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His Hands
Smooth, strong, deep, therapeutic.
Hands playing on my skin like a virtuoso pianist.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.
With every stroke, his hands melt my stress.
Sooth my pains, physical and mental.
My anxiety fades. My mind rests.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.
His hands are sensual.
His eyes are closed, so his hands move on their own.
No distractions. Just natural. Instinctive.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.
I’m open and vulnerable, self conscious.
But his hands even sooth my flaws, and imperfections.
Press against places I keep covered.
Unflattering angles I would rather keep hidden,
But somehow his hands seem to find beauty even in that.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.
Dang....the hour is up
Hands playing on my skin like a virtuoso pianist.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.
With every stroke, his hands melt my stress.
Sooth my pains, physical and mental.
My anxiety fades. My mind rests.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.
His hands are sensual.
His eyes are closed, so his hands move on their own.
No distractions. Just natural. Instinctive.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.
I’m open and vulnerable, self conscious.
But his hands even sooth my flaws, and imperfections.
Press against places I keep covered.
Unflattering angles I would rather keep hidden,
But somehow his hands seem to find beauty even in that.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.
Dang....the hour is up
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