Polar

graphx: spwilcen

This is the “Adult” section. For mature audiences not bothered by coarse language or sexual situations.

She was hardly breathing.  It struck me that it was so cold outside, where the two of us waited for the shuttle van, that drawing a breath was like capturing a lungful of air from a deep freeze.  From your chest, that frigid air spread first to your trunk then to the very tips of your fingers and toes, chilling everything.  Everything.  I wondered how Eskimo men managed in the cold.  The few seconds it takes – I don’t care who you listen to bragging about the firehose they have in their britches – to empty your bladder when you finally yank your pecker out because you really do have to piss, is going to freeze more than your tool. 

Though you’re really motivated to get the job done in a hurry, first, exposure to the cold activates a fucking switch that says, “Nope!  Too goddam cold.  Check with me later.  I’m not risking the plumbing in this weather!” 

Pissing is impossible.  Second, the damned thing will shrivel-up trying to conserve the heat in what blood it has been allocated in stand-by mode; it’ll turn blue and damned near disappear when you put your hand on it to yank it out to avoid pissing on your pants. Better be reasonably endowed or have an extension with you, because a snowsuit adds at least an inch of fabric.  To top that off, you’re gonna have to weave the little doober through the woolen long johns’ stupid damned closure first.  Nine times out of ten, you’re in danger of pissing on your fingers anyway – you get to make a choice.

But I wasn’t in standby mode.  A little after midnight, this airport in this god-forsaken place was almost deserted.  She wasn’t on the jet I came in on, so that means probably the last two flights for the night were in and the place would shut down soon.  Probably the last flights for the week, hell, for the year.  Okay.  This woman waiting with me was not bad looking.  I saw a raw sexiness, which goes to show how long it’s been since I’ve been home from this remote tour.  So long and so far away that my little black book containing numbers with real potential for striking gold was worthless.  Gold or silver level – not gonna happen.  Bronze might have been nice, but even that was questionable.  When I got around to flipping through the pages of my inventory, I’d be lucky to find an available also-ran. 

My assessment of the woman waiting with me, based on limited information says a lot for the hardly-breathing woman’s sensuality and more for my imagination.  Imagination or state of need.  All you could see of her was half of her cheeks and her eyes and nose up to the line of her eyebrows.  Like me, everything else of her was covered, wrapped, insulated, layered, furred and thermo-flocked.

It had been a long flight north, farther north yet than I’d been all fucking month, and I was tired, hungry, cold, and now, horny.  In about that order from least-to-most-needing immediate attention.  And my equipment was not on standby, caused simply from the look on this woman’s face and my testosterone-driven imagination.  With that agitation, as painfully pleasant as it was, the possibility of getting Mr. Business through the long john’s insidiously designed front closure was stupidly impossible.  Assuming the inflammation subsided, I stood a better chance of pissing my pants than exposing Mr. Wonderful to the raw elements.  I entertained myself thinking if I could parcel-out and redistribute the heat wasted in my essentially useless pecker to the rest of my body, I could probably stand here in this miserable god damned cold stark-ass naked.  Pissing then might be doable.  And I was going to need to piss in the worst way pretty damned soon.

As it was, I made a mental note to check exactly what date my return flight was scheduled.  God damned tight-fisted bitch in travel-slash-accounting probably booked me here to get the winter rate and maybe, just maybe, I’d die and they could stop writing payroll checks to me, and she…  Aw, never mind.  She’s fucked me over more than once with assignments in hell: hot-and-humid in the summer and suburbs of Antarctica in the deep of winter.  Nice lady.  Be okay that she is so mean, if she wasn’t so god damned good-looking.  And lesbian.

In the distance, a puff of smoke.  Coming this way?  Moving, anyway.  Ah, not smoke, vapor.  The van to shuttle me and Ms. Sexy Face to the hotel, which I expected to be a two-story igloo.  As the van drew nearer, I could see the exhaust was freezing to the vehicle’s tailpipe.  Only the vehicle’s bouncing over rough patches of ice-hard pack snow jarred the ice loose, kept the freezing vapor from completely closing the exhaust.

Why I ever got into hybrid systems I don’t know.  I suppose because those are the systems installed in remote places for the pure fact that they usually require minimal human interaction – repair, maintenance or daily man-machine cuddling.  And the minor inconvenience introduced by remote locations added to the technical skills necessary, meant the pay was handsome.  Exotic places like remote Hawaii, other tropical islands, wonderful foreign countries.  None of which I ever got to visit.  I pulled the trips to popsicle-places like this.  In the winter.  In the summer I swatted mosquitoes as big as fucking blackbirds in the deep jungles of countries with unpronounceable names and the latest uncurable disease – usually countries with histories chronicled in weeks, not decades, years, or even months.

Yup. Given the opportunity, I’d, well, I don’t know what I’d do to the travel-slash-accounting bitch, but I’d think of something.  Freeze her nipples in a glacier.  Tie her naked to a flatboat in the middle of some bug-infested swamp.  Possibilities.  The shuttle crunched to a stop on snow so cold it was like glass.  The rear door popped-open.

Ever the sparkling conversationalist, I said, “At last!  We can get out of this cold!”

The shuttle driver’s parka heard me.  “Sorry, the heater’s on the fritz,” it said, leaning around his seat to face the back of the van and the open door.

“Wonderful!” Remember me, Mr. Brilliant Conversationalist?

“That’s okay, shouldn’t bother, it’s only twenty minutes to the hotel,” reassured the driver.

Ms. Sexy Face said nothing.

“Let me get the bags in while you get inside,” the driver continued.

“No point.  No heat, I’m already in the cold, keep your seat warm and I’ll lift them in.”  

“Great!” he said.  I strongly suspected he had no intention of getting out in that fucking cold anyway.

I put my bag and my service kit into the van and slid them from the back down a center aisle that was more luge chute than OSHA-approved walkway.  I turned to face Ms. Sexy Face and she wasn’t there.  I looked into the van and she was already sitting, hunkered, more aptly, on the seat behind the driver.  To my left was the bag, the only bag not mine that had braved the cold for the last twenty-odd minutes, keeping company with mine. 

“That your only bag?”  The extreme cold, I guess makes the logical part of your brain shut down.  Probably on the same circuit as the pissing-part of your dick.  Ms. Sexy Face nodded.  I think she nodded.  There was some kind of movement of the artic headgear she sported.  I wasn’t asking again, once stupid is stupid enough.

I picked her bag up – it weighed a ton – and not without effort, hoisted it into the van and started its slide from the rear of the van toward the seats.  I climbed in and sat beside Ms. Sexy Face.

She looked at me.  I think.  I shrugged, not that anyone could tell for all the winter-proofing, and said, and brilliantly, I admit, “Conserve body heat.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“For the body heat?”

“No. For the bag.  For loading it.”

“Big tipper, aintcha?” 

She unsnapped the front flap of her parka, pulled her muffler down with a glove-padded finger and smiled.  The lady had lips.  Progress.  She had eyes, a nose, parts of cheeks and a chin.  We were almost intimate now.  My ass was freezing to the seat of the van.  The seat was so cold and so close to the neighborhood of the former Mr. Proud, that he’d closed-up shop.  And my ass had slammed shut.  I reconsidered the Eskimos.  Either it was a lot warmer in an igloo than I imagined, snuggled beneath twelve feet of seal fur, or the Eskimo population is doomed.  Talk about birth-control.

Several times during the trip, with the van slowing or stopping, the bags slid forward and I stuck my foot out to stop them from crashing into “command-central” of the van, shutting it down, and subsequently stranding us in the middle of nowhere to freeze to death.  It was so cold no one talked.  Talking required extra air, deeper breathing, and that simply hurt.  At last we pulled into a hotel I must admit belied the remoteness of this place.  Miniature, but impressive.  Now if they had food, and heat and beds, I’d be okay.  Maybe I’d live.  Maybe I’d be able to take a piss in an hour or two, if all my plumbing warmed-up sufficiently. I suspected the contents of my bladder were frozen.  I’m not gonna offer any off-color comparison to banana popsicle or a Margarita.

“I’ll get the bags,” the driver said. 

Tip-time.  Of course he would.  Bullshit.  He wanted a tip?  Here’s a tip: next time it’s so god damned cold, pick up your clients in a van with heat.

“No bother,” I said.  “Only three, I can manage.”

Then, only then, I remembered that Ms. Sexy Face was smuggling lead bullion into the country.  Probably too late to call for a forklift.  Shit!  This, of course, said only to myself.  But screamed, not muttered.  Cold, tired, hungry, used-to-be-horny and now with a rupture.  Successful trip so far.

The god damned bags had frozen to the fucking van floor.  It took a good deal of persuasion to get the ice on the van aisle to let go.  I had visions of being there until summer arrived or a crew from the States with propane torches showed-up.  Neither was necessary though, and the bags were not as unmanageable as I’d expected.  I left the van with my toolkit under my left arm and a proper “suitcase” in either hand.  There was no point in looking for a set of wheels on Ms. Sexy Face’s bag.  The drive at the front door entry was covered in jagged snow-ice and pulling anything on wheels across it would throw off my balance to say nothing of my ego.

With minimum struggle – and keenly motivated – I finally got inside.  And oh god!  It was warm!  Probably only thirty degrees, but compared to outside, tropical and wonderful.  Why, my nose would be thawed and running like a faucet in no time!  Ms. Sexy Face was dancing a nearly imperceptible jig – excited to have her bag, I guessed.

“The desk clerk had us all checked-in, I’ve signed for both our rooms, you’re in two-oh-one and I’m in three-oh-five, so let’s go to the elevator, it’s right down the hall to the left here, let me have my bag, it has wheels, see, okay let’s go, thank you.”  She rushed it all out as one sentence.  Something was going-on there.

“Still a big tipper,” I said and tried moving my lips into a smile.  Okay, nothing shattered. Warming, but my social skills were not yet catching up.  Maybe, if it took two days to get to the elevator, she’d have time to observe me in top form.

She smiled but there was no steam in it.  She was focused on something else.  Aha!  She has an Eskimo waiting for her in her room!  But she was good-looking.  Sure, all I could yet see was her face, but this woman was a beauty.  If she had anything else, she was going to be top-drawer.  Hell, if she had anything else, she was also going to have a husband.  Or a very rich and impressive boyfriend.  What in the hell brought her to this frozen pisshole?

Two-oh-one and three-oh-five?  So the place has what, five rooms on a floor, three floors, fifteen rooms?  How would they ever fill them?  Ice statuary contests in high summer?  Cold-ass well-digger look-alike contests in May?  Cryogenics festival in April?  Who would vacation here?  Citizens of Antarctica?  Frozen foods company executives?

We waited forever for the elevator.  While we waited, she put down the landing gear on her suitcase and pulled off her parka, tossing it over her suitcase handle.  Not bad.  Anything but bad.  The woman was forty-odd years old, but man, what a wonderful forty years!  Her face was gorgeous.  Long silky-looking blond hair – for an older woman, long – clean, sharp facial features, not too plump lips, cool cobalt eyes, perfect chin and nose.

Ah yes, the rest.  The rest of the package was indescribable.  But I will try.  Breasts large, pushing just to the short side of “too much” and also pushing fiercely against the silky cream-colored blouse she was wearing.  And I am not making this up, as I was looking-but-not-looking, the top button gave up and she reached up in reflex, I thought to attempt to re-button it, but no, she undid the next button down.  The valley between the mountains came into view and on cue her nipples stiffened, pulling her blouse tighter so the valley would get a better view of the coming sunrise.

Whatever music she was listening to in her head, it had an unusual rhythm and the tempo was accelerating.  Keeping time to it, I have to believe, she did a little jiggle more just in flexing her knees.  When she did that, Sport downstairs took immediate notice.  Her breasts were firm and bounced like well-chilled gelatin – solid and struggling against the fabric of her blouse.  I was rooting for the blouse to lose the contest. 

The elevator arrived.  As if we were being photographed, the negatives sent out to be developed and analyzed back in the states for security reasons, the doors remained closed.  Our wait for the doors to open was interminable.  Ms. Sexy Everything, the former Ms. Sexy Face, continued her dance.  She’d turned to face the unopened doors.  As I watched, she unzipped her snow-overalls, I don’t know what else to call them, lost her balance, nearly falling backward in the process.  I caught her in my arms.  Jesus.  She was solid as a rock, but soft.  Not loose-soft, firm-soft.  I know, I’m not making sense.

She managed, “Thank you. I’m sorry.”

“You’re welcome.  I’m not.  Sorry.  Always a pleasure to help a big tipper.”  I got a genuine smile this time.  She smiled with her mouth and more with her eyes – deeply and genuinely with her eyes.  For a moment, her smile suggested she was lost somewhere, but unconcerned.  Her dance stopped for the slightest bit and she – my imagination at the time thought – took her time trying to get her feet back underneath her, relaxing in my arms.  My toolkit teetered and fell over.  That broke the spell.  She gently left my arms, shed her overalls, and resumed her dance.

She smelled good.  Woman good.  A soft, spicy, salty, expensive perfume the dominant fragrance, but there was a drift of the smell of body heat and sweat.  Some of us can do that – sweat and smell good – at least to the opposite sex.  I’ve been told I have that quality – a number of times – but I still take showers and spend a chunk of money on deodorant.  Toilet training.  Whatever Ms. Sexy Everything had going, it was working.  It was working very well.

Except I couldn’t figure the dance.

The elevator doors opened.  She spun back to face them and walked into the elevator quickly.  She didn’t have heels on – they don’t make overshoes, I guess, for heels.  In trail boots and therefore without benefit of the forward and upward lift heels provided, she still had a cute, firm ass – a woman’s ass, not a young girl’s ass.  And legs!  Even though she wore pants, it was obvious those legs were designed and executed flawlessly from the floor, or from her boots, smack up to her ass.  Which, I suppose is convenient.

I must have been caught by the moment and by the delight.  I must have hesitated. I must have been staring.  Hell, I was staring.

“Are you coming?” she asked, with a bit of anxious frown on her face.

Jesus, I thought to myself, not yet, but give me just one more surprise and I’ll be there!  For her benefit, I muttered – and probably blushed – “Oh, yes, um, excuse me.”  And I dragged my bag and tool kit into the elevator as quickly as I could.

“I apologize.  For staring, I mean.  But you probably get that a lot. I am sorry.”

“No, you’re not!”  She giggled with the damned awful sexiest smoky voice I’ve ever heard.  And she continued. “Yes, I get that a lot, but I never enjoy it.”

“Why not?”

“Usually it’s from jerks, pompous New-Jersey dorks, macho, large-ego, small libido, self-important men, with only one thing in mind.”

“Ma’am, excuse me again, but you have to admit you make it difficult.”

“What?”

“Not to have one thing in mind.  Or foremost in mind, anyway.”

“But you, for example, have not lost your manners and show respect and distance, and not a single lewd remark.”

Good thing she cannot read minds, I thought, but said, “Well, you have to be married.”

“No.”

“Engaged?”

“No.”

“Seeing someone?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“And not lesbian.  Just busy.  And disappointed,” she added, obviously for my benefit.

“Disappointed?” I asked.

“In men.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“That you’re disappointed.”

“Not your fault.  Will this elevator ever move?”

“I am a man.”

“Yes.  I noticed that.  I like that.  I like you.”

“Ah. Thank you, I guess.”

“And you?”

“Me?”

“Married?”

“Nope.  Not divorced or married or engaged or seeing someone or thinking about someone.  Just single.”  Which was a lie, but only in that I was thinking about someone.  Her.

At that point the elevator reached my floor.  We stood silently waiting for the doors to open.  I turned to look at her several times and she was looking back.  She smiled but the dance had resumed.  At last the doors slid open.

“Excuse me,” she began as she rushed out of the elevator to the door to my room, exactly opposite the elevator, “but would you mind if I went into your room?”

Floored me.  I did not understand.  I am not, apparently, one of those New Jersey ‘dorks.’

“No, fine.”  And I quickly pulled my bag and kit across the hall and slid my card into the reader-slot.  The door clicked open and not waiting for me, she bee-lined into the room, paused looking briefly left and then right and disappeared to the right.  I brought her bag and mine and my kit into the room.  She was in the bathroom.  I tossed my bag onto a comfortable-looking recliner, slid my kit into the closet and moved her bag away from the door to near the foot of the bed.  Her recently shed outer skins, I tossed onto the bed.  Reading the novel recounting the wonderful amenities of the hotel – in most places, an imaginatively good work of fiction – kept me occupied.

“Ah-h-h!” came in a soft moan from the bathroom.  I was not listening – it was hard not to hear it.  It was not me.  That was a genuine and undisguised moan of release.  The dance made sense.  Apparently, it was the method the lady used to hold in check a bladder too long waiting its turn for attention.   A few seconds later, I heard the water run.  The door opened.  She came out wiping her hands on a towel.

 “I apologize but I couldn’t wait for that elevator to get to the next floor and to walk to the end of the hall probably in the wrong direction the first time and then to walk to the other end of the hall to my room.”

“I understand.  Natural.  I’ll be at that point myself soon, too.”

“Well.  Thank you.  I guess I should go.”

“Have you eaten?  I mean, recently?”

“Not since St. Stayavyek, maybe eight hours ago.”

“Well, they have room service and they deliver drinks from the bar – both until 2 AM.  Maybe you’d like company for dinner.  Up here, it could be weeks before you run across a dinner companion again.”

“A decent dinner companion,” she amended.

“You assume I’m decent.  I’m flattered.”

“I’m seldom wrong.  When it comes to men.”

“Tell me, if I may ask, what brings a stunning woman like you to an unlikely place like this?”

 “I bought sixty percent of a mine, a marginal gold mining operation, and I’m here to kick some ass and put the outfit back into the black.”

“Interesting.  But even a marginal mining operation would not come cheap.  You’re rich?”

“Comfortable.”

“What did you do before becoming a mining magnate?”

“Modeling.”

“Aha!   I should have guessed.  You certainly look the part.”

“No.  Well, yes, thank you.  But I own, or owned, a modelling agency.”

“But you, obviously were a model first?”

“Modelling for most, is a brief career.  I was looking for something lasting, so I quickly became ‘the boss’ and let others worry over a few extra pounds and inevitable wrinkles.”

“Not things you obviously need to worry over.  You are, I repeat myself, stunning.”

“Again, thank you.  And you?  What brings you to this icebox?”

“I’m here because I am the keeper of isolated, unmanned computer stations.  Unmanned or not, at some point, someone has to make sure they continue to work.”

“Interesting.  A geek.”

“I’ll let that go.”

“I meant brains, and…”

“My job alternately freezes my ass off then has me schlepping gear across mountains and through jungles.”  Interesting simultaneous good and bad visions of the killer travel-slash-accounting bitch materialized then faded on some weird level of consciousness.

“… and keeps you in shape.” Her voice brought me back to the present.

“That and good genes.  And a high metabolism.  Which reminds me.  Dinner?  I mean together?”

“Yes, I’d love to.”

We read the menu, not at all limited in selection.  Hoping the quality would do the selection proud, we called in our order for room service.  Discovering in our review of the drink list a preference for a good martini to be common ground, we asked if the kitchen could conjure-up a pitcher of them.  They agreed it was doable.  Waiting for dinner to arrive, we chatted nonsense and continued to warm ourselves in the generous heat of the room’s air-conditioning.

Dinner was simple – for our choices, not for the preparation – and it was delicious.  Before, we were both starved, not so much after.  The martinis were excellent.  Someone here knew the hospitality business.  The barman probably was exiled from Florida for making Mai Tais with bootleg rum.

For finally being warm, for the food, the martinis, and the conversation, dinner was wonderful. Not the eating, the process.  A real person.  A brain, a normal temperature something over forty degrees.

“Well,” she began, getting up, grabbing her bag and outerwraps, “I better be off to my room.”  She made for the door.  I accompanied her.

“You know,” I began stepping closer to her, “we’ve already heated this room up.  Yours will be a little chilly.”

“Probably awfully cold, “she agreed, leaning against the unopened door.

“And we’ve already had an awful lot of cold for today.”  I drew closer.  Her breath, I was that close, was delightful.  I placed my hand on hers on the door handle.  Hers relaxed.

“Oh, too much cold,” she offered,

“If you want, I’d promise to behave.”

“I don’t think I’d want that.”

“Well, you’re a guest here, whatever you want.”

“I know what I want.”  She leaned into me.  Her breath was delicious. I leaned in.  Any farther and I would fall.  She closed the remaining space between us.  I put my right hand on her cheek and pulled her face to mine and kissed her.  Her lips were firm and wet, sweet and alive.  Her tongue was quick and knew its business.  Mine responded.  Her left hand brushed my thigh and searched for my fly.  Not timidly.  Not hurriedly.  Carefully and with persistence.  She discovered instead the bulge I’d been denying all evening since “almost” seeing her waiting for the shuttle van.  She squeezed.  She did it well.

It did not take long to coax the bottom of her blouse out of the waist of her slacks. The remaining buttons almost undid themselves.  Bracing against the door with my left arm over her head, I reached behind her with my right and unsnapped her bra.  It had no shoulder straps and fell to the floor.  She was obviously confident of her breasts’ ability to stand unassisted.  Well-placed trust I discovered, as I cupped first one, then the other in my right hand.  They were amazingly full and firm, her nipples, solid and free of restraint, and lightly massaged, stood even more erect – proud to be seen and caressed.  Her skin was soft but toned, smooth and warm to my touch. 

She moaned.  “Yes, I’ll stay here tonight.  Make me comfortable.  Please.”

“The door is nice,” I began, “but there is a bed.  Just over there.”

“Can we make it all the way over there?”

“It would be best.  We can focus there.  Less on standing and more on each other.”

“Oh, let’s do.”

We moved to the bed.  Not all at once.  In stages.  Necessary pauses for her to again find my zipper and discover I was indeed not entirely without evil thought.  A pause while I figured out the rules to undoing her slacks, while she snickered and refused to help.  I coaxed her slacks down and then felt the strength of her thighs and the warmth within.  I paused for a handful of her ass.  It was so perfect, I felt it necessary to make absolutely sure of my opinion, checking both left and right cheeks.  Yes.  Perfectly more-than-handfuls; perfectly matched.  Solid, round, smooth and curved perfectly into a little tuck before joining smoothly with her thighs. Yes, perfect.  Thighs, I discovered that went all the way around to the front of her tight body.   I drifted my hands across her flat stomach and again down the front of her thighs.  So very smooth and warm.  I slid my fingers gently inside the elastic of her panties and inside her.  She moaned almost imperceptibly and stiffened.  She trapped my hand with the iron of her thighs and muttered, “Now, you’ll pay!”

Just before the bed contained our fall, I managed to slide her panties – miraculous in construction for the complete lack of any piece of fabric larger than a silver dollar – down her thighs to the floor and planted a kiss on the inside of her left thigh.

“No,” she whispered, it has been a long day.”

“Well, damn!” I offered, only miraculously resigning myself to priesthood.

“I mean, I want to use the shower.  First.”

With the word “no,” the train stopped.  The music went silent.  Cold reality came rushing back.  With the words “shower” and “first,” the music began again.  The train sped on.  And reality, well it was a better reality.  It remained.  We showered together.  Somehow, I do not understand exactly how, she restrained my advances until we finished.  It took a long while to return to the bed.  So many stops along the way.   Each one an adventure.

The bed was firm and the room warmly accommodating.  She was indeed Ms. Everything.  We lasted but briefly the first time.  Longer the second.  I thought she’d break my back the third.  And the fourth time was slow, deliberate, and excruciating in the very best of ways.  After the last time, in each others’ arms, before we slipped into the sleep of the Eskimo, I looked down across the roll of her shoulders, the slope of her breasts and the tight round curve of her ass, and I noticed her breathing.  She was breathing hard.

“Thanks,” she said. 

I smiled.  I had no more energy than that.

“For the body heat,” she finished.

—

© spwilcenski 2023