The wind was bitter. It was the coldest day the city had seen for three years, and it seemed to be getting colder. And it was my turn to shovel the walk. The only good news seemed to be that the snow had finally stopped. And maybe that the snow was too cold to pack down, so it was fairly light. I could almost have cleared the walk with a broom. And I thought I saw Sasha’s hat approaching through the drifts in the distance.

     I was stiff and tired and chilled through, but I was glad to see him. I wanted to hug him, and take comfort from knowing his body was warm under all the layers of cloth. But we were outside, in full view of the street, and I hesitated, even so close to dusk. He called to me, and I waved. He seemed so calm and untroubled by the cold that I wanted to tease him, break that inhumanly elegant composure. I threw a snowball at him. The dry powder flew apart before it touched his face, but my aim had been perfect.

     He dropped his bag, growling, and tried to tackle me. We started wrestling playfully, but I fought back in earnest as soon as I realized I was losing. I started begging for mercy when he got my scarf off and washed my face with snow, and shrieked when he got ice down my collar. He let me up as far as my knees while I apologized profusely. He smiled at my pose and let me stand. “Come inside. You should get out of those wet clothes.” Perfectly mundane, reasonable words. Friends again after a quick snowball fight. Right.

     Back in my room, we argued about whether “The Secret Histories” cast doubt on the rest of Procopius’ work, while I peeled off my long underwear. My jacket and boots were warm and waterproof, but I was thoroughly chilled in between, and my thighs were starting to turn blue. I rubbed them with my palms, wincing at the tingle of returning circulation. Sasha interrupted me. “Come here and let me do that.”

     He was sitting in my desk chair, still mostly dressed. I stood in front of him nervously, still a bit shy about being naked with him, half afraid of a spanking (half wanting one). His hands were warm against my skin, big and gentle. I started to relax, enjoying his touch. My legs burned as I started to warm up, and I squirmed a little, leaning against him.

     I was already off-balance, not resisting when he pushed me down over one knee. I wriggled a bit, grinding against his knee, but not really struggling. He spanked me hard, with his bare hand. Perhaps he thought I could take a bit more if I was still a bit numb from the cold. Wrong. My skin was already burning, stinging, feeling too tight and stiff stretched across sore muscles. The first slap sounded loud and flat, impossibly painful.

     I cried out in surprise, and Sasha grabbed my hair, forcing my head up painfully. “Keep quiet. I’m just warming you up for the real punishment later. I’ll gag you for that if I have to, but I prefer your cooperation. Do you understand?” Tears in my eyes. Already. I bit my lips as he warmed my bottom. It seemed ferociously painful, worlds away from the light, erotic spankings we had discovered last summer. But I knew I was aroused.

     Sasha paused, stroking between my legs, feeling my growing excitement. My buttocks burned. I heard Sasha open my desk drawer. Was he looking for a ruler? I smelled the massage oil almost as soon as he got the bottle open. Vanilla, primarily for the irony. His hands were slick with oil, gliding gently over my sore thighs and ass. I gasped, surprised by how much pleasure that skin could still feel. His fingers kneaded deeply, forcing me to relax. I felt limp, draped across his knee.

     I didn’t think he would stand up. I wasn’t thinking at all. I landed in an inelegant heap at his feet, surprised by his order. “On your hands and knees, head down.” I obeyed, clumsily untangling my arms and legs. I saw him thread the belt out of my trousers, and I was afraid. “Sasha? I think I’m going to need that gag now.” He laughed. “Not yet. This isn’t your punishment either, just a more thorough warmup. I expect you’ll even enjoy it.” My belt is narrower than his, lighter. It feels like more of a cutting blow, with less “thud,” but it hurts plenty. “Spread your legs a little wider. I want to be able to reach your inner thighs.”

     My bottom felt glowing warm. I could feel the tingle of recovery from the cold, overlaid with the burning from the spanking, with the soothing touch of Sasha’s hands on top of everything. I trembled a bit on my knees, waiting for the first stroke of the belt. It fell hard, high on the inside of my thigh. I flinched, pulling my legs together. Sasha’s hand was rough between my legs, probing, forcing them apart. The belt trailed over my bare back as his other hand forced my head down. “You’ll take 50 strokes. Every time you break position, or struggle, or cry out, you’ll take 10 more.” I lost count after about 20, losing myself in waves of pain. I wanted to flatten myself against the floor, crawling at Sasha’s feet, but this trembling obedience was still more submissive.

     When it was over, Sasha dropped the belt, kneeling over me. He traced the fresh, hot welts with a fingertip, feeling me flinch even from such a gentle touch. He wet his hands with more oil and caressed me again. I melted, fresh tears welling up at this sharp contrast to all the pain. I lay flat, sobbing gratefully.

     I didn’t notice him leave my side. I didn’t hear him open the window. I felt the chill, and the edge of the wind, but fear and tension were so unthinkable that I ignored them.

     Burning cold at the small of my back. A double handful of that light, feathery powder, too cold to even feel wet. Sasha held me down as I started, trying to twist out from under it. I pleaded with him to take it off, it was just too cold, I couldn’t stand it. “It’s just for a few seconds, Adrian. I only want to soften it enough to pack.” And then he scooped it up, leaving a few drops of melting snow to trickle down across my still-burning ass. He held the snow where I couldn’t see it. He whistled as he shaped it between his hands. One of my melodies, written for a Robert Frost poem. It sounded stupid without the words. I flushed and looked away, more embarrassed to have written a bad tune than to squirm naked on the floor after a beating. The whistling stopped. A cold, wet finger traced along the crack of my ass. I arched my back involuntarily, raising my hips to meet Sasha’s hand.

     “THIS is for throwing that snowball at me!” And he forced the icicle between the burning cheeks of my ass, a hand over my mouth smothering my shriek. He pulled it out after a very long painful second, and thrust in himself. Water makes terrible lubrication. But he was so blessedly warm inside me. I welcomed him. As always.