She could feel the hands on her, all over her, stroking her in all of the most impossibly pleasurable ways. Her hips rocked, her whole body clenched, feeling those exquisite hands running down her hips, her thighs, her toes, ever so lightly over her clit...
The minute she looked down, though, she were gone. She could never catch a glimpse of the hands or who they were attached to, and whenever she tried, the sensation stopped as well, and left her body crying out for more. Sometimes she felt a whisper of expert touch somewhere else, and her body convulsed in response--it was accompanied by the barest flicker of movement at the corner of her eye, but when she whipped around to try and see it, it was always gone--and she always ached for more.
She soon realized that if she didn’t try to find the source of the touch, it continued for longer, and grew more and more pleasurable. Never quite enough to make her come, of course, but as she panted and squirmed under those unseen hands, that didn’t seem to matter as much any more. All that mattered was the touch, the sensation. The throbbing in her pussy persuaded her that it was better not to try and see; why look, why try to understand, when she could close her eyes and lie back and feel so much pleasure? And so, she surrendered herself to the hands, and they eagerly went to work.
