Your Voice, My Hand - Sex Stories

Your Voice, My Hand

... were so cautious about revealing identifying information to me at first. But as our trust deepened, we held nothing back. We still avoided discussing the intimate aspects of your marriage, though I think you would have been forthcoming had I asked about your wife. While we were talking, while I had your complete attention, I wanted the world we'd created to consist only of us.

As the Thanksgiving holiday approached, you asked if I planned to spend it with family. "I'm on my own this year. And I'm totally fine with that," I said.

"You won't see your parents at all?" I heard the sadness in your voice, and I didn't like it.

"My father's not in my life, and my mother is... someone I'd rather not spend a holiday with." I'd never talked about my parents with you, not because I was trying to hide anything, but because it seemed pointless to make those estranged relationships the topic of our conversation. We had little time as it was. Some days you were so busy, you weren't able to call. Your texting grew sporadic while you were bombarded with work. I knew to expect this, and I never pressed you for attention you couldn't give, but I wasn't about to waste precious minutes with you by dwelling on my dysfunctional family.

Despite my reassurances, I knew you hated the idea of me spending the holiday alone. Though your son was home from college and you had extended family visiting, you still managed to sneak away long enough to call and check on me. "I'm fine, baby," I ...

... promised. "I'm actually working on a drawing, trying to follow your excellent instructions."

"I can't wait to see your progress." Your voice was lower than normal as you were careful not to be overheard. "I miss you."

I closed my eyes and drew in a steadying breath. The truth was, I missed you, too. Far more than I ever dreamed I would. I didn't allow myself to reveal that to you, though. "I appreciate you calling, Paul." I struggled to keep my tone light. "Now go enjoy Thanksgiving with your family."

When December arrived, and along with it the bitter dark of winter, I heard from you even less. You promised things would settle down after the new year, yet something like grief settled as a lump in my throat every time I thought of you. A friend of mine, newly married, reached out and invited me to have Christmas dinner with her and her husband. I knew it would make you happy that I wasn't alone for the holiday, so I agreed to go.

A few days before Christmas, I received a package from you. Already I was shaking my head. Since I couldn't send you something without potentially raising questions, you and I had agreed we wouldn't worry about exchanging gifts. Yet I now held that package, running my fingertips over your handwriting. It was something intimate, yours alone: a neat script, my name so carefully printed. As soon as I opened the present, tears flooded my eyes and spilled onto my cheeks before I could stop them.

It was a drawing of me. I was lying on the bed, my ...