The Frost Faerie

I

Bill was a writer residing in a cottage of old fashioned English style that he had rented to spend a week’s holiday with his wife. The cottage had a romantic atmosphere. It evoked old hymns, The Wind In The Willows and the wartime films of messrs Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger. Bill sat and drank a crystal tumbler of port and lemon. Gertrude wouldn’t be turning up until the following evening. She had a final appointment to keep with the modelling agency. So Bill was spending the evening settling into the romanticism of it all sat within a maroon brown high backed leather armchair by a roaring open coal fire and reading a pictorial tome on the history of the Moulin Rouge. There were no means of broadcast media in the cottage, no computers, not even a newspaper. There was one red telephone by the front door and that was that. With a vague unawareness of the world outside Bill felt any modicum of stress within him gradually but not wholly ebb away. His heart beated slowly. Bill felt calm. The grandfather clock was in full working order but the hour and minute hands had been removed. Within the cottage and its immediate surroundings there was only now, before and after were non-existent.

Bill felt he spent enough time looking at the posters of Toulouse Lautrec and decided it was time for a little evening supper. He got up from his chair and before ambling into the kitchen wound up an old fashioned gramophone, adjusted the horn and put on a shellac record.

As Bill fixed himself some fried eggs, sausages and potato fritters the dance music of the Oliver Hardy lookalike Paul Whiteman competed with the sizzles and pops of the frying pan. Occasionally Bill would look up from his cooking to gaze out of the kitchen window. It was snowing heavily and Bill felt glad to be inside with the warmth of the fire’s flames, French theatre, twenties dance music and fried food. He removed a patterned plate from a cupboard and with a spatula taken from the cutlery drawer removed the food from the frying pan. Bill was going to be dining on egg, sausage and fritters sat within the dignity of his new favourite chair listening to the music of Paul Whiteman and his orchestra.

Out in the cottage’s garden stood in the centre before the sundial was a woman nine feet tall made out of ice and covered in frost. Unusually for a woman she had two pairs of arms. One pair was like a so-called normal pair of human arms the other pair was more akin to be of suitable use for a creature of flying. She had a grand pair of wings and the light of the full moon illuminated her body. The frost on her contours twinkled. The ice maiden looked towards the cottage and began to sing.

Bill was squirting brown sauce over his eggs when his ears began to be distracted from the music of the wind up gramophone with a song that he never heard the likes of before. This was no piece of operatic singing sung by a human voice, neither was it the beauty of the bird song, one couldn’t compare it to the singing of gibbons in love and the deep throated song of the whale was right out. The singing coming from the garden was unique and it seduced the writer from his chair.

The woman of ice watched as she saw the back door to the kitchen open. Bill saw stood in the centre of the cottage garden The Frost Faerie singing an indecipherable song of love and desire whilst she opened up her wings to expose her body. Bill became too aroused for reason or disbelief to temper his judgement. Feeling the cold air through his shirt Bill stepped into the snow and walked towards the nine foot tall faerie. He knew that she was offering her whole self to him. When up close he gingerly outstretched the fingers from the hand he wrote with and touched The Frost Faerie near her heart. She sighed unlike a human. Bill gazed upon where her heart abided and looked up into her eyes. She in turn looked down at Bill and then a little bit further down before gazing into his eyes and smiling. Bill shivered as he removed his clothes. The freezing night air was unbearable but The Frost Faerie continued to sing. She caressed his flabby body and kissed him letting slip an icy cold tongue. The Frost Faerie became more aroused and by now felt curious to know what his seed tasted like. She stepped back, lightly stroked the centre of the writer’s chest and knelt down.

The Frost Faerie took the writer’s prick between her icy fingertips and gently rolled back his foreskin. Bill with eyes closed let out a gasp of condensation as he felt the tip of the faerie’s tongue. He felt a quickening of the heart and a shortening of his breath. He quivered and his torso rippled with goose bumps. Bill could feel her frozen fingers tightly clutching his buttocks. He could feel his sensation flow from within into the faerie’s mouth. Unbearably cold Bill felt a gust of wind blow right under his feet. The Frost Faerie’s wings had outstretched and with her icy strength she and the writer rose above the cottage garden. She removed herself, her lips glistening in the moonlight and climbed the writer’s body. The Frost Faerie slowly and deeply kissed Bill. He could taste his own pleasure on her lips. Her wings began to beat vigorously and then she sped off away from the holiday cottage garden.

The night sky became decorated with the colours of bliss. Bill and the woman of ice copulated in such a feeling of affectionate tenderness their aerobatic consummation leaving trails of beauty among the stars and shooting stars. Bill felt fear and trembled. The Frost Faerie reassured him with a parental kiss on his left cheek. She took him to the moon. Within a crater she motioned Bill towards her ice cold cunt and with her long fingers demonstrated whereabouts for him to lick.

Bill performed cunnilingus on a giantess faerie made from ice in one of the moon’s craters. The Frost Faerie herself caressed his head and gently stroked its bald patch. Sound waves rippled across the galaxy from the moon causing asteroids to crumble and comets to veer off course sometimes destroying smaller planets and the evolved life within. If Bill’s skill with his pen is equivalent to his skill with his tongue then that would place him in the centre of the Western Canon. Harold Bloom would be duty bound to write a critical appreciation of his work.

Whilst Bill carried on placing his lips close to hers (albeit not the lips that were in close proximity to her filtrum) The Frost Faerie’s shoulders head and neck extended in length and she leant forward towards Bill’s right flank. With icicle sharp teeth she bit hard into it and drank the escaping blood. Bill continued to lick. Gradually he began to feel faint. Half his blood supply was draining away from him and he was in a place where he was finding it rather difficult to breathe. His genitalia pulsated. When it finally became all too much for the writer he opened his eyes to find he was pleasuring a solitary ice cube. He now felt the extreme heat from the sun and cried out, “O God!”

II

The rain fell heavily turning the snow into a muddy slush. Bill awoke from unconsciousness in a slight daze. The temperature was slightly mild so the falling rain felt rather pleasant. Bill shivered massaging the wound on his right flank that was agonising him so. Slowly he picked himself up, collected his sodden clothes and made his way back to the cottage.

Inside the kitchen Bill closed the back door and bolted it. He heard a clicking sound which turned out to be the gramophone needle brushing against the edge of the decal informing the initial purchaser that it was the music of Paul Whiteman and His Orchestra. Bill lifted up the needle and decided to focus his attention to the fireplace. Cold ashes fell through the grate. Bill knew he had to clear it out and place the remains inside a supermarket carrier bag. First he must have a morning soak in the combination bath and shower. Get rid of some of that moon dust trapped within his crevices.

Bill almost fell asleep within the bathtub. The sensation of the gentle heat, the steam that caressed him and the scent seduced him into such comfort that he had not a care nor a by or leave. Even a slight gurgle from the water tank sounded pleasing to his ears. Within his thoughts he contemplated penning a philosophical treatise on Handel, Hendrix and mysticism. He would later abandon such a concept as unworkable if he were to return home. His skin softened in the water and his pores were cleansed. A playful gurgle came from the plughole as the last trickle of water fell through it.

In their relationship Gertrude was the vegetarian so the bacon and sausages in the fridge freezer were a concession towards Bill’s personal predilection. Her tastes were motivated towards yoghurt, fruit and fruit juices amongst others. Stood on the tiled floor wearing a cream coloured towelling robe with barely matching slippers the writer had his head tilted back in order to gorge on the contents from a plastic bottle containing four litres of semi-skimmed milk. The telephone rang and he had already drunk the contents.
“Hello darling.”
“Oh, hello Gertrude.”
“Just thought I’d let you know once I’ve done with today I’ll be coming up this evening.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s this I hear about having no mobile phones or portable radios or…”
“The owner has set rules. Something to do with giving you a break from the modern world.”
“Name me a world that isn’t modern.”
Bill gave a light chuckle.
“Bill, darling, did you get me my food?”
“I did, Gertie.”
“Top shelf of the fridge dear?”
“First thing I did when I came in.”
“Semi skimmed milk and Fair Trade tea?”
“Y…Oh wait I forgot about the milk.”
“Oh, Bill.”
“Sorry.”
“Well I’ve got a radio interview with Jenni Murray at ten, shame you can’t hear it, so I shall pick up a bottle near Broadcasting House.”
“I’ll pay for it.”
“You are such a soppy sod.”
“Hold on, I’ve remembered something.”
“What is it?”
“Bring a torch. It sounds odd but there’s no easy way to park near the cottage. You’ll just have to park your car opposite where mine is which is directly near The Green Man pub. Pop in and ask the landlady for directions to this cottage. She’ll help you out but bring a torch.” Their conversation carried on for another minute and a half before both parties hung up. Bill wandered back into the kitchen where he started to directly drink from one of Gertrude’s fruit juice cartons. He stopped immediately when he realised what he was doing. Bill needed to get hold of himself. Get changed into some day clothes and prepare the cottage for Gertrude’s arrival. Perhaps he could prepare her some dinner? Maybe a nice vegetable risotto?

Bill cleansed his teeth with a mixture of fluoride and water. When he rinsed his toothbrush out and placed it in its cup holder he felt a burning desire to drink the fast flowing water directly out of the sink’s tap and honour that desire he did. The water tasted so clean, so cooling and so refreshing. It revitalised him, waking him up with renewed energy.

III

In her automobile Gertrude drove along the motorway. On the passenger seat beside her was a brown envelope full of photographs. They were to be a surprise for Bill. A very pleasant surprise indeed. In the glove compartment was the torch and a packet of spare double A batteries. She had the radio tuned to BBC 5Live her last port of call with the outside world. Her satellite navigational guide informing her of the directions to The Green Man. The cottage itself was non-existent according to the disembodied pre-recorded voice. Stepping out of her vehicle Gertrude took time to contemplate the environment. A light mist was hanging in the air; Gertrude was intrigued when she discovered a small supermarket belonging to a franchise that she was certain went bankrupt a decade ago. At a right angle to the mini mart was The Green Man pub.

A scratched 45 by The Slits was playing on the jukebox. A woman with gray birds nest hair, a stout figure and a pale grey glass eye sat by the music machine was the first to notice the model. The landlady greeted Gertrude with a warty smile and asked if she was stopping for a drink. It was a moment before Gertrude said anything, she was intrigued by who else was in the pub. Itching her cannonball bosoms through her leopard print top the landlady assured Gertrude not to worry, the local netball team maybe a bit boisterous when intoxicated but nobody really gets hurt, not when Marilyn Monroe is around. The birds nest haired woman beside the jukebox treated Gertrude to a slight smile and a finger-from-the-forehead salute. Gertrude explained she came to look for a holiday cottage. Everybody in the pub knew where the holiday cottage was and everybody was keen to inform the model the best way to get there. Each morsel of information blatantly contradicting the other.

The landlady silenced the pub by clanging the drinking up bell so vigorously that her breasts knocked together rather comically. She brushed back her curly red hair with what Marilyn Monroe would describe as a “Jewish comb” and calmly told Gertrude the definite route to take. At the same time she fixed her a glass of gin and tonic water. Gertrude gratefully accepted the drink.
“It’s on the house.”
“Thank you. No ice?”

Bill went out of his way to create a romantic atmosphere. Tall white candles decorated the room, the fire was burning in the grate and Paul Whiteman and his orchestra was playing on the gramophone. Both parties were drinking sherry and smiling.
“I’m glad you made it safely.”
“A bit difficult darling. Even with the torch it was a task. All it seemed to illuminate was more mist.”
“Well, we’re warm here now.”
“Yes, that is very thoughtful.”
“Have you eaten?”
“A little snack won’t go amiss. A fried egg on toast covered in brown sauce before beddy byes.” Gertrude was vegetarian not vegan. She was sat upon Bill’s lap lightly stroking his bald patch. The writer was informed by his better half that he had a surprise waiting for him. Before he could be intrigued she removed her posterior from his lap that in turn was mildly pleased to be where it was. “Now I want you to be honest about these,” Gertrude requested proffering Bill a stiff brown envelope, “they’re some lingerie shots and I’d like you to pick the best ones.” Bill gave the model a sly little smile with a twinkle in his eye. He took the envelope from Gertrude and removed the black and white photographs from within. Gertrude removed her clothing with balletic grace and stood directly in front of Bill who was engrossed in the photographs.

“Go on Bill. Which one do you like?”
“Well this one…Oh my.” Bill had gazed to see Gertrude wearing the same underwear that were featured within the photographs. Bill declared that she was a goddess. Gertrude giggled and tickled his pate. “You know that thing I like, William dear. I’d like you to do it right now.” Bill moistened his lips, clasped Gertrude’s buttocks and gently cooled her belly button with his tongue. She farted.
“Don’t giggle!”
“I can’t help it. If only my admirers knew how flatulent I am. Salvador Dali wrote about farts. Did you know that? My photographer once told me that. It’s somewhere in ‘Diary of a Genius’.”
“Very interesting, but it’s not a sexy topic of discussion. It’s hard to lick your belly button when your torso is vibrating.”
“Oh, look at Mr. Big Words. Okay, I’ll be serious now.” But it was too late she burst into a fit of giggles, her skin rippling with vibrations and Bill collapsed with emphatic vibrations too.

IV

Gertrude was finding it hard to sleep that night. The constant banging of the water pipes along with Bill’s snoring and the revelation of the fresh wound on his right flank that he said was caused by one of the branches on the way to the cottage was preventing that luxury. Whilst awake she used the time to meditate on what went on before. The caressing, the kissing, the embracing, the touching and the smelling. The scent was the strongest aspect that lingered in Gertrude’s thoughts. She would hold that thought and close her eyes in the hope of gradually falling asleep.

Both woke up at the same time. Gertrude felt refreshed whereas Bill was experiencing some overtiredness. He turned and smiled at Gertrude who was sat up against the pillows returning the smile in kind. She patted the shape made by Bill under the bedclothes and removed her self to walk au naturelle to the bathroom. Bill closed his eyes and lightly slumbered. The sound of a distant shower running fading in his ears.

“Aie! Aie! Aie! Aie! Aie! Aie! Aie!”
“Jesus Christ!” Bill got up and ran towards the bathroom pushing his weight against the door to try and break through the bolt. Bursting through the bathroom after the fourth attempt Bill noticed Gertrude on the floor shaking like a leaf, her body completely scalded. The shower still running and generating immense heat. Bill leant through lightly hurting himself in the process to turn the water off. Gertrude wept and shivered, “It hurts so much.” Bill gently touched her and she flinched in pain.

Time passed and Gertrude was in bed, still crying with the only relief being the cooling cream that Bill applied to her permanently disfigured skin. She always insisted that they had First Aid wherever they went and this incident was proof positive of her being in the right. Bill had a pale look on his face as he tended to Gertrude’s agony. His eyes were moist. Gertrude looked at Bill with a great concern on her marked face. She stroked the left side of his face and asked if there was anything the matter. He asked if there was anything he could do for her.
“Could you get me a glass of cold water please? I’m particularly parched.”

In the kitchen Bill took a tumbler from the cupboard and placed it under the tap. Gertrude bucking the trend for bottled mineral water. Nothing came out of the tap. Bill went on to test every tap in the cottage.
“Bill?”
The writer peeked through the bedroom door to see the room gradually be covered in a thin coating of ice. Gertrude’s eyes widened and so did Bill’s. There was a great cracking sound coming from downstairs. Gertrude looked towards Bill in fear. Bill decided to make a move and that was when icicles shot through the floors and ceilings each one leaning at a different angle to the other. The thin layer of ice gradually creeped up the writer, leaving only his neck and head free, rooting him helplessly to the spot. The Frost Faerie’s now gargantuan head burst through the bedroom floorboards and glared at the model who in turn was petrified by this colossus made of ice. The Frost Faerie’s whole body managed to break through the cottage. She grabbed Bill in her left hand and with her right hand removed Gertrude from her icicle prison. When The Frost Faerie expanded her wings the entire cottage was destroyed. A thunderstorm was raging and the flashes of sheet lightning illuminated her awesome terror. Taking care of Bill she placed him near the sundial and froze his feet to the spot. With Gertrude unable to escape, The Frost Faerie looked at her and licked her lips. Bill protested loudly as he could. The Frost Faerie licked Gertrude’s body in its entirety and then lifted her own right leg in order to stand like a flamingo. With the fingers on her left hand she gently teased open her vagina and with her right hand The Frost Faerie violently forced Gertrude in and then back out again rather quickly. Bill protested loudly as The Frost Faerie frigged herself at a fast speed. Her vocal chords producing deep low loud sounds. Bill’s eyes bulged out of his sockets when he saw the frosted coating fall from The Frost Faerie’s ice body. He was now able to see inside. Witness all her internal organs and her skeleton, formed entirely from ice. He even saw her womb. A womb filled by octuplets. All looking directly at the writer. Bill cottoned on what was about to happen and made an attempt to rescue Gertrude. The ice that rooted him to the spot crawled up Bill’s body so that no part of him could move. He was, to a certain extent, permanently paralysed. The Frost Faerie’s face was contorted in ecstasy. She gave one final grunt of pleasure and Gertrude shot right up her ending inside the womb of The Frost Faerie.

Bill saw everything. He could not hear her screaming his name repeatedly. Even her repetitive banging against the icy interior of the womb was inaudible. Even her high pitched screams that began when the octuplets started to tear into her flesh with their sharp teeth revealing her internal organs in order to drain her of her blood and other bodily fluids could not be heard. Bill watched.

The Frost Faerie’s heartbeat managed to slow down and she felt a calmness flow through her very being. She looked down and noticed that Bill was weeping. “I’m sorry Gertrude. I’m so sorry.” The Frost Faerie’s neck extended and her giant head snaked towards Bill’s face and with her tongue that had gently teased the tip of his penis tasted his tears.

“I’m so sorry Gertrude.”

© 2009 Clinton Morgan