Evil Hand
Lindsey's hand was still evil.
He was convinced of this. When he jerked off with his good hand, he thought of Darla, her smooth lips, her soft skin, her perfect breasts resting in the palms of his hands while he thrust up and up into her, so sweet and delicious and her breathy moans in his ear.
When he jerked off with his evil hand, he thought of Angel. Cool lips around his cock, cool tongue and just a hint of sharp sharp teeth sliding against him, stubble against his balls, and it was all so good and wrong at the same time.
His hand liked to drive him places. He'd close his eyes for just a second, and he'd find himself on the highway, heading towards the closest city with the closest gay bar where his evil hand would rest upon the ass of the nearest big drunken gayboy with brown hair spiked up and the faintest hint of a brow ridge -- bonus points if they were in leather.
It had to be evil, because when he moved from the sin and seduction of Los Angeles, he swore that he'd never be like that again. He dated flimsy breathy blondes with no brains and no fight -- willing to be called Darla, to sit in the ice baths, to be fucked ten ways to Tuesday while his evil hand covered his eyes and made him think of Angel. Angel propping him up against the ceiling-to-floor window in his office and sticking his fingers and then his cock up his willing ass, fucking him hard and raw and oh-so-good while he came all over the window.
His hand was still evil. Lindsey was certain of this.