Your Hands

Dear Butch,

I was watching your hands today in almost pure horror.  You were making my soy hazelnut small latte as you do almost every morning.  Your cafe is just around the corner from my place of employment and even though your coffee is slightly shitty, I enjoy the eye candy you provide and you make killer scones.  Normally, I love watching your hands.  They are muscular but not to ridged with clean short nails and a delicate wave tattoo encompassing your wrist bone.  And they look so soft and smooth.  I often spend the few moments it takes to whip together my order fantasying about what I would like those hands, your handsome sexy hands, to do to me.  Pinch my nipples, scratch my back, slap my ass, pull my hair, finger my cunt.  Yes, I stand in front of you lost in deviant and perverted fantasy trying not to melt on the smooth tile.

This morning, after my ongoing attempt to save money and make my own coffee, I returned to you after almost two weeks apart.  I sauntered in brushing fresh snowflakes off of my coat and catch your eyes in the process watching me with the same smitten smile you always use.  I patiently waited my turn and then I placed my order between our flirty banter.  I take a deep breath as I always do right before you work your hand magic on my order, taking in the moment when my nose made an unexpected upturn.  In the time we have been apart, your hands have been hit hard by the brutal winter winds.  They are red and chapped, almost angry.  I immediately wanted to hurl myself over the counter and grab them, kissing them softly and promising never to leave them again.  I am fully aware how crazy I sound, like somehow my disappearance had any effect on your skin.  I left and walked back to work, distracted by what I saw.  My fantasy literally ripped apart.

Tonight, I am finishing a pair of soft grey mittens and will be pairing my gift with ultra amazing hand balm.  I want your hands back, I need your hands back.  I will fight for your hands.




2 thoughts on “Your Hands

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