Father Stretch My Hands Part 2 Novels & Stories

It squeezes there then plays on its tip. She was weakened by what this man is doing to her. His hands were roaming in front of her body mercilessly. He gently rubs himself into her middle area. She tried to surpass a word to stop him but it's useless. He doesn't care. Instead, his hand went to her center and traced each line that made her gasp. He clasped her tied hands tightly.

But his face beamed with victorious joy, and his hands… His hands were crossed over his chest in exactly the same gesture Debbie had just made on television. “That’s you after your first major sparring victory,” Mom said softly. “You were so proud. You held that pose for ten minutes while I took pictures.” I picked up the album, bringing the photo closer to my face. The resemblance was undeniable. The hand position was identical—not just similar, but exact. Ring and middle fingers bent, thumb and outer fingers extended, arms crossed at the wrists and pressed against the chest.

Not that I would. I dropped my bags on the floor and immediately sat on the bed. Soft. Dangerously soft. The kind of soft that makes people forget their responsibilities. I was already considering taking a nap when my phone suddenly rang. Dad. Of course. I accepted the video call. “How was your trip, hija?” Tsk. Travel my face. Thank God they remembered they had a daughter. For almost three hours, I had been waiting for updates while stranded in a foreign country looking for a butler who disappeared like a side character in a mystery movie.

Knees apart, head tipped back, mouth parted as if I asked him to bare his throat instead. I pour oil into my palm and rub my hands together until its warm. My hands smooth over his thighs and buttocks slowly, kneading the muscles until slick starts bubbling from him. Using two fingers, I circle the pretty star-shaped hole languorously, coaxing sounds from him like a conductor. I press in to the first knuckle and he clenches around me before slowly relaxing. The stretch takes him in small, careful swallows. I watch his belly tense, then loosen under my free hand.

_*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> "What are you going to do to me?" I whisper. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> Father Michael's hand wraps around my throat from behind — not squeezing, just holding. Claiming. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3">

It was annoying me. I squared my shoulders, refusing to let his presence intimidate me. "Fashionably late," I retorted, shrugging my shoulders. I squared my shoulders, meeting his gaze. "I'm ready." I say tightening my ponytail We started with basic stretches. His hands occasionally brushed against my skin as he corrected my form, each touch sending a jolt through me. His fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, making it hard to focus on the exercises. I couldn't help but notice the way his muscles flexed beneath his shirt.

The sound of his voice in my ear is functioning as a second set of hands that I can feel on my skin even though they’re in a room downstairs. “Push two fingers inside yourself. Slowly – I want you to feel the stretch the way you feel it when I push inside you. Curl them forward and find the spot that makes your mouth fall open. You know exactly where it is because I’ve pressed into it many times, and I'm sure your body remembers my hand better than it remembers your own.”

"Oh, fuck, I have it!" Her body quivered. Her climax soaked the fabric, covered my hands, and ran down her leg. I kept pinching for another few seconds until she spoke, "That's it. I got one part, but I think the actuating arm is stuck." I pulled my hands out of her shorts and stepped back. Mom ducked down from the ceiling, catching me licking my hands. "I think you'll need to go up and take a look." I helped Mom down off the counter. She glanced down, but said nothing about the huge tent in my shorts.

“Try touching it.” I looked at his eyes and when I saw he was serious, I gulped hard. My fingers reached out to his shaft. I could see my fingers were slightly trembling but I pushed through. When my skin touched him, his breathing hitched for a moment. That gave me the courage to carry on. I wrapped my fingers on his appendage. I never considered my fingers as small, but his manhood sure did make my hands look like a toddler’s hand.

I opened my mouth a little, but didn't say anything. Reaching my other hand out, I took hold of Teddy's arm. Then I turned his hand over, so his palm was facing upward. He glanced down, frowning at what I was doing. Without a word, I held his hand while I ran the fingers of my other one slowly up the underside of his forearm. He sucked in air so sharply, it sounded like a hiss. Then I watched as my brother's entire body shuddered. When I reached the middle of his arm, I changed direction and slowly trailed my fingertips back down toward his hand. He inhaled sharply again when my fingers ran over his wrist. So that was a sensitive spot on him, was it? I forced myself not to grin while I conti