Date: Sat, 27 May 2006 17:44:15 -0700
From: qwb <qwb@san.rr.com>
Subject: Remember That, chapter 2: Hands

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.