We’re having a real cold snap. O.K., maybe up north nobody’d call it COLD, but for us down here it’s about as cold as it gets.
And we completely freak out about it too; stocking up on supplies as if a hurricane’s coming, battening down hatches, taking plants off the balcony, running faucets on trickle overnight. Schools close, people leave work early. Nobody goes outside unless it’s a matter of life and death, and if they dare take that chance, they wear just about everything they own.
You get the idea.
So I’m out and on my way to pick up some medicinal spirits, just in case. Round the corner comes a figure all swaddled and mittened and scarfed and hatted and hooded. The only identifier is the glasses peeping out between hatbrim and muffler: coke-bottle-bottoms with dark round frames.
My neighbor Francie.
She’s been stocking up on something, toting it in two canvas shopping bags. When closer, she says “a little help?” shoves her bags into my chest and rummages in her pockets for her keys. I put aside my booze run for the moment and follow Francie home.
Waddle-wobbling along with quick little steps, she looks a bit awkward (even taking into account the mummy ensemble) and definitely in a hurry.
She gets the street door open and scoots into the narrow breezeway toward the back porch. “Just c’mon in with those,” she says over her shoulder, zipping away pit pat pit pat on the frozen flagstones. Ah! That unmistakeable squeezed-buttcheek shuffle. That girl needs to *go*. And soon.
**
As I close the vestibule door, Francie opens her puffy quilted knee-length coat. A tiny gust of body heat and girl-scent blossoms out, getting warmer and stronger when she unwraps her scarf and takes off her hat. She runs a hand through her boycut hair, then wiggles out of her coat.
She heaps all this stuff on top of the bags I’m still holding, takes a step back and cracks a dimply half smile. She twiddles her fingers on the buttons of a heavy grayish waistcoat. I think she’s looking at me, but I can’t see her eyes behind those fogged-up Dmitri Shostakovitch specs.
She spins out of a thick dark overskirt and holds it up between us like a magician’s cape. Then she drapes it over my head and all the other stuff. The fabric is warm and it carries a fragrance, a faint flowery stink: Francie’s been venting gas on her double-time march home!
I hear her giggling as I put down the burden and slowly un-tent myself, trying to sniff up all of Francie’s odor. “Stinky!” she chirps. By the time I’m clear, she’s smoothing out her rumply clothes. I notice the entryway’s got considerably brighter: Francie is splash of bright color.
Before layering and bundling-up in her arctic gear, Francie – as always – took care to dress sharp. And in spite of – or because of – the awful weather, she got herself all lit up underneath it all. When my eyes adjust I take her in: a froofy skirt looking like Newton’s color disc, and a top that bumps up against the visible-wavelength bound.
“Physics!” Francie says. She puts a hand on a hip and shifts her weight on to one foot. I’m hoping she’ll poot out her little butt and tease and taunt with some fresh girl-gas, but alas no – she’s only wiggling out of her boots.
CLOMP goes one feminine boot and CLUMP goes the other sassy one.
Francie slides her glasses up on top of her head like the cool girls do – though she probably sees as well without her glasses as she does with them all fogged up – touches her fingers to the wall and heads toward the bathroom. “C’mon along,” she purrs. “I know what you want.”
I kick out of my own latitude 30 mukluks and sockfoot after, hot on her scent.
**
As I squeeze through the half-open door, Francie’s parking her little butt on the seat: her skirt hiked up, her underpants at mid-thigh, she settles in and exhales. “Oof!” she says. “That was getting close!” Her pee stream starts.
I fumble around, cursing all these extra layers of flannel and felt, and finally get partway free.
“Oh!” she says, squinting and leaning in close. “It’s just a little nub!”
Well c’mon, I’m thinking. It’s, like, Yukon-igloo-cold out there.
“Alright then,” she giggles. “Here’s little help!” and uses her mouth.
She was wasn’t just teasing about that nub thing – she’s able to hoover up the whole works, and her cold little nose is bumping up against me. It’s just a few seconds of slurpy suckles before there’s a sharp little *smack* sound. She leans back slowly, dragging her upper lip and tongue and leaving behind a lot of thick shiny spit.
Francie sits up straight and twinkles her eyes. A tiny squeak echoes from beneath her, then comes the slippery-friction sound of her poop sliding free. She vees open a gap between her thighs and lets the high, sweet scent drift up. “I eat a lot of fruit,” she reminds me – but I’m distracted with sniffing and stroking.
**
Francie’s mini-blowjob was a pleasant surprise. Of course the ‘pleasant’ part goes without saying.
Here’s the ‘surprise’ part: When Francie and I play, things usually don’t go farther than masturbation. Sometimes she’ll make me come hands-free from prostate massage; Francie has a stim-stick with my name on it (literally – she had the toy monogrammed). Once in a while we get off looking at some of that glamcore porn she likes, lying side-by-side with a modesty gap between us. But most often it’s a solo show with her directing.
She insists that I tell her how good she is to me – allowed to wank with her panties, to sniff her socks or t-shirt armpits – and that I thank her because I’m allowed to ejaculate (she keeps more than one of her sissy pet boys locked in a chastity cage).
So this fluffing and Francie-lube is a special privilege. Maybe it’s the weird weather or maybe it’s from indulging her ‘consensual voyeurism’ kink. But something’s got Francie really randy. It’s not often that she consents to physical contact.
And as busy as I am at the moment, I wonder just what mischief this sweet tiny domme is up to.
**
It’s getting close now. Francie’s whispering encouragement, her warm breath on the glans.
What finally carries things over the edge is a sound – a stinky twig separates from her body and slides into the water with a bowl-amplified swoosh – and a strong scent.
Between the first twitch and the first spurt, Francie slaps my hand off and puts her mouth over the head. She strokes through all the spasms, waits a moment, then gives a long gentle base-to-tip squeeze to drain the urethra.
She pulls her mouth off, peeks up and shines a smile.
wot’s all this then, eh?
Francie’s husband peeks into the bathroom. Francie turns that shiny smile on him.
“Hi cucky!” she says (as clearly as she can with a mouthful of come).
“I have a snowball for you!”
I know my place and take a step back. Graeme slides in, gives me a wink and leans over. I listen to them share a slurpy gooey kiss.
**
I’d like to stay and watch what happens next, but I need to get to the liquor store. He might close early.
Goddam cold weather.