Baby It's Cold Outside

This quick is my last-minute entry for the

Literotica 2021 Winter Holidays Story Contest

, the first contest I have ever entered!

The only details of this story that are not fiction are that of the apartment. Indeed, I had an apartment in college that shared the same eccentricities.

As usual, I welcome comments and votes after reading!

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I looked out the window and saw white.

It's an expression, of course. There's rarely a time when you look out and literally only see white. After all, there is space in between each individual snowflake.

How much space?

Snowfall was measured in inches by the weather people. Was that inches from the ground up? Was that inches in melt? I mean, some snow was light and fluffy and other snow was wet and densely packed and it didn't seem fair to the dense snow that the fluffy snow got called out as more inches when in reality it would compact itself down to the same level as the dense snow after a day or two so really it wasn't as much snow as it was claiming to be. Then again, I wasn't talking about snowfall, I was talking about visibility.

Oh, my God. I think I was losing my mind.

I pulled my hoodie up over my head, over the winter hat I already had on, and shuffled into the hallway. Under the sweatshirt I was wearing another sweatshirt on top of a long-sleeve t-shirt on top of the standard stretchy cami I always wore. My feet were covered with the thickest, fuzziest socks I owned, the tops of which were pulled up over the bottoms of the thickest, warmest sweatpants I owned, those on top of another pair of yoga pants.

Why was it so fucking cold?

I wandered into the kitchen, a heavenly smell filling my nostrils. My roommate, Will, was standing leaning up against the counter by the stove scrolling through his phone, waiting for something in the microwave. He was wearing a long-sleeve t-shirt, shorts and Crocs - no socks..

I hated him.

He looked up.

"You're ridiculous," he laughed. "It isn't that cold. Do some sit ups or something."

"Shut up. I hate you."

"You love me and you know it," he laughed as I shuffled into the bathroom.

"In your dreams, Willy."

I smiled as I laid down on the floor. It annoyed him to be called Willy.

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To take a step back:

My name is Clair and I am 23 years old. Thus far in life I had taken a pretty standard path. I grew up in a standard, middle-class suburb with standard, middle-class parents and two siblings - one older, one younger. I was a slightly-above average student in high school and participated in a handful of standard extra-curriculars, enough in quantity to pad my college applications but not bold enough in topic to say that I was particularly passionate about anything during those formative years. I received my bachelors a couple of years ago in a standard major of "business" and took a pretty standard entry-level job as a "Client Solutions Analyst" (aka, Customer Service/ Technical Rep) with a local software company. My passions include looking wistfully at my paycheck - before resigning myself to the reality that the majority of it is already accounted for - and playing on my phone... both pretty standard.

Most of my friends were pretty much in the same position as me - socially and financially - though I wasn't seeing them as much anymore. Future hindsight would tell whether my choice was the right one, but while they were choosing to ignore their financial insecurity and spend their time and money - money they don't really have - going out, I chose to stay in and save as much as I could. So, when it was suggested to set up a Christmas trip to Cancun to beat the cold and celebrate being young, I chose not to go. Not that big a deal actually, I wanted to spend the holidays with my family anyhow.

But then the blizzard hit.

It had been 3 days since I left the apartment and it was predicted to be at least 2 more.

Prediction. Ha!

You'd think that they would be able to predict a 5 day blizzard and I could have somehow prepared. Instead I sat alone, freezing, while all of my friends posted pic-after-pic on social media of bikinis, booze and boys.

Well, not totally alone and not all of my friends.

Will was my roommate and I most certainly didn't hate him. The fact is, he was by far my best friend. We met in college and, for all of the "standards" in my life, Will was extraordinary. Top of the class student. Premier athlete. Involved in fantastic social causes. A wonderfully loyal friend. Gorgeously beautiful. I would suspect that he is every parent's dream.

As compared to my pathetic, entry-level job, Will earned top dollar as a financial analyst and most certainly could afford two things:

1. A better apartment than the dump we lived in.

2. The trip to Cancun.

But, being the loyal bestie that he was, and understanding the pains I was going through to try and save some money, when he heard that I was not going on the trip, he said that he would stay back with me to keep me company.

Regarding the apartment, it's the same one that we had been sharing for 3 years. We moved in when we were both broke juniors in college and have just never left. It is the old "owner's" apartment over the storefront below. It was built in the late 19th century and features some rather quirky architecture - supposedly typical to the working class cost consciousness of the times. Examples of quirky architecture? The front door leads into the living room (not quirky), but the door from the shop below (since blocked off) leads into a closet in the kitchen. That same closet leads into my bedroom in the back of the apartment. Will's bedroom is off the living room in the front of the apartment. The bathroom is off of the kitchen, but also has an additional entrance through a closet that has two additional doorways, one to Will's bedroom and one back into the kitchen. There are also two additional rooms off the small hallway that leads back to my bedroom, both of which are just slightly larger than a closet. And, finally, the hallway that leads back to my bedroom also makes a sharp, 90 degree turn, away from my bedroom at the end of the hall, but the 6 foot length of hallway leads to absolutely nothing at all, one side is an exterior wall, the other side shared with one of the weird closet-rooms.

The storefront below us was apparently originally a small grocery but, in the century-plus of its existence, it is said that it was also a barbershop, pawnshop, bodega and now, currently, a commercial laundry. It is this last point that brings me to the most curious feature of our little home: we have no cold water.

Our landlord was aware of the situation and wasn't even renting the apartment because of it. It was circumstance that Will - who was dropping off a load of tablecloths for the cafe he worked at in college - just happened to ask about what was on the second floor. It was coincidence that the owner of the building - as opposed to the normal counter help - happened to be working that day. It was luck that - because of the cold-water issue - the owner never rented out the apartment but was willing to do so based on Will's charming personality and persistence. And, it was a blessing that Will took me under his wing when it came to finding a roommate, knowing that I couldn't afford much rent-wise in an otherwise expensive city, and let me in on the well-below-market-rate deal he had scored.

So, we lived with hot-water only. And, when I say hot, I mean hot. In the winter it isn't altogether that bad. Afterall, who doesn't like the idea of always having a warm toilet seat on cold winter days? (Yes, a couple of flushes to clear the tank and our toilet will actually steam.) But, in the summer? Well, let's just say that we tend to wear less clothing because it is so steamy.

Why do we stay? Honestly, because even though it is a shit-hole, it's our shit-hole. Its quirks and eccentricities, while annoying at any particular point in time, make for some great stories and bonding moments. We enjoy the laughs more than the inconveniences bother us.

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Will stepped over me, lifted the toilet seat, and started to pee.

"Your insistence that the bathroom is the warmest room in the house is weird."

"It's not weird since it is the warmest room in the house," I mumbled through my hoodie, which I had cinched tight around my face. I was convinced that the floor of the bathroom was warm because of the water pipes - all hot water - that ran under it.

I heard the bath water turn at a slow rate before sensing Will step back over me and back out into the kitchen. Though nothing was said, I was pretty sure I knew what was going on.

We had discovered during the first winter in the apartment that, if you ran the water into the bathtub slowly enough, it cooled off enough just from the air temperature that you could enjoy a really enjoyable soak. It was a feature of the house that was rarely taken advantage of because... well, honestly, who really takes long, relaxing baths on a regular basis? But, in this circumstance it sounded absolutely divine.

I heard some further rustling and movement in the kitchen before Will called out to me.

"You want any soup?"

"No thanks."

"At a certain point," he responded, his mouth very noticeably full of too-hot pasta, "you are going to have to get up off the floor."

"When a girl says 'no,' it means 'no.'"

I smiled to myself and tightened my fetal ball on the floor.

It was 15 minutes later when Will stepped back over me, turned off the water and splashed it with his hand, an innate reflex to check the water temp.

"C'mon, CB. Get your butt up."

Will had 4 standard nicknames for me: "Bear," as in "Clair-bear." "CB," also as in "Clair-bear." And, finally, "Ging" or "Red," both based on my red hair.

"Uhg," I moaned in return, "I don'wanna."

He lifted me up off the floor and stood me in front of him. Will was 5'10" of athletic strength. Though I have curves, I'm only 5'1", so it didn't change the fact that the size difference was obvious and the scene was pretty much that of a parent and child.

He never bothered loosening the drawstrings of my hood before he started pulling my first sweatshirt off and I put my arms up in the air to aid in the task. The second sweatshirt and long sleeve t-shirt under it started coming along with it but slowed the progress of the task.

"Jesus Christ," he said in playful annoyance, "how many layers do you have on?"

I let him manhandle me for a moment more before shoo-ing his hands off of me and taking on the task myself. I was an adult after all, I could act like one if I chose to.

Will sat on the toilet and ate his soup while I peeled my layers like an onion. Sweatshirt one... sweatshirt two... socks...pants one... t-shirt... yoga pants... cami. When nude, I shivered for a second before stepping into the hot, healing waters. My skin immediately covered itself in goosebumps, not because I was cold, but the temperature swing was just so vast.

Will slurped his soup.

Similar to his peeing while I was in the bathroom, it wasn't uncommon for us to see the other person nude. Correction: not only not uncommon, but actually common. I can't say why it was so comfortable as, based on conversation, it wasn't as if either of us were like this with others. We didn't have nudist histories. Neither of us were exhibitionists and got off on the exposure. Neither of us were gay. In fact, truth be told, we had both admitted attraction to one another... so why the level of comfort?

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I remember the first time we were nude in front of one another - with one another - a camping trip with friends. It was a hot summer night and everyone decided to go skinny-dipping, a typical rite of passage for the young. It was late and the water was cold, enough that it felt refreshing at first but left me with a bit of a chill as we crawled back into our tent. We had decided not to purchase sleeping bags before the trip, feeling they were unnecessary, and instead got our cool, clammy skin under the layers of blankets we had brought instead. I remember the retained heat of the blanket wrapping around me but also that it was not quite enough to thoroughly warm me up, so I asked Will to cuddle me, our skin to skin contact delivering the relief I so wanted.

When I woke up a couple of hours later we were still in a spooned position and I felt Will's erection pressed up against me, a little surprise that too this day makes me smile. There was something natural and soothing about the situation; I felt in no way threatened, rather just cared for. Upon sneaking back into the tent after scooting away to pee, Will had woken up and sleepily invited me back into his arms, an offer I readily accepted. He made no mention of the fact that I flipped over and we were in a face-to-face position, and instead just held me close, the comforting warmth of our bodies the only sensation of importance to me, the softness of his skin pressed against mine the perfect lullaby to fall back asleep.

We were still embraced in the morning, though, with the sun beating down on the tent, it had warmed up significantly. Instead of our skin being smooth and soft, it was sticky. We laughed as we literally had to pull apart from one another, and spent more time in the tent - on top of the covers and in the buff - talking and laughing and enjoying the company of one another.

From that day on, nudity had been the norm. It's not to say that we went out of our way to be naked in front of one another - my 3 layers of clothing being an indicator of that - just that it wasn't an issue for either of us.

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"You wanna' watch a movie tonight?"

It was a common question from me and it often made Will chuckle. The reality was, movies were the norm most of our nights, especially in the winter. While most of our friends watched longer series', it was always movies for us. He said we acted like an old, married couple, but he also never made suggestions of any sort of different activity.

"Uh," he responded, incredulously, "it's Christmas Eve, of course we're gonna' watch a movie. The only question is whether it will be an older or modern classic?"

Yeah, we were like an old married couple.

I was thoroughly warmed up from the water and was even starting to get a little overheated, a state that made me a little antsy, though I still was not quite ready to get out of the bath.

"Hey," I called to Will, just to get his attention, "I can make water rings with my boobs."

I was gently rocking my back, forcing breasts just briefly out of the water. Enough that, when I pulled them back under the surface, little concentric rings did indeed form.

"You're an idiot."

His response made me laugh.

"Yeah, maybe I am an idiot," I replied, "but it doesn't seem to stop you from watching."

His line of sight was clearly on my chest.

"Give me a break. Of course I am going to watch. Not only are they naked tits, but they're nice naked tits... and you literally asked me to look!"

"Just giving you a hard time."

I dropped my line of sight quite obviously to his crotch where the outline of a relatively chubby cock was noticeable.

"A very hard time, it appears."

"God, you're the worst," he said, acknowledging the obvious by reaching into his shorts and adjusting himself, "I'm gonna' tea bag you in your sleep."

I wondered if old married couples talked the way that we did.

"Alrighty, I'm getting out."

I stood up in the water and gestured my request for Will to hand me my towel. He responded by striding toward the door, my towel with him, before spinning quickly and rifling it at my face. As the soft terry cloth hit me, I knew it came from a place of affection. Then, with Will out of the bathroom, I took a moment to check myself out the mirror.

I had never understood the phrase "proud of boobs" or "proud of my body" but, in hindsight, at that point in my life, with youth on my side, I never had to work for it. I could say that I liked my body. I liked how rosey pink my skin was having gotten out of the hot bath. I liked my natural hourglass shape, one that I hoped I could look forward to for years based on the figures of my mother and aunts. I liked my teardrop shaped breasts with their nicely-sized areola and nipples, large enough to fill out a dress but not enough to hurt my back. I liked the flare of my hips and the curves of my legs. I loved the carrot colored groomed triangle of pubic hair I kept. Unlike my head, it had not darkened, and I legitimately considered it a signature feature.

"Are you staring at your bush again?"

His voice rang out from the living room and caused me to roll my eyes. Yeah, maybe I did have a problem with my pubic fascination, but it wasn't like it was all encompassing. Will actually kept his pubes trimmed back, basically the constant look of 5-o'clock shadow, a relative norm for guys his age from conversation and experience. It was a bit amusing to me that decades of grooming precedence had begun to shift and men had become more in tune with societal pressure to be something other than their natural self but, if I am being honest, I really liked the look, both in general and definitely on Will. He had a fantastic body and with his body hair trimmed short it maintained an image of ruggedness that indicated he was all man... but also a bit more visibility into some of his defining features: washboard abs, defined legs, a delightfully perfect cock.

I felt my nipples begin to harden at the thought of him and pulled my towel tight around myself. The last thing I needed was to give him more ammunition to pick on me. It was my job to pick on him, not vice versa.

Walking back through the kitchen, Will was laying out some items on the counter.

"I've got a surprise for you," he said, a wide smile on his face. "Tonight, we are gonna' eat!"

I knew that, on Christmas Eve, it was tradition that the kids cooked at Will's parents house. Being the youngest of 5, this was going to be the first year that he was totally in charge of the meal. I knew that he had been shopping and had seen some rather out-of-place items in the fridge but didn't pay attention to the extensiveness of it all until that point.

"Braised beef pappardelle, burrata, crusty bread, almond cake."

"You've already cooked all of that? It's only 2."

"Of course not. Well, at least not all of it. Though I did get started this morning. Go get yourself dressed, you're going to help with the rest."

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In my room, I smiled. For as crappy as the day could have been, it was turning out rather nicely. I pulled on clean panties, leggings and a loose, comfy soft sweatshirt. I knew that spending time with Will in the kitchen meant two things: warmth from the stove and a full glass of wine... and I was confident I wouldn't be cold again.

True to form, he held a small glass of red out as soon as I entered the kitchen.

"Drink that with water," he instructed, "it's the crappy bottle I used in the sauce. The good stuff comes later."

I loved red wine. I loved it because of Will. My parents weren't much of drinkers and were certainly not sommeliers when it came to fermented grapes. Unfortunately, my pallet sat undeveloped as I instinctively just followed their lead. The drinking that I did early in college was mostly based on what was inexpensive, not any sort of quality. That all changed when I spent a weekend with Will and his family a couple winters back. The food, the wine, the pairings, it was all quite amazing.