Baby It's Cold Outside

It's snowing outside, hard, and I can't get that song out of my head. You know the one, the song played around the holidays that everyone was enamored with for literal decades until someone decided it was a wee bit rapey all of a sudden.

Completely missing the historical context of the original song, by the way. Like the fact that at the time the song was written societally a woman had to make excuses to do what she wanted to do all along. That sexism made it so that women couldn't admit to being sexual beings at all, and so all of her feeble little excuses (and if you listen to the song they really truly are feeble) are just fucked up conventions that society put on people. Nor do they acknowledge the societal context that, "Hey what's in this drink?" was a common convention at the time used to, once again, provide a convenient excuse for women to do what they already wanted to do which was have more than a weak tipple.

And also, while I'm at it, let's acknowledge the fact that the original context of the song was in MOVIE and it was in fact ACTRESS singing it to ACTOR so the outrage that everyone feels about it is really entirely misplaced because the whole thing was supposed to be a send up of the restrictions that society puts on women and asks them to be demure and quiet and chaste and not cause any fucking trouble. Because if you really think about it and you don't just take it at the surface value, that shit is almost empowering.

And I think about all of that everytime I hear that song and right now I'm only hearing it in my own head but that's fine by me, because it's enlivening to me to know that I don't have to follow those restrictions anymore. That song doesn't apply to me. I don't have to live a lie.

Because baby it is cold outside, but even if it wasn't I have no intention of going anywhere.

The downside to the storm is that it makes travel, even just through the city, hard. I was lucky, got in just in the nick of time and managed to get up here before it got too bad but now I'm staring out at the city through the windows of my man's apartment and I'm wondering where he is. I know he's on his way home, but he's late.

Not that he knows he has somewhere to be.

That much is clear when I hear him grumbling as he steps through the front door. In spite of the grief that he's grumbling, the familiar sound of his voice wraps around me like a comforting hug and I step away from the cold of the outside and slip silent and quick over to a couch.

As I move I shed my robe like it's a second skin, sliding it off of me and laying it over the back of a chair along the way. I lounge into the couch, letting my long legs linger and lie and my body be on near perfect display for him, the best I can possibly manage.

Thigh high stockings, white but nearly see through so you can see my pale skin beneath them. A line of them up at the top, my creamy thighs, just below a pair of vivid crimson panties. Matching corset, tight and emphasizing my already slim waist, and a bra that is peeking out beneath it that matches all the rest of it.

I'm dressed to impress tonight, complete with a little bow wrapped around my tight little waist that he can unwrap. Because he deserves it. Because I want him to. Because there is no need to hide anymore.

Because I don't live in a time where I have to pretend to deny myself what I want and need.

When he walks into the room he's still brushing snow off himself but he stops the moment he sees me. His jaw practically drops and his eyes go wide and I can't say how good it makes me feel, to know that even after these few months where I have done so much with him, I can still give him pause.

"Hey there," I purr for him, "You look so cold, babe. Do you want me to help warm you up?"

"Jesus christ, Em," he breathes slowly, "You look fucking amazing."

"Oh baby," I half moan as I slip off the couch and strut across the room into his arms, "Trust me, I feel even better than I look."

Trying to imagine a world where this all was foreign to me is almost impossible now. Don't get me wrong I still remember the man I used to be and that history and that life that never was still informs some part of me.

But I find myself so comfortable slipping into this role. Wearing these clothes. Saying these things. Doing what I do.

Loving who I love.

I am a woman. I am a woman who is in love with a handsome man.

And god there is something so freeing about finally knowing that is what I was always meant to be.

As I slip into his arms I curl up into him. I show him how warm I am, how soft and how sensual. My hands press against the hard firmness of his chest and I bite my bottom lip, turning my eyes up and batting them long and slow at him.

With my hands pressed against his chest my arms press against my breasts, pushing them together and emphasizing the already impressive cleavage that the lingerie has given to me. He looks down at me, stunned as he almost moans just from the sight of me and I know that I've got his attention now. Now all I have to do is hold it.

I push up onto tip toe and press my lips against his. He's tall enough that I have to do this and I love the feel of it, the way the contrast between the two of us only emphasizes the petiteness of my body and the innate femininity in me.

And when he's kissing me like this he comes to life on me and for me. His hands find my hips and then his fingers dig in and he grunts as he pulls me into him, his tongue slipping forward to press into my mouth and lay claim to me.

As if he has to. As if he doesn't already own me.

"How are you here?" he says, breathless as we break to take a moment, "Class-"

I shake my head, "All done. I wrapped up early, this morning. I'm all done for the winter break. Three full weeks with nothing to do. Nowhere to go. No one to see. Nowhere to be."

I can see he's starting to understand the meaning there, but his nervous smile tells me that he doesn't want to give himself hope quite yet.

"What about going home for the holidays?" he asks.

"I'm not making the trip," I say, "I won't be missed. And besides, I'd rather be someplace where I'm welcome. Where I can really be who I want to be. Where I can do what I need to do."

I smile at him, sliding a hand up to brush my fingers against the cut line of his jaw. Shimmying a little closer as Iean into him a little bit more.

"Three weeks," he muses.

"Three weeks," I confirm, "And for every last moment of them I'm all yours. Body and soul, but especially body."