The Snow Maiden (4 page)

“Mercy,” I gasped.

“Fresh out.” He added a third digit and pressed. His mouth on mine absorbed first my whimpers, then my protests as he slipped his hand from me. He dipped into the old-fashioned glass with its melting ice before returning to my scorching cunt. My snug channel stretched to accommodate the probing and I ground my hips down onto his hand.

My orgasm mounted and my hand on the bar began to tremble. He took it in his free one and pressed it against the straining fabric of his jeans. I was about to come and he knew it. He stayed close with murmured words of encouragement and kisses along my neck as I bucked against his firm hand. A few beckoning motions against the spongy flesh of my G-spot and my orgasm broke. It rocked me back on the barstool and he was there, taking the weight of my body against his and capturing my mouth to swallow my screams. His feverish touches carried me through the orgasm, wrung another hip-bucking spasm then another, and finally mewling whimpers of satiety.

He stroked my hair as I came down, my face buried in his crisp shirtfront. My breath came in pants and gasps as I rode out the final convulsions of my climax. He feathered a lingering kiss on my damp forehead.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

He paid our bills and ushered me, on shaky legs, into a taxi. I whispered my address and he gave it to the driver while I closed my eyes, lulled by his steady, even caress on my knee. He told the cabbie to wait while he tucked me into bed, where I slid into a dreamless sleep.

The sun was sitting high on her throne as I drove the long, black ribbon to the Outer Banks of North Carolina to begin my therapeutic vacation. My windows were open and the air conditioning off as I maintained the speed limit down I-74. The wind was enough to move the trickle of perspiration further between my breasts. I opened my mouth and allowed the briny ocean flavor to coat my tongue as I took the turnoff to Surfside Condos.

Sea air had given the buildings the weathered look of most seaside homes. Paint was unnecessary, even shunned, in lieu of the convenience and beauty of bare wood.

Rotund and rosy from exposure to the sun, the front desk receptionist stood and beamed at me as I entered. What was left of his hair was frizzy, and his bulbous nose was peeling despite a heavy smear of zinc oxide. Santa Claus on vacation. He checked me in with the leisure and small talk of someone who has spent his life on the beach. I made a mental note to tell Dr. Lawrence I liked his counterpart. He scratched his potbelly while he handed over a set of keys.

“It’s 183, go straight back and veer right by the palmetto trees. You got a really clear view of the water and you’re a good piece from the other units.”

“Thanks, Dr. Stroker.”

St. Nick giggled. “Oh, I’m not Dave. He’ll be back late this afternoon sometime. Said he’d check on you, though. Make sure you’re having a good time.”

I scaled the stairs to the unit on the uppermost floor. The windows were open, allowing the sea air to sweeten each room. I ignored the siren call of the master bedroom’s fluffy pillows and en suite garden tub, and moved into the kitchen where a gift basket beckoned.

Inside was a scented candle, a tube of silky body lotion, and a tin of Belgian chocolates. My teeth sank into a creamy paradise and I reached for the last item. Crisp tissue paper crinkled around my trembling fingers as I read the card tied to the neck of the bottle of Snow Maiden.

Feel like sharing?

- Dave

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