Quiver

“Here, doll, slip this on, you’ll need it where we’re going.”

He holds out a full-length mink coat. On her it reaches to just below her knees. “Present from a furrier mate of mine, for

carcasses rendered.” He laughs. Taking her hand, he guides her down a pristine white corridor toward a thick metal door, built like the door of a safe.

“The freezer room, my favorite haunt,” he says, as a mist of frozen air drifts out of the open door.

“I’ve got this thing about extremes. Any extreme. They fascinate me—love, hate, tall, short, hot, cold. Anything but mediocrity. I reckon that would be living death.”

The light is dim, a soft blue. As her eyes adjust she realizes that the light comes from fluorescent tubes set into the floor. They run down corridors of hung carcasses. Huge sides of frozen cow hang from steel hooks, the smaller sheep carcasses swing opposite. A pig’s head looms up out of the dark. She gasps; he laughs.

“I like frightening you. It’s a turn on.” Again she wonders about the rashness of her actions. Remembering Jock’s words she decides that risk is something one must surrender to entirely, like religion.

They reach an open area, where a large wooden chair sits beside a small lamp and a blow heater.

“Sit down.” His tone is commanding, authoritative. She sits on the chair.

“Open your coat.” She opens the fur as he moves forward, staring intensely into her eyes. He moves so close she can feel his breath on her cheek. He undoes her buttons and slips his cold hands under each breast. Her nipples stiffen as they hit the cool air. Still staring into her eyes, he squeezes each one, hard.

“Beautiful.”

A wave sweeps across her body as she feels her sex clench in response. She shuts her eyes, rolling her head back, vulnerable just for a moment. She feels his hot mouth against her neck as he bites gently into the flesh. The contrast between his mouth and the freezing air makes her want him to cover her all over with this moist heat. He takes one breast into his mouth and guides her hand down toward his fly. Terrified of her innate clumsiness she fumbles for a moment at the zipper. He helps her and puts himself in her hands. His cock, compact and thick, dwarfs him even further. It is erect, sprung and proud, transforming him into half-animal, half-man. He leans across and switches the blow heater on. Hot air blows across her exposed skin and up her skirt. He slips his hand under the silk pants and onto her sex, his fingers burrowing deep into her. She moans as he parts her, placing two, three, four fingers into her, forcing her to spread her legs. The tip of his cock is poised to enter her, brushing against the lips of her sex. Her face is freezing, her cunt hot from his fingers.

He strums her clit, making her legs shake with intense pleasure.

“Statistics. Height?”

“Six foot, five inches.”

“Bust?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“What cup? What cup!?”

“D cup.”

“Waist?”

“I don’t know.”

She is close to coming. The innocent in her cannot believe that a man would know how to pleasure a woman with his hands.

She feels as if she is completely under his power, his relent-less fingers, the strength in his broad muscular shoulders, the black hair curling around his nipples.

She leans forward and tastes him, licking the skin of his chest. He smells delicious, feral, musky. The rogue male.

“Waist approximately?”

“Thirty-four.”

“Hips?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Shoe size?”

“You know it.”