Snow Trapped


Around the time the sky goes black and the wind whistles like a biker gang of banshees I go from a guy concerned about getting a bit nippy to wondering how long I can make my food last.

The weather forecast promised a week of clear, if cold, skies for my solo winter camping trip.

It got cold right if nothing else.

The place I’d chosen to camp was in a shallow bowl between three hills, all of them covered in thick stands of conifers. Sheltered from the wind and not in danger of avalanches.

In theory anyway.

As the wind picks up, I double check my tent stakes and anchor chords I’d tied to nearby trees. Not the roomiest accommodations. The label said three-person tent. That might be true, but only if those three people didn’t mind spooning. Pretty roomy, considering I’d carried the thing from my car.

I could be stuck here for an uncomfortably long time.

Again, I consider trying to make it back to the parking lot. It’d be five miles of steep trail with poor visibility. Not a lot of snow falling yet, but the wind-tossed flurries are making it hard to see.

It’s beautiful. Curtains of pure white waving and dancing through the deep green of the trees.

Beauty that might get me killed.

There’s no cell signal up here. I can’t check how bad the storm is.

Does it matter though? It’s already bad enough what little mountain man knowledge I have is screaming to bunker down. I’ve got food, there’s plenty of fuel all around. All my winter gear is rated for 30 degrees F colder than I was expecting.

I’m stuck till this thing blows over. So I’ve got that at least.

About this time I start regretting going solo.

Not that I had a lot of options there. Not a whole lot of people in the first place interested in winter camping like this. Add in the difficulties a social anxiety disorder slapped on meeting new people, and the list of friends I had who’d freeze their butts of with me had between none and zero people on it.

That I picked one of the least hiked trails in my area I can’t blame anything for except myself.

At least my roommate knows to call the ranger station if I’m not back in four days.

I can survive four days.


Before the weather gets worse I tie up some guide cords, rope to hang onto incase I need to leave my tent in whiteout conditions.

I’m running a line from my tent to the trail when I see her.

She’s jogging down the trail with the step of someone pushing it too hard, eyes wide and tired, brunette ponytail tossing in the wind. She only has a small day pack, and in only leggings and a form fitting fleece jacket, she’s clearly not dressed for the plummeting temperatures or the falling wet snow.

I’ve seen her up here a few dozen times, but we’ve never spoken. Not only because I don’t want to be that creep but also because every time I’ve seen her she’s sped past me.

“Hey!” she gasps, coming to a stop, “do you know how much farther to the trail-head?”

‘Five miles,” I say. Fortunately I’ve got enough adrenaline still pumping from realizing I’m stuck up here that my anxiety from meeting a stranger is shutting up for the moment.

‘Damn,” she says, hands going to her knees, looking up at me with eyes of chocolate brown. “Storm came out of nowhere.”

I stand there feeling profoundly awkward, even as another gust bites through my coat. What exactly is the social etiquette for this situation? Nothing comes to mind, so I opt for the safe: “How far have you been running?”

“Ten miles to the end of the valley,” she says, eyeing my screen, “then ten back. So, 15 right now?”

It’s my turn to swear, “Damn.”

She smiles. Even though it’s a tired grin it makes my heart skip a beat. Though it’s an annoying place for my thoughts to turn in the middle of this emerging emergency, I can’t help but notice how strikingly beautiful she is. The sweat running down her neck, the way the muscles in her legs crease her leggings. She’s lithe and feminine and powerful, even on the brink of exhaustion.

“This,” she says, “is not good.”

“I’d reached that conclusion five minutes ago,” I agree, “and I’ve got around 30 pounds more survival equipment than you do. Think you can make it back? Just running?”

She bites her lip, “All it would take is one slip.” She takes her phone off of a clip on her waist, “Damn,” she curses again, “No signal. I mean, figures, but damn. You had any better luck?”

I shake my head.

She bites her lip again, looking between me and my tent, avoiding my gaze.

The solution here is obvious, but I can’t bring myself to verbalize it. Even though she’ll most likely freeze to death if she doesn’t stay with me, the awkwardness and forwardness of the proposal ties my tongue. I have to say something though. She’s not dying because Ataşehir Escort a little anxiety kept me offering a port in a literal storm.

“Okay, look,” we both say at the same time.

Awkward silence.

Howling wind.

She shivers.

I blush.

She blushes.

“You first,” we both say, again at the same time.

I push onward, “Okay, look, I don’t have a whole lot of space, but if you’re okay with that, you know, you could stay here. And not die.”

Smooth. So smooth.

Kill me now.

She laughs, “I was gonna say, it’s pretty dangerous being up here alone. So really I’m the one doing you a favor if I stay.”

I raise an eyebrow, “Of course, because you weren’t also alone.”

“Well, I was. But it’s not dangerous for me to be alone, I’m too awesome for that.”

That gets a chuckle from me, “Won’t catch me arguing with that, miss twenty-mile trail run. You got anything dry to change into? That sweat might kill you, awesomeness or no.”

“I do,” she says, “though it’s on the lighter side. By which I mean a tank-top. You wouldn’t happen to have-?”

I nod towards the tent, “Sweatpants and sweater inside the main pocket of my pack.”

She gives a long sigh of relief through chattering teeth, “You’re a life saver.”

“Happy to help,” I say. “What’s your name?”

“Ashley,” she says. “You?”

“John,” I answer.

Somewhere between unzipping the tent door for Ashley because her hands are shaking too bad and turning my back so she can change inside without me leering through the canvas it starts to sink in that shortly I will be inside that small canvas space with her.

That thought alone is enough to spread a tightening sensation through my groin, even with the cold wind whipping all around. A sensation I press down. Dealing with this will be hard enough without extra input from that department.

“Um, John?” Ashley calls.

“Ya?” I answer.

“So, I’m, uh, still shivering. A lot.”

I can hear her teeth chattering from here.

“The storm is only going to get worse,” she continues, “so if there isn’t anything else you need to see to, it would probably be a good idea if you, ah, got in here. So we can get to the sharing body heat bit. So I don’t die.”

More tightening downstairs.

I take a deep breath, thinking about ice in my pants. Not the most difficult thing given the circumstance.

“Be right in,” I say.

Maneuvering inside the tent with the two of us is half balancing act half prolonged awkward moment. Stripping off my coat and snow pants without getting everything wet is an event.

And of course, there’s only one sleeping bag.

Not that it matters. Sharing body heat is the point.

Still shaking, she holds up the top half of the bag so I can slide in.

The heat of her body is immediate and all around me. There’s nowhere for me to move, no way to shift so less of us is touching. Not with the canvas of the bag constricting us.

I can’t help it, the tightening in my groin becomes an urgent pressure as my penis swells with blood.

I see stars when she wiggles back, pressing her ass against my erection.

My breath catches, fireworks spreading in a crackling wave from my hips outward, followed by a wave of embarrassment.

Can she feel me?

I’m not super big, and my boxers are tight enough that normally I’m not afraid of people seeing an erection. Not that I’ve had that many in public since I was a younger teenager.

This though. This is not public. This is an extremely attractive girl’s butt nestled up against me.

I’ve never been so aroused and embarrassed at the same time in my life.

Then she pulls my arms around her, just brushing the underside of her breasts through her borrowed sweater.

She isn’t wearing a bra.

Which tracks. She had to change out of everything wet. Who brings a spare sports bra on a run?

Which makes me wonder what-if anything- she has on under those sweatpants.

Her hands are ice cold though, which helps me drag my mind out of the gutter. I fold them in mine, tight against her stomach. They’re soft but strong.

She shivers again, her rock-hard abs spasming beneath my fingers, “Sorry. Don’t think I quite realized how much trouble I was in till I stopped moving. Hope you don’t mind the hand-holding.”

“No worries,” I say, realizing after the fact that I had breathed on her ear. I turn my head before continuing, “I’d rather you shiver than freeze. I’d rather not have a corpse to explain to the police later.”

That gets a soft giggle, “Can’t have that.”

Outside the wind picks up even more, howling and whistling, shaking the roof of the tent.

“Seriously, thanks,” she says, raising her voice so I can hear over the wind, “I’d be Anadolu Yakası Escort in a lot of trouble if I was still out there. And thanks for not making this weird. I’m, uh, kinda glad I ran into you rather than some of the other types that come up here.”

I almost say ‘my pleasure’ out of reflex, but decide that’s exactly the kind of thing she’s thanking me for not doing. I need to get ahold of myself. “Happy to help.”

If only I could get my erection to go down.

Another shiver, the heat and immediacy of her body shifting against mine, the smell of her hair filling my nostrils, her hands tightening in mine.

It’s going to be a long night.

“So,” she says, teeth chattering, “come up here often? This trail I mean. I think I’ve seen you a few times.”

I latch onto the offered conversation, desperate for a distraction. “You mean you’ve lapped me a few times. And I usually only go four miles. I’ll admit it’s a little disheartening to have to someone pass you on the way up and on the way down.”

She shakes her head, which to me looks like a ponytail swishing back and forth under her beanie, “Not a whole lot of people who can do four on this trail. I’m a bad person for a comparison.”

“Because you’re so awesome?”

“Now you’re getting it.”

I’m getting an increasing impression that she could snap me in half if I tried anything.

Which somehow only makes me more attracted to her.

I force myself to take a deep breath, trying to calm down.

“You okay back there?” she asks.

“Ya, you know, just trying to keep a level head. Not how I expected this weekend to go.”

She squeezes my hands, “You picked a perfect spot. You would’ve been fine even without me. Now we’ve got double the body heat to fill this sleeping bag.”

We talk for what feels like hours while the storm picks up around us. Eventually she stops shivering, the outside temperature stops dropping, and while I never fully relax downstairs, I calm down enough that it’s no longer a constant effort to control myself.

It’s still torture, but torture with an edge of sweetness. Especially as we connect more and more over our life stories. She’s an anthropology grad student, keeping in shape for excursions to remote and exotic locales. I’m a geology undergrad, doing my damndest to get into paleontology rather than getting stuck working for an oil tycoon. It’s not too long before I start cooking up ways to ask her out once we get off the mountain, especially once she lets slip that she’s single.

I must fall asleep at some point because the next thing I know it’s pitch black.

There’s a moment of disorientation, I’m not sure where I am or who I’m pressed up against. My erection is rock hard and throbbing and pressed against something that is somehow both steely and soft at the same time.

Then I remember. I can still hear the wind outside, but it seems to have died down a lot. The woman I’m spooning is Ashley.

Also, my right hand is trapped under Ashley’s, pressed against her breast, her nipple hard even through her borrowed sweater.

She murmurs, shifting in her sleep, pressing her butt against my raging erection.

I’m breathing hard without meaning to, my heart pounding in my chest.

It takes everything I have not to squeeze that breast, not to lean the barest bit forward and kiss her neck, not to pull her sweatpants down and see if there’s anything else in the way.

What do I do?

I need to move my hand. Get it off that nipple stabbing my palm. Need to pull back. Get my erection away from her ass.

What if she wakes up though? Catches me red handed? No way she did this intentionally. Will she buy that I didn’t either?

Soon it won’t matter though. Either I get some distance or I’m going to do something stupid.

I force a slow, deep breath, trying to focus though the haze of desire.

I inch back, creating a finger’s breadth of space. I think I pull a muscle in my self-control center, but I manage it. I’ve got this.

Then she wiggles back, pressing my dick between her ass cheeks.

I see stars.

My breath comes more ragged.

Seemingly of its own volition, my ass flexes, pushing my groin tighter against her butt.

She presses back, a soft sigh escaping her lips, her hand tightening over mine, pressing my palm against her nipple.

I can’t help it, I push back, rubbing against her.

She moves with me. We’re grinding against each other, her breath accelerating, her heart hammering against my chest through her shoulder-blades.

She’s awake.

Then my lips are at her neck, sucking at her skin.

She moans, so soft I almost don’t hear it over the wind.

The space between my legs is fire, my rod burning as it tries in vain to penetrate through Kadıköy Escort my thermals and her sweatpants, the increasing heat from her center urging me on.

Somehow my left hand ends up under her sweater, fingers tracing across her abs as she smashes my right hand against her breast. My thumb and pointer finger catch her nipple through the fabric, squeezing it.

Now both of us are panting like animals in heat. Her free hand grabs my left, pulling it up under the sweater until my palm cups her left breast. The contact is like lightening racing up my arm.

Even in the pitch dark it’s like my vision goes red, desire surging through every vein in my body.

Both my hands are under her sweater now, kneading her breasts, squeezing her diamond hard nipples.

Her hands leave mine, and for a moment I’m worried I’ve done something wrong. Then I feel them again at my hips.

My breath catches as she pulls my thermals and boxers down, the elastic band catching on my pulsing dick.

I act on instinct, wiggling to try to help her get them down while I press her torso to me, licking up her neck, tweaking her nipples.

Then my boxers are around my knees, one less layer of cloth between me and her.

She presses back against me, shocking me with the feeling of bare skin against my erection, blazing with heat. When did she get her sweatpants off?

The question vanishes as she wiggles upward, my dick slipping between legs, sliding along the wet lips of her labia.

I stop breathing, clutching her to me, dick twitching against her heat.

She shifts again, letting out a shuddering breath, wet lips gliding along my shaft, her thighs grazing my swollen head, ripping a moan out of me.

My hips twitch and we’re grinding against each other again, but this time with no clothes between us. It’s like the fire all over me, from my fingers to my throbbing heart to my curling toes.

I thrust harder and she gasps, lifting her butt away from my hips. The she presses back down and my dick, arched towards my bellybutton, catches in something wet and hot, something between her legs.

We both freeze.

In that instant the lust raging in me is too much for me to move, almost too much to think. I get out a single word, moaning a question into her ear:


‘John,” she sighs, voice so thick with want I can taste it.

With a shudder from head to foot, I press into her vagina.

Stars form and burst behind my eyes as her walls almost suck me in, her lips almost tugging me closer. The wet heat of her vagina is everywhere, like my entire being is confined to the single blazing rod I pierce her with.

In a moment that lasts both an eternity and instant my hips meet her ass.

I’ve bottomed out.

Ashley’s hands curl back, grabbing my hair as I clutch at her breasts, consumed by the need to both be in her and to move.

She flexes, raising her hips up a few inches, sliding her walls along my shaft, clutching at the swollen head of my penis.

Something breaks inside me and my hips spasm, shoving me back up inside her.

Somewhere in my testosterone poisoned head it dawns.

I’m inside her.

I’m fucking Ashley.

Our hips thrash as one, desperate, longing. I slide out and in, the muscles at the base of my penis twitching without an orgasm, flexing my rod inside her.

Ashley moans with every thrust, her hands now entwined with mine over her breasts.

Without meaning to I’m moving faster and faster, desperate to envelop every inch of me in her heat.

Every moan of hers makes me more crazy, more frantic. On instinct I drop a hand from her breast, sweeping between her legs.

She’s boiling, her clit swollen like her nipples. My fingers brush it, rubbing the bud in a quick circle.

Ashely gasps, back arching, slamming down on my rod. Her interior walls ripple, clenching down like a slippery white-hot vice.

That does it. Deep inside me, my own muscles contract, bulging my rod still larger, sending orgasmic waves of pleasure shuddering through me, ripping a ragged moan from my spent lungs, molten cum spurting out, filling Ashley, my penis pulsing like a second heartbeat, tingles of pure joy scintillating from my hips out to my arms and legs.

Ashley shudders once last time, pulling my arms around her.

In the darkness our thundering hearts slow as we lay spent, my chest heaving against her heaving shoulders. Outside the wind murmurs, rustling the roof of our tent. A breath of cold air seeps in, sending a chill over our sweaty bodies. Ashely gropes with one hand, zipping the bag shut again, sealing us tight against each other.

Somewhere in the back of my head the worries sprout, not knowing where this is going, what Ashely expects. The rest of me is too overwhelmed to listen, floating in a cloud of bliss.

I nuzzle Ashley’s neck and she hums with contentment. Soon her breathing levels out, the soft sounds of an easy sleep. I drift off minutes later, caught in a current of exhaustion and satisfaction, worries snowed under till tomorrow.