Smokey Saga #1:
"
Give The Girl A Helping Hand
"
***
This story is dedicated to women who are drawn to men's hands—whether you love them, like them, or find them the least bit attractive. Realizing for myself just what a great number of women there are who enjoy men's hands (looking at them, feeling them on their bodies, holding them, kissing them, what have you) inspired me to write this story. I hope you enjoy it. Reader feedback's very welcomed, valued and appreciated, so feel free to drop me a line.
***
When she was a little girl, her father always played the piano. Discovering this talent, it did not take her long to become enthralled. She couldn't measure the amount of time she spent, on his lap, by his side, watching his fingers glide so masterfully over the keys. It gave her an indescribable fascination to see him play. The more she watched, the more engrossed she got. She very much enjoyed the sound of the music, but the spectacle of his hands dancing across the keyboard with such precision was what really mesmerized her.
He'd often ask if she wanted to learn to play herself, but her interests lay only in the mere sight of his hands tickling the ivories. Her fascination only developed and deepened more intensely as she grew. As a teenager, a young lady, and finally a grown woman, she found herself attracted to the fingers and hands of almost every male she saw. She would get to know the relationship between the finger lengths, the hirsuteness, the veins, the smoothness of the palms, the hardness of the knuckles, the distance digits could spread apart. She used up entire sheets of paper tracing outlines of her own small feminine paws, and marveling at how many gentlemen's hands were big and strong enough to envelop both of hers. Soon, just the thought of being held, stroked and massaged by such powerful hands was enough to render her giddy and lighthearted.
Growing up afforded her mind the knowledge and realization of her interest, as well as its depth. And her fixation with man-ual dexterity gradually translated into lustful magnetism. She had discovered her own Achilles' heel. She now possessed the key to unlock her own private world of sexual adventure.
But it occurred to her that of all the things men did with their hands, none for her ever surpassed the allure of playing the piano. And at long last one day, she realized the precise elements that would combine and swirl together into her most vivid sexual fantasy. It was in the grasp of the fact that she actually envied those eighty-eight lucky keys.
She wanted to
be
the piano.
Oh, how she yearned for this—not to play the piano, but to
play
the piano. To portray the majestic instrument, fixed in place in this wonderful sexual scenario. To be restrained; trapped, exposed, vulnerable...submissive beneath a man's well-trained digits. To be played, and have her own ivories christened by ten agile, graceful fingers that knew their way up and down her scale.
But above and beyond all, the spectacle of strong, masculine hands themselves remained that which truly captivated her soul and brought her, oftentimes quite literally, to her knees.
Just dream
, she would tell herself each night, as she put herself to bed.
Someday. One day
.
She closed her eyes.
Just dream
.
***
August 17th, 9:43 p.m.
She had just concluded her opening act of lighting the candles, cuing up the CD player and sprinkling the bed with rose petals, when she heard the
creak-shut-click
. Anticipation coursing her veins at the delicious sound of the door locking, the corners of her mouth crinkled up and sparkles danced into her eyes. Thoughts of sheer ecstasy ran through her mind as she swelled with warmth inside. Making certain her nightgown outlined her at the exact desirable length, she about-faced.
The lights had been quenched, allowing the candles to take over. Moonlight filtered through the blinds, tinting the atmosphere with a touch of gold. She could make out the broad shape of his frame in his three-piece, and her heart launched into its first flutter.
He approached. She flirtatiously, coyly batted her lashes at him. Her head was slightly tilted downward, hands clasped behind her back. She feigned further shyness, brushing her leg with her bare foot, lowering her adoring gaze before returning it back up to him.
As they drew nearer to stand face to face, he produced a single daisy from behind his back and offered it to her. She smiled and paused to breathe in its subtle scent for one second, then tossed it behind her and took him by the arms. She pulled him into her embrace and their lips locked hungrily.
There could not be less need for words, as they let the passion of the first kiss crackle between them, and inevitably sizzle away. When the kiss was completed and their eyes opened, hers communicated to his,
I've been waiting for you
.
She proceeded to manually straighten the wrinkles from his suit that she'd made.
"Let me take your tie and jacket."
He removed them for her. She quickly deposited them in the coat closet and returned to unfasten his shirt buttons, starting from the top. He reached to disrobe her as well, but she halted his arm in action.
"
In due time
," she whispered. "
First, give me your hands
."
"My hands?"
"Yes."
He obliged.
She took them and held them closer to the candlelight. When her view was properly illuminated, she silently gasped. She thought she was going to faint at the sight of them. She had to sit down on the bed.
Studying them with intense admiration, she lovingly caressed each one. She brought them to her lips and softly kissed both.
She shook her head, almost in disbelief. "
Beautiful
," she breathed.
"Yes?"
She gingerly linked their fingers with a nod. "You've
gorgeous
hands." She paused to look him in the eyes. "Steinway. 20 years."
His eyes widened in surprise. "H—...how did you know that?"
"Oh," she said, unhooking their fingers, playing with the lines in his palms. She brushed his hair behind his ear and let her finger trail down his cheek. "I know a pianist when I see one. I can tell everything about a man from one look at his hands."
His expression took on the form of intrigue. She reclaimed his hands, smoothing her fingertips over the tops of them. "Even your
veins
are beautiful." She focused on him with a pleading gaze. Her voice was a hush of barely audible sound.
"I
melt
at the power of a man's strong, magical hands."
He lustfully stared into her yearning eyes. Placing his hands at her shoulders, she continued, "And
tonight
..."
She quieted her voice to a whisper once more.
"...I
'm your instrument
."
She could see his fascination deepen. She nodded and seductively lowered her eyelids. Then she brought him to the foot of the bed.
She sat him down, remaining standing herself.
"I am going to beseech you to play me, maestro."
In one fluid motion she slipped her body out of her nightgown to reveal the fruits of her birth, in their naked splendor.
"But
first
..."
