The house was very old; I think it was Georgian, you know, the one from before Victoria, not after. It was on the outskirts of Leeds, along a road with no exit, right at the end, by the ruins of an old church. The house was now split into two; I had one part as an Airbnb, and the owners, a middle-aged couple whose accents were so broad that I could hardly garner any but the odd word over the telephone, had the other.

I had a small kitchen with a modern electric oven, a fridge with a small freezer compartment and a dishwasher. I didn’t plan on eating much in the house, apart from breakfast. I had brought eggs and bacon with me, some milk and some tea. I planned to be out during the day, exploring Leeds, and perhaps going a little further afield; it depended upon the weather.

My door tapped, and I dropped back into the real world, falling from my dreamworld that I so often inhabit when I am alone. I went and opened the door; a man stood there.

“Hello, Mica." He said, "You have rented the Airbnb from us.”

“Oh, hello, Herbert,” I said through the open door, knowing his name from the email exchanges with his wife

“Hello, Mica, I am just checking that you have found everything and are okay.”

“Yes, I have and I am. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Gosh, yes, that would be lovely, thank you.”

I stood back from the door, and he stepped in. He was wearing an olive- and mustard-coloured fine-checked shirt, the sort that country people always wear in TV programmes, a waistcoat with a pocket watch and chain, and green corduroy trousers over stout brogue shoes.

I was only wearing a sundress. I had showered after I arrived and had simply thrown a dress on after I had dried, mostly because I didn’t want to wander totally naked around a new place. Once I had done the usual checks for hidden cameras and overlooking windows, once that was done, then I would often walk around naked. Not until.

I filled the kettle and put it on to boil. I had seen some mugs on a high shelf in the kitchen cupboard. I opened the cupboard and reached up to grab two mugs. I had to really stretch, standing right on the tips of my toes to reach. I knew that my dress would have ridden up; there was nothing I could do about it except hope that he wasn’t watching, or if he was, that he would look away.

I put the mugs on the worktop and threw a tea bag into each. I heard the kettle click off, and I turned to the fridge and bent down to retrieve the milk from the bottom door shelf. As I turned back to make the tea, milk in hand, I felt my dress twirl a little. ‘Gosh, girl, you are putting on a show today,' I thought.

Tea made, we headed into the conservatory. Herbert sat on the single cane chair, and I sat opposite on the small cane sofa. Whichever seat he had chosen, I would have picked the other. Sitting opposite was one thing, but sitting next to each other was something else entirely.

As we had walked in, I had accidentally brushed against his arm; his skin was cold to the touch, which was very odd, I thought. I do like the house to be warm; I am usually scantily clad or nude, and I hoped he wouldn’t object to the levels of heat that I preferred.

“What are your plans, Mica?” He asked me.

I looked across at him and smiled. Oh, just a few days away; I will explore Leeds, perhaps Harewood House and Temple Newsam. After that, I am not sure.”

“Old places then, places with lots of histories and even a few dead bodies perhaps.”

“Perhaps. I do like looking at the architecture and decorations of the older houses. I guess I am not so interested in the dead bodies. All old places will have dead bodies associated with them.” I smiled again and then, when I saw where his eyes were focused, I closed my legs, bringing my knees together.

“Even old houses like this will have bodies,” he said, unashamedly. His eyes now focusing on my chest rather than up my dress.

“Yes, I guess that they will, but bodies are not my concern, as I have said; there is too much fun to be had with the living for me to worry about the dead. The dead are not my concern. But,” I said with a smile, “where and how they lived was of interest.” My naughty knees had parted again. I remedied that and also brushed the fabric of my dress down, willing it to grow another few inches. It didn’t.

“Well, Mica,” he said, his eyes scanning me as if examining meat in an abattoir, “I hope that you find what you need and that you find pleasure on your break.” He stood up.

I could not help but notice the bulge in his trousers. ‘You still have it, girl,’ I thought as I stood too.

“I shall leave you to your break, and it was lovely chatting to you; perhaps I shall see more of you whilst you are here,” he finished.

“Yes, thank you,” I said, feeling the cold emanate from him as I stood next to him, the chill enough to make my nipples harden and show through my dress, small peaks on the swell of my breast.

I followed him to the door and opened it for him to leave. He turned to me as he was next to me and bent forward, his lips pressing against my cheek. I shuddered at the icy touch; a shiver ran through me, my nipples hardening even more, my crotch and buttocks squeezing tight. I felt frozen to the spot, almost as if I had become a statue.

His hand found my shoulder and he turned me slightly, his lips now upon mine. They pressed, and my lips parted and a small gasp escaped between them. A hand was on my right boob, my nipple squeezed and pulled by the icy grip of his finger, increasing its hardness.

Another hand was on my buttocks, pulling my sundress upwards; coolness spread across my buttocks, followed by fingers exploring between my cheeks, my muscles squeezing tight. His fingers moved down, pressed briefly at my crinkle and then passed along my perineum, touching and pressing my fourchette.

“Oh, gosh,” I uttered into his mouth as his hand released my nipple and pushed the door too, it closing with a firm click.

His hand moved down, and he pulled at my sundress, raising it up, revealing my stomach, exposing my breasts, and then pulling it over my head. I was naked in my hallway, my mind telling me that I should rebel, that I should send him away, but my feet stayed firmly planted to the hallway floor, and my mouth uttered no rebuttals.

My sundress lay on the floor where he had dropped it, and he pressed his body against me. The bulge in his trousers that I had observed earlier was now pressed against me. There was no mistaking it for an unfortunate fold of cloth; this was a hard dick pressing against my stomach. He took my hand; it was as if I were being controlled by a sentient block of ice and led the way to the stairs.

I followed him, my hand in his, up the stairs and into my bedroom for the week. The bed covers were pulled back; I was sure that they hadn’t been earlier when I had inspected the house on arrival. He turned me around and gently pushed me towards the bed. I fell back, my knees bent at the edge of the bed, my lower legs hanging down, my toes just touching the bedside rug.

He knelt between my legs, and I felt the cool of his tongue as it ran along my crease; I shivered again. It was as if I were being touched by an ice cube. A boyfriend had done that to me once, running an ice cube over me, over my fanny lips, before inserting it in my fanny. It felt as if I were being burnt, and I remembered the power of the subsequent orgasm. We had never done it again for no other reason than that we had ended it between us shortly after.

His tongue pushed my petals apart, my juices flowing and feeling like a frozen Niagara Falls. As he licked my valley, fingers probed around my entrance, pushing in gently through my opening, but not to my depth – not yet. My fanny tightened, I could feel it pucker around the tips of his fingers, my buttocks clenched, and yet hot pleasures were flowing around my body.

He got up from his knees, standing between my legs; somehow his clothes had gone and he stood naked. His dick was hard, jutting forward, his foreskin pulling back, the tip of his glans peeking through, purple and red with a small black hole just visible. His balls hung down, pendulous, like golf balls in an old leather bag. I trembled more in anticipation than in coldness.

I knew what was about to happen; I did not know why it was about to happen. I did not know how I had got myself in this position. I felt as if I were watching a film, not even as an actor participating; it all felt surreal and disconnected to my reality. My legs felt a little sore as they hung over the edge of the bed. I scrabbled back onto the bed properly; it eased the pain in my legs.

He mounted the bed, walking between my outstretched legs on his knees, his dick pointing at me, slightly bouncing up and down as he moved. He reached his arms forward, resting them on the bed by my shoulders, his face lowered, and his lips touched mine again.

I gasped as his dick pressed between my petals; it felt like a slab of ice. He pushed, my body relented, and his dick penetrated, a shard of ice pressing into my depth. His lips moved over mine, his tongue pushing between, past my teeth and into my mouth; I shivered.

I felt his foreskin roll back along his shaft as he filled my fanny, stretching my fanny walls apart. His dick was just the right size, stretching, not distending. He pulled back, his foreskin rolling back to cover his rim, his dick at my entrance, my petals fluttering in nervous anticipation. He thrust, my fanny filled once more, cold balls slapping against my thigh before bouncing off my perineum. My mouth opened, and a loud gasp escaped.

My fingers clutched uselessly at the bedding, holding my position on the bed as he thrust, rocking me back and forth. Slaps echoed around the bedroom as his belly struck mine on his thrust, my gasps joining the slaps to echo the sound of sex around the Airbnb. My body wanted to hold onto my breath, my fingers tightened, and pressure within me grew. I felt like I was a pressure cooker about to explode.

Rivers of pleasure ran from my crotch to my ears, danced around my nipples and found their way to my toes. I was gasping, I was bouncing on the bed, and Herbert simply thrust like an automaton. I was gibbering, unintelligible sounds falling from my mouth between the gasps from his thrusts.

He pulled his lips from mine, my gasps now clearly enunciating, his eyes fixed on mine, and he thrust hard, much harder than before, going deeper, and he howled, a guttural screech, and he filled my fanny, spurting what felt like liquified nitrogen into my depth.

My pressure cooker exploded, pleasures exploded in my body, my mouth opened, my jaw impossibly wide, and I screamed, the scream of the dying, as my orgasm, the greatest of my life, tore through my body. I thrashed, I bucked, and I bounced on the bed, my eyes closing, and I fell back exhausted.

When I regained my composure, I was alone; Herbert had gone. I sat up, covered in a patina of sweat, my fanny pulsing and my chest heaving. I took a few deep breaths and stood up. There was a knock at the door.

“Just a minute,” I called. I looked around and found my dressing gown. I pulled it on, tightening the belt to ensure no inadvertent exposure. I went downstairs and answered the door. An elderly, grey-haired woman stood there.

“You must be Mica,” she said. “I am Marjorie. I am just checking that you settled in okay and found everything.”

I took a deep breath to compose myself. “Yes,” I answered, “Yes, everything is fine. You and your husband are just next door if I need anything.”

She looked at me and then spoke. “My husband? Oh, no, Herbert died five years ago.”