Holding Hands

I sit at the table and you come over to me, sit next to or even opposite me. I feel your hand as you take mine, fingers sliding over the sides and palm, pressing on parts of my hand to open it, opening my hand as if you wanted to open the rest of me. You hold it down on the table, as if you were going to restrain me and then, with all of your fingers, you explore the contours, the veritable ins and outs of my hand as if you were looking me up and down from head to toe.

outwardly, the conversation is relatively inocuous but the one your hand is having with mine is basically telling me that you are going to have me, it’s just a question of how and when.

The feel of you holding my hand down on the tabletop is like you telling me that you will use all manner of restraints on me, maybe rope, maybe cuffs, maybe something else entirely. Perhaps you will just restrain me with my own mind.

I feel you take your finger and gently and rhythmically rub my palm with it. You may as well be telling me how you are going to enter me, just remove all of my defenses and make me take what you have to give.

Eventually, you have to let go of my hand but in that oh so brief time while you envelop my fingers in your mesmerising grip, you have the power to say so much without words.