Snow Monkey Serenade

He wore black: a bowler and leather pants. His t-shirt advertised some obscure contest, trivia or something. It was snowing, in late April. The old guard had gathered for a weekend of gaming and laughs. A snowball fight, we decided, was definitely in order. I ground the snowball into the back of his neck. He claimed to be too tired to feel it. I lifted his shirt and ran it over his chest, his nipples, and trailed it down toward the leather. "It's not working," he asserted, "although I am getting aroused."

I moved forward and licked the snowmelt from one nipple. His sharp intake of breath told me that something was working. I sampled the other. It tasted the same. His breathing was heavier, now. The others faded around us as my attentions turned to only him. My hands moved to occupy the place my tongue had been, and I ran curious fingers over hard points of pleasure. His eyes retained their usual mischievous sparkle, but a new layer had been added: a sort of primordial lust which interlaced with the giddiness usually residing in his warm brown gaze.

Our lips met. It was cautious at first, the tenuous handshake of two strangers being introduced on a blind date by a mutual friend. They found their foothold (liphold?), and started to dance, then to tango, then Lambada. Shortly, they were spelunking with the kind of reckless abandon which is usually reserved for schools of minnows. Fast, aimless darting; done in perfect synchronization.

His arms found their way around me, and my hands moved to the hollows near his hipbones, stroking idly through the downy hair there, swirling its velvet nap. His hands slithered over my vertebrae, climbing the stairs to the plateau of my shoulder blades. His fingers met resistance in the form of black lace. With a few deft moves, hooks separated from one another: lovers in a long-distance relationship after an embrace. Lace sighed against skin as the black sea parted and its milky riverbed arched against his hands. My arms raised from his hipbones to bring a perfect example of warm waveform motion to play against his chest. I pressed against him as he lifted my velvet tank top and whisked it away on a fun-filled vacation to the floor. His fingers swirled against my bare back like soft brushing of drums in a jazz ballad. His tongue played pattycake with mine in the sweet confines of our mouths. My hands found their way to his shoulders, which I cupped like luscious handfuls of moon-kissed spring water.

The light from the clock in the stove illuminated our bodies as more and more skin emerged, blinking, from its winter slumber under our clothing. Goth-pale skin acquired a green cast as the clock kept proudly displaying its hard won information. His hands slid up the gentle slope of my shoulder blades and relieved my shoulders of the debt of lace which rested there. The straps slid seductively forward as my breasts eased free of their wired lace cages. His hands followed the straps down and cupped the warm burdens which had been so recently borne by the lace. Now it was my turn to gasp, this time against his breath, which filled my mouth and my senses.

His fingers were slender and articulate, majestic in their strength and subtlety. His were an artist's hands, and I felt it with every iota of my being. I whispered his name, drawing it out into an impassioned sigh.

Holding my attention between his index and middle fingers, he drew his head back slightly from mine. Our gaze caught and held, a pair of trapeze artists leaping toward each other and, tightly embracing, plummeting into the moment like mating eagles in deathfall. He rubbed his cheek against mine and kissed the curve beneath my earlobe. He trailed kitten-kisses down my neck, to the hollow of my throat, to the eager points of interest that his "you are here" arrow pointed to. "What, no snow?" I said, my voice emanating lustily from somewhere deep within my throat. His tongue was too busy reading Braille to respond.

Grabbing my ass in his hands, he lifted me to sit on the counter while we necked. Pausing long enough to make the usual incongruous obscure reference, he asked, "Would you like me to give you the Aunt Jemima treatment?" I grinned, and slid my hand down past his navel to firmly grasp the handle of his pancake flipper. "Is this the proper utensil for that?" I asked. His head rolled back as he groaned loudly. His throat was exposed; his Adam's apple a delectable target in our linoleum-carpeted garden of Eden. I reached up with my tongue and slid it over the swelling of his throat, then grazed it with my front teeth as I slid my lips back down over it. His back arched, and his hands kneaded more insistently at my bosom. My hand grasped him gently, like a golfer holds a driver. ("Fore!") My thumb caressed the top and my fingers played the accordion of his sensitive underside. His eyes glazed over faster than a Dunkin' Donuts box of sex-crazed rabid weasels. His breath was coming in shallow gasps, as I surmised the rest of him soon would be.

"I can rebuild you," I teased, "Stronger. Faster. HARDER." He looked up. "not bloody likely." Big grin. Beads of sweat were beginning to slick their sheen against his temples and his throat. I lapped at it with a kitten's tongue.

"You're hot," I said.

"So are you." He replied.

"No," I said, "I mean your body temperature." With my free hand, I parted the leather swaddling clothes which enveloped the straining stallion of his passion and slid them down.

"Better?" I asked. In response, he slid my skirt up over my thighs and snapped one of the garters holding up my spiderweb fishnets. His hand explored further up and encountered the warm, moist resistance of a periwinkle lace tanga.

"Lavender?" he asked, momentarily surprised.

"We all need our kinks," I replied, "and in a world where black leather is the norm, these are pretty kinky."

He paused. "True, 'dat," he pronounced, then slid those artistic fingers up to penetrate the portcullis of my lacy castle. Now it was my turn to let my head fall back and expose my throat to his ministrations.

"Set me free," I murmured.

"Replaceable?" he whispered.

"Go for it, buckaroo." He tore the delicate lace asunder, exposing the soul I was baring for him. I pulled my handful of him towards me, a fisherwoman reeling in my prize catch. The spiderwebs parted to allow his mighty ship to sail between Scylla and Charbydis, to finally find safe port deeply enshrouded in silken folds of mysteries now elucidated. My back arched and our bodies pressed tightly together. He rocked gently back and swung his hips in an arc which brought him ever closer.

We were both shimmering with sweat, glistening green in the stovelight like a trail of luminescent, phosphorescent plankton. I looked up at him, his features blurred in an eupohoric blanket "stay on target… stay on target…" I whispered. His movements came to a dead stop and he stared at me, incredulous. A strangled laugh escaped his throat. "Almost… THERE," he said, punctuating the latter word with a deep thrust. I giggled and sank forward into him. Wrapping one arm under my ass and one around my left thigh, he lifted me from the counter, still within me. He strode slowly and cautiously from the kitchen with his precious burden and carefully navigated the steps outside into the yard. Placing both hands on my cheeks, he stood in the middle of the yard, pelvis thrust out, like a Pioneer surveyor indicating his approval. "This'll do," he said, and knelt, carefully, our bond still intact.

He laid me back on the snowy ground, and began his ministrations anew. (The frost performs its secret ministry, unhelped by any wind. An owlet's cry… never mind) The sensation of cold and hot made my skin explode with delight. And then the world stopped, and every molecule in my body imploded at the speed of light. Total protonic reversal. Reality tore itself a new one, and I'm pretty sure I started singing "Sweet mystery of life".

He collapsed atop me, panting, and muttering about feeling "so funky". I reached out to the side and formed a small snowball, brought it to his neck, and slid it down his back, ending at the twin dimples which accentuated the base of his spine. He sighed, and sank into me. I leaned my head back and mused that I would never think of a snowball fight the same way again.