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A Couple of Fantasies: Snowed In


By Ella Grey


Copyright Ella Grey 2018


Smashwords edition


Cover design © 2018 BookCovers.Us 

Photos © DepositPhotos.com


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Snowed in


As the car finally reaches the top of the hill their cabin comes in sight and the couple breathes a sigh of relief.

‘I’m so glad we planned this weekend,’ the woman says as she eases the car into the parking space. ‘We really need it.’

‘And just think of all the fun things we’ve got planned!’ says her husband. ‘We’re going to have a great time.’

They bring their bags inside at a run. The heavy wooden door shuts behind them with a bang and they immediately light the fire, shivering with the cold.

‘I don’t like the look of those clouds,’ he says, striking the match.

She shrugs. ‘They’ll pass. And we’ll have nice fresh powder for skiing tomorrow. I can’t wait!’

The fire is lit but it isn’t hot enough yet to warm the room so they huddle by it, curled against each other, a soft woollen throw wrapped tightly around them.

After a quick dinner they get into bed, heavy with extra quilts. They have a big day planned for tomorrow.


***


When she gets up the next morning she notices something odd. ‘Darling, I can’t see out of the windows. They’re covered in snow!’

He yawns and rolls over. ‘It snowed last night, of course they’re covered. If you’re making coffee I’d love one.’

She goes downstairs. Those windows are thick with snow too but she puts it out of her mind and makes coffee and breakfast, bringing them back up to the bedroom.

The breakfast (jam on toast, it’s too cold in the kitchen for her to stay and make something fancy) is delicious and at least makes her husband sit up. When they’re done they kiss, slowly and deeply. He hesitates, curling his fingers in her hair but she pulls back, grinning.

‘Not now. Skiing first.’

They dress quickly and make their way downstairs. The front door is cold to the touch, which shouldn’t be surprising, but the woman swears she can see ice forming on the inside. Before she can ask if that’s normal her husband reaches for the door handle. It doesn’t turn and he tries again, rattling it. With a shout he lets go, cradling one hand in the other.

‘What’s wrong?’ she says.

‘It’s cold. Damn cold,’ he says, glaring at the door.

The woman stares at him. ‘Darling, are we … snowed in?’

‘I think so.’

‘So what should we do?’

He shrugs. ‘We have plenty of food and water. And we know the fire works because it’s still lit. I guess we’ll just have to wait until we’re rescued. It won’t take more than a day.’

His wife isn’t much comforted by that but she’s sure that they’re safe for now so there’s no reason to worry. Instead she shrugs off her fashionable knee-length red coat and goes to stoke the fire, which obliges her by expanding nicely as she feeds it another log. Heat washes over her and she sighs, equal parts happy and troubled.

A pair of warm, sturdy arms embrace her from behind and she lays her head back, resting it on her husband’s shoulder.

‘Don’t worry baby,’ he whispers, kissing the outer shell of her ear. ‘We’ll be safe. We might even have some fun.’

‘Only you would say that at a time like this,’ is her reply, but she feels better now that he’s said it. At least she isn’t stuck here by herself.

They stay like that for a while, each taking comfort in the other. But reality sets in, as it always does, and the woman’s legs start to cramp from kneeling.

She grabs a book from the shelf and curls up on the couch, leaving room for her husband to sit next to her. He does, laying his head in her lap and going straight back to sleep as she reads with one hand, her other hand stroking her husband’s cheek.

There isn’t a clock in the room but she can tell when it’s lunch time because her stomach starts to complain. She doesn’t want to move but her husband wakes up, patting his own belly.

‘I’m starving,’ he says. ‘I’ll go and make us something to eat.’

Like her he doesn’t want to stick around the freezing cold kitchen for too long so he simply throws a few things onto a serving tray and brings them back to the warmth of the living room, holding it out proudly.

‘I got you some camembert,’ he says. ‘I know it’s your favourite.’

She gladly takes the tray and settles it on the coffee table beside her. She’s already seated comfortably on the faux bearskin rug and she pats the spot next to her, she inviting her husband to sit down.

He does, taking an apple with him. It’s deliciously crisp and the woman watches the juice running down his hand with a raised eyebrow.

‘What?’ he asks, swallowing his food.

‘Nothing,’ she replies, reaching for the cheese. Her skin feels warmer now, and not just from the fire. She watches her husband eating from beneath her eyelashes with mounting excitement.

She cuts herself another slice of cheese and takes a bite, ‘accidentally’ letting some fall onto her shirt. Her husband, recognising the game, leans forward and licks it up.

She laughs and does it again, deliberately dropping a bigger piece this time. He obliges by licking it again.

‘You’re going to ruin your shirt if you keep doing that,’ he says, a playful spark in his eye.

‘I guess I’d better take it off then.’

She slowly unbuttons her shirt, folding it neatly as she places it on the floor behind her. When she turns back her husband is undoing his shirt too.

‘To match,’ he says, grinning mischievously.

As well as the cheese and fruit he’d included a three pots of jam and a can of whipped cream. The woman smiles as she licks her lips. She reaches for the jam and unscrews the lid.

‘Lay back,’ she tells him, knowing he’ll obey. He does, settling himself comfortably on the rug.

The light from the fire bathes his skin in a warming glow. Taking care to not spill any of the jam she dips her fingers in the pot and spreads a sticky, thick layer across her husband’s chest. It’s cold and he groans, the noise somewhere between discomfort and pleasure. She licks her fingers clean, watching her husband’s face. He’s clearly eager for her to get started but patiently waits for her next move, happy to let her take control.

Once her fingers are clean she moves, throwing a leg over his hips until she’s straddling him. His hands come up and cradle her buttocks as she gently grinds against his hips.

She lowers herself slowly so only her tongue touches his chest. The apricot jam is delicious on her tongue, especially when mixed with the unique taste of her husband. She slurps and licks enthusiastically, her breasts pressing against him in her eagerness. When she’s out of jam she kisses him, sharing the sweetness between them.

All the while his hands have been stroking her legs, her back and anywhere else he could reach. He slipped his fingers inside her underwear but she pulled away, wanting to tease him. Now that she is finished he gently but firmly holds her close and flips them both over so the bare skin of her back now rests on the rug.

There is a second pot of jam on the table and her husband reaches for it.

‘Cherry. My favourite,’ he says as he upends all of it over his wife. It splatters on her breasts, her stomach, her thighs and she shivers each time a new, slightly chilly drop lands on her skin.

Like his wife before him he takes his time in licking it off but this time he starts with her toes, where the very last drops of jam landed. He works slowly and methodically, making sure not a single inch of skin escapes his attentions. After her toes he licks her ankles and her calves and by the time he’s worked his way up to her thighs his wife can barely contain herself, her hips thrusting towards the ceiling as she urges him on faster. But he will not be rushed until she is clean, until the soft skin of her thighs lies before him, sticky with jam and his saliva.

The woman’s torso is still covered in jam but she couldn’t care less as she parts her legs as far as they will go.

‘Fuck me,’ she begs, her breath coming in whispers. ‘Please?’

With four long, hot strokes of her husband’s tongue he clean the mess from her stomach and breasts, swallowing noisily.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Since you asked so nicely.’

He kisses her now and his weight is on her, heavy enough that she can feel the heat of his skin but not heavy enough to restrict her breathing. She’s taught him well.

Kneeling, her husband settles himself between her thighs and raises her hips in line with his own. Gently he eases himself inside, his entry made much easier by the juices flowing from her. He waits until he’s fully inside of her for a heartbeat before he pulls back, almost all the way out of her.

She’s almost sobbing now, her fingers clawing at the rug. ‘Honey! Just fuck me!’

He obliges her, as he does in everything, gripping her hips firmly as he thrusts inside of her as deep and as fast as he can go.

His wife wraps her legs around him, pulling him even closer. She uses her own hands to lift her hips so that his hands are free to toy with her breasts and he does, gently twisting her nipples with his fingers. Every twist sends a spike of heat down her spine and she can feel herself getting closer to the edge, torn as she always is between wanting it to last forever and just wanting to come in one explosive, white-hot go.

It’s when he flicks her clitoris that she comes undone, her back arching and a broken cry escaping her lips. Above her her husband grunts, louder each time until he spends himself inside of her before collapsing on the rug, taking care to avoid hurting his wife.

He loves her, after all.

They lay together until their breathing slows and the room stops spinning. They put their arms around each other and fall asleep.


***


When they wake up they’re warm, which is nice, and sticky, which isn’t. After throwing a couple more logs on the fire they run upstairs and have a nice long shower, grateful that the hot water is still working.

As they towel off in the bedroom and get dressed the wife starts to laugh.

‘Was the door really that cold? Or were you just acting?’ she asks.

‘Acting. Could you really not see out of the windows?’ he replies.

‘No, but that was just fog. I think it’s cleared up now. We should go snowing before the sun goes down.’

He kisses his wife and they stand together, foreheads touching.

‘I love our fantasy days,’ he whispers.

‘I do to. And I love you even more,’ she says.

‘Even more than camembert?’ he teases.

‘Slightly more.’

They laugh and head outside, where the snow is fresh and even and certainly not piled up by the door.




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