July 14, 2007
Cold Ass Ice


cydytame016.jpgStep outside and it feels as if you’ve entered a hot, wet oven. You’re the pat of butter on the baked potato that is Gotham. It’s hot, hot, hot heat, wet and hot, and it cleaves to you, sweat-pressing your skin and enervating you with its doughy-moist succubus embrace.

You need to go somewhere the sun don’t shine. You need to find your place in the shade. You need to embrace your inner arctic. You need to stick an ice cube up your ass.

Maybe you try it on your own the first time. Maybe you go out and you buy a bag of ice because the cubes in your fridge just seem like you’d be shoving a square peg in a round hole, which you would. So you go out to the delis and the bodegas, the grocery stores and the mini-marts, you search high and low for those cubes shaped more like a child’s cartoon smile than a shoe box. You find a bag, you plunk down the outrageous $2.50, and gleefully you bring them home.

You stow the bag carefully in your freezer and you survey your bathtub. You consider the switch-twitch at the knot between your labia and then you consider the ring on your tub. You are suspended, momentarily, between desire and laziness, between disgust and yowling erotic need.

You clean the tub.

You stop and you admire its creamed-butter sparkle, and then you go to the freezer and you open the bag of ice. You pick out a singular, perfect, crystal-smile cube. You put it, a quick cold moment, in your mouth. You exhale and imagine you can see your breath in the freezer’s polar air. You take the ice cube to the tub.

You realize you still have your clothes on, so you put the cube in a cup, store it in the freezer, go to your bedroom, take off your clothes and tip-toe back to the bathroom. You don’t know why you tip-toe, there’s no one home, no one but pets to disturb, and they’ve born witness to so many of your indulgent perversions that they’re not even curious. But tip-toe you do.

Undressed, you get the cup out of the freezer. You add a second cube, just in case.

You go to the bathtub. You squat ungracefully and you recline clumsily. You extend your legs up the wall, so that the faucet sits between your splayed thighs, like the face of a grotesque lover. You consider for a moment running the tap with that gentle flickering stream that when you place your pussy exactly below its cascading fall, you come in a few wet minutes, your hips undulating a silent liquid adulation to your Neptune lover.

You consider it, but you don’t do it. Not yet.

You take a cube, you rest it against your asshole and you feel the immediate pucker of the asskiss, that quick inward convulsion, that wrinkle-crinkle in and up. And then with a deep breath, surely, remorselessly, unmercifully you use your index and middle fingers to push the ice cube into your ass.

The shock of the ice. Silver sliver ice-nine-esque core radiating. Like the plunge into a mountain stream from the inside. A swift round shot of pleasure/pain/pleasure.

Your breath inhales ragged-like. You imagine it’s not unlike the sensation of crack, only pure body.

You lie there in the tub, the ice melting in you, your breath quieting its rush-rush pants. You can almost see the cube rounding and erasing, turning into a little puddle of water, you can almost see it and you can feel the pain easing into a pure goodness.

You find that your hand moves between your legs, and you rub your hard little knot of a clit, your legs up the wall, the ice melting in your ass, you rub and you rub, and you imagine your lover watching you, maybe a whole bevy of lovers, all of them crowding in at you in the bathroom, perched on the sink and on the toilet, peering down with you with encouraging eyes, commenting favorably and as you imagine, and as you see the ice melting, and as your hand rubs your little hard knot, as the heat bears down on this glass city, wrapping it in still-born siroccos, as your heels scooch uncontrollably down the vanilla cream tiles of your shower, you come.

Or perhaps you just get on your hands and knees before your lover, hand her the cube and tell her: Stick it where the sun don’t shine. And turned away from her, you smile secret as she does so.


Comments

3 Responses to “Cold Ass Ice”

  1. la fille on July 14th, 2007 5:24 am

    Oh goodness. I was hoping this post would cool me down, not heat me up any further. I’m off to find some gently shaped ice cubes.

  2. Curvaceous Dee on July 14th, 2007 9:18 pm

    La Fille isn’t the only one now on a determined hunt for gentle ice-cubes… it’s winter here, and I want to stock up for summer!

    xx Dee

  3. chelsea girl on July 15th, 2007 7:34 pm

    I’m delighted I could, uh, help?

    kissykiss,
    chelsea g

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