Frozen Assets: Love on the Rocks

The chill finally banished, I sink a little lower in the bath, lulled by the gently flickering candles and soothed by the rich, warming scents of rose and cinnamon. I shake my hair free of its final clasp, and lean back, turning my head a little, watching my already damp and limp locks tumble into the water, where they swirl and coil, as if imitating the dance of a sea anemone. A childish game, but one that never fails to make me smile. Not all the games I play are as innocent. My smile broadens, and I shiver involuntarily as a chill memory kisses my hot damp skin with its frosted lips.

The door opens, and he enters, proffering the olive branch, disguised as a mug of tea. I study his face as I reach for it, sitting up and causing a mini tsunami of pink foam and hot silky water. Greedily I swallow the strong liquid, feeling it coursing down my still dry throat, refreshing me, helping to replenish all the fluids lost earlier, in the heat of the moment.

In the heat of the moment!!

"Bastard" I mutter, grinning as the significance of that particular turn of phrase makes me think back to just a couple of short hours ago..

I didn't have the energy left to cry even. I felt as if I were melting, the heat itself unbearable enough, but my own sweat, trickling in rivulets down between and under my breasts, flooding down my back and seeping from every pore of my baking body was adding to the discomfort a hundred fold. I moaned and writhed, trying to gain some relief from this relentless blast of super-heated air. I pulled at my bonds, not caring if it rubbed my wrists raw, the need to scratch my head, itchy beyond belief under the weight of my hair, was paramount. I was burning up, wet and sticky with sweat, and I was sure I was starting to smell. If I could have cried, I would have, believe me! In that particular instant all I was feeling was sorry for myself. My eyes were stinging, part sweat, part running eye make up, and I would have sold my soul for a drink of cool water. I ran my fuzzy tongue across equally dry lips, licking even at the grimy sweat beading on my upper lip and my chin.

I'd expected something soon of course - no sex for nearly a fortnight coupled with over-acted yawns and feigned exhaustion made it obvious that my beloved had plans. And I had been eager in my anticipation, dressing with care each day, selecting underwear which was cut a little more intimately than the norm, feeling a little nauseous with excitement in the pit of my stomach whenever I went anywhere, because today might be the day. THIS might be the journey. But nothing had happened.

I had even - the thought made my burning cheeks flush even redder - taken to playing with myself in the toilet at lunchtime this past week.

Resting one foot on the toilet seat and with the other leg spread wide, I would lean my back against the cubicle wall and retreat far into myself in my head.

With eyes closed and teeth sunk into my lower lip to remind myself not to cry out, I would spread my pussy lips wide with one hand while I rubbed myself to orgasm with the fingers of the other. It was brief, frantic and very unsatisfactory. It brought relief for a few seconds, relief which was rapidly swallowed up by even more desperate lust.

The fantasy scenarios I ran through in my head were increasingly humiliating and degrading and the taint of these often lingered with me through the afternoon, making me more demanding and harder to please where work was concerned.

Typically, that had been my undoing today.

A routine contract signing should have been a walk in the park, maybe even beneath my swiftly rising star. Except that it was exactly that attention to every minute detail that had helped me rise to my current position, and I fully intended to go much further. I liked going all the way, you might say.

Accordingly, I'd stubbornly scrutinised the documents, ignoring my current boss's slightly risqué comment that he could find me something better to do than checking his work.

Maybe he noticed the air of sexual tension that I surely was giving off?

Whatever the cause, I smiled grimly when I noticed the 2 glaring spelling errors, the most notable being the client's company name itself!

The secretary had already left for the day. The evil mood I was in it was as well for her. In a flash of cold inspiration I swiftly re-typed the document, and waited until seconds before the client was due. Lingering by the window I saw his car glide into its reserved bay, and I smiled sweetly as my boss shot up from his seat, rubbing his hands and looking for all the world like a modern day Uriah Heep.

Pointing out the mistakes in the contract gave me a rare twinge of conscience as he blanched and clutched at his chest. I wanted to advance in my career, but preferably not through dead men's shoes! I rushed to soothe him, offering to re-type the contract quickly, in return for a small consideration of course...

Hence my preoccupation on arriving home, richer by £2000 annually, with my own personal assistant. Not bad for 2 minutes typing.

My mind was full of plans for enjoying the extra money, and I was bubbling over at the thought of sharing my news, and seeing the respect and approval glint in his eyes. I just knew he'd appreciate the style that I had executed this particular coup with!

So when the light didn't come on as I pressed the switch, no warning bells sounded their alarm in my head. I pushed it twice more before giving up, and calling it a rude name. Shrugging off my coat I finally gave in to the ache in my tired feet, so I kicked my shoes off too, and sighed at the instant relief I felt as the firm, cool floor cushion my hot soles.

I closed the front door, shutting out the harsh hallway lighting, and automatically smoothed my crumpled jacket - an aversion to ironing more than was absolutely necessary having prompted an almost compulsive neatness where clothes were concerned.

Turning back to the living room I picked up my briefcase and padded softly onwards, resolutely ignoring the probability that my stocking-clad feet were leaving sweaty marks on the silky polished wood of the floor.

My mind had raced ahead of me and was mixing a drink in the kitchen.

I thought I'd allow myself the luxury of a pre-dinner drink tonight, although it would have to be a take-away dinner – the flat was obviously empty, and I had work still to do. I would order from the deli on the corner, and he could collect the food on his way home to me, provided I could reach him. Thank heavens for mobile phones, I thought, already tasting the tang of an Italian sandwich, pungent with garlic and herbs, and rich with sun-dried tomatoes. I'd got as far as contemplating some lemon cheesecake for dessert when the creak of a floorboard snatched me rudely from my gastronomic daydream, and before I could look round an arm was around my throat, squeezing, and a voice, harsh and unnatural, hissed at me not to move.

Good advice, totally ignored.

Shock and panic took over and of course I moved. I struggled and kicked backwards, clutching at the choking arm. I wasn't thinking, I could feel the rough stubble grazing my soft cheek, stinging a little, and I could smell cheap aftershave and old leather. My struggles increased as a surge of fear pumped up the adrenalin, coaxing my muscles to fresh effort, and I felt my elbow hit something, but it was my arm that hurt, and brought tears to my eyes. Gasping and seeing my focus blurring, I stopped fighting and just sagged, holding onto the sleeve across my neck and desperately trying to draw a deep breath. I didn't want to faint now; I needed my wits about me.

The fact that I didn't recognise my assailant even then was testament to my distracted state of mind.

I mumbled compliance as he continued to snarl threats of violence, shoving me forwards as he did so, and slamming me against the door. I saw stars, and then brighter super-novas exploded in my skull as the door burst open and he forced me into our lounge – but not our lounge. The lighting dazzled me, and I closed my eyes against it, the strange furniture layout burned into my retinas – a stage, set with one chair for the main participant, and a bare expanse of floor. My fuddled mind tried to make sense of what it was seeing and I offered no resistance as my jacket was torn from me. A brief moment of freedom and I whipped my head around, but succeeded in catching an impression only, and that attempt at defiance earned me pain as my arms were wrenched behind me and I was forcibly dragged and slammed down into the chair. The pain loosened my tongue and I swore at him – it had to be a him – and then yelped as my wrists were pinched tightly by some rough rope.

The feeling of being bound drove me to even more frantic struggles, and a tiny part of my mind was yelling at me, but I couldn't quite hear what it was saying.

My hair was grabbed roughly, pulling the slides asunder and releasing the red-brown mass to fall over my face.

The glare dimmed, and the blessed darkness, albeit temporary, seemed to clear my mind, and then the illumination was inside my head, as well as in the room, and I realised that this was all part of a new Game!

The 'attacker' was the man I loved, and instead of being the relief and comfort that it might naturally be expected to be, it fuelled my rage as surely as petrol would a fire.

How DARE he? And tonight of all nights!

I'd wanted to tell him about my small success, and bathe in his congratulations and the warmth of his smile. And I'd work still to do, and I hadn't eaten yet. And – my seething was cut short as I felt him fasten my ankles too. I jerked a couple of times, testing the ropes. Strangely, the chair didn't move. While I was pondering that fact, a thick blindfold covered my eyes, affording me a little relief from the harsh glare of the lights – although not from the heat.

I listened and tried to work out what he was doing. Something was being wheeled across the wooden floor. Several something's in fact. I frowned, trying to imagine what was coming. His inventiveness never ceased to amaze me, and in spite of my anger I felt a thrill of anticipation, tinged with the lust that he always provoked in me.

This could only end in victory for one player, but the raw sex would be fantastic for us both.

And that of course was just the start.

Sex driven by The Game was always powerful, and heady, the climaxes vivid and intense – for both of us – yet the real rewards came later, with the increasing love and intimacy that we created by playing our roles. Our lovemaking took on an almost spiritual feeling afterwards, and I was often driven to tears by the sheer strength of my emotions. Our eyes locked as our bodies merged – it was an awe inspiring experience, and one which I could never get enough of.

But I didn't want this now!! I wanted to talk, and drink and relax… well, that wasn't the total truth, already my body was eagerly anticipating the end result, and my pussy was growing damp and itchy. And that annoyed me, because I should be controlling my body, not vice versa.

I was distracted by the noise of switches being thrown, and blasts of warm air hitting my face, and body. My skin prickled and I felt the beginnings of sweat behind my ears and I angrily demanded to know what he was doing.

The condescending "Wait and see Sweetie" accompanied by the pat on the cheek infuriated me, and I jerked my head away from his touch with a curse.

Now, what felt like hours later, I was wondering how to extricate myself from this torturous situation? There was no way I was going to call out to him, not on your life! Besides, it was doubtful that he'd accept an easy victory – he is fully aware that's not the way we play. He'd know I wasn't really playing the game if I begged for release – I'm not a quitter, and he knows that. After all, its one of the things that he likes most about me, he says, my spirit. Makes for a better player. I nearly chuckled in spite of my throbbing anger, remembering the satisfaction in his voice when we were discussing it.

Of course, by now my anger was not the only thing throbbing.

My shoulders were aching and my breasts were being forced unnaturally forwards by the angle that my arms were being held at.

My chest was straining at the wet blouse, and the friction of my struggles rubbed my flesh against the sodden fabric, irritating my nipples sensitive tips, and the sweat pooled around them, stinging a little.

Further down, in my wet and clinging knickers, my clitoris was throbbing and pulsing, developing a life of its own and the sexual heat was smouldering, slowly building, and adding to my general discomfort.

I moaned softly, although whether it was physical or sexual release I needed was unclear, even to me.

I wavered between rage and need. I wanted to shout and curse and call him names, I wanted him to release me and apologise for his bad timing. And I wanted him to ask me if I gave in, if I submitted to his mastery of my body, so I could cry yes, oh yes, please please take me now!

As I dripped and fumed I heard a new noise, and felt his presence in the room again. I tensed, listening. I asked what he was doing, although the effort of speaking with my dry mouth was surprisingly tiring, and not expecting a straight answer I was therefore not disappointed when he responded with a quip about the heat.

In spite of being prepared for a gloating remark I was irritated, and let it show as I asked him what he wanted.

He paused, making me wait for his answer, before doing his politician's ploy of answering a question with a question, namely what am I offering?

I respond with the stock answer of jewellery, it being his for the taking, just take it and let me go.

He really enjoyed pretending to consider the offer, making me sweat – as if I hadn't done enough of THAT already, before he snatched my necklaces – my treasured necklaces - from my neck, making me wince, and laughed as he threw them to the floor.

"Bastard!" sprang from my lips as I heard the clatter, and in a trice he had his hand twisted into my lank hair, forcing my head up and leaning close into me. I felt the heat of his breath as he warned me not to be stupid and flushing furiously and fighting back tears I muttered my compliance.

He released my hair, and I sagged, and then brightened a little as I heard the heaters being switched off. Perhaps now would come my release?

The relief of having the hot air turned off soon paled as I sat there, wondering what he was doing. I jumped as a pain shot through my temple and I pulled away, only to be brought up short as he gripped my hair, holding my head immobile, and pressed something icy cold to my forehead. Back and forth across my pounding temples he rubbed it, never letting up. As I adjusted to the intensity of the sensation, the liquid that trickled down my face drew a sigh from me, as I reveled briefly in the icy rivulets cooling my burning skin. However, with an unpredictable perversity I soon began to shiver, and my nipples rose to the occasion too, becoming tender, and feeling so exquisitely inflamed.

My sizzling skin soon melted the cube, and I heard another being snapped free. How many did he have?

I quaked a little in my seat, hoping and praying that none would find their way down my back – I have such a sensitive back, and I believe that if he were to put one there, he would probably cause me to faint. Now I've never fainted in my life, but just the touch of the ice on my face has had such a shock effect that I cannot conceive what would happen were he to do that to my back.

My sigh of relief is short lived as my lips tingle with the pain of the icy kiss. The cube sticks for a fraction of a second, tugging at already cracked and sore skin, then melts, lubricating itself, and moves on. Ignoring the burning I reach for the ice with my tongue, and lap at the refreshing wetness eagerly.

I imagine my depression was clearly visible as he snatched the ice quickly away from my greedy mouth, and I heard it hit the floor, out of my reach once more.

Dimly I heard him talking about cooling me right down, but I tried to ignore him. My frustration was teetering between arousal and anger, the latter still prodding at me, saying it didn't WANT to play! So I tried to blank him out, to just sit there, and not react.

Big mistake.

Had I been paying attention, instead of sulking, I might have anticipated his next move, or at least expected the unexpected. As it was, when he teased my blouse away from my burgeoning breasts, I thought it was ripping and fondling time.

No.

It was the express ice delivery, first stop hell. Or somewhere nearly as hot.

I screamed and thrashed in my bindings, my brain quite unable to simultaneously process all the sensations inspired by having the contents of the freezer tipped down my front. Cruel icicle fingers gripped my breasts and delved into my cleavage.

An evil river of ice water laughed its way down my wildly undulating belly, and passed irresistibly through the already wet fabric below.

Maybe I should have been grateful, at least the torrent served to hide the fact that I'd wet myself.

On the brink of hysteria I almost giggled as the thought crossed my embattled mind that zero degrees water made a refreshing change from toilet paper.

Unable to struggle any longer, I tried to relax, to think myself free of this torment. A few self-pitying moans found their way out though, and I found myself unable to get away from the incredible aching in my pelvis. Tension, frustration, desire, and anger – even some pain - all were conspiring to build my emotions to a crescendo where I could no longer label them separately. They just WERE. Intense, vivid, and in imminent need of relief.

I was the human equivalent of a pressure cooker, and my valve was stuck.

A sudden draught called my attention back to the present, to find my drenched knickers being pulled aside, and I struggle in sudden horrified certainty of what was coming next.

Any thought that I should be used to the burning coldness by now were quickly dispelled, as he parted my already gaping pussy lips, and slowly pushed an ice cube up inside me.

In spite of my animosity, and my wailing protests, the ice inside me was strangely thrilling, the numbing and burning take second place to the lust that pulsed through my turgid clitty. I felt the chill excitement spread further, electrifying my whole nervous system as he pushed cube after cube deep into my willing cunt.

Willing, yes, because the more he gave me, the more I wanted, the more I needed.

Finally he stopped, and tugged my knickers back up, leaving me to moan, pant and writhe, desperate for him to do more, to take me further along that road to release.

"Well?"

The word broke through my shivering, tremors that were part cold, part sexual tension.

I shook my head, so reluctant to give in, but so desperate to be fucked to oblivion.

How long can I last?

Not long enough. In his quiet voice he informs me that he has more ice, if I'm still hot…

I shriek and sob my surrender, grateful at least that the struggle is over, sullenly aware that soon too I will be grateful that he has won.

I sat ramrod straight as he tore my sodden blouse open, spilling remnants of cold water and melting ice chips across our floor.

I visualized the resultant puddle dotted with the buttons of my blouse like little emblems of his victory floating on the tide of my surrender.

Another sharp tug and my bra was gone, and the warm air kissed my icy flesh.

As another, hotter touch circled my chilled nipples, one after the other, I moaned and strained forwards, aching for more.

My skirt is torn apart, and the raw sound makes me lick my lips and whimper with need, knowing that soon, oh so soon, my playing will be rewarded.