1 comments/ 3304 views/ 0 favorites Nicole's Fantasy Ch. 01 By: daydreamer3000 AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote this fantasy for a friend of mine from an X-Files chat room somewhere back in 1999-2001--we have since lost touch. She gave me a few elements to put into the story and this is what I created. In Part 1 she experiences the beauty and power of nature and takes advantage of its erotic potential. In Part 2 she meets the man of her dreams. If you're out there "Nicole", please drop by and say hi. NICOLE'S FANTASY, Part 1 The storm hit in the early evening and the prediction of snow was all the skiers talked about. The huge dinner was served in the main dining hall in front of a fireplace that took up more than half of the long side of the room. Delicate was not a word to describe the food. What, did they think we were all lumberjacks? But a hearty stew and the best pumpernickel bread on the planet made a delicious meal to digest in front of the roaring fire while the wind pulled and pushed ineffectually against the giant timbers of the lodge. Not being much of a skier, the prospect of an interesting conversation dwindles as the diners bunch up in little groups or leave for their rooms. The meal, fire, and wind lull you to an early bed under a downy quilt whose geometric pattern and creator are described on a plaque next to the mirror in your room. You awaken in the pitch of night to silence. The storm must have moved on to help skiers elsewhere. You get out of bed to use the bathroom and then come back and pull the quilt around your shoulders. Parting the heavy curtains to look outside you see a half moon presiding over a multitude of snowcapped trees. The little firs and the big ancient pine trees all have a new white coat. Now you know what you're going to do tomorrow! You want to be the first to walk through the new snow--the first to see the forest's new clothes before they are soiled and melt away. You set your alarm to get a early start and crawl back in bed under the quilt for a couple more hours of sleep. You slap the alarm off and jump out of bed with enthusiasm. Your hiking shorts and short-sleeved shirt are not going to be nearly warm enough, but you are prepared for cold weather with mittens, earmuffs, a scarf and an insulated coverall that fits over even your boots because it has zippers down each leg. It's too early for a real breakfast in the dining room but they have hot coffee and cider available twenty four hours a day. You fill your little thermos canteen with hot cider and check your trail rations--plenty for a day's hike. With a quick look at the topographic map hanging on the wall in the lobby, you can see where the road is and the few manmade places nearby. You figure out the most direct course away from civilization and step outside to get your bearings. The chill is harsh on your lungs and face at first but you know it will only get warmer as you hike along and the sun comes up. There are too many tall trees around to see the actual sunrise, but the low moon still shines in the west and the remnants of the storm are lit from beneath by the rising sun. The lodge is beginning to really stir now as the anxious skiers go about their preparations. Heading straight back into the forest the noises quickly fade away and only the occasional car can be heard. The way is flat at first but the underbrush is thick and little light reaches you. Slow progress is soon rewarded as you approach the really big trees which rise straight up for ten, maybe fifteen meters before the first unbroken branches jut straight out from the trunk to touch the tips of the branches of its nearest neighbors. The trunks are pillars holding up a grey-white roof; the branches are rafters adorned with dark needles that spread to hold the pillows of snow. You wish you could climb up there and see it up close. Here, the underbrush is more sparse and full of deer paths. As you enter this natural cathedral you slow your pace in reverence. Clouds of your breath rise up like offerings and disappear. There is no wind here so you take off your earmuffs and listen. If you hadn't been wearing your earmuffs you would have sworn it was silent but now you hear the faint rustle of the trees talking to lofty breezes. Puffs of snow occasionally drop from the great heights to scatter like dust on the underbrush. A bird silently glides through the maze of trunks with minimal wing beats and unknown purpose. You pull off a mitten and scoop up a handful of virgin snow. What doesn't fall away sticks to your warm hand and loses its form to become fluid once again. Civilized noises intrude on your reverie and you hike determinedly away to see what's over the next hill. Climbing the hill is hard work even with less underbrush to contend with. The powdery snow slips under your feet stealing a few centimeters away from every stride. A rabbit skitters away from just in front of you, demonstrating how good his camouflage is. There are rabbit tracks in two directions and, now that you look, there are little bird tracks as well. You stop to rest on a rock outcropping and look back the way you came. The sun illuminates the tops of the trees and shines through in the thinner places. The white snow high on the branches has an orange tint to it and softens the light so there are almost no shadows. If there weren't so many trees blocking your view, you are sure that you would be standing above the tops of those trees you first met within earshot of the lodge. You take off your mittens and put them in your pack with the earmuffs and the scarf. The snow glistens now, looking less dry and powdery. Drips can now be heard hitting the ground and you are occasionally kissed on the top of your head by the big trees who may or may not know you are there. You push off once again and aim for the ridge looming ahead. Hopefully, you will be able to see out from the top, but it doesn't seem likely that the trees will accommodate a human's desire for a view. Every tree is different and yet they seem the same as you trudge upward. There's not even a place to lay down and make a snow angel as every square meter of ground is claimed by animal, vegetable, or mineral. At last the ground levels out for a few meters and you can tell you have reached the top of the ridge separating two valleys. At this height, the strong winds of the storm have sculpted the snow on every surface. The trees here are somewhat shorter and fatter and the world looks as if it was tipped up at an angle, frosted like a cake, and then set back down again. Drifts climb up the same side of every tree as if reaching for the pine cones held tauntingly in wooden hands above. Around the backside there is barely any snow and the thick carpet of brown pine needles shows through. Little holes show the passage of rodents using the carpet for cover. A movement catches your eye and you see a reddish-brown hawk land silently on one of the lower, broken-off branch stumps high on a nearby tree. You try to still your breathing and stare in admiration at his soft plumage puffed up against the cold and sharp hunting weapons. Maybe he's hoping you will flush out dinner for him, but with two flaps of his great wings he disappears into the forest. As you descend into the valley the going is a bit steep and you watch the ground carefully for slippery spots. Eventually you notice a new sound above the sparse drips that hit the ground--you stop to look around and listen carefully. The tops of the trees look different: less heavy with snow but still weighed down by something. More sun is filtering down now and a musical rattle can be heard with the slightest breeze, like someone dipping their hand into a bowl of small beads. You squint at the canopy and realize that the snow is coated with ice and the roof seems more solid than ever before. You take a dozen more steps down the hillside and now your feet crunch loudly as they break through the icy surface to the softer snow and needles beneath. Strangely, this makes the footing less treacherous as your feet punch through, so you continue down into the valley marveling at the sun glinting off the ice. Again you wish you could climb up to the top of a tree and see it. The rattling sound is everywhere now with each breath of wind. The ground is starting to level out here and you can walk with ease although you feel hot with the exertion. You may have only hiked a few kilometers, but climbing up and down the valleys in slippery snow made the journey much more taxing. You come to a place where the sun shines brightly down upon a tree that must have fallen in the storm, leaving a tear in the canopy. The tree looks even bigger on the ground than those that are still standing. You walk along the length to the top of the tree and gasp in amazement. The branches are sticking almost straight out of the trunk and the longest ones reach a couple meters above your head. Every inch of bark, cone, and needle is coated in a thin layer of ice that is clearer than glass. The sun reflects and refracts in a million microscopic rainbows wherever it touches. An enchanted bower of a dryad wouldn't look as beautiful as this. You gently sweep your hand across the deep green needles all wearing gloves of glass and hear the familiar rattle. The chill of the ice reminds you of the body heat you've built up inside your overalls and you decide that you can be more comfortable without them. You unzip the legs and the front, sliding it off your arms and stepping out of them. The cold, still air feels good on your skin as long as the sun is out. But why stop there? No, it's silly--but then again, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity--looking intently you see nothing but trees and underbrush in all directions; listening intently you hear nothing but iced droplets hitting the ground and the faint rustle of frozen nature. What the hell. You quickly unbutton your shirt and unclasp your bra and lay them over a low branch. Your shorts and panties slip over your boots and join them. Feeling cold air on places usually well hidden makes you tingle and shiver with pleasure. Slowly you walk in-between the fans of branches toward the trunk of the tree, letting the sharp needles blunted by ice sheathes caress your skin. Your skin responds with that quickening that you love so well. You are almost completely surrounded by them as you sway gently back and forth against their ice-feather touch. You twirl slowly in their embrace with your arms held overhead, your body is now the wind that moves the needles to produce their music. Like the fringe of a tasseled curtain they catch, slide, and fall away from your arms, your breasts, your hips, leaving behind tiny trails of ice water. Your hands glide over your body, warming the places that need a reassuring touch, pulling wet ice-needles over the places that want a thrill, teasing your clit, slipping in and out, in and out. You bend down and your buttocks brush against another frond, but it doesn't even startle you, your hot skin now craves the cold caresses. You close your eyes and push your head slowly through a needle-fringed break in the branches, letting the sensation wash over your cheeks, ears, hair and neck. When you open your eyes you are wearing an emerald collar fit for an ancient queen of Egypt. A deep involuntary breath pulls the chill air inside you, tasting of frost and a hint of pine sap. It meets the upwelling heat from your loins that your fingers have kindled. The onrushing orgasm pushes you back into the branches behind you but you stop before falling down. Bent almost double, the full icy touch on the back of your calves, thighs, and butt are like nothing you've ever felt before. Ice melts on your skin as your fingers are squeezed so tightly you can't move them for long shuddering moments. Finally, your breathing becomes shallower and you straighten up and run your hands lovingly over your body from ankles to scalp, brushing off the little rivulets of water that are starting to run down into your boots. Your skin is still hot and now dry again and you want to feel more new textures with every part of your body. You move to the trunk of the tree where the upraised branches fan out like a peacock's tail, catching the sunlight from behind and holding the ghosts of rainbows that disappear if you look at them. The rough bark of the tree is coated like the rest, maybe even a bit thicker. You lean over and let your neck and breasts touch the frozen bark, then slide upward to paint yourself with its face. You step over and duck under a few of the limbs to find a place where the trunk and branches form a glass saddle, just the right height, and you throw one leg over to straddle the trunk, feet on the ground. You lean back to feel the cold pole of a branch on your butt and lower back. Leaning forward you can embrace two more branches. You put your hands down on the tree trunk to slightly melt the ice and remove any sharp points that may be there and then transfer the icy water on your hands to your labia and clit. Cold meets warmth and the sensations electrify your skin. You collect some more water this way and then grab your breasts to bend the hard nipples and let them spring back, then slide away to warmer parts of your body. Then you lower yourself to the tree and welcome the ice with your thighs and labia. With little thrusts you rub your clit and vagina on the protruding bark, backing off when the cold gets too intense. With each touch you can stay in contact a little longer and the ice becomes unbelievably slippery. Grasping the branches in front you arch your back to stroke your clit on the frozen bark and slide back until your arse makes contact with the other branch. You recoil at first, but again, with each attempt you can last a little longer. Rough and smooth at the same time, it seems to scratch an itch you didn't even know you had. Your thrusts become more intense, of such free abandon you never thought yourself capable. Your belly touches the slick trunk, then your chest as you slide down and up the icy branch. Animal grunts escape your lips as you find a spot that strokes your clit perfectly. Every part of your body feels like a clenched muscle, gripping, squeezing, solid to the touch, waiting for blessed release. With a cry, your legs and arms grip the tree in a crushing hug and all movement ceases except for the contractions that squeeze the last gram of strength from your loins. Panting with delight you rest there on top of the tree trunk, knowing that parts of you are probably quite numb for one reason or another, but who cares? You don't want to become yourself again. Slowly, slowly the music of your world expands to include more than just the one glorious chord of pleasure. The dripping from the trees, the flap of a bird's wing, the crackling of ice melting in the sun. You push away thoughts of who might have heard, or how far the hike back is, or how you would explain frostbite there if it came to that. There is more cold here than you have heat so you lift yourself off the tree and walk back through the branches and needles to get your clothes. You are reluctant to insulate yourself from the touch of nature, the clean, pure ice given form by the fallen tree. Not since you were an innocent child had you felt such freedom and joy or gone naked in the world. Thankfully, the feeling is still there. Without shame or hurry or even glances at the surrounding trees, you put each piece of clothing on and feel the warmth of the sun in the fabric. The warmth is welcome but they don't seem to belong on your body--nudity is now the natural state again. Nicole's Fantasy Ch. 02 The day is still warming so you decide not to put your coveralls back on yet. You drink from your canteen and eat a little. To be sure you get back before dark, you strike off in the direction of the road. It's a little sad leaving the tree, but the joyous grin that has been on your face for what seems like hours keeps coming back as you remember and replay your experience. Your legs are tired but they soon remember the rhythm and the way is downhill. The drips from the canopy are a constant companion now, hitting the ground and underbrush with a splat that makes the whole forest seem to be alive and twitching. You decide to put the scarf over your head to keep your hair dry for as long as possible. After a while you hear running water off to one side and you angle over to see a little stream bounding down the hillside next to you. The brook is only a hand deep and you can see the rocky bottom easily. Thin shelves of ice are slowly receding as the water flows under and around them. Exposed roots of nearby trees frequently change the course of the water for a short distance before it forgets them and resumes a downward run. You follow along as close as you can, going around trees and occasionally hopping over to the other side to find an easier path. Various animal tracks can be seen in the snow and mud of the banks but you don't meet any of their owners. Next to the brook the bushes and grasses are thickly coated with ice, the branches or blades leaning precariously in all directions. You are startled by the rising metallic whine of what might be an electric saw. The sound is far away, but loud compared to the soft susurrations of the dripping forest and running brook. As you continue downstream, you can occasionally hear hammer strikes on wood and some other unidentifiable hum. Again, two more passes with the saw, a long pause, and more hammering. You can tell you are only about fifty meters away and you approach cautiously. The ground is still sloping steadily downward and you stay as close to the stream as you can. Looking down the waterway, you see a piece of structure that looks like it sits right on the stream. Movement attracts your attention to a man carrying a long plank atop the structure. You catch a glimpse of long denim trousers, a tool belt and a well-tanned back. You stop and think--do you want to approach this guy? You're all alone out here and he could be dangerous. But, he seems to have an honest occupation, and he could probably tell you the quickest way back to the road. Hmmm... You decide to get a bit closer before making your decision. Another twenty meters and you see the structure is probably a house built in a small clearing and it forms a bridge over the stream just after it tumbles down a two-meter incline. The man is maybe a hundred eighty centimeters and well muscled, not like a body builder but like a man who labors for a living. His tool belt has a dozen woodworking tools in it and rides low on his hips which you can see just above the waistline of his jeans. He has a brown beard, mustache, and sideburns with a slightly red tint. You are about to back off and go around him to find the road when you hear him whistling one of your favorite songs. You mentally slap yourself for being too paranoid and start walking toward the house. The purr of a portable generator masks the sound of your approach so you watch him fitting boards to make rafters for the roof over one end of the structure. The outside walls look as if they are made of small trees stacked up, their ends interlocking to form the corners. The span across the little stream is laid upon two massive tree trunks and will eventually have large picture windows on both sides. A pickup truck with various lengths of lumber in the bed is parked near a large tent, the generator, the electric saw, and a cold campfire. He climbs down from the roof and starts to fetch another plank when he spots you standing above him at the edge of the clearing. "Holy sh--" he blurts, jumps back a bit, and puts his hand on his heart, "You 'bout scared me outa two years growth." He walks over to the generator and turns it off. The sounds of the forest and brook seem to get louder to fill the silence left by the little engine. "Sorry," you grin, "I was just admiring your handiwork." "Oh, well, thank you ma'am. I'm no Frank Lloyd Wright, but it'll keep me warm next winter." "Ma'am?" you think to yourself, "He's probably older than I am..." Then you remember the scarf and, trying to be nonchalant, you pull the wet thing off and wring it out. You are rewarded with a smile that shows nice teeth. "It's obvious you aren't from around here. You must be staying over at Whispering Pines" he says, then adds hastily, "uh, I'm Scott Carpenter," he tips an imaginary hat and then puts his hands on his hips. He is covered in a fine layer of sawdust. "I'm Nicole Mason, from Australia, and yes, I'm on holiday." He laughs. "A mason and a carpenter. Between the two of us we could build just about anything, hey?" Now it's your turn to grin. You decide he's alright and walk/slide/run down the incline to his level. "It looks like you're doing quite alright all by yourself. This is going to be fabulous!" You turn and look up at the bridge over the stream. From this angle, the house looks like it's suspended from the high trees behind and on either side of it. "This side's going to be a studio. I'm trying to finish it first so I can move in and pack up my tent. The other side is going to be the main house," you hear the excitement in his voice and you can tell that his eyes are looking at the completed structure. "And you've done all this by yourself? How ever did you get those huge trees up there?" you wonder. "Oh, no, I had help with those. They weigh a few tons each. Gotta have two trucks with cranes just to pick them up. All the main structural members are going to be made from whole trees, if I can swing it." You frown slightly. "You cut down these beautiful trees?" you say, slightly accusingly. "No way, Miss Mason. I wouldn't do such a thing, even though I own the land. No, I only buy trees that have been damaged by fire or other natural causes. And even then, there has to be a way to port the tree here. It's not like there are many roads through the forest--a good tree for building is mighty hard to come by," he shakes his head ruefully. "Oh, I see. Then your work here is even more impressive," you smile disarmingly, "and call me Nikki." He smiles back. "All right, Nikki. Pardon me, but being alone for days at a time has made me forget my manners. Would you like something to drink? I've got hot water for coffee or cocoa, and uh, beer. But we'd have to cool it in the stream for a bit unless you like it warm." Standing still, you've been getting steadily cooler, even standing in the ever-shifting sunny spots. "Hot cocoa would be grand, thank you, um, if it's not too much trouble--" "Not at all." He disappears into the tent and for a few seconds you don't hear anything. Then the tink of metal mugs and pouring of water heralds his return without his tool belt, wearing a flannel shirt with a tartan pattern and carrying two steel mugs. His has coffee in it. He hands you the one with the spoon. "It's just instant, so you'll have to stir it a bit," he says apologetically. "Mmmm, thank you." You stir the mug and wrap your hands around it and inhale the aroma. Your hands drink the heat as you sip and you look for a place to sit down. The tailgate of the truck is down and has a few planks that cover the bed so you carefully hop up to sit on the wood. Ahhh, this is much better than cold metal, stone, or snow, and your legs thank you. "So tell me more about this castle you're building." you say, with real interest. He gives a little laugh and says "Funny you should call it that, it's actually going to have a tower over here on the main building. I want to be able to climb up to the tops of the trees, or at least the lower branches and see what it's like being as tall as a tree. Maybe I'll add a tree house." "Oooh, I've been wishing I could do that all day," you say wistfully. "Everything in the house will be made of wood. I'm not even using nails if I can help it. That's why I need whole trees for the load bearing supports and the outer walls. Interlocking grooves, pins, and wedges is all you need to hold it together. Of course, you have to pressure-treat certain parts to prevent too much movement as the seasons change..." He goes on to explain about the split-stone floor for passive solar heating, water pipes buried in the earth and running under the floors for heat exchange, an underground cellar for cooling, three fireplaces, retaining walls, vapor barriers, etc. You listen in fascination as he describes his dream home. You imagine the rooms he describes, bathed in the golden glow of polished wood, warmed by sun or fire, cooled by earth or breeze. His eyes occasionally come back to earth to meet yours and gauge your reaction. Here is a man obviously inspired by a vision, a dream given form by nature and his own hands. He has set his goals high enough to be a true challenge, but real enough to touch every step of the way. His love for the forest is palpable and he isn't trying to conquer it or subvert it--he wants to live in harmony with it. You come to an easy decision. "I saw a big fallen tree this morning on my hike. If I tell you where it is, would you give me a ride back to Whispering Pines?" you ask with a grin. "One that fell in the storm last night?" he asks excitedly. "If you take me to it, I'll even buy you dinner." Without a thought about how tired your legs are, you blurt "It's a deal." "Then we'd better get a move on, it still gets dark pretty early this time of year." He quickly puts away the cups and brings out a torch and a can of spray paint. He throws a tarp over the saw and the generator and then opens up the pickup truck to retrieve an orange hunting vest, rifle, a gadget with a little screen, and a Stetson cowboy hat. He answers your stare at the rifle with "Nothing should bother us, but I'd rather have it and not need it than vice versa. He slings the rifle over his shoulder, attaches the torch to a loop on one side of his jeans, the can of paint on the other side, and the electronic device to his belt. "Ready when you are," he says with a smile. You set off for the fallen tree, retracing your footsteps as best you can. "Um, what sort of things might we meet out here?" you ask warily. "Mountain lion and bear are the critters that you have to watch out for," he sees your wide-eyed look and adds "but it's been a fairly mild winter, so they probably aren't too hungry...'cept for the bears which are just waking up this time of year," he teases. It is practically raining under the trees and you put your scarf back on, but you're quickly getting wet. He offers you the vest, which seems to be fairly water repellant and you accept. He holds it for you as you put it on and then your backpack again. The stream has grown steadily as more and more snow melts in the warm sun. When it comes time to cross he gallantly steps in icy water that is almost knee deep and lifts you, effortlessly, to the other side. You like the feel of his strong hands on your waist. He tells you that the edge of his land is right about here and that the land belonged to his uncle before he died. You're not sure how big an "acre" is, but the number sounds like a lot of land, judging from how far you have hiked so far. He explains that to recover a tree from the Forestry Department requires that he be the first to claim it, fill out an environmental impact form, and pay a fee based on the size of the tree. A forestry officer will have to come out and inspect the tree and decide whether to allow it to be removed. There are breaks in your trail, but it's fairly easy to spot your footprints ahead. It looks like a different forest walking uphill in this direction--nothing looks familiar. You eventually leave the swiftly moving stream and head back toward the ridge. Soon your tree comes into view. He whistles appreciatively. "That's a beauty. Probably a hundred and thirty footer. Straight as an arrow...with only minor imperfections," he talks half to himself as he walks along the length of the tree. Suddenly, you're a little self-conscious about him finding some evidence of your presence, but he doesn't even go all the way to the top of the tree. He spray paints some identifying markings in orange on the exposed roots and near the wide base. Then, he gets out the device with the small green screen and extends an antenna. You look at the screen and realize that you've seen one before. It's a global positioning unit just like the one Mulder used to find the Antarctic base in the X Files movie. "Oh how clever. Can that remember where we are and guide you back here?" you ask. He is pleasantly surprised. "Yes, exactly. And I'll give the Rangers the position so they can come out and inspect it. Everything's high tech these days. You can't get lost if you've got one of these babies." He pauses and says quietly, "Trouble is, when you see it in terms of numbers, the forest doesn't seem as big anymore--it takes away some of the mystery and majesty..." You put a comforting hand on his arm, the sleeve is cold and wet. He brightens and looks at you with a grin, "At least I don't carry one o' those damn cell phones. Now, how about that dinner?" Downhill and downstream you trudge once again. The warmth of the sun is almost gone and it is dusk under the dripping canopy. The stream is now wide enough that it takes a few careful steps for him to carry you across. You put your arms around his neck and feel the muscles of his shoulders and the slight movement of his collarbone. You admire his profile as he concentrates on the footing. It feels like he could carry you all the way back to his dream home but he sets you gently, and a bit reluctantly, back on your feet. Your feet hurt from all the kilometers you've crossed and climbed, but you wouldn't trade this day for anything. Looking at his back and shoulders as he blazes the trail ahead of you, you smile a secret smile, thinking to yourself "And it's not over yet..." Even the effort of hiking doesn't keep the chill away now, so it is with great relief that you arrive back at his place and sit down on the tailgate again. He starts the pickup truck and turns on the heat. "Come sit in here while I g--," he stops. "Could I ask a big favor?" "Sure, what?" you reply as you climb in the passenger side of the truck. "Uh, could I use your shower? I don't have enough hot water around here for a real bath and I'm tired of taking cold ones. Besides, if we're going to have a nice dinner, I'd like to be a little more presentable," he smiles hopefully. "You and me both," you say ruefully as you drag the wet scarf off your head and run your hand through limp hair. "Great. Be back in a jiff," and he closes the door to the truck and enters the tent. While he's gone you look in the visor mirror. Besides the hair you don't look too bad. The cold has given you rosy cheeks and your skin feels tight and healthy. You stare at yourself, trying to figure out what to do. "Am I crazy to want this guy?" you ask yourself. "No, he's wonderful. Am I crazy to tell him? Probably. But you're going to do it, aren't you? Very probably. Good Lord girl, what did that tree do to you? I don't know, but I liked it...a lot." In a minute or so he comes back with a duffel bag and climbs in. "Better put your seat belt on, the road is a bit rough," he says as he latches his own seat belt. You do the same and he drives slowly down what few people would call a road. The heat feels wonderful on your feet and legs and you put your hands out to the vents to grab more. With an occasional lurch the truck makes its winding way downward and then sharply upward as it meets the main road. The wheels spin briefly on the wet gravel beside the road and then you pick up speed. You look back and there is not even a mailbox to mark the steep entrance to his castle. Ten minutes later you arrive at the Whispering Pines lodge. The stairs to the second floor feel like climbing a mountain but you make it to the room, which has been freshly made up by the maid staff and is cozy warm. You hang your scarf and his vest up to dry and flop down in the big chair to take your boots off. You are quickly frustrated by stiff fingers and wet laces and you are still trying to figure out what to do about the man in your room. You want him. Badly. And he's being the perfect gentleman. Dammit. "Here, allow me," Scott says pulling out a pocketknife and kneeling at your feet. "Oh, thank you," you say with relief. He chooses what looks like a nail file and makes quick work of loosening the knots. Then he carefully pulls your boots off and sets them near the heater to dry. You pull your socks off and feel your skin breathe, the soft carpet feels like a cloud, but you start to shiver. That does it. You are cold, tired, hungry, horny, and now suddenly impatient and a little angry at nothing in particular: society maybe. Why does it have to be so complicated? Your clothes have been chafing you ever since you put them back on at the tree. They are sticking to you like cold, loathsome muck. What the hell. In two swift moves you peel your clothes off and kick them into a corner. You almost gasp as your skin reacts to the air. You can feel the warmth start to creep in, but it's much too slow. You want hot water and a hot body and you head for the bathroom. Scott is over by the window, stunned ("As he should be," you think with a naughty grin), so you cock your hip, give him a one-eyed look over your shoulder, and invite him to wash your hair. Then you slink into the bathroom and close the door leaving it slightly ajar. The rest is up to him. Water on. Hot. Shower on. Step in. The steaming jets of water rake across your flesh just like the ice needles did, but now temperatures are reversed. It feels like fire touching every goosebump but you know it's just an illusion. Your neck, your breasts, your stomach take the full impact, the rest of your skin has to be content with steam or runoff. Eyes closed, you slowly lean forward and let the liquid flames climb up your chin, your lips, your nose, each centimeter tries to resist and then gives up in relief. You inhale the steam and feel it all the way to your lungs. As the jets reach the top of your head the hot water burns across your scalp like a forest fire, chasing the cold water before it. A pair of arms encircles yours and draws you back in a gentle embrace. Your cold back and shoulder blades meet solid warmth and finally the shivering stops. The tension in your arms and shoulders melts away as you lean your head back and sigh. For a long moment he just holds you, with his cheek touching your head and his arms covering yours. He whispers, "Ohhh, Nikki," in a sigh of his own and you turn to put your arms around him. Again the temperatures make you focus on your skin. Your back is stung by fire and his chest feels almost cool as your hot breasts press up against his ribs. He looks about to say something but you preempt him with a quick kiss, his beard and mustache tickle your nose and chin. With a shake of your head and a look, you indicate no talking and then you hand him your shampoo. He looks longingly at you and then picks up your mood, smiles, and decides to play your game. You turn around as he squeezes shampoo into his hand and begins to rub it into your hair. Thank goodness the water doesn't sting anymore or you wouldn't be able to concentrate on his touch. With slow circular motions he gently washes your hair, combing it thru his fingers and messaging your scalp. When he's done, you turn around and reward him with the sight of your body, head tilted back to rinse your hair, arms lifted to run your hands through it. You try not to look at him but you can tell he is excited and appreciative. Then you hand him the soap and quickly turn around again.