Rough Hands Novels & Stories

- How are you feeling? - I'm fine, Robert. Because the... - I mean, after the bleeding yesterday, I noticed your hands were shaking a little more. Are you feeling anything else? - His tone of voice was soft, he didn't want to scare her, in fact he just wanted her to answer truthfully. - I only felt pain in the tendons of my hands. But I rubbed some gel on them yesterday and massaged them, and the pain got better. - She said, staring at her own wrists covered by the purple glove.

Naomi My hand is the size of a cantaloupe but burns a bright, furious red. Little splotches of the deepest blue fan across my knuckles, and even the slightest twitch of my fingers sends a sharp, blinding pain ricocheting all the way up to my shoulder.

When he saw me, he paused. “Mr Hanson! I’m pleased to see you.” I walked over with my hand extended. To be honest, I had no idea how to show this man respect. He probably deserved more from me than an outstretched hand, but considering how he carried himself—like a youngster without any care in the world—it was hard to not go overboard. Gregory seemed to be hit by realization before he switched his wine glass to the left hand and took my hand in a shake. “Anna Vendel? Wait, you were supposed to come today? Why wasn’t I reminded?”

Even on the farm, there was a strict schedule for work and rest. "Look at your hands. They've become so rough!" Naomi took Violet's hand in hers, and her heart began to ache once more. Calluses had formed on Violet’s palms as a result of many hours of manual exertion. Violet examined her hands, and remarked, "Rough hands are actually better. At first, I wasn't accustomed to the work and kept getting cuts. I'd end the day with a lot of wounds." These words further shattered Naomi's heart.

His hands were big, strong, and rough. My hand felt so small in his. Big rough hands were a turn-on for me. It felt good, so I gave his hand a little squeeze. He held my hand the rest of the movie, sometimes rubbing his thumb over mine. It felt nice. The movie ended and we left the theater. We walked a little in the outdoor mall, looking in the closed shop windows. He held my hand as we walked.

he added, lifting my hand to examine it more closely, "I just realized something very interesting about you, Lance." My stomach dropped. "What?" "Your hands," he said, turning my palm up to the light. "They're completely hairless. And look at these fingers—so delicate, so... feminine." Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. "Lots of guys don't have hairy hands!" I protested, trying to pull my arm back. But Raymond held firm, that dangerous smile spreading across his face. "And your skin," he continued, running his thumb across my knuckles. "So soft. Like you've never done a day of manual labor in your life. Very unusual for a hockey player."

The elevator opens and he appears and my eyes slowly rise to meet his. He looks like shit. Has he even slept? His hair is unruly, he has bags under his eyes, and his skin is pale. He approaches the group. “Good morning, everyone.” “Good morning,” everyone calls back. I watch him as he takes out the first folder for the morning rounds and he winces. I frown and glance down at his hand. It’s the size of a baseball mitt and a nice shade of purple. Shit, he broke his hand last night when he punched the windshield.

The hands were tiny with smooth skin, soft pinkish palm, the kind of hands that had never done a hard day of work in their life. Two of the fingers were decorated with gold rings, nails that were clean, shaped and manicured, and a smell on the skin like something expensive. I turned them over slowly, then back again, and sat with that confusion for a moment because the hands I knew were not these hands and yet here they were at the end of my arms responding when I moved my fingers.

Fighting about it would just draw more attention, and honestly, I'd rather just get this over with. I turned slightly, giving him access to my back, and waited. Rob squeezed sunscreen into his palm, and then his hands were on my skin. The first touch made me tense involuntarily. Not because it felt good. Because it felt wrong. His hands were smaller than I remembered. Softer. They moved over my back without any real confidence, rubbing the lotion in with an awkward, uncertain pressure that was somehow both too rough and too gentle at the same time. Nothing like Victor's hands in the gym this morning—those large, strong hands that had known exactly where to press, exactly how much pressure to

Her hand jacked the base, while her other hand cradled my balls. I remember that I considered tying her wrists with the bikini, but I was hesitant to interrupt the handjob. Dismissing the thought, I slipped off her top and started groping, pressing my fingers into her big, meaty breasts. My hands were full, and her breasts felt heavy; her nips were like cherries topping the big, double-scoop mounds. They were erect, puffy, and sending pleasured ripples through her body.