The Man With The Kind Hands

“It does get so lonely at night, doesn’t it?” she asked him, pulling the satin comforter over her body. “I wish I could have someone in my bed with me every night.”

He rolled over on his back. “Are you cold,” he said, looking at the ceiling.

“I am, a little. But…” she giggled, and smiled so he could see that bright smile again. “I have you to keep me warm, don’t I?” she asked as she curled up next to him.

He put his arm around her. “You’ve got a sexy voice,” he told her.

“Thank you,” she sighed, still smiling. “Yours isn’t too bad, either.”

She looked around her apartment. It was barely two rooms, but she kept it clean and neat. There was a little loveseat and a table by the window, where she kept her radio and television—which was her makeshift living room. The rest was a bedroom, the bed was big and soft, and the furniture was situated cozily around it. Closer to the door was her kitchenette, and near there, a very, very small bathroom.

“It smells like chocolate in here,” he said, tired out from just sleeping with her.
“Oh,” she cooed. “That’s my candle. It’s called Boudoir Pink, and it’s supposed to make your place smell like one of those rich actress’s bedrooms, you know?

He nodded, not seeming to want all that information about the candle, and she could tell it in his voice. She liked his voice though, she liked the way he spoke so calmly, the rises and drops in the tone of his voice were soothing, and educated. He was a bit older than she was, but that was fine, but he seemed to have so much sexual energy inside him despite his age. He slid his big hand with its precise fingers and clean nails under the satin of the comforter and gently groped her full, rounded breast. He felt her nipple harden beneath his touch, and indulged in the sound of her moaning his name.

“You have such…nice hands,” she whispered, wondering if he still wanted to talk or he wanted to have sex again. “Such a soft touch.”

He really did have a soft touch, and she didn’t expect that. She though he’d just get his release, then take in the sight of her curvy body and creamy skin, then go off on his way. But he didn’t do that, he wanted to stick around the whole night and she was content with someone a little older with hands and a nice voice, was staying in her bed for the whole night.

He played with her pink nipples, enjoying the feeling of her breasts with his fingers, her arousal controlled only by his very gentle touch. He stroked the soft mound of trimmed pubic hair before asking her to spoon with him, lying up against him so he could press his bare shaft against her backside. He pulled her in, still stroking her mound and licking he neck.

“You wanna fuck again?” she asked.
He just kept his hands on her and said, “I’d like to know about you. I don’t know much of anything.”

“Me either…I mean—about you.”

They shared a breathy laugh.

“I’m a doctor,” he said. “I work downtown.”

“Oh,” she said, wondering what to ask next. “What do you practice?”

“Now tell me about you,” he said, not getting too much into his profession.

“Well,” she laughed. “I went to beauty school, I wanted to be a hair colorist. And…”

He smelled her hair—a bouncy, beautiful collection of copper-red waves, and moved downward to kiss her neck.

“You would have made a great beautician,” he told her between kisses. “And you taste so good…God your skin tastes even better than your lips…and I wonder what all those other part of you taste like.”

He didn’t seem to want to talk anymore. She felt the bed move as he went parted her legs, and asked her to straddle his face so he could taste her there. She orgasmed…my goodness did his tongue make her climax. He kissed her on the mouth right afterward, so she could smell and taste her womanly aroma on his breath.

“Fuck, you taste good. And you gave a great blowjob earlier.”

She thanked him.

They stayed in the bed silent for a while, as she stroked his shaft and planted a line of kisses down his chest until he urged her with his hand to wrap her pretty lips around him and pleasure him again. Then the apartment was filled with his satisfied grunting, and afterward, heavy breathing.

She felt the bed move again. She figured he was just moving so they would have sex again, but she heard the jingling of a belt buckle. He was picking his pants up off the floor.

“I thought you were staying the night.”

He looked at her young, hopeful face in the lamplight. She looked so pretty, so vulnerable with those flushed cheeks and petal-shaped mouth.


And then: “I’ll pay you for the whole night.”

She sighed. “Wait. Please stay. Don’t you want more?”

He took out his wallet and handed her the usual fee she always requested. Her client, the doctor, slept with women who didn’t stand out on streetcorners. She was a professional, and the money she made reflected it. He couldn’t lie—she was amazing at what she did, but she was still a prostitute.

“Sorry to leave you like this. I got to get home, my wife thinks I’m working late.”

It wasn’t a surprise that he was married. He was nice, after all. He was considerate and so, so soft with his touch. If only he’d stay, she wished, if only he wanted to stay so we could talk over breakfast. All the good ones were taken, and she knew that, but she just had a fleeting hope that maybe this nice man would suddenly say something, something so wonderful as to even say that he…felt something deeper for her.

“Thanks for…you know.”

He started for the door.

“You have a good night.”

“You too.”

He shut the door, and when she got up to lock it and pressed her body against the door and hungered for a kind man’s touch…but all her had was a stack of cash in her hand that came up about ten bucks short.