a dirty story about an ice queen and a crystal prison

You emerge from the forest like a bear - you might be mistaken for one, in your furs. They're necessary, here, in the Ice Queen's kingdom, where it's winter all year round. If you fail in your mission today, the rest of the world may have the same fate.

Her palace is nothing less than a cave made of ice, not carved but SHAPED, rippling and twisting like a river frozen in mid-flow. Distorted reflections of yourself follow you through the winding halls: upside-down above you, flowing over the ceiling like a weird shadow; in the walls, as though trapped there, phantom selves, distorted.

You notice something you'd taken for your own reflection fail to move when you do. Is that a person there, frozen in the ice? You pull your furs tighter and quickly move on toward the Queen's court.

"Who approaches Her Most Cold?" booms a voice that fills the glittering cavern. It's not an offended voice but an amused one, and you see the curl of a smile on the Ice Queen's lips, her naked body blue as smoke as she reclines on a couch molded seemlessly from the ice, her long legs folded, her blue toes curling in a kind of feline self-satisfaction. You blush in your furs.

"Your Icy Majesty," you start, coaxing your voice back from where it's run and hid in the back of your throat, "I come before you on behalf of the Woodspeople. It is harvest time, and yet the frost of your kingdom still covers our lands. We have made many sacrifices. Have we failed to placate you in some way? Is there some further sacrifice you require?"

The Queen laughs, shifting her legs so that you catch a glimpse of a plump, cobalt vulva. "Humans are such funny little creatures. Look around at the splendor of my Winter. Gaze on the twinkling wonder of my icy world." But your eyes can't help but follow the cold blue fingers trailing across her naked belly. "I've been thinking, why should Winter be content with only a quarter of the year? Why should the world have withheld from it the beauty of the snows?"

She rolls around onto her belly, climbing towards you on her couch like a tiger. "But if you desire another sacrifice, then let it not be said this court would refuse a gift."

Cold hands grab you. Where did they come from? Icy blue maidens with snow-white smiles, nude as their Queen, holding you tight as they pluck off your furs one by one, a second skinning, laughing as they do so. "Your Icy- MMPH!" you plead, struggling, before a cold hand covers your mouth. But you scream again as icy knives in the soles of your feet tell you your boots have been taken from you. Mercifully, you're then lifted off your feet - naked, silenced, held between twenty strong hands.

"Shall we fuck it for you, Your Majesty?" one of the girls asks, glancing between your restrained body and her watching Queen. Despite your nakedness, you feel your body growing very hot.

"No," the Queen says, "not this one," sliding off of her couch. "Put her on the pedestal. This one I intend to keep."

They wrestle you wide-eyed to a short white pedestal set in the floor of the cave. Don't let it be said that you don't put up a struggle, but the moment your toes touch the strange pedestal, a sudden drowsiness comes over your body, a kind of coldness. While the Queen oversees, her handmaidens arrange you, legs together, arms at your sides, like a statue. You can't move.

"Perfect," the Queen hisses, pleased, almost right in your ear. Your body tingles with the nearness of her, but she does not touch you. She takes a step back, standing before you, her tall body putting even your frozen one to shame in the "statuesque" department. Then she raises her arms, and you feel something cold and heavy slide up your ankles, like water rising, but far more solid and more cold. Up your legs it rises, crystalizing around you, hardening to fit you like a mold. It passes belly, your chest your neck, it slides over your eyes like a clear curtain. You can see the Queen laughing, as though through a window. But you can no longer hear her laught. She's frozen you in a crystal of ice.

She presses herself against your ice prison, smiling at you. Her lips move - she's saying something. You don't know what, nor do you need to. Something smug. Something mocking. Something vulgar. Locked into your perfect crystal mold, only your eyes can move - they follow her blue arm down her belly to where her fingers are lazily stroking her plump vulva. Her cunt is wet, you can see, glittering like snow, her eyes on you while she touches herself. You feel hot again, but all you can do is shiver.

The Queen's servants push her couch across the floor like a sleigh, floating it up to your crystal container. With a hot sneer she lays down, rolls onto her back, puts her feet up on the glass of your prison. You can see the soles of her feet, pale blue and gently creased, pressed against the glass. Between them, you have a perfect view as she plays with her clit, while she slides two long fingers inside herself. She's watching you the entire time, still with that mocking grin on her face, her teeth icy and sharp.

You can't even move your lips, maybe to mouth a word like "please." Please what? Please let me go? Please - me too? Somewhere in your eyes, though, trapped in your vulnerable, darting gaze, is something that communicates your need, your want, clear as crystal. She recognizes it and she likes it, fucking herself harder, her toes curling and uncurling on the glass in front of you, her pale heels lifting as she pushes herself up on the balls of her feet, her fingers pumping in and out of her as she dials her snow-clit hard, her mouth howling, ice-teeth biting her blue lips, though you hear nothing.

Every few minutes, she looks up at you, her eyes satisfied and possessive, her smile wicked and hungry. Your skin itches with desire, your tummy fluttery, your thighs hot in the ice. You watch her back arch against the curving surface of her couch, you watch shivers pass through her long body. The ferocity of her orgasm terrifies you. She screams, silent. Her foot kicks at the glass, twice, inches from your face. She comes watching you, trapped and nude, and she continues watching you as she mushes her juices around her wet vulva and trembles a few times as aftershocks softly buzz her. You are utterly hers, perhaps a favorite possession, but a favorite in the way that a collector has favorites, to look at, to behold, to glow with the satisfaction of owning, and never to touch.

Lazily, she rubs herself against your prison again, smearing it with her wetness, sleepy eyes smiling into yours. You try to signal - anything. How much you want her. How you'd lay yourself at her feet, lick her toes, lick her glittering cunt, if only she'd let you out. Can she read those things in your eyes, in the tears that crystalize beneath them like little beads of snow? Perhaps she can. She just smiles at you, and then she climbs back onto her couch and curls up to sleep.