| return to Softer Things *(The Kiss of Ice was written in exchanging parts with Clover. I wrote parts one and three. She wrote part two.) Part One In another culture, in perhaps another day, he would have been called a butler. But if he had been asked, he would have expressed no concern over being called a houseboy. After all, he would probably have said, his father and his father's father were both houseboys. His circumstance was being in a different day then they, in a different culture, in an American city called Chicago. The houseboy was devoted to his mistress. He was happy in her service, but more than that, he adored her. He watched her faced carefully as she eased back into the bath he had made for her. The music, her music, filled the bathroom from the stereo in the bedroom. In his few years in Chicago he had come to appreciate and enjoy the voices of jazz. His mistress followed a young woman's career closely, playing her music often, sharing it with him. Patricia Barber's voice pleased them both now, sang to them both, and bonded them in a way neither of them realized. She turned to him and smiled as she sipped the chilled wine he had poured for her. "Thank you," she said. He bowed slightly in response and began to pour warm scented water from the bath over her neck, shoulders and breast. The bowl he used was saved just for this, the cascading of bath water over her body. Her eyes closed as he poured. Her hair was up on her head but strands were loose on her neck, wet there, darker with water, special to him in a special way. Patricia Barber began to sing Romanesque as he reached for the bowl of ice he had brought into the bathroom. He picked up one piece of ice and lightly traced a line over her neck and collarbone. He followed the touch of the ice with more warm water, then the ice again, then the water. She smiled without opening her eyes. They had done all of this many times before. The houseboy continued to mix the kiss of ice and the warmth of water on her shoulders and neck and chest. Occasionally, the ice traced a line over her face, pausing on her lips for her tongue to feel the ice. Preparing the water level in the large tub was a particular skill of his. He knew just how to fill it to allow her to lie back in the water so that the surface was just right -- just right meant that her nipples were just above the surface line as she relaxed. The kiss of ice would find her nipples soon, they both knew. And it did. The piece of ice traced circles around each nipple, rarely traveling over the tips, gentle circles of ice, always followed by warm water poured from the bowl. The houseboy mixed the sensations, the kiss of ice and the warmth of the water, never letting one dominate, never letting one linger too long. The houseboy watched as his mistress turned in the tub, still not opening her eyes, turning in the tub to rest on her knees in the water, leaning forward with her hands on the back of the tub. He began to pour the warm water over her neck, down her back, over the sides of her breasts, finally pouring a bowl down the crack of her ass, all washing away the suds from the soap, all warming her body and making it shine. Patricia's voice gave way to a hard bass line as the houseboy ran a piece of ice slowly down his mistress's spine. The ice kissed her body in so many places, always moving slowly, always being replaced by a cascade of warm water from his bowl. The ice returned to her neck, her nipples, always moving, always. More warm water before it was time for the ice to return. The kiss of ice move low on her back, down through the crack of her ass, over the tight ring, lightly over her pussy, around her clit, then back up before being replaced by several warm bowls of water. The houseboy watched his mistress's pleasure with a smile. Nothing need be changed, all was right and good. ….to be continued by the mistress. Part Two She could not have been more pleased with him had she taught him herself how to please his Mistress. But, interestingly enough, he had needed no instruction. She had never bothered to ask him if it was because of previous training from another he had served, or rather it simply came naturally to him. It really didn't matter. He had known all he needed to know about how to serve her best from the first moment he had been with her. It was uncanny, really, the things he just knew, she thought as she turned in the tub, his hand holding hers firmly to steady her in the water. This routine, him bathing her, had become a Ritual so quickly, with no discussion, no instruction. The way he disrobed her, slipping the silken wrap from her in such a way as to touch her so enticingly with it; the scents he selected, candles burning, incense and bath oils; the music, hers of course, but selected by him with amazing accuracy to reflect her mood at any given time; the way he filled the bath, to suit her body and her desires; the temperature of the water, hot, yet never scalding; and the ice, her resolute pleasure from the feel of it, the sensations from it. All these things, and so many more, he had just known. The water, the Mistress found both soothing and arousing as she felt it pour from the bowl in his hands again and again down on her neck and back trailing against the sides of her breasts. Easing her head down, her forehead lying atop the rim of the tub, eyes closed, licking from her lips the last faint drop of wine she was drinking, she let herself go to the sensations of it all. She surrendered to it. She reveled in the moment, and anticipated what was to come. She knew there would be much more to follow. The houseboy seemed to sense when she may have become just a bit too comfortable with the sensation of the moment, and took great pains to make sure he pleased her with the variations of his offerings. The ice suited the bath so well, she remembers thinking the first time he presented the ice cubes to her. Such a wonderful contrast to the warmth of the water, so intense when pressed against her, so surprising when melted in his hand to drip down upon her skin. She squirmed beneath and against the water as she felt the cool trail left behind as he slid the cube down the curve of her spine and beyond, through the cleft of her ass, and further against her pussy, nestling in just between the lips to her clit. And not long was it that she felt another deluge of warm water spill over her, down her. The houseboy never let her get too warm, or too chilled. She turned her head to look at her houseboy briefly as he knelt beside the tub. She smiled to him, a smile of both appreciation and pride of having found him, and he seemed to drink it in. The adoration in his eyes was beautiful, she thought, as was his unapologetic arousal from pleasing her. He was naked of course, as he always was in the house, and his cock was hard, pressing against the cool porcelain of the tub each time he reached to touch her. It had been hard, and dripping, since he had slipped her robe from her naked form, and this pleased the Mistress. She wanted him to find pleasure not just from giving to her, but, pleasure in her as well. And the warmth of his smile told her he did. The Mistress' eyes closed tight, quickly, as she felt the rigid form of an ice cube press firmly the pucker of her ass. Her body tensed, enough to cause a rippling in the water, as the tight ring first resisted the pressure, recoiled against it, and then slowly submitted to it. The houseboy sighed, audibly, just as he might have had it been his rigid cock entering the one he adored for the first time. The Mistress sighed as well, a jerky, gaspy sigh, an indication of pleasure that made the houseboy's cock twitch against the tub. He could see the Mistress' knuckles white as she gripped hard to the edge of the tub, absorbing the almost painful pleasure of the ice cube being pressed further, deeper, into her ass. "Good…" The word escaped before he could stop it, almost a whisper, partly a question to seek reassurance from her about his offerings, and partly a signal of his own heightened arousal at watching her ass take the ice from him. "Yes……" She reassured him, and she encouraged him. The Mistress eased back in the water, pressing against his finger as it eased the ice inside even further. She stilled, savoring and focusing, holding her body steady as the houseboy's finger slowly began to fuck her ass. His chilled finger pulled completely from the pucker, only to slip beyond it again, and yet again, his movement made easy by the slick drippings of the ice from within her. She moaned, low and loud, and inspired him. Feeling his finger released from her, he eased it down between her lips, her pussy swollen, wet and wanting. He smiled, proudly, easing the tip of his finger further, down to her clit. It was hard and warm. And he knew it needed to be touched. The Mistress, still consumed by the pressure of the ice cube nestled inside of her, came to only enough to slide her knees further apart in the water, before slipping back to that place the houseboy always led her. She purred as she felt his finger circle her clit, evoking an intensity of sensations she had never before experienced. It circled again, and again, each time eliciting from her some audible, uncontrollable sound, indescribable, but unmistakable. He had her at the edge, and was nudging rather then pushing her forward. It overtook her slowly, but with certainty, the orgasm welling within her. Between the ice pressing her open, melting and dripping from her, and the delicious pressure of his finger in constant motion upon her clit, she erupted into a fury of moans and sighs, groans and gasps, which left her spent, yet still hungry, while pools of water splashed from the bath surrounded the houseboy where he knelt. After a moment or two of sweet silence, he stood and reached for his Mistress, easing her to her feet and helping her to step from the bath. She looked to him, to find his eyes, and held tight to them with her own as he dried her body, weak and flushed, preparing her for the next phase of the Ritual. …. To be continued by the houseboy Part Three As his Mistress settled on the large bed, the houseboy walked into the kitchen to fetch her another glass of white wine. The CD changer was working, clicking to the next Patricia Barber CD, Modern Cool. Barber's voice rose above the keyboards as he stood alone in the kitchen naked. The bottle of wine in the refrigerator was replaced, the Mistress's glass properly poured, but he stood there alone for a second listening and sensing his surroundings. His cock was still hard from the bath he'd given the Mistress, its tip was swollen, the slit open and gaping and wet. In that moment he was tempted to touch himself, to stroke his cock while he stood there alone, but it really wasn't a serious option. She was waiting in the bedroom. And it was for him to serve her, please her. His walk back to the bedroom was silent, his hard cock bobbed and swayed in front of him below the glass of wine in his hand. She was where she was to be, lying on the bed on her stomach, her empty pillow case in her hands near her face, a pillow beneath her lower abdomen, her ass and hips propped up on the bed, her legs slightly spread. Her eyes were closed and she was smiling, waiting. He eased onto the bed beside her silently, the only indication of his presence being the slight shift of weight on the bed. She knew instantly he was there and opened her hand to receive the glass. "Thank you," she whispered before raising herself to sip the wine. While she drank he moved behind her. Her legs spread wider to receive him, to let him kneel between her knees where he was supposed to be. Without opening her eyes, she reached to sit her glass on the bedside table. Her hand returned to its place as she waited for him. The tip of his cock found her as it was to do. The wet tip moved over her equally wet pussy, spreading her, opening her, caressing her, preparing to fuck her. She felt him there, the head of his cock nuzzling her, and she waited. With slow pressure, the head of his cock entered her, stretching her pussy lips open, making them take him, making them suck him as if they were trying to draw him inside. The Mistress felt the houseboy's hands move up her back, through the grove of her spine, moving until they grasped her shoulders on each side of her neck. His hands were strong, and they held her for only a moment before pulling her back to be speared on his cock. She gasped as he entered her, his cock now deep inside her, his balls pressed against her clit, his pubic hair pressing into the cheeks of her ass. He never stroked her, never fucked her like that, but he ground himself into her, pressing, pushing, pulling her shoulders back, almost as if the tip of his cock was trying to enter her chest, to touch her heart. The Mistress had no idea how long they were like that. Barber was well into the third cut on the second CD but that was really no measure of time. No matter how long, her orgasm was rising fast inside her, rising to be released, to burst. The swelling of his cock told her he was near the same and she wanted it that way, to cum together, to mingle themselves. She came first, but he was close behind. Their moans and sounds and breathing and sensations took on the synchronized magic of jazz. Indeed, thought the houseboy, the experience of jazz for two. Yes, mused the Mistress, magic. Barber was no longer singing. Her fingers played across the keyboard to confirm the magic of the moment and the Ritual for two.
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