tagFetishGive the Girl a Helping Hand

Give the Girl a Helping Hand


Short introduction (see below for story):

This story is geared towards any women who are drawn to men's hands. Whether you love them, just like them, or find them the least bit attractive, I'd like to offer this story as a gift to you. Recently realizing for myself just what a great number of women there are who enjoy men's hands—whether it's looking at them, feeling them on their bodies, holding them, kissing them, what have you—inspired me to write this erotic story. I really hope you enjoy it. Sincerely, Smokey


"Give The Girl A Helping Hand"

When she was a little girl, her father always played the piano. When this talent she first discovered, it did not take long for her to become enthralled. She couldn't measure the amount of time she spent watching his fingers glide so masterfully over the keys. It gave her a strange, indescribable fascination to see him play. It seemed the more she watched, the more engrossed she became. She very much enjoyed the sound of the music, but the spectacle of his hands dancing across the keyboard with such precision was what really mesmerized her.

He would often ask if she wanted to learn to play herself, but her interests lay only in the mere sight of his hands tickling the ivories. Her fascination only developed and deepened far more intensely as she grew up. As she became a teenager and eventually a young lady and finally a grown woman, she found herself drawn to the fingers and hands of almost every boy or man she saw. She would get to know the relationship between the length of the fingers, the hirsuteness and veins on the tops of the hands, the smoothness of the palms, the hardness of the knuckles, the distance fingers could spread themselves apart. She used up entire sheets of paper tracing outlines of her own hands and marveling at how a man's hands seemed big and strong enough to envelop both of hers in one.

Soon just the thought of being held and stroked and massaged by such powerful hands was enough to render her giddy and lighthearted.

Growing up afforded her mind the knowledge and realization of her interest as well as its depth, and her fixation with the male hand gradually translated into lustful magnetism. She had discovered her own Achilles' heel. She now possessed the key to open her private world of sexual adventure.

But it occurred to her, that of all the things men did with their hands, for her, still none ever surpassed the allure of playing the piano. And one day, she realized, at long last, the precise amalgam of erotic elements that would combine together to swirl into her most vivid sexual fantasy, in the grasp of the fact that she actually envied the piano keys.

She wanted to BE the piano.

Oh, how she yearned to be the piano. To be restrained—trapped, exposed, and vulnerable, submissive beneath a man's well-trained fingers. To be played, and have her eighty-eights christened by ten agile, graceful fingers that knew their way up and down her scale.

But above and beyond all, the single miracle of strong, masculine hands themselves continued to be what truly captivated her soul and literally brought her to her knees. The more she thought about it, the more she thought about it some more.

Dream, she would tell herself each night as she put herself to bed. Someday. One day.

She closed her eyes.

Just dream.


She had just finished her opening act of lighting her candles, cuing up the CD player and sprinkling the bed with rose petals when she heard the creak, close, and click. Anticipation coursing her veins at the delicious sound of the door locking, the corners of her mouth rose and the sparkles danced into her eyes. Thoughts of sheer ecstasy swam through her mind and she swelled with warmth inside. Making certain her nightgown outlined her at just the exact desirable length, she turned around.

The lights had been quenched, allowing the candles to take over. Moonlight filtered through the window blinds, tinting the atmosphere with a touch of gold. She could make out the broad shape of his frame in his three-piece, and her heart launched into its first flutter.

He slowly approached. She flirtatiously blinked at him, coyly waving her eyelashes. Her head was slightly tilted downward and her hands were clasped behind her back. She feigned further shyness, brushing her leg with her foot and lowering her gaze before adoringly looking back up at him.

As they drew nearer to stand face to face, he produced a single daisy from behind his back and offered it to her. She smiled and paused to breathe in its subtle scent for one second, and then tossed it behind her and grabbed him by the arms. She pulled him into her welcoming embrace and their lips promptly locked.

There could not be less of a need for words, as they let the passion of the first kiss crackle between them, and then sizzle away for the moment. When the kiss was completed and their eyes opened, it was nor immediately necessary to exercise the lips further; her eyes performed the communication: I've been waiting for you.

She proceeded to straighten the wrinkles from his suit.

"Let me take your tie and jacket."

He removed them for her. She quickly deposited them in the coat closet and returned to unfasten the top buttons on his shirt. He reached to disrobe her, but she halted his arm in action.

"In due time," she whispered. "First, give me your hands."

"My hands?"


He obliged.

She took his hands and held them closer to the candlelight. When the position and lighting were perfect, she silently gasped with a shiver. She thought she was going to faint at the sight of them. She had to sit down on the bed.

Studying them with intense admiration, she lovingly caressed each one. She brought them to her lips and kissed them each.

She shook her head, almost in disbelief. "BEAUTIFUL," she breathed.

"Yes?" he asked.

She gingerly interlocked his fingers with hers with a nod. "You have gorgeous hands." She returned her gaze to his eyes. "Steinway. Twenty years."

His eyes widened in surprise. "H-...how did you know that?"

"Oh," she said, as she brushed his hair behind his ear and let her finger trail down his cheek, "I know a pianist when I see one." She unhooked her fingers and played with the lines in his palms. "I can tell everything about a man from one look at his hands."

His expression took the form of intrigue. She smoothed her fingers over the tops of his hands. "Even your veins are beautiful."

She focused on him with a pleading gaze. Her voice was a hush of barely audible sound. "I MELT at the power of a man's strong, magical hands."

He lustfully stared into her yearning eyes.

Placing his hands at her shoulders, she continued, "And tonight..."

She quieted her voice to a whisper once more. "...I'm your instrument."

She could see the intrigue in his face deepen. She nodded and seductively let her eyelids lower, displaying her lashes. Then she brought him to the foot of the bed.

She sat him down.

"I am going to beseech you to play me, maestro."

In one fluid motion she slipped her body out of her nightgown to reveal the fruits of her birth, in their naked splendor. Then she said, "But first..."

She draped her body over his lap, face down.

"I want your territory marked...with your beautiful handprint. On my ass. Spank me," she ordered.

"Spank you?" he confirmed.

"SPANK me!" she shouted in desire.

He gave her a moderate smack on the bottom.

"Spank me HARD!" she added.

He slapped her again with a higher degree of force.

"Harder!" she commanded.

He upped the ante once more. But still it was not enough.

"No, maestro!" she said. "I mean SPANK ME. I mean snap that wrist! I mean punish me! Make me cry! Imagine your hand's a whip, just let it loose! I want the imprint of your hand on me. I want you to set me on FIRE. Now spank!"

He tanned her as hard, fast and mercilessly as he possibly could.

She shrieked. He almost panicked, but she breathlessly said, "YES! Now the other side."

He repeated the action on the other cheek, prompting another shriek and more praise.

"Oh, GOD, yes..." she groaned. She turned her head to face him. "Can you see your handprints on me?" she asked.

He waited for a moment and nodded. She grinned and crawled off his lap.

"Wonderful!" she cheered. "And now that I am officially your property..."

Reaching under one of the pillows, she removed three pairs of velvet handcuffs and a blindfold.

Giving him the blindfold first, she said, "I presume you know what to do with this."

He looked puzzled. "You don't want to see me?"

She smiled. "I have a photographic memory and a mind's eye with 20/20 vision. Trust me, I WILL see you."

Satisfied, he tied the blindfold over her eyes. Subsequently putting the cuffs in his hands, she sprawled herself on the bed on her back.

"Oooh-hoohh!" she giggled. "My ass stings! I love it!"

She held up her wrists to the headboard and spread her legs to bring her feet to either end of the bed. "Arrest me."

He shackled her, routing her hands and feet around the posts. Her body reacted with each click of the cuffs' locks. As the affixing was completed, she tingled. Elation spread across her face. "Yesssssss..." she purred.

He sat back down on the bed and leisurely began to stroke her soft skin, as if he were first playing a moderate andante. She gasped as her breasts rapidly heaved and slowly descended. A wave of goosebumps rushed over her. A chill ran up her spine. She had to take a moment to breathe it all in. She couldn't believe it was actually happening. She could already feel her spirit hurtling towards heaven.

Little by little, inch by inch, his fingertips graced her fine texture, from her nose to toes and back again. She arched her back in desire and let her head incline back on the pillow, as his hands gently sent her spiraling deeper and deeper into a whirlwind of lustful rapture. He hastened his tempo. The heat of passion in her body and mind accelerated as one in the sublime realization that her fantasy had become the phenomenon of reality. She had dreamed of these moments, and the consciousness of the fact that she need no longer dream enhanced and amplified her euphoria.

A deep moan crept from her haunches, his cue to elevate from piano to mezzoforte. He lowered his fingers to touch down upon her with his palms, and shifted his position on the bed so that he was straddling her leg. She recognized the increase of erotic intensity and it was fast becoming more than she could handle. Her head slanted still further back on her pillow. Her feet involuntarily flexed, making her toes twitch and curl.

She gasped out the words, "God...yes...more...more..."

He obediently continued, alternately speeding up and slowing down the tempo. She was getting dizzy. She tried to determine which fingers of which hand were beguiling her, and where. But her conscious mind was speedily liquescing, and she could no longer concentrate on fluid thought. She tried to say, "Yes, please!" But the intoxication of the repetitive vibrations, consuming her, engulfing her, would not allow her to form the consonant sounds. Orgasm would soon no longer sufficiently define the sensations she was experiencing.

Time held no significance. Minutes felt like hours as his fingers danced over her quivering figure with dazzling accuracy and finesse. His dexterity and metacarpals were guided by the skillfulness of years of playing scales and arpeggios. His fingers flew apart from one another and back together with expert timing, simulating the intervals of triads, open fifths and octaves, as he could now feel her beginning to thrust and lunge beneath him. The blindfold soon became meaningless as her eyes rolled back in her head. She couldn't think. She couldn't hear. She could barely breathe. Every single stroke awakened yet another erogenous nerve ending. She blissfully floated through plane after plane of a hidden realm of exhiliration she couldn't dream existed.

He kept playing. Faster...and faster...and faster...

She abruptly screamed. "I can't stand it anymore!" she cried.

Startled, he stopped.

Fervently attempting to catch her breath, she mentally tore through her now very limited vocabulary to find the words she wanted. Finally, she managed to sputter out, "I-...I-I need it-you, now! I n-...need you ins-...side me! Please, ...y-...fingers, ...inside me, NOW! PLEASE!"

The desperation in her voice did not fall on deaf ears. Lowering his body atop hers, he made his way down her left inner thigh and up her right with one hand and caressing about her forearms, neck and breasts with the other.

Reacting to him tickling her inner thighs but just barely eluding her vagina, she cringed and squealed. "Please stop teasing me!" she croaked out. "It's torture!...I CAN'T TAKE IT!"

Finally, his prodigious digits reached their destination. The lubricating discharge surrounding her vagina made it extremely easy for his fingers to slip in and out. Once he was inside, it was as if he turned the key in the ignition. In one second her body arched, locked, and lurched. She tried to scream, but no sound emerged.

He kissed her breasts. He caressed her hair and tickled her cheek. He could feel her again rapidly heating up and losing her breath.

As the fingers of his right hand stretched their way up inside her and further upwards, his left continued circumnavigating her upper torso. Two seconds later, he reached her G-spot. Her libido kicked into hyperdrive, and at once she shot directly back up through every plane of delirious happiness she had experienced before, and felt herself being carried still higher, above and beyond all her previous known limits.

The timing was exquisite to bring her up and let her down and back up one more time. He'd brought her to the edge once, and he could sense she was headed right back in just another second. And as he continued inside her, he let his fingertips do the walking above the equator, and rubbed her in a particularly sensitive spot he had missed before this point, right behind her ear. And he kept on, until the exact precise moment was reached, time stopped, and every last vestige of her vulnerability was unlocked. In that split-second, he owned her. At last, everything clicked, simultaneously.

Her straw snapped.

Her dam broke.

Her universe exploded into a billion stars.

She erupted. She howled like a banshee. Her body was instantly electrified. A lightning-strike orgasm shot through her every atom, from the tips of her fingers to the bottoms of her feet. She could have broken right through her handcuffs. She could no longer feel the bed underneath her. For those few seconds, she could swear the earth split in two.

It was not possible for her to determine if it was a dream or not. But as time resumed, and as she sailed through her temporary reverie of afterglow, without a thought in the world, it very slowly became clear to her that her longing had been satisfied.

Her thirst was quenched. Her prayer was answered.

Her dream was true. Her fantasy was fulfilled. Her wish was granted.

And it felt good.

Unbelievably good.

When it was all over and she recovered, she saw that he had removed her blindfold. She tried to blink the hair and joyful tears from her eyes and focus her vision. He snapped her handcuffs open, but she didn't move. Her eyes fluttered and fell shut, then slowly opened again. When she regained enough energy to sit up, she looked at him to see him smiling at her.

It was dark, but she was still able to make out his face. She looked around the room. The candles had gone out. The CD had ended. The moonlight had dwindled. When she had accumulated her faculties, she stared at him with a somewhat incredulous expression. She looked at his hands, then back at his face again. She reached out and softly took his hands in hers again. A tear dropped on his right hand. Looking at them with wonder and astonishment, she asked in a hushed voice, "...What...ARE these things?"

His smile grew wider. He waited a moment, then said, "Well..." and started to get up from the bed. She protested and held onto his hands.

"Wh-...where are you going?"

He sat back down on the bed. "I was..." he said, "...Just getting up."

"You are not leaving me without those things," she said firmly.

"Well, I was just going to—" he started to say.

She shook her head.

"NO, no, no, no," she shook her head. "Maybe you don't understand. From now on, these two Greek-god works of art belong to ME. Now, I don't know where these hands came from, but they now go NOwhere without me."

He laughed. "Aw, well, I'm very flattered—"

She did not laugh. "No. Seriously."

He stopped laughing. He noticed she was still looking at him with awe and amazement. After another several seconds, she said, "Okay, you may get up. But I swear to you, after tonight, I'm immortalizing those things."

He looked at her, not knowing quite what to say.

"I mean it," she cooed, glowing with adulation. "Those hands should be in a museum. I'm putting them in cement. I'm making a wax mold of them. Paintings, sculptures, tablets, everything. One way or another, I am KEEPING those hands."

He shook his head. It was his turn to be pleasantly awed.

"Well...glad to have been of service" was all that came to his mind to say.

Her eyes sparkled, just as when he first came into the room. She could still barely feel his handprints on her backside. She slipped his arms back around her. It felt so wonderful.

"But, first," she said, "You have to do one more thing for me, please."

He wasn't at first sure how to respond to this statement.

"What's that?"

She leaned up close to his ear and whispered, "I simply MUST see those gorgeous hands of yours in action for myself."

She grinned at him and rubbed him between his legs. "Masturbate. It's your turn. Yes. I am dying to watch you masturbate." She nodded. "Take out your cock and stroke it for me, PLEASE. If those two miracles of nature can do that to me, I cannot WAIT to see what they can do to you."


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