It was his hands that fascinated me long before he ever touched me. The hands of a craftsman, rugged, calloused, with little nicks, they held his tools with such ease and strength, they slid over the smooth cabinet surface...
Today I needed. I wandered into his work room with thoughts of him. He was measuring -- that look of concentration on his face, the look he often wore when he drove his cock into me and sent me flying over the edge. I felt the tremor in my belly, but I played at boredom. I wandered to his bench and slid my hands over his tools. Their worn handles were smooth and warm and I stroked them lightly, thinking of his hands stroking me.
I felt his warmth even before his hands came to rest on my shoulders. He bent his head to nuzzle my neck, his lips skimming lightly. "Playing," he murmured in question.
I let my head fall forward a little as I closed my eyes. I could feel his scent surround me even as his hands began to knead and stroke. "Maybe," I answered with a small smile.
He slid his hands down my arms, bringing my hands behind my back and catching my wrists, pinning me. "You're not supposed to touch the tools, baby," he teased, his lips pressing to the back of my neck. I have a tattoo there, a small intertwined knot I saw when I was in college and had to have. He loves to trace his tongue over the dark lines, sending shivers up and down my spine. "I may have to punish you."
Punish me. Please. The last punishment had ended with hot sex in the shower after I was "forced" to wash his body -- all six foot four feet of hard body, all ten inches of steel cock. I'd been as wicked as I could, driving him to shaky groans, until he'd yanked me up and pressed me to the shower wall and fucked me raw. I could take a little punishment now.
"Maybe you need to have your hands tied," he whispered, stepping closer to me, rubbing my hands against his fly. I could feel the heat of his cock through the denim and I felt my pussy getting wet. He bucked his hips against my hands as I tried in vain to stroke him -- he held me too well -- but the size of him told me he was into our game.
"In bed," I suggested, squirming a little. I wanted to touch him, to wrap my hands around his thick cock and feel him throb. I wanted to taste him, my mouth watered with anticipation. He'd been working, so he'd be sweaty, salty, so manly. I love the taste of his cock.
"Nah," he growled, nipping my earlobe. His breath was hot in my ear. "I can't wait that long." His voice was husky, hungry and I wanted to melt right there. He reached past me to pick up a length of twine from the workbench. I shuddered, knowing I was so wet, knowing he'd seen my reaction, knowing what the twine was for. He held my wrists with one hand and wrapped the twine with the other.
"Such a bad girl," he growled, binding me. Didn't he know I was already bound? The sight of him, the touch of his hands, the sound of his voice, and I was willing to do anything to be with him. Hadn't I proved it when we'd had sex in every room in the house, in the car, in the yard, in the park? With him, I'm wicked and wanton, eager to feel his cock inside me. I don't care who knows, who sees, as long as he fucks me.
Bound, I stood still, waiting to see what game he was playing. He fingered the hem of my tee, turning me to face him. I looked up at him, at those dark green eyes, and saw my own desire reflected back. He smiled and I echoed the smile. "Pretty baby," he murmured, cupping my face in his hands -- those hands. His thumbs stroke my cheeks, his palms are warm against my skin. His hands smell of wood and sweat and I close my eyes in pleasure. His lips brush mine, just a taste, and my eyes open again.
