The Palace of the Winter Queen.

	A distant sun shone down from a clear sky as Alastair stepped out of his house, taking a deep breath and savouring the cold winter air. Today was his birthday, his thirteenth, and he planned to spend the day exploring, roaming about the woods that surrounded his remote home. He was a healthy child, with radiant skin still untroubled by hair or acne, and much of his time was spent outside. For much of the year Alastair lived at a boarding school but now, with a few weeks before Christmas, he was back at home.
	Something about the woods seemed different today, Alastair realised as he ran through the trees. It was eerily quiet, as if the slightest noise would shatter the frigid air. He slowed down to a walk and looked around him, breath clouding the air. If anything was out of the ordinary, Alastair was confident that he would notice. He knew these woods like the back of his hand.
	Carefully glancing around him, Alastair continued walking through the forest. It wasn't long before he arrived at the familiar sight of the tallest tree in the forest. The tree was ancient, far older than anything else Alastair had ever encountered, and he knew that it would likely outlive him. Out of habit, Alastair reached out to touch the tree's rough bark when he got close.
	Before he could touch the tree, a strange sound from behind him caused him to turn around. It sounded like a bird of some kind, but not any bird Alastair had heard before. As he was straining his ears for another cry, something seized his ankle with terrifying force. It clamped down on his ankle like a vice, chilling him to the bone, and yanked hard. Alastair couldn't have hoped to fight against such a force and was pulled backwards, fainting dead away as splinters of wood tore at his skin.

	Alastair awoke in a lavishly decorated room, colder than he had ever been. His body ached all over and he had numerous shallow cuts on his arms and legs. His clothes, almost brand new, were slashed and torn, hanging off his thin body in tatters. Shivering, Alastair looked around for something to cover himself with. A sheet from the room's grand bed did the job, although the silky fabric felt strange against his skin.
	A tutting noise caught his attention. There was another figure in the room, Alastair realised, although it was almost impossible to focus on it. The figure paid Alastair no heed, busy with replacing the sheet and making sure it was perfectly smooth.
	“Excuse me,” Alastair said, trying to catch the figure's attention, “Where are we? What's going on?”
	“This is the Palace of the Winter Queen,” the figure replied without turning to face Alastair. Its voice was plain and instantly forgettable, without a hint of gender. “You are a child of winter?”
	“What?” Alastair couldn't understand the figure. Fear was starting to gnaw at him, chilling him as much as the glacial room. “I was born in winter, if that's what you mean, but what does that matter?”
	“You are a child of winter,” the figure nodded to itself, “I am the Handmaiden.”
	“What's your name?” Alastair asked, trying to return some normality to the conversation, “My name's Alastair.”
	For a moment, the Handmaiden seemed confused, “I am the Handmaiden,” it repeated. Alastair decided to give up.
	“You said this is the Palace of the Winter Queen, who is that? Did she bring me here?” he asked, trying desperately to get some real answers out of the figure.
	Before the Handmaiden could answer, a gong rang out, echoing through the room. “We are being summoned. The Queen has arrived.” Taking his arm, the Handmaiden shuffled out of the room, dragging Alastair behind it.
	“Stop, please!” Alastair begged, tears forming in his eyes, “I just want to go home!”
	“You must not look her in the eye,” the Handmaiden ignored his outburst, “Look to the floor. Do not raise your eyes.”
	“I just want to go home...” Alastair murmured again, allowing himself to be dragged along the gleaming corridor.

	When they stopped, they were standing in a grand ballroom. Silver chandeliers were suspended from the ceiling, dripping with shards of crystal that glinted in the light. Every surface was polished to a mirror sheen, allowing Alastair a good view of his terrified reflection. There were others in the ballroom, just as featureless and forgettable as the Handmaiden. Some were guards, lining the sides of the room while others formed loose groups, bickering and whispering amongst themselves.
	Somewhere in the hall, a drum began to sound. The booming drumbeat slowly picked up speed until the unseen player reached a frenzy. One final, achingly loud boom rang out before the drummer fell silent and the huge door at the end of the ballroom swung open. Silence overtook the room as Alastair desperately fixed his gaze on the floor. The Queen had arrived.
	The Queen's footsteps echoed through the ballroom, each step falling with the sound of shattering glass. Her pace was measured and unhurried, full of arrogant authority. The air seemed to grow colder still as she drew near, until Alastair's teeth were chattering loudly. Panicking, he tried to keep still but to no avail. Drawn by the sound of his rattling teeth, the Queen approached Alastair until he stood, exposed and defenceless, before her.
	Her feet, the only part of her Alastair could see, seemed to be made from shimmering glass.  Her heels were tipped with icicles, fully six inches in length, that raised her off the ground. A creeping frost had started to spread wherever her heels touched the floor, delicate veins of ice glittering in the light. Mustering a heroic force of will, Alastair forced his jaw to be still. The hall was silent again, until the Queen spoke.
	“Children of winter, kneel!” the Queen commanded. Her voice seemed to echo from the hall itself, rather than coming from the figure standing before Alastair. The boy dropped hurriedly to one knee as, beside him, the Handmaiden smoothly lowered itself to the ground. Everyone in the hall seemed to wait with baited breath, awaiting the Queen's next words.
	“Child,” an icy hand touched Alastair's head, long nails brushing against his scalp, “Taken from your home, delivered to mine. As a slave, you shall serve.” The Queen took her hand from Alastair's head and swept it across his shoulders, casting the sheet away. Assailed by the sudden cold, Alastair gasped and clutched himself. The Handmaiden took him from behind, gently but forcefully pulling his arms aside, exposing his chest.
	“Hey!” Alastair cried, struggling against the Handmaiden's firm grip. He stopped struggling instantly when the Queen placed one of her long, sharp nails against his throat. Slowly, the Queen dragged her nail down his chest, leaving a burning trail. Although his skin was only scratched his shirt was ruined, split open down the front. The tatters drifted slowly to the floor, leaving Alastair bare-chested and shivering.
	Alastair whimpered quietly as the Queen lowered her finger to his trousers, easily cutting the belt away. The Handmaiden tightened its grip on his arms, whispering reassuring noises in his ear. Soon, his trousers and underwear were lying around him in tatters, leaving Alastair naked. A faint chorus of whispering reached his ears as the crowd of onlookers began to peer at him. A vivid blush erupted in his cheeks, shockingly hot compared with the frigid air.
	Slowly, the Queen crouched down in front of Alastair, giving him a close view of her womanly figure. Although her entire body was made from the same glassy material as her feet, it looked somehow organic, forming wide hips and a heavy bosom. Alastair shifted uncomfortably, his terror mixing with strange, unfamiliar feelings. Despite everything, the cold, the muttering witnesses and his fear, there was a stirring in his loins.
	The Queen pressed her icy nail against Alastair's face, the heat from his blush quickly causing it to melt and droop. Lukewarm water dripped down his chest and neck as the Queen ran the finger, no longer sharp, down his body. Her hand, cold yet somehow inviting, settled on his crotch, caressing his small penis. Alastair squirmed, his whimpers turning into moans as his penis began to rise.
	Although he could still hear the whispers of the crowd, Alastair barely paid them any attention. They had faded into background noise, indistinguishable from the Handmaiden's crooning. Taking his head with her other hand, the Queen pressed his face into her chest, smothering him. Although her skin was icy cold, there was a heat somewhere deep beneath the surface, pulsing slowly with the sound of her heartbeat. At the behest of some long-forgotten instinct, Alastair nuzzled into the Queen's bosom, his penis twitching and rigid.
	Still dripping with water, the Queen wrapped her fingers around Alastair's erection, slowly sliding her fist up and down. Heedless of the crowd, or his own dignity, Alastair squirmed and moaned aloud as the Queen stroked his shaft. Her hand grew warmer as she moved it, softening until it felt as though his erection was gliding through warm water. The sheer pleasure of it was enormous, enough to make Alastair forget his terror and accept the situation.
	Slowly, skilfully, the Queen massaged his penis, coaxing new sensations out of him with every motion she made. Seizing Alastair's hair, she pulled his head back and let go of his erection. For a moment, Alastair was left gasping and panting, trying to understand why she had stopped. There were a few hushed laughs from the audience at the sight of his desperation, causing him to blush harder.
	Still holding him by the hair, the Queen began to stroke his penis with the tip of one finger. She ran the finger from the base of his erection to the tip, idly circling the tip of the head and letting him writhe. Gradually the sensations began to build, driving Alastair into a frenzy. Completely abandoning any notion of pride, he began to grind his hips, pushing up against her finger as he panted.
	Seconds before the moment of climax, the Queen snatched her finger away from Alastair's shaft, letting it twitch and spasm fruitlessly. Moaning aloud, Alastair's cock throbbed and ached with the built up pressure before the dam broke and a stream of pearly white semen leapt from its tip. Jumping and bucking from the force of his orgasm, his penis flicked beads of cum all over the floor, some of it even landing on the Queen's foot.
	A hush fell over the ballroom when the crowd realised what had happened. Even the Handmaiden had fallen silent, finally putting a halt to her murmuring. The only noise was the sound of Alastair's ragged breathing interspersed with quiet moans. Before his mind could clear, the Handmaiden pushed Alastair forward until his nose was touching the Queen's foot.
	“Clean it!” the Handmaiden hissed, pushing Alastair's face closer to the strings of semen he had released. Alastair almost asked how he was supposed to clean with his arms restrained, but then he realised. Reluctantly, he reached out with his tongue and licked up the first of the semen stains. The fluid was unpleasant tasting, salty with an indescribable texture. A few members of the crowd began to hoot and jeer as he licked the high heeled foot, cleaning it of every trace of his orgasm.
	When he was finished, the Handmaiden pulled him upright so he could stand before the Queen. The hall was silent as everyone waited for the Queen to make an announcement. She stroked Alastair's hair a few times, before turning her back on him.
	“The child must be taught discipline!” she shouted, voice echoing off the furthest corners of the room. The watching crown erupted in cheers as the Queen marched out of the ballroom, Alastair behind her, escorted by the Handmaiden's firm grip. The cheering was still ringing in his ears when the ballroom door swung shut behind him.