A forbidden sex story about two mountaineers, a snowstorm, and a mountain hut. Explicit, direct, 18+.
Late in the afternoon it started snowing, and we both knew we wouldn’t make it back to Mayrhofen. Sebastian turned on his headlamp even though it was still light enough, and I understood it for what it was—a gesture that gave us order before hell broke loose.
The mountain hut stood two hundred meters below us, a dark dot on a white slope. We knew it. We’d hiked up here last summer, with too much beer in our packs and a plan to do a tour that we never ended up doing. Now it was February, and the tour was different—one that would end in our flesh.
“You okay?” he asked without turning around.
“Yeah.”
It was a lie we both needed. My hands had gone numb, the wind was coming from the side now, and I knew Sebastian was checking step by step where I was. He was a cautious person. That was one of the reasons I went into the mountains with him, and one of the reasons I hadn’t managed in three years to tell him what I needed to tell him: that I wanted him, that I dreamed every night of his cock inside me, that I shoved my fingers into my cunt in the shower and imagined him fucking me.
We reached the hut as twilight fell. Inside it was cold but dry. Sebastian found the matches, I found the firewood, and after twenty minutes something crackled in the stove that brought the walls to life. The warmth crept into my ice-cold limbs, let my muscles thaw, my skin slowly become sensitive again.
We sat down next to each other on the bench. We didn’t take our jackets off because the hut was still too cold, but we leaned against the wall, and my shoulder touched his, and neither of us moved aside. I felt the heat of his body through the clothes, and my pulse started racing. Between my legs it got wet, just from the thought that he was so close.
“I think about you,” he said after a while. His voice was deeper than usual, rougher.
“When?”
“When I shouldn’t be thinking about you. Before meetings. While driving. When I jerk off.”
I nodded. I didn’t look at him. If I had looked at him then, he would have known that I’d known for years, and that would have put us both before a decision we didn’t want to make while a storm raged outside and no one left us the choice to run away. But his last sentence burned inside me: when I jerk off. I imagined him holding his hard cock in his hand, stroking it up and down, moaning my name when he came.
“Sebastian.”
“Yeah.”
“If we do this, it’s not because there’s a storm outside.”
He turned his head to me. His face was half in shadow in the glow of the stove, half in a warm red that lay on his cheekbones like it was painted on. He looked at me for a long time, longer than was comfortable. I could see the hunger in his eyes, the desire that tightened in his jaw.
“I’m not doing this because there’s a storm outside,” he said. “I’ve been doing this since we were up here last summer. I just didn’t know it. But I know it now. I know I want to lick your cunt until you scream. I know I want to ram my cock into you until you can’t walk anymore.”
His words hit me like a blow, made me gasp for air. I felt my pussy get wet, felt the moisture soak through my panties. I could barely sit still.
He raised his hand. He didn’t put it on my face, but first on my hand, which lay between us on the bench, cold through the glove. He pulled off my glove. He placed my hand in his, examined it, like a medic checks a hand to see if it’s too cold. It was too cold. He kept it. Then he guided my hand to his crotch, pressed it against the hard bulge in his pants. I felt his cock through the fabric, long and thick, and a shudder ran through my body.
“Do you feel what you do to me?” he whispered. “I climbed the whole way up with this thing. Every step reminded me of you.”
I let my fingers glide over his length, felt him twitch under my touch. Then he put his other hand on my cheek. It was warm because he’d had it under his jacket, and I felt the cold in my face slowly retreat, yielding to this warmth.
“May I?” he asked.
“You have to,” I said. My voice was barely a whisper, hoarse with lust.
He didn’t kiss me immediately. First he stroked his thumb over the corner of my mouth, carefully, as if I were an animal he didn’t want to startle. Then he leaned forward. His mouth was warmer than his hand, and he tasted of the tea we’d drunk up on the saddle, black, with too little sugar. But the kiss wasn’t gentle. His tongue immediately thrust into my mouth, demanding, possessive. He tasted me out, licked over my teeth, sucked on my lower lip. I moaned into his mouth, dug my fingers into his shoulders.
We kissed until the wood crackled in the stove and I stood up to put on a new log. When I came back, he had taken off his jacket. I laid mine next to it. The hut had gotten warm now, or I had, or both. I could smell the sweat gathering on his skin, that masculine, earthy scent that drove me crazy.
We didn’t make a bed. We stayed on the bench, then on the floor, then on the blankets he got from the chest. We took our time. That was the beautiful thing about Sebastian—he was never in a hurry, not on an ascent, not now. He undid every button individually, as if the fabric itself were part of the answer. He looked at every piece of skin before he touched it, and his eyes were what the touch was before the hand became it.
He pulled my sweater over my head, then my t-shirt. My breasts were bare, and the cold air of the hut made my nipples hard immediately. He stared at them, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open. “Fuck,” he whispered. Then he leaned forward and took one nipple into his mouth. His tongue was hot, circled slowly around the tip while his hand kneaded the other breast. I threw my head back, gasped. He sucked harder, let his teeth graze lightly over the sensitive skin until I trembled.
“I want to taste you,” he murmured against my skin. “I want your wet cunt on my tongue.”
Voices from the community
No voices yet — be the first to say what turned you on.
