This is turning out to be a series of short stories chronicling Alex and Joshua's relationship. The first one is 'Remember That', posted May 24, 06 in Gay/Relationships. Please let me know what you think - writers live for feedback. Put the story name in the subject line. Thanks. qwb@san.rr.com
Hands Story 2 of Alex & Joshua
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 - his probing tongue, 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 spring day we met in the park, and I've loved them since. They're large, the fingers long and blunt, and he keeps them nicely manicured.
He once told me, in an intimate moment, that the greatest physical 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 touches me often. A hand on my shoulder in passing, a kiss on the back of my neck as I'm reading, his knee bumping up to 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 spots 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 like that 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 up as he rubs it in his palms, 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.
Straddling my upper thighs, his genitals make a soft, warm weight low on my back, turning my thoughts to other pleasures. He'll start with my hands, stroking the fingers, kneading the centers of my palms, starting warm little fires each place his hands linger. By the time he reaches my armpits, twirling the hair around his fingers, tugging softly, I'm melting under him. My shoulders loosen, the muscles relaxing as his thumbs probe away the knots and tensions.
He works his way down the wedge of my back, thumbs in the furrow of my spine, his hands firmly along my sides till they meet the jut of my hip bones. The cluster of nerves at the base of my spine tingles as he works it with the tips of his fingers, spreading heat into my groin, stiffening me a little.
He then moves to the backs of my knees where he circles 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 grove into my muscles, impressions that 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 rotate his wrists, pushing his thumbs deeply between my legs to glide smoothly 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 in contrast with 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 penetrate 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 pleasure 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, not quite pushing me over until he's ready. 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 do myself. The perfect death would be 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 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. 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 arousal 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 re-forming as he rolls one testicle, then the other, in his hand. He watches me as he does this, enjoying the play of emotions that pass across my face, 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 and we smile at each other. The scent of our arousal is strong now and all our senses except taste are filled with us. When he leans down and kisses me long and deep, that, too, is complete.
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 one finger, grazing my prostate with every thrust. His other hand trails lazy circles on my chest, brushing my nipples in passing and finally I freeze for an instant, then begin to shudder. A deep, wrenching groan accompanies my first convulsion and 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 warm, creamy 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, his climax ripples up his penis and his hands grip my thighs 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 joined emissions sealing us together from chest to crotch. His hands have brought us to this, his magic hands.