She was used to His idiosyncrasies. This time was no different really. Well, some different. The attire He’s selected this time was, in a word? Weird.
But, He had his little games and she loved them.
This time they weren’t meeting at His house. Nor at the dungeon He sometimes borrowed from his friend. When she had left her house, she’d had no idea where the fuck the GPS directions were taking her, but He had proofed them, proclaimed them “perfect”.
She was right on time. She’d brought a copy of his itinerary to be certain she was not going to fuck up. She passed the mile marker he had noted at the designated time, and ahead, sure enough, was the sign she needed to follow. Her little car made the right-turn, and she took note of the beauty around her.
Despite the absolute bone-chilling cold of a Maine mid-winter, there was beauty to be found in the sere outdoors. She noted the sparkling gleam of snow, so different from the grey slush she’d left behind in the city. She didn’t suppose that there was much traffic this far north to dirty it all that fast. The rolling “waves” of the snow-dunes, carved by the restless wind were toned with blue and gray shadows. The arching branches of an old tree, black against the perfectly azure sky reached up like a supplicant. The sun was almost blinding, dancing off the white below. She was glad He’d thought to remind her of her sunglasses, or she’d be snow-blind for certain.
The road narrowed further as she turned onto Pittston Road, and she knew she was getting closer. She’d been on the road nearly 4 hours, leaving behind the gentle urbanity of downtown Portland, and heading north into the great beyond.
Three more turns and there it was, spread before her. She’d known since passing Somerset Junction, that she was headed to Moosehead Lake, but she’d not expected this.
There was nothing there. No hotel. No motel. Just a large parking lot where a decidedly motley assortment of vehicles sat. She pulled in. In the parking lot, a bevy of trucks sat, ranging from a new 4X4 to a battered Ford so encrusted with roadsalt haze that the base color was undetectable. Some sported metal towing trailers, the kind she knew sportsmen used to haul snowmobiles around.
Out on the ice were a few more trucks, and here, there, everywhere, a series of …houses? on the lake itself. Off in the far distance snow kicked up as a pair of snowmobiles raced across the pristine surface of the Lake.
Who the fuck built a house on the ice?
She called his cell phone and let him know she was there, and right on time.
“Look out onto the ice.” His voice was rich with amusement. She looked. Stepping out from a …a hut…a house…a what-the-fuck-ever-it-was…was a tall, portly man in a red coat, snow pants, thick boots…and he was waving at her.
She stepped out of her little car, grabbing the little bag of things from the back and looked out across the ice.
“C’mon out here, slut.”
“Sir? Is that really You? out on the ice, Sir???”
His only reply was a hearty laugh at her nerves, and a vigorous, full-armed wave, unmistakable as “come.”
She took a deep breath, and stepped down to the shore, and out onto the ice. She felt the breath of the ice wafting around her. Out here there was no protection from the wind, and it swirled and danced with her as she made her way, cautiously, across the expanse of ice to where He waited for her.
He was a big, hearty man, his cheeks reddened from the wind, his eyes sparkling as he watched her attempt to walk daintily across the frozen surface of the lake.
She came up to him, and leaned into him.
“Scary” she whispered.
He kissed the top of her nose, then opened the door to his shack, and gestured her inside.
She was surprised. The shack was canvas, dark, she supposed, to gather any heat from the sun…but it was almost comfortable inside. A thin mat of some fibrous material kept feet off the ice, and a small heater sat on a makeshift table made from a pair of lobster traps and a 4 X6 board. A cot rested against one wall, a chair sat next to it.
She glanced over her shoulder, even as her hands lifted to her coat. He looked back at her, steadily. For a moment, the only sound in the shelter was the wind buffeting the canvas sides of the shelter, alternately belling them out, then snapping them taut again. Her breathing deepened, as her zipper rasped down, down the length of her jacket.
He took her coat, her slacks, her boots, her wool socks, her thermal pants, her black lace panties, her sweatshirt, her thermal top, and the black lace bra that matched the panties. All were carefully placed on the chair beside the cot. She felt the cold ice against her feet through the fiber mats. She shivered hard, violently, as her nipples peaked to intensely hard buds at the tips of her goose-fleshed breasts.
It was warm in the fishing shack, but not comfortably so for a naked slut.
She shivered again, then knelt, hands on her thighs, shoulders back, tits thrust forward. The cold wrapped her in a hard embrace and she continued small shivers as she waited.
That helped, some.
He crossed the short space between them and lifted her to her feet by one pinched nipple. She gasped with the painful squeeze on her cold flesh, gasped again when he twisted it hard. He pushed her back until her calves felt the cool frame of the cot.
“Turn, kneel, and bend over the bed, slut.”
She knew this position well, too. Arms up, and crossed, head nestled in the space she created. Back arched, ass thrust up and made accessible.
The first lash of the flogger on her chilled skin was staggeringly painful. Blows were repeated on her bottom, her back, her thighs until she sank into the heat He created. Sank through the pain, into the pain, accepting, hurting, sailing off into subspace.
His hand, cold, stroked her burning flesh almost more painfully than the blows he’d landed there. His fingers slid down the split of her cheeks, and found, to neither of their surprise, her wetness.
“You are such a little slut, aren’t you?”
Her voice was muffled by the scratchy wool blanket on the cot. “Yessir, i am a slut. Thank You, Sir.”
Her ass, back, legs were stinging now, as his fingers continued to probe.
“You seem like you want something slut?” His tone was innocence incarnate. Yet she sensed the devil at play in Him today.
“Yes Sir,” she finally answered, “i would like You to fuck me, please.”
The fingers probing her cunt were withdrawn. She huffed out a breath of disappointment. He did that to her all the fucking time. Asked her what she wanted, then denied her.
It made her want to growl, sometimes. Now, with the heat growing between her thighs, despite the coolness seeping up through her knees, she wanted to howl her frustration. She wondered what His neighbors would think about that, having a wolf-howl sounding from inside His hut…
She felt a probing between her legs, but it was not his warm hard hot cock. Whatever it was, it was fucking cold.
Oh, wasn’t that the gospel truth, she mused as whatever it was pushed higher up inside her cunt, chilling her. “It” was fucking her, and it was cold. She grunted when it was buried fully inside her, then withdrawn. Again, he pressed it up inside her, and pulled out.
“You will have 5 minutes to cum, slut, if you truly think you need to. ” And he began to fuck her in earnest. And suddenly, despite the painful chill inside her, she was turned on. The rasp of the rough blanket on her hard nipples, the burn of her backside, and at last, His fingers dancing lightly on her clit made her shiver this time, one of passion, not cold.
No, not cold at all.
When she came it was with seconds to spare, and he shushed her twice. Shaking, quivering, quaking, she thought she might have almost passed out.
She’d needed to cum so badly.
He pressed the dick against her cheek. The fucking thing was still cold. She raised her head and looked. It was a piece of ice shaped like a cock! That fucking bastard had fucked her with an ice cock!!?
She opened her mouth. He pulled it way, tossing it in the corner.
“Are you fucking kidding me slut? No way I want your mouth cold when I stick my cock in there!”
He really was a bastard some days.