.
He’s desperate, his mind foggy with the desire to have me, to take me, to use me. He’s hurting me in his hurry, with every move he makes he causes more pain, those hands do not care about the consequences of their actions though.
Those hands that are now at my breast, there’s more grabbing, also pinching as my nipples become his focus. Pinch, pull, pain. My knees feel like they might buckle beneath me, but he will not allow that, not now, not yet.
He moves on quickly, that urgency fuelling his animalistic need to take what he wants. His fingers thrust inside me, hard, forceful, deep. He doesn’t utter a word, but his actions speak volumes. Mine. Me, my tits, my arse, my cunt. All his.
I don’t come, but he removes his fingers anyway. I’m tempted to plead for their return but I know he doesn’t care, not now, not this time. This is about him, not me and I am devoted to the task at hand.
He spins me around and bends me over, I don’t see it but I hear the familiar sound of his zip that means his cock has been released. One hand curls into a fist in my hair, the other grips my tit so hard I know I’ll be bruised the following day.
I know I come before he does, drenching his cock in my pleasure from being used and manhandled by him, his hands, his cock. When he starts to climax his hand’s clench harder, dig deeper, pull tighter. More they cry, more. More pain, more arousal, more me and I give it, I give all I’ve got, moaning, writhing, gasping, fucking, bouncing against his cock, desperate to feel his moment of release as it fills my dripping wet cunt.
The moment comes, he is done, I have served my purpose. His hands release me and I fall to the floor, my weak knees no longer willing to support me. I lay on the floor crumpled, used and ruined.
Those hands return, gentle now, still rough to the touch but soft in their intent. They are hands that hurt but do not harm and now they will tend to me with loving caresses. In his hands, I am always safe, even when they grip my throat and claw my flesh, I am safe, I am cherished, I am his.
The words above are entirely fictional, just a little something that came to mind when I pondered the fact I really didn’t have any factual thoughts on the Kink of the Week topic of ‘Hands’. I did however remember I had images I took long ago of Bakji’s hands, so you’re getting a bit of a two for one deal in this post.
The featured image of this post is one I took of Bakji tying a hip harness on me. This is how our adventure together began. His hands binding me in rope. His hands spankings me. His hands fingering me. His hands bringing me to orgasm. His hands were definitely the explorers in the early days of our dynamic and I have the fondest and most wonderful memories of those times.
I wouldn’t say I have a kink for hands in general as it isn’t a body part I am naturally drawn to. However, I love Bakji’s hands. I love the things I’ve felt them do and the skills I’ve witnessed them learn. Not only have those hands brought me oodles of pleasure, but they are also part of the production of ProudToBeKinky, providers of comfort and an integral part of a human being that I adore beyond all measure. So yes, the story above is fictional and no hands aren’t my kink, but I definitely found some feels on the subject.