Warming Her Up

Elizabeth Coldwell

“How much further is it now?” I peer through the windscreen at the falling snow. The flakes are so big the wipers are struggling to push them away, and ahead of us I can see nothing but the twisted shapes of trees, shrouded in white.

“The turn-off should be just ahead, according to the map.” Marina does her best to reassure me. Driving on unfamiliar roads, in such terrible weather, can’t be any fun for her, and her pretty face is fixed in concentration.

“I hope you’re right. After all, it’s not like we can stop and ask anyone for directions.” I’m trying to keep the petulant tone from my voice, knowing that it’s not her fault we’re lost in the middle of nowhere, searching for a house I’m starting to believe may not even exist.

A weekend in France, just the two of us. It seemed like such a good idea when Marina first told me she’d arranged it. Her boss had offered her the use of his holiday cottage in Brittany, as a thank you for all the hard work she’d been putting in. No cash bonuses for the staff this year, not in these tough times, but this is his way of letting her know how much she’s valued.

She couldn’t turn it down. It would give us the chance to spend some time together, with none of the usual distractions thrown up by our busy lives. We could turn off our phones; neglect to check our emails. We’d be able to take long walks, to drink good wine, to spend the nights twined in each other’s arms making slow, sweet love.

But all that was before we received a nasty lesson about how capricious the French climate can be, even in April.

When we stepped out on to the tarmac at Bretagne Airport, we were greeted by a biting wind and a touch of sleet in the air, but there was no indication that we’d find ourselves driving through blizzard conditions to reach our destination.

Beyond the car lies a full-blown winter wonderland. Pretty to look at, but hell to travel in.

I reach out to fiddle with the Citroen’s dashboard heater. It’s already turned up as far as it will go, but I’m still shivering in my thin top and denim jacket. Wistfully, I think of my padded ski coat, my thermal underwear, the chunky jumpers sitting in a drawer at home. Far too late to wish I’d packed for the weather we’ve got, rather than the weather I expected.

“Ah, here we go,” Marina announces. She indicates left, and steers the little car between a pair of snow-topped wooden gateposts and up a short drive.

Once we’ve parked before the cottage, I stay in the car while Marina gets the luggage from the boot.

“Come on, lazybones, shift yourself,” she orders, opening the passenger door and waiting for me to emerge. My boots crunch on the untouched snow, and icy flakes settle in my hair and on my cheeks. I wrap my arms around me, hugging myself for warmth, but it doesn’t seem to make the slightest difference.

The cottage, when Marina gets the front door open and ushers me inside is, if anything, colder than the air outside.

“Well, this is nice,” she says, looking around with an enthusiasm I fail to share. “John said he and his wife found a lot of the furniture in the local antique shops.”

Right now, I don’t care if they’d retrieved it from the nearest tip. All I’m bothered about is doing whatever it takes to get warm.

“I don’t suppose he mentioned where the controls for the central heating are, did he?”

Marina gives me one of those indulgent looks that let me know I’ve said a foolish thing. “Alison, darling, there is no central heating in this cottage. The fireplace is in the living room. You’ll find wood and firelighters there.”

I gape at her. Surely she can’t expect me to try and light a fire from scratch? Is this some twisted Girl Guide fantasy of hers? Though I have to admit she’d look good in one of those old-fashioned Guide Leader uniforms, with the prim skirt, the neckerchief, and the little blue hat perched saucily on her blonde, bobbed hair. Unbidden, my mind drifts to a fantasy in which I’m the naughty Guide who’s let the campfire go out, and Marina is about to discipline me for my inattention...

“Well, don’t just stand there,” she says. “The fire won’t light itself.”

“Can’t you do that?” I whine, wanting her to take charge of the complicated task.

“I’ve got dinner to sort out. You do want to eat tonight, don’t you?”

We stopped at a little shop on the road from the airport, and bought the essentials - milk, crusty baguettes, butter, ham, a couple of bottles of good red wine and a round of Camembert so ripe it could have made its way to the car unaided. Well, Marina did the buying. Her French is immaculate, honed by regular conversations with her colleagues in the company’s Paris office. Mine consists of “please”, “thank you” and “can I have the bill?”

I huff out a sulky breath and go into the living room. In other circumstances, I’d be admiring the comfortable-looking sofas, the seafarer’s chest that doubles as a coffee table and the dresser, its shelves filled with white china plates and sparkling crystal glasses. But it’s as though I’ve stepped into a freezer. My breath is misting on the air and this has all gone beyond a joke. I wouldn’t call myself high maintenance, exactly, but I do like to be warm.

Just as Marina said, there are neatly cut lengths of wood heaped up by the large, stone fireplace, along with everything else I’ll need to make a fire. I arrange a few of the logs in an unstructured pile, and grab some sheets of newspaper, crumpling them into balls and using them to plug the gaps in the wood. Once I’m happy with the effect, I strike a match with fingers that are almost too numb to hold it.

The paper catches light, and I find myself willing the fire to take a proper hold. There’s an agonising moment where I think that might not happen. But as the logs begin to smoulder, I let out a little whoop of triumph, chuffed with the result of my efforts.

That’s the moment Marina chooses to enter the room.

“My, someone’s pleased with themselves,” she comments. She’s hung up her coat, and put on an oversized, pink angora sweater that she must have retrieved from her suitcase. I envy her foresight in bringing such a cosy garment.

“Look.” I point to the flames, more of a steady burn than a flicker now. I need her approval, need to know that’s she pleased with me.

“So you managed to start a fire.” It’s not the reaction I expect; her tone is openly sarcastic. “It doesn’t make up for your appalling behaviour on the way here.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Alison, all you’ve done since you got off the plane is moan. Is it much further? Where’s the central heating? Why can’t you light the fire?” She mimics my peevish tone. I shift uncomfortably on my knees. “You know I won’t tolerate that kind of sulkiness.”

At once, I’m on alert. Her choice of words; her authoritative, hands-on-hips stance as she gazes down at me... We’ve shifted into a play scene without my even being aware of it. Has she been adding up the demerits on the drive to the cottage? If so, my points tally must be well into double figures by now.

“You want to be warm, don’t you?” she continues. “Well, I can make sure that one part of you gets thoroughly warmed. Stand up, fetch that chair, and bring it back to me.”

She points to a plain wooden chair with a tall ladder back that stands by the dresser. I don’t hesitate, or question her command, knowing that will only increase the severity of whatever punishment she has in mind for me.

Picking up the chair, I carry it back to where Marina stands before the fire. Once I’ve set it down, she takes her seat while I stand waiting for my next instruction.

It isn’t long in coming.

“Take off your boots, your jeans and your jacket.”

Even with the heat now emanating from the fire, it’s still really too cold to be undressing in this big, open room, but I do as I’m told. I unzip the black patent ankle boots that are fashionable but not practical for this weather, and place them side-by-side. Then I shrug off my jacket, fold it neatly, and put it on top of my discarded footwear.

Marina says nothing throughout this process, nor when I unbuckle my belt, unzip my jeans and remove those, too. In just a Breton-style stripy top, underwear and socks, I feel chilly, vulnerable but, above all, excited.

“Right, now I want you over my lap.” Marina pats her corduroy-covered knee, and something in that motion reawakens my fantasy of the bossy Guide Leader, disciplining me for my lack of interest in outdoor pursuits. Guides are meant to be good with knots, aren’t they? Maybe she could give me some tuition in that area, binding my wrists with a cunning clove hitch that will only come free when she wants it to...

When I don’t immediately hurry to comply, she must spot the dreamy expression on my face and realises I’m wool-gathering. She grabs my arm and drags me to her. I stumble on the edge of the fireside rug and fall into the required posture, bottom up over her long thighs. She’s positioned me so I face the fire, and as she begins to speak, I’m lulled by the combination of her crooning voice and the shimmering flames.

“You know, Alison, I’d really hoped I wouldn’t find myself having to spank you this weekend...”

Even as she says the words, we both know that’s a lie. This isolated cottage, with no immediate neighbours, is the perfect venue for us to play our favourite game without any fear of being observed or overheard.

“I hoped you’d be a good girl,” she continues, “seeing as I’d arranged this special treat for you. I booked the flights, I hired the car, I drove us here...”

I could point out those last two points are moot, given that I’ve never passed my driving test, but she doesn’t want a response from me. She just wants to list the many and varied ways in which I’ve shown ingratitude.

“But no, all you’ve done is complain and question my judgement. Then you expect praise for completing the only task I’ve asked of you. Really, it’s not good enough.”

“I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

“And how many times have I heard that? Oh, darling, you never learn your lesson, do you? And that, I’m afraid, is why I’m going to have to do this...”

Without giving me any further time to prepare, she aims a sharp upward slap at my right bum cheek. I feel the sting even through my white cotton panties, but I don’t complain. I know there are harder swats to come, and there’s no guarantee that I’ll be allowed to keep my underwear on for the duration of the punishment. Marina loves to increase my feelings of shame by making me take a spanking on my bare bottom. But she won’t do anything I don’t want her to, and anyway, I have a word I can use if I really want her to stop.

Another slap follows, on the other cheek this time. Marina quickly settles into a pattern. After each smack, she rubs my skin in slow circles, diffusing the ache. Just as the pain has died away almost to nothing, she smacks me again, reigniting the fire. Over and again, she repeats these motions, till I’ve lost count of how many slaps I’ve taken.

“Let’s see how we’re doing,” she murmurs, half to herself. “See if that lovely white arse has turned a blushing pink.”

She hooks her fingers in the waistband of my panties and begins to pull them down. I make a show of protesting, but there’s no real force behind it.

“Mmm, delicious. Sweeter than any sunset.” Marina trails a hand over the curve of my arse, admiring the marks she’s left there. “But we haven’t finished yet.”

“Oh, please, no. I can’t take any more.” This is all part of the game. I can’t tell her how much I really want this. A pulse beats in fierce rhythm between my legs, and my nipples are tight peaks. When I walked into this room, it was the cold that caused to them to poke against the cups of my bra, but now pure desire has them tight and wanting.

“Well, you should have thought of that before you started acting the brat,” she tells me.

She holds me firmly in place with one hand while she keeps delivering the smacks with the other. The only accompaniment to my punishment is the crackling of the logs in the fireplace, and it seems as though my entire world has shrunk to just the few feet encompassed by the firelight’s soft glow. Marina is making sure to cover the entire surface of my bare arse, till every inch of it smarts and I’m wriggling against the fine cord of her trousers, begging her to show some mercy.

When she brings her fingers to my pussy, it’s to discover that I’m dripping wet. She gives a satisfied little sniff at the strength of my reaction. “You love this, don’t you?”

I say nothing, and she swats me hard. “Tell me how much you love having your bum smacked.”

“I... I love it when you punish me.” I’m so churned up with arousal and need that I’m having trouble forming the words. “Nothing can get me as wet as your slaps.”

“Good girl. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

She pushes two fingers deep inside me, all the while continuing to smack my arse. My inner muscles clutch at them, though part of me longs for her to replace those digits with something bigger, something that will really stretch me wide.

When she started to spank me, I could feel a definite contrast between my front half, warmed by being so close to the fire, and my chilly lower regions. Now my bottom is glowing hotter than my face, and I’m sure the skin is now a flaming red.

Her thumb brushes against my clit, the contact almost accidental, but it’s enough to send excitement rippling through my belly. The sweet pain of my spanking has taken on a whole new texture, slowly changing into all-consuming pleasure. She touches that little bud again, and this time when I beg, it’s because I need to come. I’ll do anything she asks, as long as she keeps stroking me there.

“And what makes you think you deserve that?”

I twist in her grasp, looking up over my shoulder to see her smirking down at me. She knows just what kind of helpless, needy mess she’s reduced me to, and she’s revelling in every moment of my frustration.

“Please, Marina. I’ll bring you breakfast in bed tomorrow. I’ll lick your pussy till you can’t come any more. Just tell me what you need me to do and I’ll do it.”

“Oh, Alison, such pretty promises. But you’d do it, wouldn’t you? Even if I told you to go and stand out in the snow, dressed as you are right now, you’d obey.”

She’s right, of course, and in my overheated state, I don’t think I’d even feel the cold. But Marina seems to realise she’s teased me enough, and when she puts her thumb to my clit again, she doesn’t pull it away.

The spanking has stopped at last, and now she’s concentrating only on rewarding me for taking my punishment as well as I did. When I close my eyes, I can still see the sparks from the fire, glowing in shades of red and yellow against the darkness. Her fingers move in rhythm, thrusting in and out of my juicy hole, and the combination of those steady strokes and the relentless circling of my clit is all it takes to send me tumbling into bliss.

For a moment, all I can do is lie, panting, on her lap. Then she encourages me to sit up, and I bury my face in her big breasts, the soft angora wool of her jumper tickling where it touches me. There’s some discomfort where the tender skin of my bottom rubs against her trousers, but it’s worth it to be cradled in her arms, letting her kisses and caresses soothe all my hurt away.

“Feel better?”

I nod in response to her question, almost too satisfied to speak. Then something occurs to me. “So what made you decide to spank me?”

Marina grins. “Well, I’d been planning to have you over my knee at some point this weekend, and when I walked in here and saw the way those jeans strained over your bum as you tended to the fire, I just couldn’t resist. Plus, one of the best ways to keep warm is with vigorous exercise. And what better way to get that than by spanking the bottom of the woman I love?” She drops a soft kiss on the top of my head. “Now, why don’t we get the wine and some of that nice cheese and go have dinner in bed? I think you said something about licking my pussy for as long as I wanted...”

As she leads me out of the living room, I begin to think there might be advantages to being snowed in, after all.