by Jordan Castillo Price
It’s asinine to be crouching
in this rundown shack when it’s got to be ten below with a wind
chill of minus forty. My nuts are snugged up tight against me and my teeth
are chattering. The air’s so frigid it hurts to breathe, but my
heart’s pounding so hard I can’t stop taking these huge gulps
of air. And I’ve got to breathe into my scarf so it doesn’t
steam up the window and give me away. Only my scarf’s getting damp
on the inside and crunchy on the outside, and it’d probably smell
like wet wool if it weren’t made of acrylic. And the sun glaring
off the ice-glazed mounds of snow out there is making my eyes water.
I’ve gotta keep them open, though, because if I slack off, for even
just a moment, he’s gonna find me.
There’s a creak--is it the sole of a boot on subzero snow, or just
that same damn tree that’s been swaying in the wind? There it is
again. Definitely a creak. Though it did sound a lot like that tree....
My head smacks the low rafter of the shed as I jump. “You cheated.”
“I don’t need to cheat.”
My snowblind eyes only find his silhouette, though I know he’s gotta
be smirking from the tone of his voice. He’s big on smirking.
He makes a giant show of checking his watch. “I found you in seven
minutes,” he announces. “Which means I get to pick.”
Outwardly, I sigh. But inside...that’s a different story. ‘Cos
as my eyes adjust I can make out that crinkle he gets at the corners of
his eyes, pale eyes under pale eyebrows, eyes that light up with glee
over the smallest victories. It’s a great feeling to be the prize.
“Well go ahead,” I say, going through the motions of acting
like I’m above our little games, “name it.”
His tongue flashes over his lips, pink on pink, matching the spots of
color on his cheeks. I see his breath now against the backdrop of tarp-covered
bundles deep in shadow. One of his eyebrows crooks up like he’s
thinking. Like he hadn’t decided what he was gonna demand the second
he figured out where I was hiding.
“Suck me,” he says, still grinning as he pushes me down.
My knees hit the light dusting of snow that’s blown in through the
cracks in the walls, and his jean zipper’s startlingly loud against
the strange, muffled silence of the snow covered garden. His dick’s
already hard, prodding my lips while his fingers weave through my hair.
His skin feels hot against my tongue compared to that cold air I’ve
been breathing, or trying unsuccessfully not to breathe, as the case may
be. His fingertips are chilly points of pressure on my scalp, but they
warm to the temperature of my body as I tongue his cock from tip to base
and then open the heat of my throat to him.
He clenches my hair and pushes in, mumbling those inarticulate little
encouragements of his that he always denies later. And somehow the warmth
of it all, his cockhead, my throat, seems like a bright, burning flare
of heat in the midst of a frozen wasteland.
His hand drops from my hair, thumb tracing a hot line down my cheek, stroking
my jaw. He tilts my chin so that I open my eyes and look up at him, see
him staring down at me over the black landscape of his snow-powdered leather
jacket. “Okay,” he says, and he’s breathing immense
white plumes. “Now pack snow into your cheeks.”
A twinge steals over me that’s only partially discomfort. It’s
gonna hurt him, isn’t it? Or is it? Fine. He wants snow? I’ll
give him snow.
I force my hand out of my peacoat pocket long enough to grab up a good
handful of snow from a drift beside the door. I pack it hard with my clenched
fingers before I stuff it in my cheeks.
I’m tempted to grab the dick prodding at my damp scarf and remind
him what it’s like to touch snow with bare fingers, but I restrain
myself. Because I want him to forget about snow, just for a second. I
breathe out through my nose, the air warm from my lungs fanning over his
dick, and I smooth my lips over the side of his shaft, tracing the silkiness
of his skin with fluttery, warm kisses, all the while breathing him in,
and enfolding him in the warmth of my breath, my lips. I come to his cockhead
and press my lips against the slit, sliding my snow-chilled tongue out
to tease a drop of salty precome from him.
His whole body shudders.
I twitch my tongue over his wet slit again, and then I ease him in, all
“Oh, fuck.” He growls the words out, hands wrenching at my
hair as if to make sure his hips don’t pull back of their own accord.
My tongue’s so cold his cock sears it, so sensitive I can feel his
blood pulsing through his veins. It pounds into me, that steaming hot
dick, and friction or blood or his sheer will keep it from cooling down.
He’s so turned on his gasps have turned to sobs, great, wrenching
bites of frigid air pummeling his lungs, and then his grasp on my hair
turns painful and he sucks in a deep breath and goes rigid.
His come is scorching in my throat, but the snow dulls the sharp taste.
I feel him sway as he gives one final, wet twitch, pulling away from me,
but just far enough to sink down to his knees. I’m about to spit
out what’s left of the snow, but his hand, gentle now, finds my
“Wait,” he whispers.
His lips are hot against mine as he sighs into my mouth.