The Handmaid's Nails
Two red-tipped fingers circled my clit, then dipped inside. The sight of those glossy nails disappearing into my tight cunt made him moan louder than usual as he stroked himself.
I’ve always taken pride in my nails.
Long, strong, perfectly shaped—natural extensions of my fingers that turned heads without effort. A subtle French manicure was my go-to, elegant and understated. But something shifted last month. I wanted bold. Unapologetic. I booked the salon appointment on a whim.
The technician worked slowly, layering vibrant red ‘I’m Not Really A Waitress’ nail polish that gleamed like fresh blood under the lights. When I left, my hands felt sexier. The colour popped against my pale skin, a shocking contrast that made my fingers look longer, my touch more dangerous. I couldn’t stop staring at them on the drive home.
Mark was in the kitchen when I walked in. His eyes dropped straight to my hands as I set my bag down.
“Holy fuck, babe.”
Now, I knew they would have an effect on him - but I couldn’t have guessed it would be quite so strong. Mark crossed the room in three strides, grabbing my wrists gently. He lifted one hand to his mouth, kissing each fingertip before sucking my index finger between his lips. The heat of his tongue sent a pulse straight to my pussy.
“You have no idea what these do to me,” he growled.
Well, moments later in the bedroom, I found out exactly what they did to him as I stripped slowly, letting him watch.
When I was naked, I then laid back on the bed and spread my legs. My bright red nails trailed down my stomach, over my smooth mound, and parted my pussy lips. The vivid colour against my pink, glistening folds was filthy. Mark’s cock throbbed visibly in his boxers as he looked on.
“Touch yourself,” he ordered.