Twelve Quickies Of Christmas 9: Snow Angel

by Joey W. Hill

  He brought back a handful of items, and set them on the table next to her, sat himself on the coffee table before her, spreading his legs so they were outside her clasped ones.

  “Open your thighs for me, sweetheart,” he said. “Just until your knees touch the inside of mine.”

  The silk knot slid up higher, pressing upward on her clit, pulling the knot deeper into her ass. Her constricted breasts jutted out further for his regard.

  “I can smell your cunt, Constance. I like it.” He lifted two small icicle ornaments, done in delicate blown glass that caught the lights of the Christmas tree. “These are beautiful,” he observed, fingering the wire hooks on them.

  She could tell what he was going to do, and the anticipation was excruciating, so that she made small plaintive noises as he leaned forward, cried out again as he worked the wrap of the wire hooks over her nipples and tightened them. The tips responded to the pressure of his fingers as well as the wire and the weight of the glass.

  He picked up a handful of tinsel he’d plucked from the branches then and scattered it over her shoulders, the crown of her hair, smiling at her, bending forward to kiss the side of her breast in a gesture that was oddly tender. She battled back laughter and tears both. She’d never been so aroused and happy at once, even as her body strained for more of his attention.

  “Look at this.” He plucked her digital camera off the table by her purse.

  “Oh, Sam, don’t—”

  “You, Bradwell, aren’t in a position to make demands.” With a wicked grin, he stepped back, went to one knee. The flash was a quick, blinding moment that obliterated her view of him.

  His hand touched her shoulder as she blinked, and he knelt down next to her.

  “Look.”

  The view screen showed a woman decorated and bound in gold and green silken ropes, her breasts high and proud, the sparkle of tinsel on her shoulders and her fall of hair. There was a soft smile on her lips, her lashes fanning her cheeks, head slightly tilted away. In most pictures, Constance made a funny face or came off looking self-conscious. She liked this picture. Ironically, by stripping away everything on the outside and decorating her as he wished, he had brought forward something from within her. In that picture, for once, she saw some of her true self.

  “Quiet. Intense. Passionate. The real Constance Jayne at last.”

  She lifted her gaze, amazed he spoke her thoughts. Sam pushed her hair from her cheek, threading his fingers in the softness of it with the tinsel, and laid his lips over hers.

  If he had kissed her roughly, demanding her body’s response, it would have obliged. But this kiss was more, rousing an emotional reaction that swamped the physical, so that she shivered within and without, wanting him in ways that surpassed the simple desires of their bodies, as if everything was being reduced to raw need.

  She knew the illusory danger of intimacy, making her believe more was there. But tonight was about magic and miracles, and suddenly she truly believed anything was possible, the way a child at Christmas was supposed to feel, even if that same child was an adult who knew that Santa Claus might or might not be the figure she had been raised to believe he was.

  For tonight, she chose to believe he was.

  “I think I need to have you now, Constance,” Sam observed, raising his lips only the necessary amount to speak the words. His hazel eyes filled her vision so there was nothing but the grey, gold and green color, a mix of all the colors of the earth, wind, sea and sky.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Take off all your clothes. I want to feel you everywhere.”

  He rose and unbuttoned the cuffs of the shirt, then the front of it, showing her the smooth muscle of a man in his thirties who took good care of his body. He shrugged out of it, and she relished that motion, that beautiful roll of powerful shoulder muscles, the slide of cotton down firm skin. The shirt dropped, drawing her eyes to his waist, the way the jeans fit even more loosely there with the shirt gone, but tight over the crotch, almost level with her gaze.

  He unfastened the button, eased down the zipper. He left it open that way as he toed off his shoes. Her fingers itched to slide into that gapped area, reach in and down, cup his heat through the thin cloth of his underwear, run her thumb over the broad head she could see straining and wetting the threads of the fabric. She wanted him in her mouth, to taste the meat and power of him.

  “Sam,” she strained against the bonds. “Let me taste you. Please.”

  “I think you could make me do anything with those hungry eyes of yours.” He pushed the pants down to his thighs with the underwear, took them off his long legs with his socks and stood before her in nothing but the fine flesh he had been blessed with.

  His pubic hair was dark like the hair on his head and the light covering of it on his arms, legs and chest. It was very fine, gleaming hair that lay against his body like fur rather than curling. She wanted to touch it, rub her face against him, and she groaned in approval as he guided his cock to her waiting lips.

  She had to bend forward a little to take him and she worked the fingers of her bound hands into the back slat of the kitchen chair to give her balance and an anchor point to steady her as she slid her lips and teeth down the full length of him. She wanted to get all the way to where her bottom lip would touch that sensitive base against the scrotum, but there was too much of him. She took in as much as she could and then flicked her tongue over him, licked, bathed him, sucked hard on him as her head moved up and down.

  “You are too damn good at this,” he muttered.

  How could she explain that it was the first time she’d actually enjoyed doing it as much for the man as for herself? Always before, in high school, the act had been between her and the cock, as if the organ had possessed the sentience its gland-driven teenage owner had not. It seemed to understand the energy of the connection between her mouth and the pulsing power she was drawing from it. In a way, the boy hadn’t even been part of it. This was the first time her emotions remained linked to the man’s response, so that every groan and tightening of his touch on her head heightened her own fevered reaction, the fervor of her mouth working on him. Each hard thrust into her mouth made her body roll forward in proportionate response. The knot caressing her became more insistent.

  “I’m going to come,” she gasped around his cock.

  “Come, baby,” he urged. “I’ll make you come again tonight. I don’t want you to hold any of it back.”

  He wouldn’t let her resist, used the strength of his hand and arm to keep her going down on him, rocking her body back and forth on those devilishly clever knots and her thighs sliding on the fluids slicked there from her pussy.

  He also wouldn’t let her draw back, so her jaw trembled with the effort not to bite down as the orgasm rolled over her, rippling out from her cunt, tightening all the motions of her body so that she was helpless to the rhythmic movement he kept forcing her to make, making it unbearable, unbelievable, glittering. It was a volcanic explosion, the heat and power shaking every structure on its foundations. Her hands lost their purchase on the back of the chair and his cock shoved into the back of her throat. He forced her to stillness there, her mouth full of his erection as she shuddered and screamed, jerked and twisted against her bonds until her vision teared.

  She came down to earth, making soft whimpers like the cooing noises of a dove, an instinctive lullaby. The sounds were an antidote to the adrenaline, the body bringing all the organs back to a normal cadence with the soothing noise.

  She tried to resume her movements on him with her mouth, but he pulled back, taking his glistening, hard cock away, and cradled her chin with his fingers as he did so to ease the removal.

  “I’ll hold out a little longer, baby,” he said. “When I come I want to be deep in your cunt.” He bent down, brushed a kiss on her soft lips. “It will be the last thing you feel before you fall asleep in my arms, knowing someone is with you, holding you close throughout the night.

  “Now,”
his tone lightened before she could respond, “I don’t know about you, but I need a cool down. First, let’s take the top part off. Don’t pout,” he touched her lips before she could protest. “I’m glad you like it, but it’s not supposed to be too tight for too long.”

  He loosened the cords around her breasts and removed the shinju arrangement, unwinding it from her rib cage. Her breasts tingled with the release of tension, but he quickened the blood flow by tracing the path where the ropes had been with his tongue, the sensitive undercurve, the delicate pale slope at the top. Constance watched him, her head bent attentively over his, and touched soft kisses on his hair, the curve of his ear. He smiled, rubbed his cheek against her mouth, then put the cord aside. He did not remove the lower piece that girded her loins, but he did make an adjustment to compensate for the release in tension from the removal of the top. The friction of the knots rippled an aftershock from her orgasm through her, and he anticipated it, catching her nipple in his mouth as she arched.

  The feel of his tongue and lips over the encircling wire of the icicle was as breathtaking as the true touch of heated flesh against cold. She moaned, lifting herself up higher, deeper into his mouth, and he tugged, flicked, let her feel the edge of his teeth. He reached behind her as he did it, with one jerk loosening the knot holding her hands tied and the coil so it dropped away, freeing her wrists.

  She ran her palms down the bare slopes of his shoulders. Her gaze fixed upon his cock, still erect from his unsatisfied need. Incredibly, her pussy responded to the sight, as if it had not just been sated beyond anything it had ever known before. But this was more. She wanted to be filled, joined, and he was holding that back until the end, knowing that.

  He bent, scooped her back up in his arms before she could reach for it, and headed for the kitchen.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, winding her arms around his shoulders and gratified when he picked up on her need and held her closer, a mid-air hug.

  “Outside. Your backyard. It’s snowing again.”

  “What…What?!”

  He balanced and held her struggling body easily with one arm and opened up her door to the back courtyard. She kept a cottage garden out there with a small bench next to a fountain. It was a quiet secluded niche she enjoyed for reading, unwinding, sipping her morning coffee. Surrounded by a ten foot high privacy fence, there was no easy view into it by her neighbors, but it was the principle of it, being naked, outside, in snow. The cold shocked her warm, stimulated flesh.

  “You like to make snow angels, Constance?” He let her feet down but kept a firm grasp on her when she would have dashed for the door. “Come on, let’s make two of them, before we freeze our asses off.”

  He tugged her off the stoop, swinging her down into a clear spot in the fresh snow. She squealed as her feet sank into the half foot coverage.

  “You’re nuts. You’re--”

  “Crazy about you.” He turned, caught her in his arms. Lifted her off her feet. “Hold on.”

  He fell backwards, and she was laughing by the time he landed, straight as a tree falling to earth.

  She held on tight so she wouldn’t slide and ruin his impression, and because it felt so good to hold his body, his heart pounding beneath her racing one, his legs tangled with hers, rough male hair and firm skin against her smoothly shaven calves. His genitals pressed against her thighs, semi-erect now due to the cold and the change in their focus, but she felt his response grow as she slid her thighs around him, squeezed.

  It was so incredibly warm between their bodies, but the air was so cold in contrast around them she could not stop a shiver from running through her shoulders and back, tightening her buttocks beneath the firm clutch of his hands on either cheek. “You’re a temptress,” he growled, curling his fingers in the rope and giving her pussy a swift, tart burst of sensation. Then he lifted her in the air like a figure skating move, bringing his own body straight up from the waist to set her between his calves, a feat of strength that clearly displayed the ripple of upper body muscles and made those in her own abdomen weaken beneath the beat of butterfly wings. “Do a little hop leap over there, sweetheart,” he pointed to the patch of snow just past his armspan. “And show me what kind of snow angel an angel makes.”

  She wanted to just stand there and look down at his body, the fine lines of thigh and torso, the cluster of his cock lying against the nest of testicles. She wanted to explore every inch of him, as if he were the one Christmas gift she’d been allowed to open the night before Christmas Day.

  “You’ve no idea how beautiful you look,” he gazed up at her. “Your pussy all tied up, those icicles sparkling on your nipples, your hair soft around your face. You’re a sugar plum fairy, baby. Make an angel for me.”

  She hopped over, a good three foot jump, fueled by exuberance like that of a well-loved child who didn’t know how to be self-conscious, and lowered herself to the snow. Constance gasped as she lay back. The cold ice of the snow flakes burned into her skin and she immediately stretched her arms out to either side of her and began to make wings, sliding her arms through the sugar spun snow, feeling the disturbed and newly fallen flakes on her lashes and lips. It was painful and exhilarating at once, and she laughed out loud, hearing him snorting and doing the same, a furious cloud of snow coming from her right as he put his considerable male strength to it while she flowed through it like she lay in water.

  She remembered the skirt part, and began to open and close her legs. She immediately discovered that to be a pleasurable sensation, the arch and press of hips communicating itself to her delicate silken restraint, the diamond crisscross of the ropes tightening over her hips, the knots rubbing against her, all reminding her that she was bound in sexual restraints, and rousing her the more she continued the movement. If not for the cold, she could have just lost herself in the building heat of renewed arousal, the undulation, cold to heat, friction to pleasure, over and over, not really able to build to climax, just riding wave after sweet wave of sensation, as if she were an angel in truth, floating over air currents.

  She bared her throat, opening her mouth to take in the flakes, seeing the faceted jewel pattern as they collected on her lashes. The world was a soft swirl of white, gray and black, icy cold and yet ringing with the passion and heat of life all at once. She was happy. It was Christmas Eve, and for the first time in her life on this night, she was happy.

  Constance brought her legs back together. The backs of her calves were losing feeling. They closed on Sam’s ankles, and she tilted her head down to gaze upon another miracle and wonder of nature.

  He stood above her, looking at her body against the snow, his hazel eyes glinting with the same sparkling light that rippled over the white ground. She wanted him to touch her, could almost feel the way those hands would feel on her, and she lifted her own hands, molded them over her breasts, let the nipples slide through her fingers, tugged on the icicles. As he watched, she drifted down, found her pussy, caressed it. Her nipples were tight with cold, her legs spread, opening herself to him, her pale body dusted with flakes and the icicles glittering at her nipples. She knew her cheeks were flushed with her excitement and the reaction of her body to the cold.

  “I think I’ve found a snow angel in truth,” he observed, his voice gruff. “Are you cold, baby?”

  She nodded, and when he bent to her, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her legs around his hips. He lifted her out of her angel silhouette, turned and carried her back into the house.

  The blast of warmth shivered through her skin and his arms tightened around her. She kept her cheek pressed against his neck as he moved through the house, past the living room, and down the short hallway into her bedroom.

  She’d painted the walls a tranquil blue and hung chimes of metal stars from the ceiling fan, so they sang softly with the slow level air currents. He laid her back on the quilted comforter, her knees crooked over the side so her hips were on the edge and he stood between her knees. His chest
filled her vision in that moment, and then slid back as he took her arms from his neck and laid them over her head so they draped, relaxed against the soft fabric. The only illumination was the hall light, so every feature of his body was defined by the interplay between shadows and shafts of light.

  He raised and shifted her to ease the remaining cords from her waist, thighs and crotch. His fingers caressed her clit as he eased the knots away from them, and her hips lifted, responding to his fingers, wanting more.

  “Hold on a moment, sweetheart,” he said. “I want this off so there’s nothing to keep me from burying my cock all the way to the hilt in your cunt.” But when he got the ropes off, he did not move immediately to do that. He stroked her, his hooded eyes becoming more intent as her movements began to work in a rhythm with his stroking, and she turned her cheek to the cover, biting it as he manipulated her clit between his fingers, worked it in tiny movements and light squeezings of his fingers, lazy long caresses with his knuckles and finger tips.

  “Sam, please…”

  “That’s right, Constance. Remember, I want my woman wet and begging. I love to watch you get hot. See how hard you’re making me?”

  She did, and it made her want him all the more. The numbness of her cold backside, thighs and back had become a tingling that meshed with the coiling sensation of his fingers. She was losing her mind, losing everything but an intent focus on everything he was doing to her.

  He removed the icicles, one at a time, leaving her completely naked, just her and him now.

  “This moment is about more than sex, Constance. When I fuck you, it’s just going to be you and me.”

  She wanted to believe him, but was so afraid to do so that she did not respond. He kept his fingers on her clit and pussy, kept her moving restlessly beneath his touch, her body open and eager for him. She thought he might move to take her then, but then his gaze flicked up to hers and she knew before he said it that he wanted to drive her up even higher.