Frozen Hearts, Burning Desire

The snow fell in thick, silent drifts against the windows of our old farmhouse, clinging to the frosted eaves like desperate white ghosts. It was a brutal kind of beauty here in the Snowbelt, a constant reminder of the unforgiving nature of winter. We’d learned to adapt, to find warmth in the most unexpected places, and in our case, it was in the embrace of my husband, a man whose metabolism seemed to defy the very laws of thermodynamics. He slept naked, always, a scandalous habit for a supposed Christian, but one that he insisted upon as an offering of himself to me, should I ever require comfort. I, in turn, preferred my ankle-length flannel nightgowns and hand-knitted woolen booties, clinging to a sense of propriety even as the biting cold seeped through the cracks in our drafty walls.

He’d laughed at my choices before, a low rumble in his chest, but never once had he questioned his own desire for intimacy. The heat radiating from his body was a constant, insistent presence in our frigid bedroom, a beacon of warmth in the deepening darkness. It was a strange, symbiotic relationship, built on a foundation of shared comfort and a mutual understanding of our opposing needs.

One particularly brutal night, huddled beneath layers of eiderdown comforters, I confessed to him that my hands were numb with cold. Without a flicker of hesitation, he responded, “Just put one hand under your butt and the other in front between your legs.” It wasn’t an invitation, not exactly, but a suggestion, a proposition disguised as a helpful solution. A shiver ran through me, not entirely from the cold, but from the potential heat that lay beneath.

“It’s a bad time of the month,” I murmured, feigning discomfort, “and I’m really not in the mood for sex, besides my hands are so cold they’ll freeze your poor nuts off.” His chuckle was deep and resonant, a promise of pleasure just beneath the surface. "Just do it," he commanded, and against my better judgment, I complied.

He leaned back against the pillows, his left arm extended across the expanse, drawing me closer, my flannel nightgown clinging to his chest as we intertwined our thighs. The fit was perfect, a snug embrace that felt both secure and strangely vulnerable. With my right hand, I nestled comfortably in the curve above his ass, feeling the subtle heat radiating from his skin, and my head resting on his chest like a living, breathing pillow. Then, tentatively, I reached down, my fingertips tracing the contours of his lower abdomen, searching for the warmth I craved.

Locating the desired spot, I slid my hand beneath his scrotum, past the hard, insistent bulge of his erection, and found the soft, yielding space nestled between his legs. "Aahh," I whispered, a sigh of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

“Aahh,” he responded, his voice thick with arousal, "Oh Dear, too cold for you? No Baby, that’s just right, your cool hands feel absolutely wonderful. Just hold real still down there.” His words were a delicious paradox, a tantalizing blend of challenge and invitation. I held my breath, my senses heightened, and obeyed his command, letting his body heat seep into my frozen limbs.

As expected, his rigid member retreated, shrinking back into his body as my cool touch diminished its power. The skin around it tightened and wrinkled, a testament to his potent masculinity. My fingertips lingered, tracing the delicate landscape of his anatomy, feeling the subtle tremor of his arousal. It was a strange sensation, this controlled tension, this exquisite balance of cold and heat.

My hand continued its slow, deliberate descent, sliding further into his intimate space. As it did, I became acutely aware of his deep, measured breathing, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, a soundtrack to our shared pleasure. The arm draped across the pillow relaxed further, enveloping me in a cocoon of warmth and anticipation.

He was asleep, lost in the depths of his own desires, oblivious to the intense sensations that coursed through me. My obedient wife, content to surrender her senses to the pleasure of his touch. I let out another sigh, a small, involuntary tremor of delight, and drifted off to sleep, lulled by the warmth of his body and the promise of more to come.

This nightly ritual, the hand-warming, had become an integral part of our lives, a sacred exchange between two souls seeking solace in each other’s embrace. It was as predictable as the sunrise, as reliable as the turning of the seasons. No matter the stress of the day, no matter the petty squabbles that occasionally arose between us, or even when the children slept soundly on the floor, the hand-warming would always occur.

Sometimes, I would fall asleep before he did, and he would tell me that my fingers would twitch involuntarily as I drifted off, stroking him unawares, causing him to get a delightful spontaneous stiffy. Other times, we would both fall asleep on our sides, drifting apart while still awake, and occasionally my caresses would lead to a more extended session.

More often than not, the hand-warming took place immediately after a particularly intense encounter, the afterglow of multiple orgasms still clinging to my body like a tangible warmth. The wet, sticky evidence of his volcanic climax would adorn my flannel nightie, clinging to my skin and mingling with the hairs on his belly. And, of course, it would drip onto my left hand, a salty reminder of the pleasure we had shared. I’d snuggle into his chest, my breasts resting against his side, feeling the rhythmic throb of his testicles as they danced against my motionless fingertips.

Tonight was one of those nights. The snow continued to fall outside, a silent witness to our intimate exchange. As we lay intertwined, lost in the depths of our shared pleasure, I realized that this strange, beautiful ritual was more than just a way to combat the winter’s chill. It was a testament to our love, a tangible expression of our desire, and a constant reminder of the warmth that bound us together.

He stirred slightly, his arm tightening around me, and whispered, "My toe is cold." I chuckled softly, pulling him closer, and replied, "Let me warm it for you." He sighed contentedly, burying his face in my hair, and we remained like that for a long time, lost in the comforting embrace of each other's bodies, the snow falling softly outside, a silent soundtrack to our shared passion. The cold, the flannel, the warmth – it was all part of the exquisite dance, the perfectly balanced equation that made our lives so wonderfully, intensely, and delightfully strange.

Story taboo sex

Frozen Hearts, Burning Desire

Did you like this story? Frozen Hearts, Burning Desire look, but like these, here Story taboo sex.