crimson snow

Let us talk of cold winter days.

Untouched snow in the woods.

Bitter snapping wind.

And you in white.

—-

How long can you stand here in the snow, barefoot and with only your thin white nightgown for warmth?

Let us see.

I love the reveal.

Your smooth skin exposed inch by inch as my hand slides the hem of your gown up over your leg and thigh.

The warmth – striking contrast to the bite of cold – and the shivers that mark the path of my hand.

My hand looks perfect against your pale skin, nestled at your hip where my fingers have gathered your nightgown.

I’m gentle. Patient and deliberate in my violation of your space. But now that my hand is against your hip, now that your thighs are parted and I can see the hint of something at the apex of your thighs, my thumb presses inward, fingers tightening until I hear you gasp.

Can I make you forget the cold?

Two fingers should do it. Curled deep inside of you, my free hand at your lower back to brace you and keep you standing as I beckon you closer in the most intimate way possible.

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