It’s always better with a hand, skin on skin. I know the collar is fetishised, and the gag is the integral to so so many fantasies, but they’re just doing the leg work that the fingers and palm can’t do. They rest there while the hands are busy elsewhere.
My hands roam, fingertips cartographers, mapping every piece of your body. I watch your stomach dimple as I press down on it, smirk at the way your nipple ovals as I pinch it between thumb and forefinger. I could clamp you, it wouldn’t be hard. I probably will, at some point. But not before I’ve had my hands on that specific part of your specific body. They’re the mark, the X daubed in paint that marks the trees for the culling.
But the neck is always going to be the most important point for me. I’m obsessed, and always have been. Hands were made for grasping, and mine, more than most, seem to be crafted specifically to grasp something as delicate and frail as a neck, the thumb lodging underneath the jaw just at the windpipe, and the fingers gaining a sturdy grip against all the muscle that holds your head up. It’s almost medical, almost clinical, the way it feels under my fingers.
It’s also about as primal as sex gets, the sudden apprehension in your eyes, and the way your mouth slips open in sudden anxiety. Not knowing whether I’m going to squeeze, or just let it rest there, an expression of intent, to pin you down, control you. The possibilities flutter in the air around your head, every one a question mark.
And then here I come with all the answers.