I am face down, and there are hands, everywhere. They’re the same pair of hands, multiplied dozens of times, calloused and thick, scratching lines into my smooth skin. I am not tied, but I am trapped – not by the hands, but by my burgeoning desire that beckons: stay. I focus on the hands around my waist, indenting my sides – this has always been my favorite grip, they know that. Another hand is caressing my cheeks, as if readying them for a spank. Another strokes my lips, tickling, teasing, never delving. I crane my neck, looking for arms, for eyes, but everything is a blur of skin, except for the hands. I am afraid, but I do not struggle, I revel in the quickening of my heart, and with each quicker beat, the hands become more intrusive, clenching my skin in folds, digging fingernails, probing slits. Two fingers slide inside, and curl down deftly, as more fingers coil around my neck.
A whisper in my ear: is this what you want?, and I do not know the answer, nor can I breathe enough to respond, but the fingers inside me are moving so fast and I am writhing in pleasure and I can feel that familiar expansion of sensation, the build up in waves, the center of my world is those fingers and my cunt, and I’m silently pleading that the fingers never leave, that they stay, stroke, stake – and then the hands disappear. I am sensation-less. I lie, panting, wanting and wanton, waiting. Alone, I am a breathing carcass.
I feel a nameless body place itself on top of me, crushing me into the surface below, skins fusing, bodies melding, every crevice is filled completely. We undulate; a cloth on the ocean, a wave on the shore, and with a crash, we peak.
