Scraped Knuckles Novels & Stories

His gloved knuckles brush the edge of my lace panties. Once. I feel it. Twice. My thighs tense. Third time, his thumb presses right over my clit through the thin fabric. I gasp, quiet but sharp. His eyes flick up to mine. He doesn’t move his thumb. Just holds it there. “You okay?” he asks, voice calm. Like nothing happened. “Yeah,” I whisper. My legs part a tiny bit wider without me meaning to. He goes back to tattooing. But now every wipe feels different. His knuckles graze higher and his finger traces the lace edge.

"How do I compete with that, huh? Look at me, João! Look!" I raised my hands, palms up, between us. They were working hands. Marked by barbed wire cuts, rope burns, scars from badly placed horseshoes and battles lost against time and debt. The skin was thick, my knuckles swollen, my nails always with a bit of dirt underneath, no matter how much I scrubbed.

His skin has some colour to it and his eyes shine with happiness. “What’s going on?” I ask. Knox doesn’t answer. Instead, he holds out his hand to me, and I take it without hesitation. His skin feels warm and solid. He feels alive as he leads me into the trees and into a small clearing. A pale green checked blanket and a brown wicker basket in almost fill the space. I sit down on the blanket beside him, our hands still entwined. I study his hand in mine, the veins in his arm, the scars on his knuckles, all the little details that make him real. How is this happening?

Scar threw her arm around his neck and kissed him deeply. She bent and started kissing all over his chest. She moved up and down and forward and backward and side to side, not missing an inch of his flesh. He ran his fingers through her hair, caressing her scalp, and rubbing his other hand over her back. She started to move lower, coming down to his already stiff cock, grasping it in one hand and cradling his balls with the other as her mouth wrapped hungrily around the head.

Then it fell flat and flaccid, releasing one last dribble containing Kungen curled into a ball. Keezy stumbled and staggered towards his brother, lifted him to his feet and embraced him. The others all got up. They didn’t seem to have suffered any serious injuries, they were just covered in a lot of slime. They looked around at each other and started laughing. Keezy and Kungen came over, arms around shoulders, each supporting the other. Keezy looked the worst, his skin burned away in numerous spots and large chunks missing completely. Kungen looked practically good as new, like someone had gone over his body with a pumice stone. I noticed the knob of brass had fallen out of his shoulder leav

"It just....happens." "What is in your hand?" "Mud." I look at my dirty hands. "No, your knuckles." He slowly takes my right hand, tracing the faint scars in the knuckles. From yesterday. "What are you doing?" I frown slightly. "You punched something earlier. Glass, right?" He tells, examining carefully. I shrug, "They don't long last." "Oh," he laughs. "The puncher girl." "I know you don't know me. But I do know you." He speaks as a matter of fact.

I lifted his hand in mine, up to my mouth, pressing a soft kiss on his fingers. The small scars on his knuckles were prominent on the rough skin, and I ran my free hand over them. I understood why Mark was so upset by seeing me hurt. Even the thought of his perfect skin being split open was causing me pain. I couldn't imagine the worry I would be feeling once I saw him post-fight. It would infuriate me to have someone inflict damage to him, to leave him in pain for the next few days. "I can't afford to have you change your mind about me. He either needs to fuck off, or I need you not to fuck with my head." Mark refused to look at me, and his hand fell limp in mine.