Those Hands

His hands were soft and kind when I was crying. His hands were hard as steel when I´d done wrong. His hands weren´t always gentle but I´ve come to understand, there was always love in his hands.

 Those are the lyrics to an old country song that seem to have the perfect meaning. KYOTKGUY’s hands absolutely astound me. They’re quite a bit bigger than mine, warm, solid, smooth. The same hands that can be velvet soft can quickly transform into hands of steel. The grasp that can be feather light can become bone-crushing in the blink of an eye. The a tone that is soft, gentle, and intimate has the ability to switch into an attention-grabbing, deep, low, authoritative tenor that can instantly bring my mind into focus, still my fears, and stop me in my tracks. How he can go from delivering a skin-blistering spanking to being instantly soothing, and calming. Those hands are hands of love. No matter what they’re doing, they carry a message of treasurement. Whether soothing, spanking, leading, guiding, holding, or pinning, there is always that undertone. I don't see it sometimes, but I’m always aware of it at some point in time. Sometimes, I hafta calm down enough to catch it. . . . . . . but it’s always there.

The feeling is an astounding one. I know that no matter what is going on, it is motivated and driven by love. No matter how his actions appear to me at the time, once the calm has settled, everything is clear. Sometimes, my view is a bit distorted. Sometimes, I get so angry, so frustrated, that I’m not being given my way. . . . . . . . . and he stands steadfast, a dam in the face of breaking water. His hands play a key part in all of that, too. Sometimes, they’re gently holding. . . . . . . other times, they’re firmly pinning. At times, they’re spanking and at times, they’re just soothing.

I absolutely love the feel of his hands. I love the feel of his hands on my ribs, my belly, my shoulders, my head, my neck, my wrist, my back, my legs. . . . . . . . . I derive such comfort from his touch. I’m perfectly safe with his touch, perfectly at ease. I don’t know how to describe the perfect, content feeling I get when the solid warmth of his hand contacts me in any way.  I could very easily pick his touch out of a multitude of other’s. . . . . . . . . it’s like no other; it’s mine; it’s familiar; it’s safe; it’s perfect.

Then there are the times I’m over his knee. He’ll lay his hand on my bottom, I’ll take a breath, and let it out with a gasp. The sharp, searing pain is instant, and it only builds from there. I don’t like his hands so much then. I squirm, I cry, I struggle, and I submit. His grasp is firm, the pain solid, burning, unwavering, and building, and almost without fail, brings tears.

However, I know. . . . . . .no matter what. . . . . . .  there is always love in his hands.