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ooooooh….i’m dreaming…of a white christmas

It’s never a good sign when you wake up and your boy is missing on Christmas. You woke up before your alarm, which means your boy wasn’t scheduled to present by your side for a little while longer. Yet, you expected to hear him prattling around the kitchen, preparing a special breakfast, cocoa and coffee, and getting ready to open gifts. Your boy actually has presents under the tree – mostly things he can use to serve you better or things you will use on him, but still, boxes have his name on them. But he’s not here.

Where is he? You feel miffed and concerned. Where is your boy? You feel a breeze and notice the back door is ajar. You step forward to it, pulling your robe around you. What you see takes your breath away. Outside, in two feet of snow, your naked and vulnerable servant boy is standing up to his knees in soft powder. Flakes of it pepper his hair, and his face is turned skyward. You can’t believe it. It’s a white Christmas. 

You remember for a moment that you bought your boy from a dealer that had brought his stock up from Florida. Had the boy never seen snow? You never bothered to ask. You knew he was fascinated by autumn and relished the traditions of holiday seasons, but had had he never seen snow? Truly? 

You open the door. There’s a clear path where your boy cut a path through the deck and down to the yard. You jog to the mud room to fetch your boots and coat, and pull them on without really tying your laces or buttoing the fasteners. You’re worried your boy is going to get frostbite out there. You pull open the back door, and you’re cold all over. It’s freezing. You stumble to the edge of the porch. 
“Boy,” you call gently, not wanting to scare him. He doesn’t hear you. He sticks out his tongue, trying to catch a snowflake. You pull out your phone and snap a quick photo. In the zoom, you can see he’s trembling from here. You get an idea to get his attention. With numb fingers, you wad up a ball of snow and throw it at him. It hits him square in the back and he yelps.

You laugh. If that wasn’t funny, the way he’s staring at you in surprise is. 
“Come inside, you’re going to get frostbite on your toes.”
“I’m wearing my rain boots, Sir.”
“Still, this is no weather for a boy to be naked outside.” I say, throwing another snowball at him. He ducks.
“Coming Sir,” he replies, teeth chattering.
You shake your head and throw snowballs at him until he hurries up, but he’s laughing. When he’s on the deck, you turn your back to head back inside – and then a moment later you feel it, the impact of something wet and cold hitting the back of your jacket.

You whirl around.

You can’t believe it! Your boy just hit you with a snowball. His cheeks are red and he looks terrified as he is pleased with himself. Very sheepish.

I eye him. That was easily a spank-able offense. “You have good aim,” I say, feeling generous, then turn back inside. You hear him sigh in relief. 

When you get back inside, he is noticeably shivering. His cock is so small that you’re sure he could have pulled the chastity cage off. You order him to get dressed and prepare something hot to drink while you go turn up the heat a little. Your boy bows then goes to his quarters to dress in his winter thermals.

You linger by the window, watching the snow fall, already burying your tracks and your fun. You wonder if your boy has ever been sledding, and suddenly you know how to spend your Christmas. Where in the Master handbook does it say you can’t command your boy to have fun? 

Text is fictional. 


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