Naughty & Ice

a festive display of submission.

I pretend I don’t see the shadow in the window.

There’s a tree behind it—white and blue lights glowing like the bones of stars, blinking slow and stupid, like they’ve been watching this whole time. Like they know what I’m about to do.

He told not to speak. Not to expect anything.

He told me to go outside and undress.
He said, Let’s see how long you last.

So I do.

The porch creaks under my feet, and already the cold is licking at the backs of my knees. It’s sharp and cocky, like it knows it’ll win. But I don’t flinch. I don’t even pause. I reach for the hem of my sweater and peel it up, slow, like he’s right in front of me.

It’s too cold to be elegant. The sweater catches on my elbows. My breath fogs the air. My nipples go hard like they’re bracing for a hit.

Then the bra.

It sticks to me from the heat of the house. I wrestle it off, tugging it past my shoulders, teeth clenched. My skin is already pink from the temperature drop. I let it fall.

Next, the jeans.

They’re harder. Denim resists the cold. But I want this. Want to be ridiculous and raw in the snow. I want to feel what it does to me. I want him to see how far I’ll go without even a knock.

I unzip.

The air hits my cunt like a slap. A true slap. I’m wet already. Soaked in a way that embarrasses me. My pussy lips are flushed and open, and the breeze curls up into them, no mercy.

I stand there, naked.

Naked and outside.

Outside and waiting.

My feet are bare on the ice-glazed porch, and I can feel the sting start to rise. First in my toes. Then my thighs. It spreads, this slow ache, like teeth digging in. But I keep my chin high. I keep my back straight. I pretend I’m not trembling.

I step off the porch. The snow gives under me with a soft crunch, fine powder crusted with ice on top. My footprints trail behind me like a confessigon. The cold wraps around my ankles and climbs, gnawing at the tender skin behind my knees, between my thighs. Each step burns. The air is sharp, quiet, the kind of silence that feels watched. Pine branches sag under the weight of snow. I walk until I’m far enough that I can’t see myself reflected in the window anymore.

I think about how I must look to him.

Pink and stubborn and dripping.
Hair sticking to my mouth.
A good girl pretending to be a brat.
Or a brat pretending to be good.

I know he’s watching. I don’t need to see him to feel the weight of it. The way his gaze moves across me like a palm. I want him to get angry. I want to ruin his discipline. I want to make him ache.

I stay.

Even as my calves start to seize.

Even as my teeth begin to chatter.

Even when I feel the drip of wetness run down my thigh and freeze there.

I stay.

Because it pleases him. Or maybe it punishes him. I don’t know anymore. Maybe it’s both.

I imagine his cock in his hand. I imagine his legs spread wide in that ugly old armchair he pretends he hates. I imagine him muttering something under his breath like stupid fucking girl, even as he strokes himself harder. Even as he waits to see if I’ll break.

But I don’t.

Not yet.

---

She doesn’t flinch.

Goddammit.

He’s been watching since she stepped out. Watching the way her nipples lifted like they were trying to speak. Watching her untangle herself from that sweater, from the pretty little denim prison that clung to her thighs like they knew they’d miss her.

She looks obscene. Glorious.
An animal.
A poem.

And now she’s still. Arms limp at her sides, feet slowly purpling, thighs twitching from the cold—but still.

Still here.

His cock is already in his hand. Not gently. Not like he deserves this moment. He doesn’t. But she gave it to him anyway. She gave it to him like an offering, and now he’s punishing himself with it.

Each stroke is rougher than the last. He’s not playing. He’s trying to come. Trying to make it quick. He tells himself it’s because she’s cold. Because he doesn’t want to hurt her. But it’s a lie.

He wants to hurt her.

He wants to hurt her because she didn’t fold.

He wants to hurt her because she stood there, proud and pink and pretty, and made him feel like a fucking mess. He wants to hurt her because his thighs are tensing now, and the pleasure is too sharp, and he’s losing control.

And she knows it.
That’s the worst part.
She knows it.

She’s standing there because she knows what it does to him. She’s not just obeying. She thinks she’s owning him. And it makes him furious.

He stops.

He grips the base of his cock and breathes through his teeth, fury washing over him like nausea. His head drops back, eyes closed, trying to calm the flood. It doesn’t work. He hears himself growl something ugly.

He doesn’t even remember standing.

Doesn’t remember crossing the room.

Only the sound—

The door slams open.

The cold bites him too now. He’s barefoot. He doesn’t care. She’s still standing there like some goddamn sacrificial doll, body pink with effort, feet blotchy and trembling. But her eyes meet his.

And she smiles.

He sees it—just a flicker. That maddening little curve of her mouth.

And that’s when he snaps.

He doesn’t speak.

Just grabs me—rough and fast—one hand gripping the back of my neck, the other under my arm, hauling me off the porch like a sack of wet laundry. My feet fumble for traction on the iced boards. I don’t cry out, don’t resist. I want this. I wanted it the second the door opened.

He slams the door behind us with his foot. The heat inside hits me like a slap, but it’s not enough. The cold is still inside me, like a second skin. My legs wobble. My nipples burn. My whole body is one long sting.

He says nothing.

Just walks me to the fire.

He stands behind me, breathing hard. His cock brushes against my ass—still stiff, still unsatisfied—and it makes me want to arch, to beg. But I don’t.

Not yet.

“Down,” he says.

And I drop to my knees in front of the fireplace, palms to the rug, ass up. He doesn’t touch me. Just watches. The fire crackles. My skin feels like it’s breaking open as it thaws. A thousand little needles prick my arms, my thighs, the insides of my knees.

I whimper.

He crouches next to me.

“You stayed too long,” he says. Not angry now. Just low. Dangerous. Like he hasn’t decided yet what I deserve.

“I wanted to make you proud.”

“I don’t need pride,” he snaps. “I need obedience. I need you to feel what I tell you to feel when I fucking tell you to feel it.”

I nod. Because he’s right. But also because I loved it. And he knows that too.

His hand finds my ass and he slaps it once, hard. The sound echoes in the room. Then again, slower. And again. Until the pain replaces the cold and I start to melt.

“Lie back,” he says.

I do. My spine flattens to the rug. I spread my legs without being told. He kneels between them, fully clothed, watching the heat rise in my body like smoke. His eyes travel over me like a diagnosis.

“Touch yourself.”

I hesitate.

Then obey.

My fingers are still half-frozen, clumsy against my clit. But it doesn’t matter. I’m soaking. Pulsing. Aching from the inside out. He doesn’t move. Just watches. I think he wants me to cry. To fall apart for him right here, between the fire and the tree.

I arch. Moan. My cunt clenches against nothing. I want his hand. His cock. His mouth. Anything.

“Don’t come,” he says sharply. “Not yet.”

I stop.

Breathless. Shaking.

He reaches down and brushes my fingers away, just barely grazing me, and I shiver. Not from the cold this time. From the heat of his control.

“You can put your boots on,” he says, suddenly standing.

I blink, confused.

“Your boots. And your pink hat. Nothing else. Go outside and make me two snowballs.”

I stare at him, open-mouthed.

“You heard me.”

I scramble to my feet. Pull on the boots, yank the ridiculous alpaca hat over my head. It makes no sense. I look feral. Idiotic. A naked girl in snow boots and a bright pink hat. But I don’t hesitate.

The snow is even colder now. But the fire still licks under my skin. I crouch low, nipples brushing my knees as I scoop the snow, pack it tight. One in each hand.

I walk back in slowly. The warmth hits again. This time, my skin screams.

He’s sitting now, legs spread, cock out. Hard and pulsing and angry. He takes the snowballs from me like gifts.

Then nods toward the rug.

“On your knees. Between my legs.”

I kneel. He presses one snowball to my nipple. I cry out, hips jerking.

“Stay still,” he says.

The other snowball comes next, held to the other nipple while the first one melts. The shock is unbearable. My nipples are purple, raw, and hard like marbles. He watches them drip. Watches me twitch.

“Touch me,” he growls.

I reach for his cock, wrap my wet, freezing hand around him. He jerks at the first stroke, hisses between his teeth.

“Fucking hell.”

I pump him slowly, snow still packed against my breasts. His hips rise. He moans something guttural, something not meant for me to understand.

I lean in and lick the head.

Just once.

He groans, loud.

Then pushes the snowballs hard against my nipples one final time as he comes, thick and hot, splattering across my cheek and chest like punishment.

I stay kneeling, dazed.

Breathing hard.

Steam rising from my body.

Then he pulls me into his lap.

Wraps me in a blanket, his arms, his breath. His hand rubs circles on my thigh. I melt against him. His cock twitches once more against my belly, soft now. Sated.

He kisses the top of my ridiculous pink hat.

We sit like that for a long time.
The fire flickering.
The tree lights blinking.
The radio murmuring some warbly Christmas tune from the corner.

And for the first time, I’m warm.

---

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