Kissing Her Hand

The deeper potential of a chivalrous kiss.

Kissing Her Hand

We talked for a while, and I found myself being more candid with her than I thought I’d be with anyone about myself. It wasn’t just my fantasies and even fetishes we discussed, but my issues with them. I had a hypnosis fetish, but felt unable to enter or enjoy trance like most people could without even realizing. I also was a romantic, but I hid that pretty well. Those two things about me didn’t surprise her, at least that’s what she told me. I figured she maybe was just being nice, but she listened with understanding (and without judgment) as I literally put myself out there, which was the nicest gesture I’d known in years.

We’d walked around the neighborhood a bit, sat and enjoyed the scenery of the park, and talked about it for a good while before she suggested we depart. On our way to the exit, she asked me to kiss her hand, in a matter-of-fact kind of curious way. I couldn’t help but ask why, and she said that she didn’t meet too many chivalrous guys, or romantics in her circles, and wanted to experience it at least once in her life. I didn’t know what was more surprising between her request or her rarely meeting men that could still be called “gentlemen.” Though I tried, I couldn’t find a reason to think of a way out of it, particularly when she extended her hand out to me. The gentleman in me automatically took it, but even he hesitated with the thought of pressing his lips to her hand. I really couldn’t explain my apprehension other than I didn’t understand what was going on, for something that seemed innocent enough. I glanced at her as I held her hand in mine. Hers felt like her expression, soft, more hopeful than expecting.

Something in her eyes just made it all right for me to go through with it, so I closed my eyes and brought her hand to my lips, giving the top a soft, but quick kiss. It was something between a croon and a whisper that I heard her say “again.” I opened my eyes to see hers were closed, with nearly a dreamy smile, as if really trying to soak up the experience. Her hand extended it’s way to my face rather than me guiding it. My lips met her halfway, and my eyes closed as I kissed her soft skin again, noticing that time exactly how soft it was.

I heard “again,” repeated, in the same quality of voice as before, with a dash of confidence added. The memory of her soft skin, and this utterly romantic gesture was really all the incentive I needed to kiss it again. Whatever part of me that questioned what was going on seemed less significant, being replaced with the hope that I would hear her saying it again.

Lucky for me, that’s what graced my hearing, again and again. Her voice gained more confidence. It was catching as I felt more assertive in how I tried grasping her hand with just the right amount of pressure, letting my lips apply the desired pressure that I hoped both of us would enjoy. She said more than just “again,” which was ok by me; nothing she said implied that I would have to stop.

She spoke of this moment, how that it was the only sense of time that mattered. It felt easier to agree with that; my rational side didn’t even bother debating. She spoke of her free hand caressing me, holding me like I held her. I was too busy giving the top of her hand all of my attention to worry about the other hand, but my face felt warm as I felt where her hand could touch me, tracing my features with her fingers, cupping my cheek in her palm. My face felt a pace above warm as it became entirely possible that her hand really was there, giving me that gentle attention.

The softness of her skin on the back of her hand couldn’t be more understated. It was mesmerizing, and absolutely infectious. My lips by now had enough recognition of her hand to distinguish her hand from millions of others, even from her left hand to her right, even though I couldn’t tell you which hand I held. The softness was balanced out perfectly by some ethereal metric, and traces of it seeped off her skin, onto my lips, in my brain, muscles, bones, blood, all of me.

I felt so light-headed, soft, yet heavy all at the same time. My heaviness was brought to my attention when something in me asked me sweetly to kneel while continuing to kiss. I got a brief taste of gravity as my knees gave way. I worried as I sank uncontrollably, worried about her hand, forgetting that it could be opposable to her liking. Happiness meshed with the softness as that hand felt like it never moved an inch while I moved several. My kisses grew more passionate I was so happy, and from that passion everything got to be more intense. The feel and taste of her skin, the insistent words floating through me, how everything made me feel oddly whole.

I knew then trance was entirely possible, and that I was unique and special in how I could go into trance. My romantic side was also my submissive side, looking for an outlet, for a way to be free and exposed, or so I was told. I believed it. The beautiful hand that I held, that really held me, was my gateway, my trigger, and dare I say the hand of God for me. Goddess, someone corrected me. I would always remember this moment, how life has changed for the better because of it, and how trance would come easy from just the thought of it.

I don’t know if I’ve lost anything from this experience, but it won’t be missed compared to what fills the void now.

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