It was late spring, just past midnight. I lay in the thick grass and pulled my thermal jacket tightly around my shoulders. The temperature had dropped another ten degrees in the last hour. My head was cocooned in the puffy fur-trimmed hood, only my frozen nose and upper lip exposed to the frigid air. Despite the hour, the sky was murky blue and the diffused light cast shadows across the mossy rock that I lay next to. It was the only refuges from the insistent north winds blowing across the Icelandic prairie. In the bend of the creek lay my pony. She had broken a leg on the steep rutted trail that ran along the creek bed on the other side of the rocks. I had hired the poor creature just a day ago in Hvammstangi, but still I cried when I shot her through the head. Her charcoal colored coat and jet-black mane reminded me of a donkey, but she had been light and agile as a gazelle until the moment she slipped out from under me on a slick patch of ice. I held the camera in the air and snapped a picture of myself with the dead animal behind me. I thought, this might be the last photo ever taken of, or by me.
My guide Lars met me five days ago in Reykjavik, and after a quick briefing from the office in London we packed ourselves into a very small car and drove north to Borgarnes, a small town hugging the southwestern coast. Our mission was to chronicle for the magazine the nomadic herds of ponies that the Icelandic people bred in the northern regions. They were the main form of transportation in some of the less accessible areas of the mountains, and until recently also served as a major source of dietary protein.
Lars and I shared a room... not to save money; it was the only accommodation available in the three-bedroom hostelry. The view through the single window was of the bleak, stony shoreline. The wooden boats bobbing in the choppy water of the harbor greeted us as we stepped into the room. Like the rest of this town, the room was devoid of warmth. The pathetic fire glowing in the charcoal stove did nothing to chase away the chill. I pulled a bottle of Russian vodka out of my camera bag and poured us a drink. Then another. The warmth of the clear liquid was dulling my senses. I felt its cozy effect spreading slowly through me. Lars was grateful.
He began to unpack his bag and draw himself a bath. Lars was Icelandic, originally from Hellissandur, a true descendant of the Vikings. His blonde hair was cut like Prince Valiant, shaped like a straw-colored cap over his pale round face and thick blonde beard. As he undressed I checked out his body. He was a big man, but not heavy. Pretty hairy, covered in a soft drift of pale yellow hair that shone in the dim light like strands of silk. He was built from a generous amount of thick muscles and just enough subcutaneous fat to keep him warm on these frigid northern nights. I watched his cock sway between his legs, his large milky-white balls dropping into the water as he lowered his massive hips into the steamy bath. He settled in, sighing with satisfaction as the warmth penetrated his aching body. He confessed to me that he hated feeling cold and damp, with some embarrassment, as if the admission made him a bad Viking. Lars big hands gripped the edge of the tub with his elbows dangling over the side, his beefy biceps flexing as he grabbed at the porcelain.
I sat on the edge of the bed, mesmerized by his magnificence. Lars caught me staring at him, and smiled. There it was again! I had picked up unspoken signals from him all afternoon, my instinct telling me that this man might be more interested in fucking with me than he was in guiding me north. Lars asked me to bring him Vodka. I was happy to oblige. He held out his arm as I passed the bathtub and grabbed my ass, pulling me backward to the edge of the tub.
There are just few ways to really stay warm on a night like this. One is a hot bath. Second is the company of another person, like dogs huddling. I perched nervously on the tub's edge as he sat up and wrapped his dripping arms around my waist, opening my belt and unbuttoning my jeans. I felt his pectorals pressing on my back, soaking me with the steamy bathwater running off his furry chest. I reached down to remove my shoes and socks, and slipped my pants off my legs. Lars pulled the heavy fair-isle sweater off my shoulders. I stepped into the big oversized tub and lay naked in his arms in the hot soapy water. Lars put his glass to my lips and poured some vodka on my mouth. His beard rubbed softly against my cheek, his moist lips pressing on mine as he licked the alcohol from my face. I parted my lips and he filled my mouth with his tongue.
He soon turned me on my back, pushing me further under the soothing hot water as he hovered above me. The water dripped from his fuzzy chin, falling onto my head as the soap bubbles danced between us. Lars lowered himself onto me; his torso separating my legs as his cock jabbed at my ass cheeks, looking for his way in. I clung to his broad shoulders and tried to keep my head above water. I struggled to pull myself up as his dick found it's mark, and began to stretch my puckered asshole. Lars held my head by the nape of the neck and grabbed at my hard cock with his other hand. He continued to press his thick, stiff dick into me. I cried out, gasped and bore down, and soon had him entirely inside of me. He lay quietly on top of me until I got accustomed to the enormous shaft stuck up my ass. Soon there was no more pain, just the glorious feeling of fullness. He began to rock his pelvis steadily and rhythmically against my crotch. I sputtered and choked as his motion sent the water in waves across my face. He pulled my head out of the suds and kissed me again.
The water was cooling rapidly. I felt the chilled air on my face and shoulders. Lars suddenly pulled himself out of my ass and stood up. Grabbing a couple towels, he began drying himself off. I stood up and he tossed me a towel. Damn, was it over? Had I done something wrong? Lars grinned at me and yanked me out of the tub. He grabbed me by the arms from behind, and forced me against the sink. My cock was lying on the rim, my balls pressed into the cold white porcelain. He grabbed my ass cheeks with his big meaty hands and split them apart as his cock stabbed at my butt hole. I braced myself as his body leaned into mine, his chest pushing on my shoulders until my face was pressed against the mirror. I felt his hot breath on my neck as he quickly re-entered me. Lars cock went in to the hilt, his damp pubic hairs slamming against my ass, his balls hitting mine between my legs. I came almost immediately, a thick wad of cum dripping down the bowl and pooling in the bottom of the sink.
Lars was lifting me off my feet with every thrust of his mighty pelvis. I could feel his rod jabbing at my prostate, sending shivers through my gut, his immense arms crushing me in an embrace. He shuddered and groaned as his fiery load of cum surged into my rectum.
The next morning, he acted as if it had never happened. We had fallen asleep in each other's arms, but had woken up as strangers. After a silent breakfast, we loaded ourselves back in the car and headed north. We were cutting across the island, following the main road along the Heradhsvotn river to the north coast and the town of Hvammstangi. We passed farms and ranches, but mostly open fields of faded green grass. Occasional wooden cottages covered in roofs of living turf seemed to be carved from the rich, cold, black soil of Iceland. Beyond this town we would have to hire ponies. There were no reliable roads through Blonduos or on the Skagastrond peninsula.
Lars was moody and petulant. I decided that it would be best to simply ignore him. He seemed to have issues with what we did last night. I had a great time, so fuck him. We checked into the Inn and got separate rooms. Fine with me. I don't need the drama. I decided to make it an early night, and told Lars to have dinner on his own. I went to my cold, lonely, uncomfortable bed and masturbated myself to sleep.
The next morning there was no answer at Lars door. I went down to the common room, and was informed that my companion had checked out. The car was gone as well. The big fucking asshole had left me here, stranded. I didn't give a damn about his confused sexuality and need for denial. We had a job to do and he fucking crapped out on me. What a bastard! I couldn't go back to my editor with no pictures, and I couldn't really explain what happened to my guide, anyway. I decided to press on and get my shots. On the outskirts of town, where in America you would find miniature golf or a bowling alley was a riding stable. The main form of recreation around here is riding, and the ponies are the cultural center of their lives. I am an accomplished rider myself, I can ride English and western, so how different could it be? I packed her saddlebags with the bare necessities and mounted my mare. I thought of Lars (the big dick with the big dick) as I headed off on the hard-packed trail winding out of town and into the lichen and moss covered plains of the Icelandic wilderness.
Somewhere around one I stopped for lunch. A pouch of dried beef jerky, a pop tart and a juice box. Hardly an authentic Icelandic meal, but it would do until I got to the Varmahlid Ranch near the coast. They were expecting me there around seven tonight, if the trail held no surprises and the mare had the stamina. Oddly, cell phones are very popular in Iceland. The lack of landlines to the remote areas of the frontier makes wireless communication a necessity. I called the ranch and informed them that I was about half way there. I re-mounted the pony and began the last leg of my northward journey. The sun was setting, although this time of year it would not entirely set but hover on the horizon, a cold yellow ball of light sending long shadows across the ground. The shallow creek I was following seemed to boil over the river rocks as it coursed around a rocky outcrop of stone.
Then without warning I was thrown from my screaming mare. She slid across the frozen patch of mud, her legs buckling under her. We tumbled together into the icy-cold water. She thrashed and whinnied, the fear and astonishment showing in her big black eyes. I cried out for help, but immediately realized there was no one to listen to me. The nearest human was probably twenty miles from here. Her right front leg was clearly broken, a compound fracture revealing bone and tendon to the cold evening air. I ran for the saddlebag. The gun was wet, but I prayed it would fire. Her pleas were gut wrenching. I couldn't stand to hear her suffer. I lifted the gun to her temple and pulled the trigger...
The water had frozen in my parka, so although very cold I no longer felt wet. In fact I felt very little. I had thought to lie next to the dead mare for warmth but she was in the creek bed, soaking wet. The intense cold had dulled to a sting, and finally I just felt numb. Lying in the grass behind the rock was the best thing to do, at least the biting wind was not ripping at my face, trying to tear what little warmth I had from me. The camera would perhaps record my last moments. I held it high in the air and heard the shutter whine as it snapped open for a split second. I wondered, just as I lost consciousness, if the aperture setting was open enough for the low light.
The air was warm on my face. I snuggled down into the soft lambs wool pelt that was wrapped around my shoulders. I smelled the musky, humid scent of damp earth, and something else...some kind of meat, roasting. I opened my eyes. There in front of me was a whole lamb, hung from a spit over a roaring wood fire. The golden brown skin was crackling and hissing, hot beads of fat dripping into the hot embers. I looked around in a haze. A one room cottage, walls of mud and timbers. The roof was steeply pitched, and probably made of turf. A small staircase leading to a loft space, likely a bedroom. I had seen these structures before. Modest accommodations for simple people with few needs. A popular form in the far north of Iceland. They were meant to keep out the cold, nothing more.
The door sprang open, and a blast of arctic air blew through the room. A man stepped in out of the cold and dropped a bundle of wood at the fireplace. He was dressed traditionally, his body wrapped in large pelts of fur and wool. He wore the customary hat, a wide brimmed black leather Stetson with a fur band. He turned to me and peeled off the layers, revealing a tall lean man with delicate features. His face was expressive and gentle. A mop of glossy brown hair and scruffy beard, shocking azure blue eyes. His broad shoulders tapered to a slim waist. Even under his bulky rag knit sweater, I could see he was in excellent shape. He crossed the room with a hot cup of sweet tea, and sat on the edge of the cot. The tea was soothing and warmed my aching bones. Thumping himself on the chest, he repeated 'Ingolfur'. I understood, and told him my name was Jimmy. I looked at him closely. He was probably very young, but the hard life of a sheepherder had aged him. Still, he had a rugged, robust look that was very attractive. His startling blue eyes were very expressive. I asked him where I was, but he didn't seem to understand English. I tried German, my only other language, but no luck. He understood my confusion, and showed me a local map. I was miles from where I thought I was! No one would have ever found me if this man had not.
Ingolfur had brought my bag into the cottage. I motioned for it, and he fetched it to me. The cell phone was dead. I asked him in pantomime if he had one, but he smiled sadly and shook his head no. The man began to prepare his meal. I watched him as he laid out two plates, two cups, and took the steaming carcass off the fire. He looked over at me, concerned. I was really feeling quite good, and I told him with a smile and a nod. He looked pleased, and brought a thick sweater to me. It smelled faintly of mould, and tobacco. I put it on and joined him at the table.
The lamb was delicious, served next to a buttery pile of stewed greens. We washed it down with several dark beers, most likely a local brew, as the bottles had no labels. He sat back in his chair and lit a pipe. I wished I could speak old Norse, his native language, to let him know how grateful I was for my rescue, and this kindness at his table. I was feeling the brew, a warm, cozy sensation that all was right with the world. Ingolfur was beautiful. His life was so simple, so foreign from my own, yet in him I perceived the same human kindness that made me weep for a suffering pony. I reached across the table in a gesture of friendship, placing my hand on his forearm. He didn't pull away, but instead reached out and touched my cheek. He rubbed his fingers into my two-day growth of stubble. I saw something in his eyes. Attraction? Lust? Being isolated in this remote, harsh land must make a man hungry for human contact. In what form would it come? How far would a simple man go to find sexual release? In any case, we crossed the room together and lay next to each other on the cot before the fire.
He ran his hand under my borrowed sweater, feeling my muscular chest and smooth stomach. I did the same. He was slim, athletic, and very lean. Ingolfur's muscles were very well defined, no excess fat anywhere. I took him in my arms and pulled him close to me. His breath was fragrant, a mix of the pipe and the beer. I placed my lips on his and drew him into a kiss. He was tentative, hesitating as my tongue explored his lips, seeking entry into his soft, warm mouth. He stopped resisting, and yielded to me. I pulled his sweater over his head, revealing the velvety skin of his shoulders. Reaching down to his pants, I released the drawstring and pulled the waistband down his hips. His cock was hard and throbbed in my hand as I gently massaged the shaft.
I didn't know how far to take this, how aggressive I could be with this strange, exotic man. I decided to test his limits, placing my mouth on one of his pink, puckered nipples. He arched his back and moaned. I was emboldened, and traced a path with my tongue through the light brown hair that ran down his belly to his crotch. Wrapping my lips around the shaft of his generous dick, I pushed my face down and pulled his uncut shaft into my mouth. Ingolfur spoke something soothing in his language, I understood its meaning without a translation. His hands caressed my neck as he began to gently pump his hips, driving his swollen head further down my throat.
The warmth of the fire was intense. The chill outside was forgotten as we connected in passion. The man pulled my head back, pulling his dick out of my hungry mouth. He surprised me by turning himself around and placing his face under my crotch. As I took his cock back into my mouth, the man began to lick the pre-cum from the head of my penis. He was new to this, I could feel his timidity. I didn't rush him, although I ached to shove my prick deep into his face and blow my nut. I pressed gently against his lips, and entered his mouth slowly. He gagged for a second, so I stopped to let him breathe and adjust to my intrusion. He grabbed me firmly by the hips and pulled me into his throat. We were fully consumed in each other, a perfect masculine connection, a completed circle. Our warm bodies were pressed firmly against each other, bellies to chests, cocks to mouths. He sighed again, a signal I took to mean he was getting what he needed. He rolled his hips, shoving his cock deeper into my face. The crown hit the bend and slid effortlessly down my throat. I pressed more aggressively into him, and he felt my pubic hairs rubbing on his nose. My spit ran down his meaty rod and made his heavy balls shiny and wet. I massaged them as I sucked, and I felt them tighten and contract. He was about to cum. I pushed my head into his crotch as his engorged dick shot a torrent of thick jism into the back of my mouth. The taste was bittersweet, and I devoured every drop. His body shook, then relaxed, and he opened his throat to accept my face-fucking. His head was thrown back in the thick padding of the cot, and my cock was gliding effortlessly deep into his mouth. I didn't know how he would react to a throat full of cum, so I pulled out and shot several thick threads across his face, trailing off into his hair and clumping in thick wads on his heavy beard. We fell asleep in that position: our heads on each other's inner thigh, our faces nestled in each other's cum-soaked crotch.
The article was great, the pictures stirring and evocative. The lead picture on the cover that month was a man in a red parka, huddled behind a moss covered outcropping of stone in the deep grass if the Icelandic tundra, his gray pony lying behind him in a pool of red stained water. The crystals of ice forming on her thick black mane looked like diamonds in the pale ever-blue light.