Are you cold, baby?
Shaking off my coat,
I cover her white shoulders and then bite
a glove off my hand.
Let me warm up that hole,
sweety.
I push my middle finger
past soft powder and into tighter territory,
ignoring the hidden children who giggle as they watch,
and I compliment her on keeping up with her
kegels.
Excellent grip, love.
Snowballs explode around
me, but are
no match for the blueballs that burn on a slow
fuse
beneath my jeans.
I unleash my meatknife
and
stab her over and over as my palms, numb,
press against her smooth mounds.
Crystals dance in the
air and her hips melt as I gyrate, moaning.
The snowballs arrive
at a furious pace,
popping on my shoulders and neck.
The children present themselves and mock
our love.
Leave that snowman
alone! they wail.
And as my dimpled red
cheeks clench in an orgasmic release,
my hot lips soften
the flakes at her ear.
They are fools, my love,
not to see you as the woman you are.
