Magic Hands

by Gregg Dean (Sept 99)

It's morning. It's morning and the sun pours through the window into our tiny room.
The light is split by the louver panes in the transom making polychromatic, rainbow tram lines, down the length of her languishing frame.
She's unaware of it.
Unaware and oblivious of this moment but yet she is part of it.

The covers have come off her; she's grateful in the morning heat.
The lines dip and roll and define her perfectly.
She is thirty-two, speaks three languages and sculpts.
I have marvelled at her work, exhibited in London, Milan and Madrid.
I like to watch her at work. Watch her slender brown fingers on the clay and realise that she uses those artist's hands to stroke my hardness when we make love.
She strokes her own breasts and teases herself when she's moist and wet, waiting for me.
Such is the power invested in those hands, that when I see people marvel in halls and galleries, standing back in awe, praise and wonder at the busts and figures, the animals and abstracts, I want to say:
"What did you expect?" I want to tell them that it's only natural as only good ever comes from those hands.

She stirs now.
The lines appear to shift and one crosses her thigh, through her breasts and along her neck.
I know that if I stroke that neck her eyes will open.
She'll see me and smile, greet me with her eyes. I do that now and I realise how well I've come to know her.
She rolls fully onto her back, her breasts, heavy from nourishing her offspring, are softly spread on her chest.
She proffers me her breast which I take, suckling sustenance for my dry soul.
Her nipple hardens in my mouth and her strong back arches with desire.
Her breath in my ear, quickens and she pulls my head from her breast and our mouths lock.
The mouth that has scolded and praised, defended and spoken words of such poetry, is wet and full and has a such a simple message now.
My hand rubs her belly and strokes her mound, her soft downy hair is tousled by my fingers.
I feel her magic hands move and one falls from the bed to travel up my legs, cup my balls, wrap itself around my manhood.
My fingers part her slowly and that passage which has seen a pattern of taking and producing will be ready to take again soon.
She breaks the kiss.
She stretches and her long legs close. Her arms go above her head and her pretty features contort with the effort and pleasure.
"Good morning".
"Sleep well?"
I nod, because I know she means it.
She asks because she cares. It is a question, not a greeting.

She has three media and three studios and I remember her breaking from her work, laying down her chisel so we could roll in sweat and marble dust, ignoring everything except the urgency of our groins as they pressed and rolled together.
Her hips rocking for our mutual pleasure. And after we just sat, celebrating our fulfilment with wine, our backs against cool marble.

She pats the place I've just left and I crawl across the bed. She strokes me as I do.
I lie on my back and allow her mouth to explore me. Her mouth travels the length of my chest, stomach and lower and she flicks me with her tongue. Her breasts swing voluptuously brushing my chest.
Reaching up I can knead her firm buttocks and sweep my hands down to her inner thigh. She parts her legs to accommodate my questing fingers, then with athletic grace, straddles my face.
Her woman is on my mouth and her sensuous musky scent excites.
My tongue works over her small clitoris and enters her.
She moans and I'm aware that her lips have covered my manhood.
Her tongue goes around my penis and teases and excites me.
She moans and writhes, pressing herself close to my face. Her clitoris has swollen under my tongue.

We shower and I wash her breasts, my hands following the falling suds down to her mound.
Her arms are around me and she places tender kisses on my neck.
I tell myself how much I love this woman as she raises her leg to my side.
She takes me in her hand and guides me inside her. The water cleanses us both removing traces of the night, then she moves for the both of us as she is stronger and I'm weak from the passion.
Her hand travels to the back of my head pulling my mouth against hers pushing her tongue between my lips. Water courses down our faces.
I'm very close now and she knows it.
She breaks the kiss.
"Let it go now, sweet baby. You can let it go now." She pants.
I clutch at her buttocks pulling her firmly against me.
She moans and bites my lip and we both climax.
And I'm not strong enough to stand but she holds us both up.
I have heard her cry in anguish at this stubborn husband.
I have heard her cry out in irritation at the folly of her children.
Now she cries out at the pleasure of our union.

She is stood in a long gallery in a sweeping black dress.
She talks politely, champagne in her hand.
he men in their tuxedos stand around talking to her, enjoying her work, enjoying her.
They talk, they flirt, looking to see which way she will go - looking for either a chink or a sign of resolve.
They wish she was less clothed; something shorter and cut lower but those are not the secrets she shares with others.
As I get nearer she smiles and they want to know who it she is smiling at.
Bathing in her reflected glory, their envy is tangible and excusing themselves they smile and leave.
"What do you think?" she asks throwing back a velvet cover.
The Unicorn is black, sleek with hewn muscle and sinew, mane and spirit.
There's nothing missing from it except that if her hands were more magic she could reach out and infuse life into it.
I don't know if people are watching us, I don't know if I care.
I takes those magic hands and place them around my face.
She cups it like a ball.
She knows I'm going to say "perfect" and any other word would show poverty of expression.
I can't say it with any more meaning than the myriad other times I have said it.
"It's perfect." I admit, because it is an admission.
She nods and smiles.
Reluctantly we part and a thousand eyes follow her grace.
And when she's like this she's my powerful woman.
And when she's with the children she's my gentle woman.
And when her hands work their magic from lifeless clay and rock, she my magic woman.
And when I lie her down, naked and soft as the day smoulders to an end she simply becomes my woman.

Copyright Gregg Dean 1999
Greggdean@hotmail.com