Name: 10<br/>Time: Day 1, Afternoon<br/>Location: Sector 3 Social Zone<br/>Tagging: 5<br/>Notes/Warning: Icebreaker!<br/><hr/><br/>Her hands came out inviting, palms up, fingers cupped and asking. She searched, beckoned, until a brush told her how far she'd wandered off center. Now she had them, a stranger's hands, curved over her own like yin and yang. Fingertips teased the flesh of a palm as she let the tapered lines of her hands be surveyed. Elegantly reduced, as though by the brush of a student of minimalism. There was athletic firmness and a residue of something rich and luxuriant in the contour of her palms, and on the testing push of her fingertips. The nails had been trimmed safe, a thing that could escape the eye unnoticed, but not the touch. Thumbs crossed over the fingers caressing her own. Was it her turn to explore, now?<br/><br/>She measured the span of fingers with an opal glide feather-light from tip to web to neighboring tip. Just one touch didn't tell her enough. A thumb searched that circuit on a belly dancer's rhythm as her fingers closed round it, shielded that touch, made it claustrophobic and hot. Fingers pulsed, she knew that with certainty now, but did they throb with anticipation? The flesh of the palm made too tender a canvas to paint directly. Working her way through the bars, inviting them to push back against her, heightened the experience. There should be a physicality to it, a touch felt in the muscle, not just the surface of the skin.<br/><br/>She wanted to know the cleverness of these fingers, how strong their flex when laced tight with her own, their tenderest grooves. She asked fingers to close with hers, and toil, and feel something deeper in the chest. Coupled joint to joint, scissored fast, now she painted the canvas of the palm with baby licks of her thumb-tip. That was nice. She savored that just as long as it felt welcome, until finally, she surrendered. Fingers fanned, tap-tap-tapped arhythmic and then went soft. Complacent. Doll-like.