Many years ago, a male friend asked me what women looked at, besides the obvious. Without thinking, I responded, "hands." The enclosed short story, Daniel's Hands, explores this in greater detail through a woman's relationship with a potter and all of the works of his hands.

Daniel's Hands
by Ann Baillie-Regentin

Daniel is a potter. He strips down to his shorts, baring a lean, brown torso, hairless except for that delightful trail of fur that starts at his navel and vanishes below his waistband, and settles the clay in front of him just so. Then he kicks the wheel into action, dips his hands in water and begins.

Daniel's hands are strong and unerring as the clay rises beneath them. His fingers go inside, slowly at first, almost tentatively, then deeper and stronger until the piece is swelling, expanding, taking shape. His focus is absolute. A thin sheen of sweat breaks out on his forehead and tiny spatters of clay decorate his body. The piece rises from the wheel, slowly but surely taking on its final form as Daniel bites his lip, concentrating. He runs his hands up and down, inside and out, smoothing the clay, the excess oozing over his fingers, and then he stops the wheel and shapes the mouth of the vase with the most delicate caresses imaginable. Then he sits back, heaves a satisfied sigh and grins at me. Daniel's hands have worked another miracle.

I met Daniel through friends who were obviously matchmaking. Our first date was their idea, not ours, and we started dinner by apologizing to each other for their perfidy. He played with his spoon while we talked, weaving it in and out of his fingers, and traced designs in the condensation on his water glass. His hands were big with strong, square fingers and clay under the nails. I watched him fidget, enthralled, already wondering what those hands would feel like on me.

Itās funny. Iāve never heard of a guy with a hand fetish, although Iāve known a few who were into feet. Iāve never understood that one. I mean, feet are okay in their way, but you have to think to incorporate them into your sex life. Hands are another thing entirely. Itās difficult for me to imagine sex without hands. No warm hands all over your body? No nipples caught between fingers? No hands fishing between legs for the treasures therein? No hands to guide an erection home? Denying someone the use of their hands in bed is a major mindfuck. It renders them deliciously helpless, makes them an instrument in your hands to be played to a fever pitch.

I know a lot of women who have minor hand fetishes. Itās the next thing we look at, after his eyes and his body. Itās the first thing we reach for when we want to touch and when weāre dancing, weāre acutely aware of his hands on us. Itās a manās hands that open doors or hold chairs, hold ours to kiss them, or reach out to brush a bit of fuzz off our shoulders or a strand of hair out of our faces. It is hands that unbutton shirts, unhook bras, unzip jeans, lay bare flushed, trembling skin to the eyes and mouth.

To me, the clay on Daniel's hands was like a pair of strappy, Italian sandals to a foot man. It was proof that these were not standard-issue hands. These hands had a degree of strength and sensitivity beyond the ordinary. These were the perfect blend of artistās hands and laborerās hands, and I wanted to kiss them, rub them against my cheek, run my tongue over his palms and put his fingers in my mouth. Daniel is a nice guy and that was very lucky for me. My internal warning system wasnāt working very well that night. I was mesmerized by his hands.

Daniel's hand was warm when he reached across the table and squeezed mine, told me that he hadnāt wanted to go on a blind date but was glad he had. His hands were playful when he zipped me into my jacket. When he drove me home, they were sure and comfortable on the steering wheel and gearshift lever. When he kissed me goodnight, he touched my cheek with the back of one hand, gently, almost tentatively. I shut the door when he left and leaned back against it, gasping, caught up in a wash of desire.

He understood the value of anticipation. He didnāt sleep with me that night, nor the next, nor the one after that. Instead, he touched me. He helped me into and out of my coat, brushed at stray strands of hair, picked bits of parrot down off of my clothes, pushed my glasses higher onto my nose, fiddled with the ends of my scarf. When he kissed me, he cradled my head in his hands until one night, I could stand it no longer. I took both of his hands in mine and pressed them against my breasts. He grinned at me, as if to say, Gotcha! Then his face got sweetly serious, and this time his hands went to my hips, pulling me tight against him.

Daniel's handsoh God! Daniel's hands undid me completely: every button, every hook, every zipper, every knotted thread that anchored every singing nerve. Daniel's hands untied the leather thong that held his hair back, letting it flow over my body like a river. Daniel's hands held my breasts for his warm, molten mouth. Daniel's hands left trails of heat down my body. When his fingers probed between my legs, I melted around the firm strength of them and when he thrust two suddenly inside of me, I cried out and nearly levitated off the bed. He chuckled soft and low in my ear, then his fingers slid out of me and up over my clit, and he asked me how I liked best to be touched. I put my hand over his and showed him, then clung to him as I came.

In bed, Daniel turned anticipation into a fine art, drawing me out until I was begging for him. Then he flashed me his bad-boy grin but went into me the way a mother nurses her child, feeding me with his body. I was full to overflowing, drunk on him, and one of his marvelous hands stroked my hair as he rocked on top of me, pushing himself just a little deeper each time until he could take no more. His forehead dropped to mine and he groaned deep in his chest, and in the wake of his orgasm, he laid his hand on my face and told me I was beautiful.

When Daniel sits down at the wheel, I sit on a stool facing him, watching. I become the clay under his hands, molded by that strength and delicacy, the unnecessary layers flowing over his fingers to be washed away in the bucket of water beside him. When Daniel sits down at the wheel, I am his as surely as if we were in bed and when he is finished and reaches for me, I strip my shirt and bra off and smear the clay on his hands over my face and breasts. I have had erotic dreams since I was twelve, but since I met him, they have all had Daniel's hands.