Jack Frost In Summer

This is a cold world, frigid on the brisk, chill on the kiss of frost.
This is a cold world, but cold is not the same as lonely. Cold reminds us what the heat tastes like, and it combines us, shivering and new and one. It soothes us when we overheat, it sates and satisfies the thirsts inside of us. I bring that coldness, the deep cold, the soul-deep chill and I pack it and I store it, and I make the world a colder place in days that aim to burn us to a husk – dry and white and cracking in the breeze.
I play a tune to call the innocents into the world. They can forget the dangers of the road, where cats and cousins died a week, a year, or a generation before. The street is safe to my song. Danger knows to stay at bay – I will not allow it. Here, the children sing and cry, but never in tears. Never a scream, but one of hope and treasured gifts.
I work in dimes and quarters – some have moved on to dollars, or to two at a time. I don't need that kind of money. I don't want it. I work the week – a place I cannot even see in my mind's eye as the music plays. It is not my place. It is not me who works there. Here, I have a purpose. I bring the cold to the children, and they pay me in their warmth.
They smile at me, hair golden or brown or the darkness of exotic new horizons. Their cheeks a dozens shades of red or brown, they grin and lick and drink of the cold I bring them, the sweetness of it. My best will never taste as fine, will never bring the joy to me it brings to them. That joy, that sweet and delicate relief is my own cold, my own refreshment. As the music plays, we are all in a better place, a better world.
We are innocent.
When the music stops, I am not innocent. I have never sinned. I never will.
This is my penance and my simple joy.
I am a fairy prince, a storybook man. Without the cold and sweet and music, fairies terrify us all.

Appointment

(Little mature in subject matter - read at your own risk.)

She slipped out of her coat, and the refreshing coolness of the air stirred her awake inside. Here, she didn't have to function. Here, there was nothing to solve. Here, there wasn't even a solution. Here, there were only hands and eyes and scents and suggestion. A smile curled around her lips from somewhere deep in the pit of her belly.

This was her vacation. This was her time off. This was her freedom and her expression. She knelt, felt the soft silk wrapped around her neck. They pulled, and she followed.

A man with a soft face and hard eyes inched away her buttons. His lover kissed the skin that he revealed, her lips soft and numbing from her cool mint gloss, so cool it burned. Her cotton was torn away – off her shoulders, from her chest, from her hips. She was exposed in satin, her throat concealed in that violet silk. The lovers circled her, surrounded her, tracing her form in soft violet. Their prey's lips parted and the air invaded her.

It fled out in one long, slow gasp, a gasp of hours. Their heat defied her reason. Their gentle edges cut deep into her composure as they drug and slid and tasted. Her control was compromised in smooth fabric chains. She didn't remember being bound into the frame, but as she hung there in the luxury of slave, she was thankful. The man's breath was hot on the back of her neck. His lover's tongue was warmer still upon her belly. The cool mint of her kiss set a fire in her that her lover stoked with a slow, searing engagement.

When it was over, her body ached. Her cheeks were dry and stained from tears. Her lips felt cracked and hoarse from that long slow, breath, stealing the moistness out of her. They had drunk her dry and left her hanging in the dark – just as she'd requested. When she was ready, she would slip free of them herself. When she was ready, she would sheathe herself in cotton, button up the sensing flesh from her navel to her throat.

She would close herself again – she would be a professional. Her needs would be met, and they would not distract her. Deep down, she knew that this was just another solution to a short-term problem in her busy schedule. Part of her knew this wasn't what she truly wanted.

The rest of her was still bound for a few minutes more, content and empty of the tears of her buried need for touch. The silk kept that need in check, in place. In bondage.

She was still in control of her life, she thought. Even her extremes were in her planner.