The Snow Queen Chapter 1

Severe headache returned after ten days. I stared into the darkness persistently. The room felt cold and lonely, like a nest abandoned by birds. Sleep eluded me. Fear accumulated steadily with the passage of time. On days like this, I knew what I had to do.

11 p.m.

I rose as if pushed.

I threw on my coat and rushed out of the house. The biting cold wind felt like breaking ice. The winter in the kingdom was brutal. It was January 1st, with snowflakes falling fiercely.

Even at this late hour, 42nd Street was bustling with excitement. A red-nosed drunkard brushed past my shoulder. Groups of officers in black coats walked by, throwing lewd remarks at the prostitutes. In the distance, the neon sign of a strip bar flickered. In the dim and worn street, the solitary sign emitting a red light looked as lonely as a lighthouse guarding a shore.

The piled-up snow reached up to my ankles. The snowflakes turned into thick raindrops. The entire street was soaked in ash-gray.

A little further, I reached 42nd Square. Even on New Year’s Eve, the square was rampant with violence. The square, around the bronze statue of Perseus with Medusa’s head held high, was chaotic. Protesters shouted slogans and distributed pamphlets. The blare of the police sirens pierced the air. The fierce cries mixed with the heavy footsteps echoed in the storm. Torn pieces of newspapers and pamphlets scattered into the darkness. Buses honked their horns, splashing water in all directions. And the citizens, sipping vodka in the pubs around the square, watched the skirmish between the protesters and the police as if watching a football match.

I pulled my coat hood tightly and walked quickly. As I left the square, dark alleys stretched out again. It didn’t take long to reach the bar. Inside the cramped bar, patrons were buried in thick cigarette smoke, murmuring.

I hesitated as I sat down anywhere. Newspapers left on the bar table were scattered. Wolfscott’s face filled half of the front page. Below the photo, I noticed the headline.

“Wolfscott declares the incompetent and pathetic rule is finally over at the New Year press conference…”

It was an outrageous claim, but the tone of the article was entirely praising. It was expected. In this kingdom, there was no media outlet that would put a critical article against the ruling nobility like Wolfscott on the front page from the first day of the new year.

As I was halfway through the article, the waiter approached. I diverted my attention from the newspaper and ordered a cocktail. Tonight, as usual, I planned to exchange the first few words with a man and immediately accompany him. Besides this, I didn’t know any other way to drive away the pain of illness.

As the waiter placed the cocktail glass in front of me, a long shadow suddenly fell over the table.

“Long time no see. Why have you been absent for so long?”

A polite voice that pierced through my ears.

When I turned my head, ‘he’ was standing there. Blond hair. Gray eyes. A faint smile graced his lips.

Today marked the seventh encounter with this man. He was also my first man.

First… There’s an awkwardness to that term. It was indeed my first sexual encounter. However, the person I was with that day wasn’t just a man but also his friend. Still, since the insertion was done by the man, calling it the first encounter wouldn’t be entirely wrong. I fiddled with my cocktail glass.

Whether it’s the first or the hundredth, what difference does it make? Sex will drive away the pain. But the question was whether my tired body could handle two men. While lost in thought, the man patiently waited. My head throbbed again.

I put down the cocktail glass.

“Are you alone tonight?”

The man chuckled cheerfully.

“No, I’m not. I’m with a friend tonight too.”

A moment later, I said, “Okay,” and stood up. Whether it’s two or three people now didn’t matter anymore. As long as it alleviated this excruciating pain gnawing at the back of my head.

The man’s friend was already waiting in front of the bar. I slid into the back seat of their car. The man started the engine. The friend in the passenger seat threw a remark my way, “Hey, why have you been absent for so long? Do you know how long we’ve been waiting?” and so on, rambling nonsense. I stared out of the window without replying.

It was a chilly and gloomy night. Streetlights blinked off one by one on the rain-soaked streets. Suddenly, a young man darted out from an alley. The man hit the brakes abruptly. The car jerked with an unpleasant scraping sound from the tires against the ground.

“Damn.”

The man clicked his tongue, looking out the window. The young man ran across the street, followed closely by men in black suits. It was Guiger. The young man was captured by the Guiger gang shortly after. Blows and curses rained down on him as he knelt with his head wrapped. Blood splattered on the gray pavement. I silently watched the scene. It was a common sight.

The man glanced briefly at the rearview mirror.

“You didn’t hit your head, did you?”

I didn’t reply. The man gave a slight nod and started the car again.

“Poor kids. Don’t they ever get a break?” The man muttered to himself, and his friend chuckled in response. “42nd Street is infamous for being a red zone. We’re lucky.”

The men who were now gossiping in front of me were also Guiger. Guiger was a political gang formed by Wolfscott, utilizing a private mercenary organization. Even just a noble leading a private army was treasonous and illegal, but laws didn’t apply to Wolfscott. There were countless sinister rumors surrounding Guiger, who roamed the streets committing all sorts of atrocities. It was even joked that “Across the river, it’s a protest beaten by Guiger, and across three rivers, it’s a protest dead by Guiger.”

On the first night we engaged, in the hotel, the men took off their coats and said, “Actually, this is who we are.” Guiger uniforms were revealed. “Just in case. Our previous partner got angry and left as soon as they saw these clothes. If you also have reservations about our profession, it’s better to leave now. What do you say?” I said it was fine. They and I were just for a night. Like light fading after sunset, on such nights, names and ranks were meaningless.

“Aren’t you thirsty? Would you like a drink?” The man asked, and I replied briefly, “No, thanks.”

In fact, partners like them were rare. Except for their preference for bondage, they were polite men. Ironically, even perverts have their standards. Most of the men I’ve encountered so far have been violent. Just thinking about the pervert from a month ago who tied me up and beat me for two hours still gave me shivers.

“We’re here.”

The car stopped. We arrived at the Punicca Hotel on 17th Street, a favorite place for the men. While searching for bed partners on 42nd Street, we ended up here, far away. The Guiger headquarters were right in front. So it was a natural choice.

“Would you like some wine?” The man asked as we entered the room. I said I was fine and went to the bathroom. When I returned from my shower, the men were drinking vodka. Unlike ordinary partners, they weren’t in a hurry. But once they started, they enjoyed themselves very recklessly, often dragging out the time.

!

My friend was below, I was above in the 69 position. The man raised my hips high and immediately inserted himself. My friend tightly gripped my hair and sucked my member deep. There was a thumping sound as the rough shaft and hefty balls collided against my buttocks.

Underneath me, my friend’s head was tucked. He stared intently at the penetration below. He murmured, “This is stimulating…” and inserted his fingers into the probing hole of the erect member. Easing the tension, he added a few more fingers. With the penetrating member and fingers, the lower region stretched to its limit.

“You’ll hurt yourself. Don’t be too rough already,” the man quickly warned my friend. Then he tightly grabbed my waist with both hands. My inner walls, reflexively contracting, clamped tightly around the wriggling member. It was something the man enjoyed. When he tightened his grip as if to break my waist, my inner walls clenched around the member, but the recipient couldn’t breathe. And already, being in oral, breathing was difficult enough.

The man released his hands from my waist and caressed my nipples. “Do you like it when I touch you like this?” On the first day of our relationship, they cursed at me out of the blue as soon as we started sex. When I answered that I didn’t like swearing, whether it was sex or anything else, they immediately apologized, saying they wouldn’t swear if it bothered me. And they kept their promise until now. All they did was exchange necessary words or brief remarks.

The man ejaculated. After releasing semen deep inside me, he fell down. My friend, who had been holding back ejaculation by squeezing his testicles, came between my legs. This time, it was the missionary position. Both of us were naturally strong, but today was different. My lower body was already numb. The man, who had paused for a moment, spread his thighs over my chest and sat down.

“Can’t breathe?” the man asked. I shook my head horizontally.

“Then try opening your mouth wider.”

With that, he inserted his member into my mouth.

They took turns exploring my lower region and mouth in various ways. They were ruthless men who enjoyed rough sex but didn’t cause any injuries. It was a drawback that they disliked condoms. Eventually, the fluids flowed out from below, which had become loose. I had to swallow the semen as demanded. If my mind hadn’t been fogged like a mist, I would have run away unable to endure it. Sex lasted until well past three in the morning.

Finally, sleep came. The throbbing pain in my head was gradually receding. I would be able to sleep comfortably for a while.

My friend went into the bathroom to shower, while the man lay beside me, lightly caressing my chest.

“Are you feeling a bit sore today?” the man suddenly asked. I didn’t respond.

I did have a fever, but it wasn’t to the extent of feeling unwell.

“Just a bit tired. I haven’t been able to rest lately because of work,” I replied.

“Yeah…” the man trailed off. After a moment of looking at me, he hesitated and then hesitantly spoke up.

“If you’re not too tired, could we do it one more time? I’ll finish quickly.”

Despite the polite inquiry, his member pressed firmly against my thigh, already hard. I just replied to do as he pleased. As soon as permission was granted, the man hugged me from behind. Adjusting the angle, he immediately inserted his member to the root. There was a squelching sound. It felt like my lower abdomen was filled tightly. When I told him to stop because it hurt, the man quickly said, “Ah, okay,” and withdrew his hand.

The man moved his hips slowly, licking my earlobe. After inserting for a while, he suddenly asked, “How far can you go?”

Lost in thought, I dryly responded, “Huh?”.

“I’m curious. How far can I go? I mean, my dick,” he said in a polite tone mixed with vulgar words, which was oddly amusing. He prodded below my navel with his finger.

“Does it go in here?” he asked, then thrust sharply. Unconsciously, a moan escaped my lips. As if urging, the man said again, “I’m asking how far it goes.”

As he spoke, he inserted a finger into the junction and prodded the prostate. Because I was accommodating two energetic men, the tension wasn’t as painful as before.

“Does it feel good? Do you feel it?” he persistently asked. As he forcefully thrust, hitting even the outside of my lower abdomen, he fondled my nipple with one hand.

“Do you like it when I touch you here? How does it feel?” I found myself biting my lips. Sweat was pouring from my body.

“Sort of, it seems like it reaches there,” I responded.

“Yeah…” The man’s movements quickened. After teasing the tip to the hole and thrusting deeply several times, he withdrew his member abruptly at the climax. He grabbed my hair and quickly stood up. His penis penetrated my mouth. What entered deeply discharged sticky semen. It poured out successively. I swallowed all the semen without leaving any.

The man stared at me with excitement in his eyes. Reflexively, I turned my head away. In an instant, he grabbed my chin and firmly fixed it towards him.

“Why do you keep turning your face away?” the man asked sharply.

“Is it because I don’t want to look at you?” I retorted.

“No, it’s not that. It’s just a habit. Anyway… do you want to do it again?”

The motionless man handed me a sheet.

“No, it’s better to rest now.”

I woke up around noon. The men were nowhere to be seen. I got up quietly and went to the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror above the sink. A faintly reflected naked figure stood there.

I stared at the mirror quietly. My stomach churned.

Even after washing up, my body didn’t feel relaxed. It was well past two in the afternoon when I barely left the hotel.

There was a commotion in front of the Guiger headquarters across the street from the hotel. Dozens of trailers, trucks, and jeeps, along with numerous burly men, seemed to be mobilizing for a protest. They completely occupied the road. Guiger members sitting on the sidewalk intimidated passersby. Their shouts pierced the sky.

Seeing that scene made my head spin. To catch a bus, I would have to pass by the Guiger headquarters and walk a long way, but I didn’t dare to navigate through this chaos.

Someone pushed me from behind, saying, “Hey, move!” I stumbled forward in the crowd. Still, as I blended in with the pedestrians, I felt slightly relieved. I walked and stopped repeatedly. Before I knew it, I was in the middle of the road. Even pedestrians couldn’t advance further and shuffled their feet.

“Damn gangsters.”

It was when someone spat out in an irritated tone. Suddenly, explosive cheers shook the air. A group walked out from the main entrance of the Guiger headquarters. They were Guiger directors. Each of them wore a death mask and a dark red uniform coat. They were all imposing figures. There was a man at the front holding a whip.

As the directors appeared, the members quickly made way and stepped back. The Guiger directors climbed onto an open trailer and began to organize their formation. Guiger members moved swiftly according to the directions pointed out by the directors. As a result, pedestrians stumbled and scrambled around. I staggered as well. Suddenly, my coat hood was soaked.

“Hey, what’s that?”

The Guiger members threw bewildered glances. I tried to quickly put on my coat hood, but even adjusting my posture was difficult. The stares pouring in my direction gave me goosebumps. A Guiger member pushed me roughly.

“Blondie! Don’t just stand there like an idiot, move over there! Do you want to get trampled?”

I almost lost my balance and fell. Right at that moment, there was a crack, the sound of a whip. It was sharp and decisive. The Guiger member flinched. I involuntarily looked towards where the sound of the whip came from. Somewhere along the way, the Guiger directors stood upright right in front of the open trailer. They were terrifying at first glance.

The director with the whip extended his arm to the right. Guiger members quickly moved to the right direction. Finally, the path cleared. Mixed among the fleeing pedestrians, I hurriedly ran away.