The Orgasmic Handjob

ManoJob

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The fading afternoon light painted the room in hues of gold and deep shadow, catching the dust motes dancing in the air between us. His breath hitched as my fingers, trembling with a nervous anticipation I could barely contain, traced the line of his jaw. I felt the solid warmth of his shoulder beneath my palm, a steady anchor in the rising tide of our shared silence. His eyes, dark and endless, held mine, speaking a language of trust and raw vulnerability that made my heart ache. A soft sigh escaped his lips as my touch drifted lower, my movements slow and deliberate, learning the landscape of his skin. Every shift of his body, every tensed muscle and relaxed sigh, became a verse in a poem only we understood. The air grew thick with the scent of his skin and the unspoken words hanging between us. I watched, mesmerized, as pleasure washed over his features, smoothing the lines from his brow and parting his lips in silent reverence. His hand found mine, his fingers lacing through mine with a desperate, grateful pressure that spoke volumes. In that suspended moment, we were not two people, but a single, beating heart, cresting on a wave of pure, radiant feeling before settling into a profound, breathless peace.