Shake Hand Grip Table Tennis Novels & Stories

Nails digging into the table edge. He started moving—slow at first. Pulling out almost all the way, then slamming back in. The table rattled—needle trays clinking, papers sliding. Each thrust slapped his balls against my clit—wet, rhythmic. I watched in the mirror on the wall—his thick cock disappearing into me, slick coating his shaft, my tits bouncing with every deep hit.

He chuckled and stepped closer. “Can I?” he asked. I nodded, swallowing hard. He stood closely behind me. Too close. His hands covered mine as he adjusted my grip. "Like this," he said softly, his breath warm against my ear. My entire body froze. His touch was gentle. But it felt like fire. "Your index finger should create a V with your thumb, pointing toward the edge of the racket." I tried to listen but I couldn’t focus. The subtle scent of his cologne filled my senses and made me want to lean back into him.

Her entire body jerked forward, her head snapping up as her eyes went wide with a sudden, violent shock. Julian had grabbed her wrist. He didn't keep it hidden. He brought her arm up, his large, calloused hand clamped around her slender wrist like an iron cuff, holding it just above the edge of the dark mahogany table. He squeezed. He did it slowly until the blood left her fingers and her skin turned a pale, bloodless white. Tessa winced, her lips parting in a silent cry of pain as she tried to pull back, but Julian’s grip was absolute.

“Grip it like this.” My hands shake slightly as I take it. It’s heavier than I expected, just like the way Efrem’s gun felt in my hands that one night he’d taken me to see Roman’s beaten and battered body. Tavin moves behind me, his chest barely brushing my back as he adjusts my stance. “Both hands,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. His fingers guide mine into proper position. “Keep your thumb aligned… that’s it.”

Enzo spoke slowly. He gave me time to process his words and carry them out. I nodded, planting my legs on the floor. “There’s going to be a kickback so you want to make sure your support hand is responsible for about 70% of your grip power, and your right hand?” Enzo finished with a question to test my retention. “Thirty percent,” I answered. I closed my eyes for a small second. He stepped back and I rolled my shoulders. “Relax,” Enzo said with a smug smile.

" At least promise me that." With her hand outstretched to me for a covenant handshake , I stared back down at it, still smirking before taking it in mine, my fingers wrapping around her hand in a firm grasp. Or more accurately, a firm handshake. Oh how soft her hand was! So warm and much smaller than my large calloused one. The touch lingered for seconds longer, our gazes holding each other in a silent agreement although I couldn't help but think that she had something mischievous in mind. The faint glimmer in her eye spoke of a challenge, a test but I couldn't form an opinion on that. Unless I was deluded about that look she was giving me. I hesitantly let go of her hand once the handshak

Then he felt the quiver that was the beginning of her release on his hands. As she finished her orgasm, he rode it out using his hand to help milk her of all of that energy. Then he smiled as he moved his hand a bit and then wiped it with a wet wipe. He looked at her. “Now it is all my turn.” He moved to the side of the table, “This exam table is special and was fitted for difficult patients. Now, if you have an issue with this, let me know, but I think that we should have a little fun with restraints.”

I laughed, "What's with the sudden realisation." Shelby clicked on it, it was a photo of the dining table, two sets of dishes facing each other, just being served, the person opposite the owner of the photo, showing a hand holding chopsticks, with a ring on the finger, obviously, the same as the one on my hand. After saying that she rubbed me several times without any lightness or heaviness. Me: "Isn't that a good thing?" We understand each other, we don't take the bull by the horns, we don't make a fuss, we get to the point.

She was mine. She made a soft, choked sound as I hit that perfect rhythm. Her left hand shot under the table and grabbed my wrist, trying to stop me, but she didn’t have the strength. Not really. Her hips were rocking subtly against my hand now, chasing the pleasure even as shame burned in her eyes.

I offer mine to the two partners, dry and brief. Then comes his turn. He extends his hand. I offer mine, aiming for the requisite, polite limpness. His fingers close around it. The warmth is immediate, crushing. His grip is not firm. It is… possessive. He doesn't shake my hand. He holds it. His thumb strokes, once, slowly, across my knuckle. A deliberate, meaningful touch. A contact that says: I am touching you. Here. In front of them all. And you can do nothing.