I’ve always loved your hands. From the sensual way you position them as you kiss my neck to the way you pin my body down as we make love and I writhe beneath your strength. You slide your hands down me like oil on the smoothest walnut oak. You take hold of my hips like you are my very on vice, and within your grasp I can not be moved. You caress my breast as though you delicately carried apricots in your arms from Armenia in ancient times and introduced them to America. You touch me like I’m fragile as you lay me upon the bed with the precision of a master of the art. Even in flipping me over, you wrap me in one arm and you would think that I was the feather that came from your goose down pillow. When you whisper in my ear as I try to control my breathing, you give me enough time to catch my breath….but never enough time to stop my orgasms. 


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