Memory

His hand.  My mind swirls around the memory of everything that his hand is...and was to my body.  It's shape and strength, color and texture. The length of his fingers, the dusting of hair on the back.  His smooth, round nails never long enough to be sharp or to cut me, but strong...not weak.  Nothing weak in him. Not in his hand.

I remember the first time his hand smoothed over my skin.  His skin is so lush, being touched by him is like be rubbed with velvet.  His hand touched my arms, and my back....smoothed over my silky hair and wrapped around my ponytail while his mouth descended on mine.  His hand would run back down my back, and down to my ass where he would grab and lift me closer to his body.  His hand would revel in grabbing my ass cheek and working it hard between his fingers.

The first time he stung my ass with his hand...I remember that too.  I remember him taking joy in the yelps and whimpers that I made while he slapped my cheek, liking the way my skin pinkened for him.  He liked how my skin would heat up, and how he could feel the residual heat even minutes after he'd stopped spanking me.  I remember his hand grabbing my head to bring my ear to his mouth. "Now do you remember the feel of my hand?", he'd growl to me already ready to bring another stinging blow to mark me with, always looking forward to feeling the heat bloom in my skin.

His hand had the right to my body.  Given to him both by me and some higher authority, he had the right to any touch he wanted to give.  His hand could spank, could leave it's print upon my ass, or snake two long thick fingers into my pussy and demand I rain my wetness upon his floor, the bed, my legs....wherever he decides he would like it to go.  His hand might curl itself in my hair, pulling the strands as he pleasures himself upon my body, thrusting his big beautiful cock inside of me and hitting every spot that makes me cum.  His hand might push me down upon my knees to receive his cock inside of my throat.  It might hold my chin as he fucks my mouth and feels himself slip past my uvula and go deep into my throat, gagging on him.  He might wrap his hand around my neck to feel the pulse flutter under his fingers, knowing that a squeeze or a pull means life or death for me.  He might control the air I breath with his hand.  He may cherish me as beloved with his hand.

I need his hand, the visceral memory of it making my skin warm even as I type this short note.  I need his hand on me and in me.  I need his hand staking it's claim to the body and the woman that already belongs to it.  Ownership is a claim deeper than words.  It was a claim that was imprinted in me on a cellular level the first time that hand ever left it's mark on me.  It is a claim that is renewed every time his hand holds me close to him.  It is a claim that vibrates between us every time his hand brushes over the spot it desires to spank again.

Please Sir, I need.  Please Sir, I need your hand.