2007-07-19 06:53:00
It was his hands that made me do it. I didn’t mean to do it, and it certainly wasn’t my intention when I walked in. But now, as I look at myself for the first time since it happened, I feel confused, and a little disoriented. The marks are there, in the mirror, all over in fact. I can see the impression of his thumb on my hip, the glowing imprint of his fingers on my cheek. I touch them gingerly, tracing the contours of his passions…Passions so intense they overflowed into my soul and onto my skin. I feel branded…and the heat spreads to my thighs again.Our first touch was ordinary at best. Maybe even boring. We shook hands and sat down on opposite sides of an imposing wooden table. It had a shiny glass top that seemed to reflect everything. It wasn’t until he began to talk that I noticed them. They were strong, masculine hands with long fingers that ended in perfectly squared tips. They looked capable, strong, and controlling. He used them a lot when he spoke, punctuating his
