Brick has drawn a large soapy hot bath, just as Heather suggested. As he prepares I can better ascertain the condition of my hands and my sutured fingers. ‘Useless,’ I think to myself. Both awed and terrified of the feminine power to which I am subjected.
“Keep those hands behind your head or should I say paws,” Brick rebukes with a sardonic laugh.
And yes, I must agree. Paws indeed. With my thumbs attached to the body of my hand well up toward the back, it is difficult to even close my four connected fingers about something smaller then a stout broom handle. And even then the grip would be quite weak.
“Come get in... Miss Heather wants you looking purdy and feeling soft,” the Texas accent apparent.
Such a treat I suppose, after months of sponge baths, I am to be soaked. Though in the
