Ice and Fire
Let me in. It's so coooold out here.
I can see you've finished your preparations; there's no need to leave me freezing here any longer.
Stamp up and down hugging myself to preserve my dwindling body heat. The darkness has drawn in and crusts of ice are thickening over the little water filled hollows in the old flagstones. The cold strikes hard through the thin soles of my shoes. At least I have shoes.
My legs ache: I want to sit down. The old stone seat, shady and cool in summer, mocks me with a promise of a deathly cold embrace. Perhaps if I stand by the window he'll take pity and let me back in.
Swirls of my breath are clinging to the glass. Rich golden light streams out into the black night and bathes me in a fire devoid of the slightest comfort. Each sharp flash of reflected brilliance from the gaudy Christmas tree stabs me with a lance of frost from the bitter air. Come on, pleeeease. You can see me through this glass door: I'm not invisible, nor some frost wraith to be confined to this harsh world.
You're lifting your eyes from your book, yes, but where's the welcoming smile to call me in? You are looking expressionlessly at me, noting my suffering. Are you weighing it in the balance, considering its sufficiency? Or merely observing it, a phenomenon of purely transient interest. A log shifts on the fire, sending out a shower of sparks. Your attention turns to that then returns to your book.
I return to shuffling stiffly back and forth across the unforgiving stones, but does my passage through the still and frozen air rob me of more heat than my feeble movements generate? I don't know, but I cannot bear to be still and feel my life-warmth leaching away by degrees.
Was that the click of the door lock?
Oh God, yes it was, he's there waiting for me.
My stiff limbs cannot propel me fast enough to the heat, to life, to you.
As I stumble over the low threshold you catch me, wrap me in a warm, warm blanket. Cotton, faintest smell of singeing from the fire, deep, deep warmth enveloping me. Years slip away and it floods back, the wrapped in a blanket, carried up with just my nose sticking out into the chill air upstairs in the old house. Beds with hot water bottles, pools of heat in a chilly starched cotton sea. But here and now is the crackling log fire, the warm blanket opening and a wave of heat pouring over me, radiant, bone deep.
Can I stay here forever, curled across your lap, drinking in the liquid heat? No, don't move! Ah, but only to bundle me snugly again, tightly cocooned in a textile womb.
No sound except slowly beating hearts and the spit and crackle of the log fire. My feet are still a little cold. Mmmm that's better, I can feel the fire gently toasting my toes now, but can't I curl up beside you, not lay sprawled out like this? No, don't unwrap me, I want to stay like this, warm and secure. The radiant heat trickles up my legs and I can feel it dancing on my....oh no, pleeease!
I don't want this, stop it! Let my leg go and I'll kick and kick you, you...you you... My warm blanket-womb is a straitjacket and I am helpless in the face of this outrage.
Stop it, stop it..ow!..ow!.owowowowow this is not FAIR. And neither is your caress.
Yes, I want your touch, gentle and insistent, preening my pleasure. It's good, oh so good - but way do you make me pay so for this delight - and why do I betray myself by anointing you with my desire?
Oh the warmth, on me and within me - no, not again, it hurts, it hurts, really and truly it does: can't you see my aches are for your caress - yes like that. That slow burning fire is suffusing me - I want your touch: more, more feed my inner fire. You WILL stay there, I'll hear the little bones crunch and grind if need be, but you keep there....there...there..there.
Noooooooooooooo nononononono touch me, touch me, let me go but don't leave me hanging like this. Your cool touch is on the wrong fire. Cool? Hard and unyielding, cold as ice, tap tap tapping. You wouldn't? Aaeeeiii you would, you would, I hate you, let me go, I'll kick and kick and oowwwww pleeeease no.
Warm inside my blanket-womb: warm and damp from soft tears; and outside the fire burns. And inside embers of lust resentfully smoulder. Can an ember refuse to burn bright when swirled in a warm breath? Can the burning coal ignore the fuel all around it, raw and waiting? No more can I, full well you know. I ache and you release me. Glorious, glorious fire.
The fire burns low and the light grows dim outside my heavy shuttered eyes. I swaddled in warmth, curled upon you. A grunt as we move and my head lolls as you slowly carry me upwards in to chilly upper air. A bed with you warm beside me, a pool of heat in a chilly starched cotton sea.
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