Your Hands

The light from the stereo
fights the darkness.
Music?
Anything will do.
It isn't meant to entertain,
merely to muffle my cries
from the neighbor
with her ear to the wall.

The thought of Your hands
is maddening.
I crave them
beyond all reason.
The feel of them on my breasts,
kneading, pulling, twisting,
pinching as pain and pleasure
become indistinct.

Your hands,
demanding access,
prying open my knees,
pinning my arms to the mattress
as you take me.

The desire for Your hands
on me is intoxicating;
I can no longer seduce,
Only provoke.

"Aren't you a cheeky girl tonight?"

At last, Your hands are on me,
grasping my shoulders,
pushing me towards ecstacy.
A simple shove
and I'm embracing the duvet.

Your hands tug roughly
at my panties,
leaving them trapped
between my knees and the bed.
One hand on my back,
the other in the air.

Crack!
I know it's coming,
yet I tense nonetheless.
Crack!
I fight the whimper
climbing up my throat.

Crack! Crack!
I shudder and writhe
under Your hands.
Crack! Crack!
I sing my agony
into the bedclothes.

Crack! Crack! Crack!
I've ached for the feel of
Your hands on me this way,
yet I struggle against them.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
I endure and rejoice,
and just as I think
I'm about to break...
I shake.

And a silky river of joy
flows into
Your hands.