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  Of course, where things got very different was when I entered Mia and felt her younger, tighter muscles close around me. Don’t get me wrong, having sex with Estella had been incredible (and your first time is always going to be memorable), but a forty-year-old MILF is always going to feel different to a nineteen-year-old, irrespective of how similar they were in other ways.

  Mia’s cries of ecstasy filled the back of my car, and the car’s suspension dealt with our shared thrusts well. Thank goodness for the tinted windows as well. It sounded like the congestion was easing up, as I could hear the traffic flying past the rest area we had parked in at a much faster speed than fifteen minutes before. Our thighs were getting more and more soaked the longer we fucked, but by that time I had learned to keep a clean sheet in the back of the car to protect the upholstery.

  Oh, another way that Mia and her mother differed was in their kisses. I mentioned the difference to Mia on the drive to the airport, which made her laugh and say, “If I believed in horoscopes, I’d say that’s because I’m a Virgo.” In a way, they were the opposite of what you would expect. Estella, a seasoned MILF, kissed like an animal having its first meal in days. Her daughter, on the other hand, was subtle; she kissed and licked me around the lips, my ears, my neck – everywhere besides directly on the mouth. It was only when things really heated up that she finally allowed herself to press her lips against mine, and then our tongues locked. She had none of the voraciousness I had come to expect from other girls our age – and her mother, of course.

  She also came quickly, which was an incredible surprise. She whispered in my ear to hold out, that she wanted us to come together, and when we did it was like a burst of hot, white flashes had erupted in the car. I hadn’t been using protection, and I had no idea if she was on the pill, but none of that mattered. We came like the two of us were made for fucking one another. Sex with Estella was an absolutely life-changing experience. It was no different with her daughter.

  As we drove off, arriving a full hour later than we were supposed to, I couldn’t shake a certain feeling out of my system. When we finally met Esteban and Estella at the terminal, and they joked that, like typical kids, we were hopeless at getting anywhere on time, I barely registered either of them or the words they said. I loved seeing Estella again – she was more beautiful than even I’d remembered – but the obsession for her had evaporated. All of a sudden, took it completely for granted that she and Esteban belonged to one another, and the knowledge that she would probably never touch me again didn’t really sting anymore.

  And what’s more, I could tell from the way Estella looked at me that she knew. She knew my heart no longer belonged to her.

  And when her gaze shifted from me to her daughter, she was happy.

  “So, you guys get along okay in the car? The traffic must have been a nightmare,” poor, oblivious Esteban asked.

  “I bet they became fast friends,” Estella commented before either of us could respond.

  “I dunno; I think we gave it a good half an hour.” Mother and daughter shared a look that only I understood. Esteban didn’t have the faintest clue about anything that was going on in his new, immediate family. Of course, that was for the best.

  I drove the four of us back to their house, and as soon as my uncle and new aunt dropped their luggage on the floor they looked at each other like they were very eager to continue their honeymoon.

  They didn’t have to breathe a word to me, or to Mia. We left, and on the drive out of their apartment complex I asked Mia where she was staying.

  “Other side of town. But don’t worry about that yet. I have a curiosity I need to satisfy.”

  “Oh yeah?” I responded, much more calm and collected than I had been the first time we met. “What’s on your mind?”

  She giggled. “I want to see where it happened. Between you and Mom.”

  A strange request, but at that time she could have asked me to go skinny dipping with electric eels and I probably would have agreed.

  “Can do. It was in a car park, but it was at night. There isn’t really much to see there.”

  “I know,” she responded. “But there’s plenty to do.”

  The Snow Maid

  By Alana Church

  Copyright 2015 Alana Church

  == || < > || ==

  ~~ All characters in this book are 18 or over. ~~

  == || < > || ==

  The dying man got dressed.

  Not that dying was going to be very hard, Bill Carter thought with a weak thread of his old humor. Easier than dressing, at least. Pain hampering every move in his hands and wrists, he managed to zip and button his heavy parka. A thick wool cap was forced over his head and ears, and he pulled the hood of his coat over it all. He eyed his boots with a malevolent glare, then bent down to force them over his numb feet.

  Lastly, the gloves. Using his teeth to aid his clumsy, frozen fingers, he pulled them on, grateful that the weak light from the electric lamp did not show him the ruin of his once-healthy body. Breath steaming in the brutally cold air, he shuffled over to Olaf and nudged him with his foot. Once, then again. Outside, the raging wind howled inland from the Kara Sea, shrieking its fury at anyone who was stupid or foolish enough to dare to challenge it.

  Olaf's eyes blinked open. The large Swede looked up, frost crystals in his beard.

  “I am just going outside, Olaf,” Bill said shakily, keeping his voice low so he didn't wake the others. “And I may be some time. Make sure you close and tie the door flap behind me. I can't do much with these anymore,” he said with a weak wave of his hands.

  “My friend,” Olaf said, his voice weak, “Are you sure?”

  Bill did not trust himself enough to speak. Instead, he nodded. Olaf slowly crawled out of his sleeping bag and staggered over to the front of the tent. Silently, he gripped Bill's shoulder. Frozen tears formed on his cheeks as he wept.

  “May the good God bring you home safe, my friend.”

  “And you,” Bill replied, though he had given up his belief in the almighty on this hellish journey. “Get back safe to that pretty wife of yours, and give her a child or two.”

  “If I do, one of them will share your name. Go now, before my heart breaks.” He knelt on the frozen canvas and unzipped the front flap.

  Bill Carter took one last deep breath, and committed suicide.

  ~~~~~

  It was easier than he thought. The powdery snow did not hamper his movements much, and he was able to set a good pace. It was only a matter of moments before he had left the ragged, windswept camp which was all that remained of the once proud Russian-American Novaya Zemlya Expedition.

  A tribute, Bill thought bitterly, to American arrogance and Russian incompetence and corruption. The expedition had been the brainchild of a consortium of oil and mining firms, who were convinced that vast amounts of precious metals and petroleum could be found and extracted along the hostile coast of Arctic Russia. They had underwritten the costs, and forty men and women had been chosen to take part in an expedition to Novaya Zemlya, a pair of islands off the northwest Russian mainland.

  However, the expedition had been grounded for weeks by foul weather. With the narrow window to do fieldwork closing, the lead American, a geologist for the petroleum industry, had insisted that they fly in on a huge Chinook helicopter, and wait for the supporting water craft to meet them where their base was to be established. He had ignored the advice of the mission meteorologist, a bright young man from St. Paul, Minnesota, named William Carter.

  Well, I showed him, didn't I? Bill thought morbidly, stumbling through a drift. McKenzie had died when the helicopter crashed, gale force winds throwing it down onto the frozen surface of the Arctic Ocean like a wad of paper. Only eleven of them had survived the crash and the terrible days that followed, when they realized that most of the emergency supplies and medical equipment had been stolen or sold on the black market, and that the electronics and radio had been i
rreparably damaged.

  And that for some crazy reason, no one had bothered putting in cell phone service at the top of the world.

  Despairing, the survivors had made a grim bid for life. Using whatever tools they could scavenge or make, they had peeled away part of the hull of the helicopter to use as a sledge to pull their supplies across the ice in a desperate attempt to reach civilization. But they didn't have enough food or fuel or anything else, and three of them had already died of exposure and malnutrition.

  Four, thought Bill. He looked for a sheltered spot.

  They had made it to the southern of the two islands, but the food situation was growing desperate. Bill had come down with severe frostbite in the fingers of his right hand and in both feet. When the wounds turned gangrenous, he knew his time had come.

  Simple math, really. If I'm gone, there will be more food for everyone else. Maybe Olaf and Ludmilla can get them to Belushya Guba. I doubt it, though.

  Better chance than you do, Carter, he snickered.

  God, I'm tired.

  The sun must have come up behind the clouds, for the thin light was growing stroner. Through the veils of blowing snow, Bill saw a finger of stone jutting up from the arctic plain. It was at least fifteen feet tall, and four or five feet wide. At its base, on the side away from the wind, a small patch of bare ground was in view.

  That'll do.

  With fading strength, he lurched into the lee of the stone. He sat down and curled his legs up into his body and crossed his arms across his chest. For a moment, his shivers eased and he felt almost warm. He looked up into the sky. The storm must have been breaking, because he could see thin streaks of blue between the ragged gray clouds.

  He felt oddly calm. Does it hurt to die? he thought. I don't think so. Remember when you had the lower GI a few years back? One second you were on the gurney, waiting for a doctor to shove a camera up your butt. The next you were awake in the recovery room putting on your clothes.

  I hope it's like that. God, I would have liked to see my folks again. And Jim and Nancy. And sit out at night with a beer and watch the sun set.

  I wish...

  The last thing that Bill Carter felt, before Death came walking up to take him, was the false warmth of hypothermia.

  He smiled.

  ~~~~~

  Grandmother Snegurochka sat listlessly in her old rocking chair by the pale fire. Her head drooped, and the bone needles nearly fell from her grasp. The gray shawl she was knitting sat uselessly in her lap.

  So tired, she thought despairingly. I am so tired. So long without someone to talk to. No one to share a cup of tea with in the evening. No one to play with in bed.

  She snorted indelicately. As if anyone would want to engage in bed-sport with her now. Old, wrinkled, gray and spotted. She was missing teeth, and her fading vision told her that soon she would be blind as well.

  Give it up, her mind taunted her. The old ways are gone, and you are a relic whose time is past. Give it up. Go to sleep with the rest of your kin.

  “No,” she said. Her voice quavered, but the will behind it was firm. “I am the daughter of Winter, in Winter's mightiest stronghold. I will not bid this earth farewell. There is still time.”

  Time for what, old woman? The globe grows warmer every year. Men defile it with smoke and poison. In time, endless summer will come even here. Snow melts, and even the mightiest glaciers can fall.

  “No,” she whispered. Tears rose in her eyes and traced wandering paths down her wrinkled cheeks, “I won't let that happen, I...”

  From above came a brazen tone, as if a brass gong had been struck by a stone club.

  “Sun and steam!” she swore. She shook her mind free of the web of deceit her wandering thoughts had woven about her and cast it upwards into the World Above.

  A man; fragile, frozen, and exhausted, he sat huddled at the Gate.

  A sacrifice. After all these years, a sacrifice.

  Ignoring her screaming hip and aching back, Snegurochka leaped out of her chair and dashed for the exit of the House Below. Hobbled by her age, she ignored the cloaks and coats in the hall, pausing only to grab the long-forgotten carry-all by the door, which contained what she needed to bring a mortal into her home. All the while, her thought clung to the fading life above her. So fragile a flame, so close to being blown out by the elements.

  With a chanted spell that was half a scream, she stepped across the threshold into the mortal realm.

  ~~~~~

  Bill opened his eyes. Then he frowned and blinked. He was, it seemed, alive.

  Which was, in a small way, a disappointment, considering how nobly he had acted to save his friends, he thought with a small smile.

  He was lying on his back on a small bed that was almost sinfully comfortable. Fat pillows were propped behind his head, and soft cotton sheets caressed his body. A thick comforter, merrily decorated with warm designs in red and orange, brought needed color to the hospital room.

  It has to be a hospital room, right? he thought foggily. Flogging his memory, he could only catch glimpses of the time from when he had sat by the standing stone and when he woke up. The clearest was that of a pale face hovering over him, and a voice asking if he was “the sacrifice,” and his mumbled answer that yes, he was, and could she stop hurting his feet, since they would have to be amputated anyway?

  If it was a hospital room, it was decidedly strange. Despite the clear white light that filled the room, he could not see any sign of light fixtures. And the walls, though colored in pleasant pastel shades of blue and green, were oddly curved where they met the floor and the high ceiling, without sharp corners, giving the room the feel of a tiny cathedral.

  Bill shuddered, remembering how he had resigned himself to death. Any room, however strange, was preferable to that. He wiggled deeper into the thick blankets, reveling in the feeling of warmth that he thought he had lost forever.

  Why are hospital rooms always so cold? he thought sleepily, then drifted off again.

  ~~~~~

  When he woke for the second time, he felt far more alert. Either the drugs were wearing off, or he was recovering from his ordeal.

  Probably the first, he thought. He had seen pictures of arctic explorers in the old days, those who had not been careful enough, or lucky enough, to avoid frostbite. The photos of fingers and toes, black and hideously swollen, had warned him of the danger. But warning had not been enough. The unending, brutal cold had taken its toll on his body, and by the start of the second week on the ice Bill had seen the first traces of frostbite pop up. He had done his best to contain the damage, but by the time he left the tent he knew that even if by some miracle he survived, he would be missing both feet and at least three fingers of his right hand.

  Remembering that, he steeled himself as he moved his right arm into view.

  And saw a perfectly ordinary hand, completely unblemished.

  He was still pale-faced and white with shock when she came into the room.

  It was a good thing, he thought later, when he had time to consider such things, that he had been so surprised by the continued existence of his hand that the appearance of Svetlana caused no more than mild confusion.

  She was dressed in the colors of an unhappy winter. She wore a heavy, shapeless dress, the color of dirty snow. Below the low hem, he could glimpse dark gray stockings and slippers made from the dark fur of some animal, possibly a wolf. She wore silver at her wrists and her ears, and a thin chain of pale gold around her throat.

  She was very old. Old enough, Bill thought, to be his grandmother. Her long gray hair was long and straight, but raggedly cut around her pale, lined face. Years of wrinkles were in the corners of her eyes and her mouth. One eye was cloudy, as if a cataract was forming there. The other was as gray as her dress, and disturbingly alert and direct.

  One of the old Soviets, Bill thought. A doctor or nurse who left her hospital or lost her job when the old system collapsed
back in the nineties. He had read that there were many of them on the fringes of society in Putin's Russia, former professionals making do as best they could, living on the remains of their pensions and helping people when they needed it. Could she have seen our tent and called in a rescue for us?

  She walked quickly up to the bed and threw back the covers, exposing him to the waist. She laid one hand on his forehead, and the other on the inside of his elbow. They were both frigidly cold, and he flinched away.

  “What...”

  “Hush,” she said in a distracted tone. “You'll make me lose count.”

  Confused, he held his tongue, even as he blushed in embarrassment. After a few moments, she removed her hands and smiled at him, displaying slightly crooked teeth in a careworn face.

  “Well, the fever is gone, and your pulse is steady. The hand is well?”

  He held it up and wiggled the fingers experimentally. “It seems to be...Doctor...”

  “I am Polina,” she said. She pulled the covers the rest of the way down, ignoring both his startled yelp and his nudity. His feet, he saw, were as undamaged as his hand. She tested them briefly with her hands, then nodded, satisfied.

  “Your feet are recovered as well.” Her cold hand dropped briefly to the inside of his thigh, and she examined his groin. “No damage there, thanks be to the High One.” To Bill's intense relief his cock lay limp and flaccid against his leg. Despite the fantasies of young men, he knew enough to know that women nurses and doctors did not fall madly in lust as soon as one of their patients displayed an erect penis.

  It would be even worse to do it in front of a woman who was obviously long past such recreational thoughts.

  Polina tsked irritably. “Well, I suppose that will need some time to recover. You have had an intense trauma, after all.” her voice was slightly accented, but she spoke English well. She looked at his torso critically, counting the ribs in his too-thin chest.