There’s something about the bite of winter air on my skin that awakens something primal in me. Standing outside, shoveling snow in nothing but a snug tank top, lacy lingerie, sheer stockings clinging to my thighs, and boots that keep me steady—I can feel the chill creeping under the fabric, teasing me in ways I don’t expect.
With every push of the shovel, my breath clouds the air, my body moving rhythmically, muscles flexing, heart racing—not just from the cold, but from the heat rising deep inside me. Funny how mother nature has a way of stirring something raw and untamed in my soul, each shiver storing juices I’ll need for later.
I don’t mind doing this chore alone, but the thought of a warm man waiting inside to greet me when I come back in, ready to ravish me—now that’s something that could melt even the iciest morning. I’d kick off my boots, peel off those stockings, and let him warm me up in all the right ways.
Until then, it’s just me, this winter wonderland, and the delicious anticipation of what could happen when I finally step inside.
Comments