| Magic Hands by Gregg Dean
It's morning. It's morning and the sun pours through the window into
our tiny room. The light is 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 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 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 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 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 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.
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
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 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 womanhood 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
etween 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
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. The 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 2000