There was a time when I couldn’t stand touch.
As a child I was always loved, my family were close-knit and always there for me, no matter what. But it was never shown in a tactile way. Love was shown through actions rather than hugs and kisses. My adolescence saw me exploring sex in all its glorious technicolour, but I after having my heart-broken at 17 I didn’t seek intimate touch, just lusty liaisons. After I married the touch I became used to quickly became something other than intimacy. It was a kind of ownership that is not intimate, or pleasant, or erotic. The feel of P’s hands on my thigh would make my skin crawl, knowing what he wanted and what I didn’t want to give.
Not so many years ago that all started to change.
As I touched upon in Touchy Feely Food For Thought I have become quite the sensation slut. Gentle touch and firm, strokes and swipes. I have become tactile with my friends. Platonic intimacy is wonderful, hugs and gentle caresses, even massages. And my children, showing them my love through touch as well as actions. I am constantly learning how to be a better person. It isn’t always easy but it’s a process I like to go through. And as I opened up I began to notice new things.
The touch of hands is healing.
Most sensations I can recreate on my own. As a single mum this is quite important, time is short and little minds are enquiring. My own hands can run over naked skin and leave gentle trails of self-love wherever they go. But the hands of a lover allow those same gentle trails to penetrate deeper and slice through to my core. The cool kisses of my own fingertips replaced by a blazing wake of lust. The sensation is deep and feeds a part of me which needs occasional nurturing. Skin to skin contact, particularly strong hands, make my soul sing. But it’s not just the touch.
Seeing strong hands excites me in a way I still don’t understand.
A man with thick, long fingers drinking coffee from a (comparatively) delicate mug is a delicious sight. I can look at a man’s hands and imagine the feel of them on my lips, on my skin. The taste of them as I run my tongue over them, particularly after they have explored the places that are difficult for me to reach. I found myself having coffee with a fellow runner last week and I may have slipped off briefly when he picked up his drink… wondering how it would feel to have those hands restraining my (comparatively) delicate throat.
You can take the girl away from the kink (briefly) but you can’t take away the perversions.
Click the lips to see what other people are up to for Kink of the week and February Photofest.