This is an English translation of the story originally posted in Dutch as ‘De Sneeuwkoningin’ elsewhere on this site. If you landed here coming from wickedwednesday (welcome!), please be advised (and please forgive) that I violated the 1200 words-rule. This one is around 1750.
Papers lay scattered on the table between us. An empty teapot, two glasses, a pile of books, a couple of notepads. We are working, we write. The rhythmical sound of fingers touching keyboards fills the air. Outside, dark and heavy clouds accumulate, announcing snow. Now and then, our glances meet with a silent smile from behind our laptops. Once in a while, we read a sentence aloud to exchange opinions. It is the little pleasure of only letting snippets shine through, mere hints at the full depth of the thoughts we entrust to our digital paper. For the weekend, this hotel room is our bubble. I tend to stand up now and then, walk towards the window and stare outside, pondering the story’s plot or looking for an adequate metaphor. I position myself behind you, caress your hair and the soft skin of your neck. That slight twist of your neck, light as a feather, acknowledges my presence. This is right. This is what we wanted.
I call room service to order a fresh pot of tea and a couple of minutes later, a knock on the door breaks our concentration. I open the door.
“Good morning. Your tea.”
I step aside and let the waitress in. She is carrying a tray and walks past us into the room, towards the little table between the armchairs.
We both look at her. She is younger than us, her hair in a short tail, wearing glasses. She is pretty. We see her slight hesitation in what – up to that moment – had been routine hotel staff activities. As she bends forward to put the tray on the table, for the shortest of moments her eyes seem to be fixed on something else. On the back of one of the armchairs there is a chain and a collar, a silent steel-and-leather witness of the night before. We exchange a glance because we know what she’s looking at.
Are we caught?
We smile, and then look at her again. Apparently unmoved, she straightens up again and gets ready to leave the room. She halts at our table.
“Is there anything else of your service?”
She is slender and there is a tiny sparkle in her eyes.
“No, thank you,” I calmly say but she does not seem to notice me. She has her eyes fixed on you. Not on your face, but on a point just below. She is looking at your neck. She is merging images, forging a collage and admiring it in her mind. I know the image that is taking shape in her head. I know it because I have seen it, I have created it and I have lived it with you. She is caught. Red-handed.
“Please do call on me if there is anything else you need,” she says before she walks out and closes the door behind her. As we exchange another silent smile and devote ourselves to the muse again, the first snow falls.
The white flakes wrap up the world at an ever increasing pace. Inside, our fingers hover over the keyboards. Just like you pace up and down the room, I sometimes stare and contemplate. I let my gaze wander over the white landscape outside and think of yesterday evening, a memory firmly settled in my mind. In my fantasy, the waitress has served us countless times already, she has put the collar around my neck and has led me to you. Or I have brought her to you. Or she has brought us together.
Your eyes, slightly narrowed, reflect the tension and excitement of the stuff you are writing. I want to know the magic you envision. But no, I do not want to break your concentration, I do not wish to distract you from the splendor you are creating. I do not speak, I merely watch and enjoy your image in front of me – and a sigh escapes my lips.
You look up, and instead of looking at me, you look into me.
“What’s on your mind?” you ask in a soft voice.
“Do you think she’d come if we were to order three glasses of rum and lemon?” I whisper. You smile.
“And that third glass? For her?”
I nod and turn my head towards the white reflections of the world outside. You approach and sit down on the chair next to me. I lay down my head on your lap, you place your hand on my cheek.
“Will you read your story to me?” you ask. There is desire in your voice. I nod again, smiling.
You take my hand and gently lead me towards the bed. The sheets still harbor yesterday evening’s scents.
“You need the laptop, or by heart?”
No, no laptop. I throw back the covers as an invitation.
You pick up the collar that was waiting patiently on the armchair, and lay beside me.
“Close your eyes,” you say.
I do as you say, as I always do. Your soft hands fold the cold leather around the pulsing veins of my neck. I want to open my eyes and drown in yours, but you anticipate this, you know me – your hand keeps them closed. A few seconds later, I feel how soft cloth covers my eyelids.
“Turn around”, you say.
I turn on my side and feel how you nestle up in front of me, your warm buttocks in my lap. Gently but without hesitation you wield the chain, pulling me closer. Along with the increasing tension of the collar around my neck, my soul wraps around yours. You lead my hands to your loins and I curve my fingers around your cock.
“Tell me, my love, tell me how you bring her to us”, you whisper.
As I open my lips and speak the first words of my story, I feel your movement in my hand.
First Act: Together
When you felt her staring at your neck you decided to write her into your story. I know your creativity, I know your prowess at steering the luxury coach of your lust. And now you are reading aloud, by heart, close to me, blindfolded and chained. At the same time you control me, by your hand. Our clasps are synchronous and aligned with the intensity of the words that emerge from your lips. You have written about her and about us. Each exciting phrase you speak makes me pull you closer. The soft force of the chain has become a wordless review and I am your critic. Your hand around my cock immediately responds to my feedback. As you finish your story, you are so close to me that I can feel your accelerated breath in my neck. I want you close.
I slightly release the tension on the chain. Without removing the blindfold, I help you to kneel on the bed and I make sure a pillow is ready for you. I guide you in laying your beautiful face on the pillow, now that your hands on your back can no longer support you. I kneel behind you and while I tie your wrists with a silk scarf, soft and tight at the same time, my knees force your legs to spread. I want you to be open. I drape the chain along the center of your back, the leather end between your buttocks.
“Take me,” you whisper.
“Patience my love. Stay as you are. It’ll be worth it”.
For a short moment I caress your hair, and then you hear how I walk away from you. You’re confused, and try to make sense of the sounds that you hear. It is my voice, but you cannot hear what I am saying. As long as the snow needs to add another inch to the white carpet outside, you feel no touch although you want to be touched; there are no words although you long for them to be spoken. The silence is such that you think you can hear the sound of snow falling, that you can feel its sharp cold on your naked skin.
The knock on the door is almost deafening. You hear my voice, subdued, and another, higher in pitch. Then, suddenly, you feel my proximity. You know my hands when they softly touch your buttocks. You recognize my skin, you know exactly how it feels when I push your cheeks apart. You know the extent of excitement it gives me; you know how much I like to see you open in front of me. Two hands on your bottom. But then, there is another hand, a third hand that picks up the chain.
“Feel her,” you hear me whisper. You immediately realize, it is different skin than mine that explores your body and hesitatingly caresses the space between your spread buttocks. These are unknown fingers, soft and slender, with longer nails. You know who these fingers belong to, because you have written the Snow Queen into our story. The fibers in your body tighten. You cannot see, but you can feel and hear, and her impatient breathing is unmistakably close.
You feel how her hands move with increased confidence. She has identified with you and adopts your moistness; in a split second she is addicted forever. Your eyes want to look back, but can’t. Your hands want to respond but are not allowed to. As two slender fingers find their way along the path between your wet lips and slide deep inside you, you feel how the chain is pulled tighter and how it forces your head upwards. It is wonderful to see you like this, when it seems you are the one who is forced, yet in reality you are dictating. She removes her soft fingers from your pussy, and a second later you feel them touch the lips of your yearning mouth. The taste of unknown skin, mixed with the flavor of a familiar fluid. A short twitch of the chain guides your mouth to hers. A compelling tongue that encircles yours, an unfamiliar but sweet taste mixed with a breath that reveals lust. It is the lust that you have unleashed, you know that. Then, every touch subsides and the emptiness returns, just as you were ready for complete fulfilment. A bond has been forged and the weekend is long. After her shift, she will return, serving three rum and lemon. She was caught red-handed in a world that has turned white: the Snow Queen, enchanted by you.