Frosty HandsJane’s hands do not benefit from the modern convenience of central heat. Three seasons out of four her touch is a shivering cold that seems to channel the icy chill of Narnia’s White Witch.

They are inexplicably linked to the weather outdoors, completely independent of our home’s thermostat. It’s cold and snowy where we live right now but it’s cozy inside with a fire in the fireplace… and still, her hands are cold. It is like she has two 5-fingered weather stations at the end of her sleeves. “Honey, do I need to wear a sweater today? Come here and let me feel your hands”.

We slide into bed at the end of the day and the icicles she calls fingers gravitate to the warmest thing they can find; one hand wraps around the shaft, the other cups the sack. Out of self preservation, my balls immediately retract up into my chest. But hey, I can’t complain… she has my dick in her hands!

C-c-come on s-s-summer, where the hell are y-y-you?