Decorating Accident

You wake up on Thanksgiving morning to a thin crust of frost on the windows and the kind of dry, biting cold that makes every breath sting. The house is quiet. Your wife is still asleep upstairs, and the smell of yesterday’s coffee hangs faintly in the kitchen. You decide there’s no better time than now to get the exterior Christmas lights up. The neighborhood expects it. You’ve always been the first house on the street to go full festive, and this year will be no different.

You pull on thick socks, jeans, a thermal shirt, and an old pair of boxers that have seen better days. Outside, the air hits like a slap. Your breath plumes white. The ladder is already leaning against the garage from last weekend’s leaf cleanup. You haul the big plastic tub of lights down from the attic and start clipping strands along the eaves, moving methodically from the front porch toward the side of the house.

The roof is slick. Frost has turned the shingles into a low-friction sheet of ice. You’re near the peak, stretching to reach the far gable, when your boot slips. The world tilts. You grab for the gutter, miss, and slide hard. Your jeans catch on a nail or a rough edge and tear open along the seam. The boxers shred with a wet rip. You hit the ground on your back in the flower bed, wind knocked out of you, pants around your ankles, and the ruined boxers hanging off one thigh.

Your cock and balls are fully exposed to the freezing air. The cold hits them instantly. Your dick shrinks hard, pulling tight against your body, the shaft thickening slightly at the base while the head nearly disappears. Your balls draw up high and tight, the skin pebbling. You’re still gasping when you hear the soft crunch of boots on frozen grass.

Your neighbor is standing ten feet away, arms crossed under her heavy black coat. She’s the goth one—pale skin, dark lipstick, long black hair with a streak of purple, and the kind of full, heavy tits that make the coat strain even when she’s layered up. She’s holding a travel mug and staring straight down at your exposed crotch with an expression of mild, almost bored appraisal.

You force a shaky laugh and try to cover yourself with one hand. “Jesus—sorry. It’s a little cold.”

She doesn’t smile. Her eyes stay on your shrunken cock for another long second. Then she says, in a breathy, high-pitched voice that still somehow sounds completely dismissive, “Well… it *is* little.”

She turns and walks back toward her own porch without another word, the purple streak in her hair swinging.

You’re still sitting in the dirt, face burning hotter than the cold can touch, when your wife comes out the front door in her robe and slippers. She sees the ladder, the lights half-hung, and you on the ground with your pants destroyed. She helps you up, gets an arm under your shoulders, and walks you inside. The warmth of the house makes your skin prickle. Your cock is still small and soft, the cold having done its work thoroughly.

She sits you on the edge of the bed and peels the ruined clothes the rest of the way off. Her hands move over your ribs, your hip, the back of your head, checking for real injury. Finding none, she looks down at your lap and the corner of her mouth quirks.

“So,” she says, “little show for the neighbor?”

She holds up her right hand, extends her pinky, and wraps her thumb and index finger around it. She strokes the pinky slowly, exaggeratedly, eyes locked on yours.

“It’s a little cold,” she says in a mock-deep voice, then switches to a breathy, high-pitched imitation of the neighbor: “Well… it *is* little.”

She keeps stroking the pinky while she says it, smiling the whole time. You feel your face heat again, and something low in your gut twists—humiliation and arousal tangled so tightly you can’t separate them.

The rest of the day passes in a haze of turkey, football, and her occasional quiet little smiles whenever your eyes meet. By the time the house is dark and the leftovers are put away, you’re hard under the covers just from the memory of that pinky and the neighbor’s voice.

She comes to bed in nothing but a thin black tank top that barely contains her breasts. She climbs on top of you without preamble, straddling your hips, and looks down at your cock—now fully hard, thick, and flushed.

“Still cold?” she asks, and wraps her hand around it. Her fingers don’t quite meet. She gives it a slow stroke, then another, watching the way the head flares and a bead of precum appears.

“No,” you manage.

She leans down, presses her tits against your chest, and whispers against your ear in that same breathy, high-pitched mimicry: “Well… it *is* little.”

Then she sits back up, reaches between her legs, and guides the head of your cock to her entrance. She’s already wet. She sinks down slowly, taking you inch by inch until her ass rests against your thighs. The heat of her is almost shocking after the memory of the cold. She stays still for a moment, just clenching around you, and then starts to move.

She rides you with long, rolling hips, lifting almost all the way off before dropping back down. Every time she bottoms out she lets out a soft, satisfied sound. Her tank top rides up; her tits bounce heavily with each motion. You reach up to cup them and she lets you, arching into your hands while she keeps the pace steady and deep.

“Look at you,” she murmurs. “All worked up because a stranger saw your little cold cock and told the truth.” She squeezes around you deliberately. “It’s a little cold…” she says in your voice, then switches again, breathy and high: “Well it *is* little.”

She grinds down hard on the last word, circling her hips so the base of your cock rubs against her clit. You feel yourself getting closer already and try to slow her, but she only smiles and speeds up.

She leans forward, braces her hands on your chest, and starts fucking you in earnest—short, sharp strokes that make her ass slap against you. Her tits swing and bounce right in front of your face. You catch one nipple in your mouth and suck; she moans and grinds harder.

“You’re going to come while I say it, aren’t you?” she asks, voice low and mean with affection. “You’re going to fill me up while I remind you what she said.”

She sits up straight again, reaches behind herself, and cups your balls, rolling them gently while she keeps riding. The dual sensation is too much. Your cock throbs hard inside her.

“It’s a little cold,” she says, still in that mocking deep tone.

Then, higher, breathier, perfectly matching the neighbor’s dismissive lilt: “Well… it *is* little.”

The words hit at the exact moment your orgasm does. Your hips jerk up off the bed. You come in thick, heavy pulses, flooding her while she keeps moving, milking every spurt out of you. She doesn’t stop the rhythm or the words. She keeps repeating the lines—first your half-hearted excuse, then the neighbor’s cutting reply—while your cock twitches and empties inside her.

Even after the last pulse she stays seated on you, still gently rocking, still whispering the same two sentences until your oversensitive cock gives one final weak throb. Only then does she lean down, kiss you soft and slow, and murmur against your mouth, “Happy Thanksgiving.”

She stays on top of you for a long time after, your spent cock softening inside her, the memory of the cold and the neighbor’s voice and her pinky all tangled together in the dark.