“Hold out your hand,” the client said.
Turning my hand palm up, I held it out for the tip he was gifting me.
His thumb peeled off one bill from the rest. He grasped the crisp flat paper in long fingers, holding it aloft for seconds. Then with a flick of his wrist, he placed the bill in my outstretched hand, one bill after another.
I shuffled them into a straight line and put them in a neat pile in my wallet, zipped my purse shut, thanked him for our time together, and left.
Now, days later, I recall those hands. Not just his but Master’s. My late husband’s. My own.
I have a hand fetish. It’s not the shape, the size, the length of the fingers. I relate hands to the person.
Hands are an instrument of the mind. Without the brain sending signals to them, they won’t move. Without hands, our minds only think of things that cannot be fulfilled.
Master’s hands are big. A wide palm, long, thick fingers. His nails are trimmed to a nice length. The nail beds wide and flat. There is no dirt underneath his fingers. His palms are smooth, not soft but without calluses. He takes care of his hands; grooms them as much as he does the rest of his body.
Without a word, Master nods toward the end of the bed. I crawl into it and lay flat as I know he prefers. The carpet muffles his footsteps. Out of the corner of my eye, he grasps the cane leaning against the wall. A sure, strong grip. Moments later, the sting from the first strike spreads over my ass cheeks. More follow. One precise blow, each placement measured, each blow harder then softer, hard, soft again and agaon. Each blow designed to bring pain and pleasure.
The client grabbed my shoulders pushed me face down on the bed and gripped my hips pulling me onto his hard cock. His fingers bit into my skin. I cried out. His cock teasing my entrance. Then he moved away; stood at the end of the bed, seized my ankles, pulled me to the edge, turned me, and fed me his hard cock. He gripped a handful of hair, holding my head in place, and forced his engorged shaft into my mouth, fucking my face until I swallowed every drop of his cum.
Master finished beating my ass, back, legs, and feet. He dropped the cane, climbed into bed, and pulled me onto my side. One arm wrapped beneath my waist, pulling my hips into his chest, his thick fingers parting my labia, shoving three digits inside my wet cunt. They moved in and out, his thumb worked my clit.
“Please fuck me,” I begged.
He turned his face toward me; his grin wicked and hungry. “No.” The force behind his finger-fucking increased. Faster, harder. The press of his thumb on my clit, rubbing circling in the right spot.
“Please. I need more.”
He ignored my plea and increased his movements.
“Please fuck me. I’ve been a good whore for you. I worked hard for you, made you money, Whores are to be fucked. You’ve beaten me. Please fuck me.”
No words, no look, nothing changed except the angle of his fingers, rubbing my G-spot, delving deeper, penetrating me without remorse.
My hips bucked and I came. Release. Bittersweet.
He turned me over on my side, spooned me, pulled up the covers, and we went to sleep.
Grasping the earring, I slip the hoop through the miniature hole in my lobe. First, the left then the right. Moving my head back and forth, they dangle, the intertwined silver hoops clink with each movement. I pick up my phone and send Master a text message. “Now, I’m ready to see the client.”
That afternoon was spent washing my hair, fingers massaging my scalp. Brushed and dried it with the hairdryer, styling it to perfection. I sprayed a bit of hairspray on my fingertips and fluffed the strands at the scalp to give it volume and pressed the ends between my fingers and thumb to smooth the edges. I’d carefully applied eyeshadow, liner, blush, mascara, and the most important to Master, lipstick.
My fingers deftly hooked the bra on and pulled up the straps. My hands pulled on the dress and smoothed it over my body.
All of that was preparation for the evening to come. For when I knelt between his thighs, wound my fingers around his shaft, wrapping my lips around the head, sucking. Stroking him up and down. Later as we walked back from dinner, finding a bench, sitting as he stood in front of me, I ran my fingertips lightly over his pants. “I’ll suck you right here if you like. Just say the word.”
At the top of a parking garage, leaving my fingerprints in the dust of an abandoned black Dodge Charger. Bent over, dress around my hips, his fingers caressing the smooth skin, parting my folds, teasing. I pushed into his hand. The echo of his slaps rang through the empty space. His chuckle, and then straightened the hem around my thighs. Pulling me up, turning me, and rearranging the neckline to cover my exposed tits. Buttoning two of the four buttons.
I took his limp hand in mine. His palms calloused from hard work. His long, tapered fingers gnarled from labor. I stared into his face; his lips parted with labored breaths. Minutes ticked by. Silently I pleaded for him to squeeze my hand. I need a sign, baby. Nothing. Minutes turned into an hour and then three.
The sounds of his harsh breathing stilled. My comment to my son fell away. I turned and looked at my husband. His chest flattened. His skin color paled. My gaze fell to our joined hands. I held tight for a few more minutes. Thinking. Remembering. Caresses. Building houses, our home, mending fences, gathering chicken eggs. His finger smoothed over my cheek.
The last connection between us before they took him away from me.
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