/u/scroom38 requested this post as a reward for his donation to Direct Relief.
FirearmConcierge woke gently as the sun rose. The room was bathed in dawn's beautiful light, softened through the sheer curtains of the resort's floor-to-ceiling windows. He smiled, sighed contentedly, and stretched his muscular arms before flopping his face playfully back onto the pillow.
He liked this. He'd treat himself, once every few months, taking time just for FirearmConcierge. No customers, no badgering about prices, no worrying about the fact that a Republican president meant a bad year for his shop. The resort's sandy beaches and sunlight always brought him joy, warmed his heart and his body.
He rolled to the side of the bed, feeling the slide of the silk sheets across his flawless skin: only the best. He stood and donned a pair of loose-fitting linen pants, leaving his obvious physique even more obvious. He walked to the suite's kitchenette.
Slowly, mindfully, he gathered all the things he'd need for his true pleasure: the sandwich. His mouth began to water as he imagined the symphony his ingredients were about to perform, with he himself as the conductor.
He unwrapped the bread gently, feeling the fullness and roundness of the loaf as he removed it from its beautiful paper bag. He set it lovingly on the cutting board, feeling the texture of the golden crust under his fingers, anticipating the taste of it upon his tongue. He cut confidently and smoothly with his custom-made bread knife - no pre-sliced bread could be good enough for his sandwich.
He went to the refrigerator and retrieved his special mayonnaise, which always reminded him of the best times in his life. The thick, smooth glass of the jar felt right in his strong, strong hands; the lid resisted only a little before giving way as he turned it, lefty-loosie. He gingerly entered the jar with his butterknife, moving slowly in and out to obtain the right amount of the condiment, then spreading it so slowly to the edges of the waiting slices. Even coverage. It glistened wetly there on the bread, begging him to cover it.
And cover it he did, first with lettuce, hand-cracked from a fresh head he'd purchased the night before. One slice's lettuce he covered with two slices of heirloom tomato - cut gingerly but skillfully with his small but wonderfully sharp kitchen knife - leaving the other side to wait in eager anticipation.
He hadn't sliced the meat himself, the miraculous honey ham. Sergio, the butcher from the deli down the street - Sergio's hands were more skilled for this task. He gingerly unwrapped the glistening morsels from their package, folding them to cover the lettuce and guarantee a bubblingly interesting texture, never just slapping the pieces together.
He closed the sandwich, then, barely containing his desire, but containing it nonetheless. "The balcony," he said breathlessly, "outside." He didn't stop to clean up. He put the sandwich on its plate, and went to sit under the shade of the gables.
He stopped himself just one more time, waiting eagerly, his eyes bright with an almost uncontrollable animal instinct. But still he managed to delay, thinking of the tickle of the soft, expensive bread on his tongue, of the feeling as his teeth crunched through the fresh and crisp lettuce. He ran his gentle hands over the skin of his own bare arms, feeling the chills along with the anticipation.
And then, at last, he could no longer endure the temptation. He took the sandwich forcefully between his hands, and raised to his mouth for the first bite. He savored it, but he savored it quickly, feeling the seeds of the tomato with one bite, turning the bread and mayo in his mouth with his tongue the next.
Finished, and totally satisfied, he leaned back on the chair, closed his eyes, and smiled with contentment. He'd have another sandwich tomorrow.
Submitted October 23, 2017 at 01:07AM by presidentender http://ift.tt/2yGSEtL guns
