My visit to the doctor went something like this:
“So what happened?”
“Well, I was hanging crystals in the window-“
“Crystals…You know, little pieces of faceted glass.”
“Because he likes the light through them.” So do I.
“I reached out like this…” demonstrated with the good arm “…and felt a slide and a POP right around where I have that one vertebrae that always feels crunchy and loose.”
That earned me an immediate frown of concern and a gesture to stand. He helped me remove my coat. Then poke, prod, push.
“That… makes me want to punch you.”
“That’s why I’m behind you,” he says with a soft chuckle. It’s a sexy chuckle, whether he intended it to be or not. I’ve been seeing this doc since I was 21 and had a crush on him for ages. Pap smears always mortified me because I was afraid he’d see my arousal. Poke, prod, push, GASP. “Ah, that makes you want to kill me, eh?”
“Yes! Hurt you at the very least.”
He said that I (probably) had a thickened tendon and this one time out of a thousand that I moved my arm that way it slid, tore and popped up over the tendon beside it. So he quadrupled my pain meds (whee-ha, the world is slightly spinny) and informed me that there’s a NEW method to icing injuries.
“Ice? I don’t do well with ice.” A repeated statement since he had just asked me how I react to it.
“Most people with fibro don’t.” Also a repeated statement. Sense any reluctance? *laughs*
I live with several chronic pain conditions, one of which is fibromyalgia. It makes me more sensitive to hot and cold than the average person. I HATE icing injuries. But I will because it is my duty to get better.
Men’s hands are often the object of brief fantasies for me, of intense curiousity….even longing.
Because I wonder what they’d feel like on (or in) various places on my body. I wonder if my fingers would fit between theirs. I wonder what they’d feel like striking my behind. I wonder if the skin is soft or calloused. I love work roughened hands. The juxtaposition between the strength and the gentleness that can happen amazes me.
I love Peter’s hands. Nice thick fingers, calloused enough to be able to see that he works with them. They’re strong, they can inflict both a lot of [good] pain and a great deal of pleasure (sometimes at the same time, much to my delight). They’re larger than my hands and yet my fingers still fit between his. (There is a quote that the spaces between fingers are there to be filled by someone else’s fingers.) His palm brushes against mine in a titillating way when we hold hands.
And it is my fascination with hands that leads me to writing things like this:
Liam held down the thrusting hips. “More, is it? More it shall be.” He slid the middle and ring fingers of his right hand through the slick heat and slowly pushed them into her. His big fingers stretched her and she groaned happily.
Anna gasped as Liam curled his fingers and dragged his fingernails across her G-spot. The move scraped that sensitive bundle of flesh and sent a jolt of pain through her pelvis that warred with the jolt of pleasure that went straight to her brain.
I mean honestly. How could that not make you want to find the nearest big, strong hand and let it pet you?
[By the way, doing that fingernail thing too much can turn the pain/pleasure thing into simple bad pain]
Tomorrow Peter is going away for a week and I’m going to miss his hands (and everything they’re attached to, of course). Therefore I will pour all of what I’ll be missing this weekend into Anna and Liam… insofar as I’m able to think while on 4 times the pain meds I usually take.
Have a beauty day, eh. 😉