Erotica Readers & Writers Association
Home | Erotic Books | Authors Resources | Inside The Erotic Mind | Erotica Gallery
Adult Movies | Sex Toys | Erotic Music | Email Discussion List | Links


Story Gallery | Treasure Chest




Erotic Fiction
Queer Fiction
Kinky Erotica
The Softer Side
Quickies
Flashers
Poetry


The Best of 2013

The Afternoon Circle Jerk Society
by Amanda Earl

Beating the Gothic Out of Her
by Amanda Earl

Real Irish
by Amanda Earl

Mercy and the Man. . .
by Amanda Earl

The Revenant
by Amanda Earl

The Vessel
by Amanda Earl

The Too Beautiful Boy
by Arthur Chappell

The Accidental Fetish
by Corvidae

Never For Punishment
by Daddy X

Like a Brother
by Big Ed Magusson

Old Dogs
by Big Ed Magusson

Goodbye Roger
by Huck Pilgrim

He Sends His Regrets
by Huck Pilgrim

A Small Favor
by Huck Pilgrim

Ava's Honey
by john e

LOX
by john e

Eclipse Sex
by Oxartes

Adam and Eve on a Raft
by Robert Buckley

Dead Man's Switch
by Robert Buckley

Does Immortality come with a Pension?
by Robert Buckley

Embraceable Ewe
by Robert Buckley

A Fragile Desire
by Robert Buckley

Surviving Winter
by Robert Buckley

You're the Only One
by Robert Buckley

Dissolve
by Sybil Rush

Bing Cherry Silk
by Valentine Bonnaire

Colony, Collapsed
by Valentine Bonnaire

Have a Nice Day
by Valentine Bonnaire

l'heure bleue
by Valentine Bonnaire

Once Upon A Time . . .
by Valentine Bonnaire

Red Suede
by Valentine Bonnaire

Yellow, like the daffodils
by Valentine Bonnaire

Novelette

Invisible Lines
by Raziel Moore



Archives

By Alan
Curtain
Other News


By Alice Gray
Slick 50
The Fourth Veda
Stolen Hour


By Amanda Earl
Daddy Complex
The Graffiti Artist
Sex With An Old Woman
The Vampire Responds


By Ann Regentin
What Never Dies
Newborn
Remembering
Surrender


By Big Ed Magusson
The Fix
Methadone


By Brady Sutton
Girls for Leash
The Peculiar Case of...


by C. Sanchez-Garcia
An Early Winter Train
The Doll
The Lady and The Unicorn
Riding the Dog
Fidelis


By Cervo
An Evening At...
Readiness Is All
Chinchilla Lace
Fridays At The Benoit
Cruising On A Sea...
Bitsy Takes a Test
Touring Persephone
Are You Kidding?
Quigley’s Harvest
Mr. Merridawn's Hum
Angels’ Spawn


By Cherry Black
Mrs. Priestly
Face Down
Just A Simple Black Dress


By Chris Bridges
Second-hand
Fast-forwarding
The Whitechapel...
Passing Notes


By Daddy X
Nikki Didn't Like It
Overscratch
A Woman in My Position


By Dominic Santi
Drillers
Kiss of Peace


By G. E. Russell
Judgement Day
Nebulous
First Love, Last Romance
Snow White
This Desolate Eden
The Glass Cage
You Like It Like That...


By Helen E. H. Madden
When The Angels Fall
Husbands and Wives
The Fifth Horseman
The Monster Beneath...
Neighbor of the Beast
Over the Rainbow
Going Viral
Virtual Love


By Helena Settimana
Balance
Highway 69
Amadou
The Space Between


By J.T. Benjamin
The Question
Thornburg Sex Survey
Alternating Weekend
Secret Lives and Lusts
What are Friends For
Olivia's Ulterior Motive
Advice From Miss Millicent
The Baby Doll
The Journals of Chastity
Use Me
Zachary's Perfect Date


By Jill
Kidnapped
Sheila Discusses ...
It's About Sex
A House On Fire?
Maureen and Sheila...


By john e
I Wish My Dick...
johnny's jackoff journal
Saturday Morning


By Julius
In Praise of Pussy
Tight, Tighter, Tightest
You Rang Madam?
The Newcomer


By Juniper Maclay
Lunch Break
The Scientist
Public Transportation


By Keziah Hill
Laying Down the Law
Strawberry Flavoured Joy
The Second Coming
Angel
Dutch Masters


By L.A. Smith
Missionary Position
Both Hands


By Lara Nickles
Almost
Hero


By Lilie Berlin
Naughty Little Girl
Color Less Ordinary


By Mike Kimera
Kneading
Soft Option
At the Adult Bookstore
Postcard
Playing With Barney
Deserving Ruth
Till Death Do Us Part
Happy Anniversary
Mating Calls
It May Not be Art...
Living With It...
The Last Taboo
Hand-Jobs
Fucking Ugly
Paying For It
Sex with Owen
Ask Alice
The Sisters
Bar Snack

The Hand & I.

[A gLOVE Story]
by EllaRegina © 2010

 

erotic fiction

The ampersand is essentially a link, a hook, a yoke, a joint, connecting two entities & in doing so it is about relationships.  This is the story of such a coupling, an out-of-the-ordinary one, between a woman & a hand.

 

It began with a small newspaper handbill wedged among the pages of the Daily Whorl:

COME TO THE H&.

it said—a telegram text strip—the solicitation paired with a simple drawing:  an outline of the appropriate limb, all five fingers sheathed in accent-stitched material, the index pointing as if a fingerpost, like a glove advertisement.  No telephone number, just an address on Broadway where the trolley stopped, near Wall Street.  Ida—nicknamed I.—knew the area; she worked in the vicinity operating a typing school for the deaf.

I.'s shoes were too tight & so it took her brain a moment to realize that & meant and:  the notice was imploring her to come to The Hand.

I.'s feet started walking in the right direction, on their own; self-propelled.  I. had no control.  She was going to THE H&.

Twenty minutes later I. found herself inside a tall office building where wooden doors lined poorly-lit & interminable labyrinthine hallways.  The top half of each door held an opaque glass panel decaled with gilded block letters naming the firm it led to, in this case:

HANDWORKS / gLOVEMAKERS

An open-handed glove silhouette was painted beneath the words.  I. stepped into a pitch-black room—no light, no windows.  But there was a hand & it shook hers.  A disembodied "voice" attended the bodiless limb—not a vocal articulation, but Morse-Coded knuckle-cracking.  Being an expert in non-verbal forms of communication, I. understood The Hand perfectly.

After the polite handshake it explored her body—a scurrying crawl like a wild spider.  This was one naughty hand, as if a zookeeper had cast it loose upon the world to reach its full potential as a free hand—a captured tarantula, now uncaged & run amok.

It took I.'s clothes off with five wily digits faster than any man had ever done with ten.  The Hand fondled her, from tip to toe, discovering the most sensitive parts, not all that difficult to locate.  A lot could be done with one hand; it massaged her, lingering on anatomy capable of pleasure—fingering, kneading, hooking itself into her like a comma.  The Hand entered I.'s body every which way—its excited perspiration acting as lubricant—putting fingers within her, bending her over a padded ottoman & fucking her until she screamed in the darkness, almost shattering the door's textured glass pane.  The Hand had I. lick her own juices off its fingers.

The Hand tickled & lightly slapped the pink pencil eraser between I.'s legs until the rosy kernel swelled & I. flowed like the East River.  The Hand spanked her backside, creating overlapping red shadowy handprints.  One could see them if it wasn't dark.  I. enjoyed whatever The Hand did to her—open to anything while under its spell.  The Hand didn't "speak" much, though occasionally a dot-dashed handgasm crackle would bounce off the close walls.

I. would go talk to The Hand & it would listen & while she pled her woes The Hand would idly fuck her with a digit or two as she lay on the ottoman—belly down, skirt up—her physical appreciation making a monologue increasingly difficult.

After their brief courtship The Hand went home with I. at night & slid into her bed, caressing her nipples until they stiffened, creeping betwixt her legs & pleasing her till the sun rose, flipping her around smooth baby blue satin sheets.

She did not have to feed The Hand, wine it, amuse, talk or sing to it, but when she did banter or trill it fluttered extra-specially.  The Hand was the perfect lover:  always hard; ever-ready; indefatigable; never got cramps, not even writer's.  & if it had a face, this hand, I. knew it would be very handsome.

When I. had a headache The Hand would massage her temples.  When she lay on her brown velvet sofa it would feed her green grapes.  When she took a nap after their glovemaking, The Hand would loom in a corner playing jacks, throwing a bright red ball into the air, scooping & catching & when it tired of that The Hand would play with itself.  The Hand would sketch I.'s portrait freehand while she slept, read a handbook, or write her love poems in beautiful handwriting, dipping I.'s purple fountain pen into a crystal inkwell.  For a less ornate token of its affection, The Hand managed a neat one-handed peck on I.'s shiny black Royal typewriter.  The Hand was handy around the house:  it could fix things—soaring towards the ceiling to change a lightbulb, adjusting tilted pictures high on the walls, hammering errant nails, going over molding tops with a feather duster.  It would dial I.'s Bakelite telephone, handing over the receiver when the requested party was on the line.

They went for walks around town.  The Hand lodged beneath I.'s red lace underpants—fucking or fingering; hidden inside her like a secret—guiding I. through the city streets like a reined horse, with pinky & thumb pushing into buttock flesh, directing their path right or left.  When The Hand was not within I. in a fondle it wore formal attire:  a crisp white cotton glove, holding a collapsible black silk opera hat when the occasion was fancy, or gallantly carrying I.'s handbag.

Sometimes they simply held hands, hand & glove.  If people stared I. did not care.  She had always needed a hand, could really have used a hand, & now she had one.  She was proud.  The Hand would unclasp itself from hers only to sign I love you, I. or I love I.  To get her attention, The Hand would form the letter I:  pinkie extended, the other fingers closed in a fist.  The Hand would often take that pinkie & insert it into I.'s plump & welcoming behind, making sure to rinse off in a birdbath before entering her more slippery opening, all the while I. holding The Hand's white glove as the five fingers did their merry handiwork.

The Hand would float around her as they promenaded, assuming poses, doing Mickey Mouse glove moves & gestures—in its Mickey Mouse glove—shaping itself into punctuation marks:  an &, a % sign, a # symbol, an *, an @, a $, a ¢, a ?, an !, quotation marks, a comma, a parenthesis.  The Hand made music & danced by snapping fingers, knocking on doors & other surfaces or tapping on lampposts.  It was a regular Fred Astaire.  When The Hand was of good cheer it would swoop & steal a few hand organ revolutions from the grinder in the park or do handsprings on the grass, out-of-glove so as not to sully the white fabric.

When they rode the double-decker bus down Fifth Avenue, The Hand would grip an interior pole or hover just outside the window, a dove escorting the motor vehicle.

They frequented the Horn & Hardart Automat in Times Square.  The Hand would hold a ceramic cup underneath the nickel-plated coffee dispenser while I. slipped a coin into a slot & turned the crank, activating a hot brown stream cascading from a chrome dolphin spout.  I. ate chocolate cream pie off green-on-white patterned china while The Hand played with finger food & tried to feed I. macaroni & cheese or baked beans with a fork—either choice two nickels, procured by turning a chrome-plated knob & opening the glass door of a tiny compartment.  The Hand was fascinated by the rubber-tipped fingers of the "nickel throwers," the female money-changers sitting in cashier booths.

They went to Macy's, where I. panicked, momentarily losing track of The Hand, but finding it again, rubbing elbows with elbow gloves at the Ladies' Furnishings counter on the main shopping floor.  I. took The Hand by the hand as if it were a misbehaving child & left the store.

One Saturday I. had an appointment with the swanky hairdresser facing the Plaza Hotel whose specialty was finger waving.  Her auburn locks were manipulated into a headful of quivering ampersands with fingers & stiffening gel.  The Hand kept I. company as she sat under the hairdryer while the curls of punctuation set, relaying the story, in sign language, of Father Hand's tragic demise—how it flew into the plate glass display window of a glove shop on 34th Street, thinking it had happened upon a family reunion, fatally unaware of the transparent barrier & crashing instantly to the sidewalk, a lifeless broken bird.  I. cried & cried; The Hand grew clammy.  They fondled each other for comfort, The Hand stroking I.'s moist furry lips under her red-on-pink polka-dotted dress, I.'s hand meeting her finger-painter lover from above the chiffon, the other patrons none the wiser.

On weekends, weather permitting, I. went horseback riding in Central Park.  The Hand placed itself between the saddle & I.'s jodhpur-breeched rear, pleasuring her as she posted, in perfect synchronicity.

With the first buds of spring, they motored beyond the city, heading north on the Henry Hudson Parkway in I.'s Chrysler sedan, venturing as far as the Finger Lakes, The Hand fondling her personal spot much of the time—once it got past her silk salmon-hued tap pants & avoided entanglement in the garters holding up her stockings—playing with the warm swollen aperture beneath her girdle, just enough to excite the driver without distracting her from the road.  If I. needed to reapply lipstick or adjust her hat after a strong breeze, The Hand seamlessly handled the gearshift.  When The Hand wearied on these long excursions it covered itself with a handkerchief & took naps in the glove compartment.  On cool evenings, with the window rolled down, The Hand sat next to I. on the sand-colored upholstered front seat, wrapped in a thick handtowel.

In the summer they luncheoned out-of-doors under a gazebo at a restaurant on Riverside Drive near Grant's Tomb, The Hand lolling in a cool-watered finger bowl, refreshing itself from the blistering August heat.

One humid night I. left the bedroom windows open & The Hand flew out, presumably returning to the downtown office.  I. was not worried.  She would go find it the next day.

The following morning I. went to retrieve The Hand.  She turned the knob on the HANDWORKS / gLOVEMAKERS door & entered the darkness it concealed.  An orgy of hands—a living sign language chart—attached themselves to her body like leeches.  Some wore gloves; others were bare-handed.  Was this a repository representing other hands like the one she'd gotten to know, paralleling relationships like the one she'd shared with The Hand?  Had they all been summoned back to Handquarters?

I. was well-handled:  pawed, fondled, caressed, spanked, twirled, poked, stroked & tweaked.  Every part of her was riddled with fingers; every orifice filled or prodded.  She called for The Hand but could not be heard above the collective flapping.  The hands lifted her into the air.  Some held I. aloft while others peeled off her streetclothes & undergarments until she wore nothing but garter belt, stockings & striped pumps.

A medium-sized finger with well-trimmed nails landed in I.'s mouth.  She sucked until her saliva welled.  After a few moments it was gone & I. felt a medium-sized wet finger plug her behind like a dike hole; it dangled from her rear, a straphanger.

The remaining hands, now all gloveless—cradling her from toes to crown, a hand circling each breast—parted I.'s legs & took turns fucking her, fisting her, one after the other, as she wiggled in delight with each of their thrusts.  Some were thin & bony—mere fingerlings—others corpulent, yet all of them hard as the graceful hands on marble statuary only fleshy & yielding.  The hands not actively fucking provided a percussive chorus—a primal beat of rhythmic finger snaps, claps & knuckle cracklings to encourage & accompany the carnal activity.  I. came repeatedly, mazed in a handful of ecstasies, her private juice spread around the room from hand to hand, finger to finger, until she eventually lost consciousness.

When I. awoke she was supine, draped over the ottoman like a hand-knit throw, a dim bulb duskily revealing the tiny space.  Her clothes were scattered on the floor in the aftermath of what resembled an explosion in a polka dot factory.  Otherwise, the closet-sized office was filled floor-to-ceiling with uninhabited gloves, uniformly the right hand from a pair—some white cotton, others leather in various shades—each worn, torn, damp & bearing I.'s intimate perfume.  One, though visibly empty, appeared to still encase a hand.  Its thumb & forefinger met, holding a formal ivory-stock engraved visiting card, as if the untenanted shell had proffered the object during a gentlemanly bow.  In raised florid script it read:

THE H&
PLEASE COME.
I WILL gLOVE YOU.

I. spotted a portal in the wall, fastened shut with a hook & eye.  She dressed herself & waded through the piles of inanimate gloves to investigate, hobbling & limping on half-destroyed pumps, one heel missing.  She opened the wooden hatch & daylight met her violet eyes.  Beyond was Manhattan, but I. could not determine the time of day:  there were no people on the streets; nor automobiles, carts, horses, busses or trolleys; no screeching trains on the Elevated spanning the Brooklyn Bridge.  Aside from stone buildings, all I. could see for miles was an endless flock of ungloved hands—thousands of them—soaring, gliding, sweeping, doing loop-de-loops, making figure eights, some of them signing words of uttermost obscenity, others in gesture:  forming commas, question marks, percentage symbols, dollar signs & ampersands.


Author's Note: My inspiration for this story can be found at www.animationarchive.org. (Click on top sketch for enlarged image).

_______
© 2010 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: EllaRegina's erotic fiction appears in numerous anthologies and online. Her story, "The Lonely Onanista," was shortlisted for the 2007 Rauxa Prize for Erotic Writing. When not sniffing naughty words in the dictionary, the author can be found in her online drawing room, making dirty pictures out of virtual lint, using a pair of tweezers: ellaregina.blogspot.com


Authors live for feedback!
If you enjoyed this story, please send comments to
EllaRegina

[Filigrie]



  E-mail this page


Search ERWA Website:

Copyright © 1996 and on, Erotica Readers Association, Inc.
All Rights Reserved World Wide. Reproduction in whole or in part in any form or
medium without express written permission is prohibited.

Archives

By Nan Andrews
At Rest
Spirit Guides


By Nick Nicholson
The Room
Grigore & Tatiana
Land of Smiles
The Uniform
Hooked


By Nikki Isaak
A Rathskeller Jar
Empty
The Dread That Stained Kalos


By Oxartes
Maybe You Can Go...
I Am Not A Scorpion
Babylon Nights
Eat Your Veggies
What Would Aristippus Think
The Vow Part I
Fiend in Need Part II
Androids Behaving Badly
Innocent Flower


By Remittance Girl
The Central Registry
The River Mother
Things Bettter Left Unsaid
Shellshocked
The Baptism
The Other Side
I Waited for You...
Pleasure's Apprentice
Fixed in Amber


By Riccardo Berra
Ligne Claire
The Girl with Two Lovers


By Richard V Raiment 
Ghosts of Christmas Past
Recalled to Life


By Robert Buckley
Absentee Ballots
Making Her Late For...
Crazy
Infidelity
Brotherhood Of The ...
Convenience Store
Head Games
Practicing Lovecraft
Outsourcing
Coins For The Ferryman
Seeing Is Believing
Matrons
The Mission
A Weekend in Queens..
The Exchange
Suspicion
Restive
Close to Hand
Excess Of Light
Patience
Smears
Malay
They Need Me
Bench Mates
Paladins
Pre Need
Rescues
Cthulhu's Toad
The Dog Park
Smells Like Money
Extraordinary Graces
Poe-tics
What Now?
You Get What You Pay For
The Angel of Loneliness
The Great Sin
Independence
Mere Moments
An Unconventional Friendship


By Robert GSK
Amarind
Still Life


By Rose B. Thorny
Maestro
The Thing Under the...
Only When It Rains


By Savannah
Naked Ambition
The Principal of the Thing


By Sidney Durham
Junk Yard Goddess
I'm Only Shaving!
Stripes
Santa, Baby!
Sometimes I Can ...
Speaking of Escher
The Road Not Taken


By Tulsa Brown
Flesh On A Woman
Half Moon Girl
Debt of Honor


By Valentine Bonnaire
American Daddy-O
Bukowski Girls
Afterglowing
Viresence


By William Dean
Stranger in the Bonfire
Great Notion
Kiss Me And Then...
Switch Back
A Hand in the Bush
Buy Me Something
Forest for the Trees
Swap Meet
Burning Man
Port Said
Kler
Twisted Faith
Political Asylum
Torn


Screen Play
by A.F. Waddell

A Filing Fling
by Addison Long

Ménage A Cart
by Adhara Law

Elevator Shaft
by Alana James

Torn in Two
by Alicia Night Orchid

May
by Angela Caperton

Tedia, Goddess of Boredom
by Arthur Chappell

The Lady-killer
by BJ Franklin

Cycle
by B.K. Bilicki

The Vacation
by Beth Vox

You Belong to Me
by C. Sanchez-Garcia

Frostbite the Ice Pimp
by Chuck Lovepoe

So Much in Common
by Daphne Dubonet

The Hand & I.
by EllaRegina

Safari Tuesday
by G. Gregory

The Puss Hater
by Inna Spice

One for the Road
by J. Corvo

Full Serviced
by J.D. Coltrane

Naked Over New York
by J.Z. Sharpe

The Chocolate Wife
by James Robert Sands

Once Shy
by Jamie Smithe

Fresh
by Jean Roberta

Caitlin Comes Clean
by Jerry Rightson

Something To Make...
by Jim Parr

Melanie and Jay Go...
by jtallen

Peeping George
by Jude Mason

It's Lovely. It's Horrible.
by Kathleen Bradean

The Temp
by Kaye Heche

A Husband's Lesson
by Kim Bax

Better Than a Blow...
by Lauren Mills

Page 12 - No. F
by LilyOrchid

In The Name Of...
by Michael Michele

The Classics
by Nettie Kestler

The Wounded Healer
by Nicholas M.

Stella
by Nick Santa Rosa

The Cabin
by P. E. Brink

Boom
by Raziel Moore

Post Mortem
by Riccardo Berra

Newly Reformed Woman...
by Seneca Mayfair

Idyll
by Teresa Lamai

Alter Christus
by Teresa Wymore

Shadows of De La Rosa
by Tori Diaz