Stories - ROMANCE
Pink Mirror
They make each other warm in an abandoned house while it snows outside.
We drove to the farm that morning in sweet silence. I held his hand as he drove and listen to the windshield wipers sliding across the icy glass. It's going to be really cold out there. Are you sure you can handle it? I didn't answer him but just looked at him, smiled, and touch the back of his neck, or his skin met his collar. As we drove, I watched the snow-covered fields and looked out across the expanse of farmland at the little houses dotting the landscape. He was right. I'd be cold, but I didn't care because I looked forward to this day for several weeks. And so had he, as we pulled into the long driveway. He said this is our chance to really get a good look at this place. And the owner mentioned something about an old farmhouse that is still standing, the one we'd be living in. You mean, right? I asked. Now, this is an older building that the original owners lived in 100 years ago or so. He looked at me and squeezed my hand. I loved it when he looked at me that way, that smile and that cool protective competence that encompassed me whenever we were together. The driveway was over a mile long and lined with Italian cypress trees that were laced with the newly fallen snow. We made our way up to the top of the hill where the main house stood, a completely remodeled Victorian-era farmhouse with expansive porches and tall windows. So this is where we'd live. I asked. I love it. But where's that older house you were talking about? I just want to see it. They say it's down at the bottom of the hill somewhere near a pond. You want to try to find it in this weather. It seems like it's getting pretty nasty out, he said. I nodded and smiled. There is nothing I love more than an adventure. Once we got out of the car, I realized the extent of the cold, and the snow was falling more heavily. And we pulled on our caps and gloves and wrapped our faces and scarves. And then we went off down the hill towards the pond that looked gray and frozen in the distance. I held on to him, my arm hooked around him, and I held him as much for balance as I did for warmth. We walked together like this down the little winding path in silence. Our faces cast down against the wind. From time to time, we'd look at each other. The timing was always perfect. We had that kind of connection, that constant, endless stream of awareness where we could finish one another sentence or suddenly begin talking about the same random subject at the very same time. This connection always made me think of past lives. He had always been familiar to me from the moment we first met, and the bond we had become more intense. The longer we were together, so the speaking became almost unnecessary. We spoke because we enjoyed our conversation, and the sound of our laughter was glorious. There it is, he said, pointing at a tiny little white farmhouse peeking out from behind if you massive oak trees. I want to take you down there and make love to you, he whispered. I turned to face him and looked at his beautiful features glistening in the snow. You'll have to keep me warm I sat and kissed him. And with that, we headed down to the farmhouse, ambling faster down the hill, almost running with the snow blowing into our eyes, nearly blinding us from the cold. We got to the little farmhouse, stepped onto the old porch, and entered through the front door. The empty house was surprisingly warm, and it felt as though the family who had lived there only moved out a few months earlier. We walked through the rooms of the first floor and smelled the faint traces of cooking, the soft smell of bread mixed with the warm and smoky scent from the fireplace. No one had been there for years, but the thumbprint of the family who had lived there was all around us thick in the atmosphere embedded in the worn wooden banister that led upstairs. And all through the rooms, we found traces of their lives, doll clothes in the closet, pots and pans still tucked into a cupboard, a lonely desk under a window, and an old boot tossed into a corner. I decided to wander up to the second floor. I started up the stairs cautiously, not knowing if their age would support any weight, but they seemed sturdy enough, so I climb the stairs. And as I did, I felt him grabbed my hand. I looked over my shoulder at him and smiled gently, and he squeezed my fingers through his gloves. At the top of the stairs, there was a landing with a large window that looked out over the pond. And as I stood there, I felt him moving closer behind me and wrap his arms around my waist. We stood there together, and he nuzzled up to my neck through the layers of scarf and fabric until I could feel the cold shock of his lips against my skin. Let's go into this other room, he said softly and led me back down the little hallway to what must have been the main bedroom. It was completely empty except for a strangely ornate pink mirror propped up in the corner. He and I stood before looking at our reflection, holding each other bundled against the cold. And I felt that pang of longing as I watched his hands caress my back that certain swell of love for him flushed my cheeks, and I pressed my lips against his cold face and watched out of the corner of my eye as I did this. He looked into the mirror and saw me watching and smiled. Then he kissed my forehead and then my mouth. And then he pulled off his gloves so that he could feel my lips against his with his fingertips. And we stayed that way for a while, just kissing each other, our warm mouth speaking their own silent and loving language of flesh on flesh. And then he said, sweetheart, I want to make love to you here. So he turned me around, pull down my pants, and slid his still cold finger into my vagina. I was startled by the sensation of his cold flesh inside of me. But the contrast in temperature made me wet, and I leaned forward so that he could enter me more easily. And he did. His cock was warm against me at first, but the coldness too cold and made it chilly. And so he slid in and out of my wet sex feeling warm, and then cold and warm, and then cold again; I could hear him breathing harder. And together, we watched ourselves making love and the pink mirror, and there we were, I bent forward, holding on to the wall for support as he thrust into me, the cold was all around us, but the intensity of that moment and the contrast of his cold flesh against the warmth of mine sent me into ripples of orgasm. And I came, and all I could hear was the sound of our coats rubbing together, and his breath deep and quick, like an engine. And then there was that sudden swell of his penis before it filled me with a river of his come, that in no time was seeping out of me and running down my cold and make it byes. He was beginning to move more slowly, letting that moment subside, when we suddenly heard the front door slam, and together, we scrambled to pull our clothes back on, guarding ourselves against whoever it could be interrupting us this way. Silence. We slowly went back downstairs and looked all around. But there was no one, just the wind whistling through the drafty windows. We stood there together, hand in hand, marveling at the strangeness of it all, both of us thinking about the family who'd lived there years before. They say there's magic and mirrors, that the glass holds every reflection like a memory bank. When you look into an old mirror, you release all the images held there and free them. You give them new life. And so we stood there together and that old farmhouse, happy and laughing and surrounded by memories that we had only just begun to know.
Rating: 5/5 (total: 28)
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