Norwegian

Once upon a time, there was a cold country and a warm girl. She married the rich and fearful count not because she feared the winter cold, but the other men. She would not last long amongst those wolves, as anyone could imagine. The count kept them at bay, of course, famous for his cruelty and possessiveness.

She knew this of course, and the young countess used to use it to her advantage mercilessly, skating along the frozen river from the mansion to town for caffè, ankles flashing, furs unbuttoned to show white décolletage, brightened to rose by exertion and iced air.

One desperate young man, fearless of the count, penniless and ardent, would approach her of an afternoon in the Café, outside, drawn by her steaming breath and fragrant cup.

"Do you need me today sweet countess?" he would begin, each time.

"What can you mean by that, scalawag? Shall I ask my husband the count how I should answer? ...for I am sure he would have something to say about it!" Such banter as this would always be her retort, but her eyes would laugh, and her hand, pressed to her throat in astonishment, or was it perhaps a bit lower? ...Her hand would somehow stray under the furs, tracing from the chill red breast exposed to the warm white portion beneath, under a small brown circle, tightening. And her thumb might encourage the tightening, and the rogue, unseeing but imagining the press of digit to nipple, he too would be encouraged, and feel his own tightening, but relent, happy.

Now, it was not known to any, but the count had grown cold, having such warmth always by his side, and no understanding of the chill life might offer others who did not share his luxuries. Thus her softness went unpressed, she felt herself always as a furnace thirsting for iron, unslaked. And thus of a morning would the young countess find herself seeking sauna more often, seeking ever more heat, or perhaps the ice, hunting some sharp cold penetration through her limbs in (poor) masquerade for a hot, smooth one between. On the ice at least she could feel free and fast, feel her heart pound, be sure, racing by, that a boy on the dike had seen too much down the throat of her parka, left far unlaced to release the heat of her exertions, and more.

She became a sensation at the coffee shop: what would the wanton countess wear today? How high would the flounce be cut, how many buttons undone? Suspicions about the count's virility were whispered and tittered over after she passed.

One such sunny spring afternoon found her lingering over cakes, skates removed and pink socks propped steaming on a metal chair, everywhere icicles dripping. She wore a blue wool Nordic-patterned sweater, thick and tight, the cream-colored fur trimmed parka cast over a chair. Brown ski-pants buttoned below the knee, leaving 8 inches of clear smooth calf that curved in all directions towards her heels, balanced together on the other chair. Thick as it was, the sweater revealed all. Her breasts posed too far askance to be confined beneath. One had to imagine the scratch of wool against the imperceptible soft of areolae. Steam rose also from these, after the hard skate. It swirled slightly in absolutely still air.

He sat next to her this time, bathed in her vapor, said nothing this time. Ordered simple coffee.

"Today, my countess?" he simply said.

But this time she turned to him and looked deeply. As she rotated on her bottom and lowered a pink foot, careless, to the wet ground, one breast swayed against its woolly prison...

It was only a whisper, but it was very clear when she spoke, like the tinkle of water just melted "Yes, my boy, my favorite dog, today you shall have me."

Apparently he had a small flat that overlooked the Café. Sun shone in the window, glazed her in gold; breasts still slicked with sweat, an occasional blue thread clung, plastered wetly, left by the sweater that now steamed by itself in the sun, over the balcony rail. Half nude, she gestured to the shop below, across the small street, "Shall you close this?" (the window) "they will hear, and know..." as though they could not already see, and know. As though the passings of the young countess could go unmarked.

He responded with his mouth, lapping away the threads, tasting her sweat, cleaning her ribs and belly, feeling a nipple drag slowly across his cheek towards the waiting tongue, expectant. She undressed him casually whilst undergoing these attentions, reaching for a button when an opportunity presented, uncaring of his discomforts. When he turned behind to trace her spine upwards, she arched her shoulder blades together in towards his soft face, her mouth and eyes open upward, swallowing the pure pure blue. Brown nipples, spit-slicked, reached for the sun. Her hand, idly tracing the lip of his cock all this while, shuddered tight for a moment.

Breath rasped softly out in a long ragged gasp, almost a hiss. Whose breath, they below could not be sure, though they listened carefully. Perhaps indeed, it was their own. She bent, fists wide-spread on the black iron banister, and they became just tits, shuddering gently with each motion. Staring down now, she looked directly upon one or two upturned faces, and several more only pretending disinterest. She waited, expectant. Her gaze was not vacant, neither these neighbors' cognizance nor her choice to be denied, she would be nude in a moment, with nothing remaining that could be disowned. He was to understand this when she placed her heels together, and he did, peeling the brown cloth and the silk panty down together into a pool of empty cloth on the floor. She straightened and turned to receive his tongue, the sun now bronzing her ass to autumn shades, glinting hair just visible, or perhaps only imagined but surely picking up the warm rays as she spread her stance just a little.

It was the count.

Was it his face between her shoulders before? The rogue lay in a red pool behind, he rasped no more.