The Lodge Mistress – Part 1: Snowbound

The blizzard had closed the pass by four. By five, the lodge was theirs: a long pine room with a fire, a rack of skis, a stack of woollen blankets and eleven hours of snow still to fall. The other guests had been evacuated down the valley that morning. The owner had left a note and a case of wine.

Karin was forty, an avalanche forecaster, calm and exacting. Stefan was thirty-six, a ski patroller, athletic and honest, and had told her once on a chairlift that the thing he wanted most, and found hardest to ask for, was to be told what to do.

By the fire, she laid out a sheet of paper. His limits and hers, written in a clear hand. No marks, nothing painful, no real humiliation, no stepping outdoors. The word was Whiteout.

"Say it."

"Whiteout."

"Then the Lodge Mistress stops, and Karin makes soup."

"Yes, Mistress."

"Not yet." She rose, pulled on a long fur-collared coat and a pair of black gloves. The fire made her shadow enormous on the pine wall. Her voice dropped, cool and deliberate. "Stefan. You were reckless on the mountain today."

"I'm sorry."

"You will say 'Mistress.'"

"I'm sorry, Mistress."

"Better." She circled him slowly. "You will be given an opportunity to reflect."

The reflecting was a stool, a corner and a quiet. She sat in a deep armchair by the fire with a book and a glass of mulled wine while he stood, hands behind him, facing the wall. For forty minutes she did not speak. Wind shook the shutters. Snow hissed on the glass. His heartbeat slowed in the silence.

"Are you content, Stefan?" she asked, without looking up.

"Content, Mistress."

"Good. The night is long."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Thaw.