Hermits and Trolls
“Someone has been in here,” said Martin when they returned to their snug chalet.
“I feel that too, like some polluting ooze,” added Karl and swung open the wardrobe door to see if the intruder was still in hiding. He was dutiful and ready to wield the manly powers of fist and foot against any evil. But the wardrobe was empty, so no evening karate for Karl.
“I don’t see it,” said Alejandro.
“Look at your jockstrap over there. Halfway through our groupfuck yesterday, I stripped you of your jockstrap with my mouth and placed the polyester neatly on the back of that armchair,” said Martin, gesturing at a minimal jockstrap on the hotel furniture.
“You are a considerate and polite man, Martin,” noted Alejandro. Few things reveal a man’s true ability to be a strong, nurturing and whole citizen of the global community than his behaviours during a tough man-on-man orgy. The action yesterday, after their arrival by train, was spontaneous and revealing. It had felt not just right, but necessary.
“But it has been perturbed. It is off just slightly. Its inviting sexual shine is lost. Some creature has touched it, sniffed it dry of horny bottom boy aroma. It is wrong!” exclaimed Martin.
Never argue with a Swiss when it comes to meticulous domestic order. So the other men did not doubt Martin’s inference. And if a bottom’s jockstrap has been emptied of its mouth-watering spiritual marrow, what other powerful disturbance had afflicted the place? The shower tomfoolery that every group of men with a day of physical exertion behind them deserves together had to be delayed. The ball ache was real.
“We have made too many discoveries. They know. They are out to thwart us,” muttered Karl as the five men packed their rucksacks swiftly.
The mission near Lauterbrunnen in the middle of Switzerland was therefore cut short after barely one day and a few hours of effort. Subject to interference and denial operations, it was paramount for the five men to escape to stay ahead of the opposition.
It was unfortunate. Lauterbrunnen was exceptional. On a topographical map, it was a dead-end, a cul-de-sac in the Alps. In the broader sense of life and the universe, it was anything but.
As with Goethe before them, the valley had pried open a new view of truthful human existence. That deep and majestic cathedral of nature, an imposing valley with waterfalls, crisp air and green grass, has a history of granting men novel visions. The tall mountains and elevated glaciers of the Alps had, in the remote past, given way to a narrow valley. Over the edge, between mythical mountains, down to the valley floor, water fell like undulating threads, weaving a grand fabric of the sublime and living. It was a beautiful place. To some, it was tranquil. To others, it was revelatory. To most, it was good social media content.
Even the pipe-smoking chap J.R.R. Tolkien, in his vests and tweed, walked the valley paths and was inspired by the forms to conceive of his fictional elvish hideaway, Rivendell. Form is but the beginning, not the end, however. So, as much as one can imagine slender and well-groomed elves frolicking in the valley, or the lusty stuff of fanfic erotica of Legolas as the insatiable bottom in an interspecies fantasy romp, the present expedition had to set its aim for something more substantial than that.
Monsieur Dumont had asked them to perform an inquiry within the mystical transformative places of nature. That is where the first marks of truth are found. The five men’s addition to the transformative magic was their youthful, cocksure, manly fun and feisty. As with alchemy, it was the whole reactive unit that mattered, not just an atom-by-atom accounting, a dissection with cold tools, or, for that matter, an enumeration of what part poked into what hole or cavity at what point on the time axis.
Observation of the whole was to be part of the whole, Dumont had said. Text and reader are inseparable, one demanding the other to come real. As above, so below, and vice versa, as has been carved in stone and practiced in bathhouses since time immemorial.
The teachings of their mentor echoed in the flesh as the five men walked deep into the valley earlier in the day, far past where the swarms of tourists ventured. They looked up the steep stone walls and saw signs of caves, where hermits were said to have lived, deep in contemplation, short on the ordinary kinds of nourishment, and high on life. At regular intervals along the way, a modest stream of cold and clear water from a waterfall cut through the grass and soil and crossed the path of the cocksure men. Smooth and rounded stones and pebbles, sculpted over eons of patient flow, were the floor over which water flowed.
“They say there are 72 waterfalls in total,” said Hermann.
“Do we need to explore all? Each is its own, or one as good as the other,” wondered Martin.
“Let’s just go for one and see what happens,” said Alejandro pragmatically and unbuttoned his shorts.
The other men followed with some trepidation as they stepped naked into the cold water flowing in the stream created by a nearby waterfall. Apart from a few docile cows in the distance, there were no observers as far as the men could tell. So the occasional high-pitched scream could be allowed as the water reached higher onto their bodies. The men also shot a few naughty splashes of cold water at each other, adding further to the screams.
Karl, as the hardened Swede, was the first to dip butt and balls below the surface. He knew very well that the risky thing about cold water is not the sensations it generates when the balls dip into it. A dose of manly willpower can overcome that. What is critical is knowledge of what to do after the cold water hug is completed. A sauna? A bonfire? A hot shower? A nice fuckable body? If, within the man’s reach, a means of returning true warmth to his body and soul is found, he can overcome the cold that stresses his senses.
As is true in a team of men, if one guy proves able to push farther and overcome a challenge posed by nature, society or the Creator, the others too must prove their prowess. Some people call it a dick measuring contest. Some people are idiots. That phrase falls utterly short in conveying the full heft and force at work. Whatever we call that eternal fact, it is a dynamic that is the source of much good and plenty of bad, so know it, ride it, and don’t drown.
Admittedly, in this particular case, the effects were, at least in appearance, not the weightiest. The discomfort of a shrinking scrotum and cold genitals had, after all, not led to deadly battles since von Moltke goaded Bismarck to go skinny-dipping on Rügen in 1870.
Still, tread lightly when that manly dynamic stirs.
The five men in the water laughed in that distinctly unforced way. Five naked men battling their urges to jump out of the cold, all in the service of the mission. It was a kind of beauty befitting the majesty of the valley.
They began scooting closer together, and soon enough their bodies were touching and their dicks under the surface, caressed and twiddled by the current, aimed at the centre of the snug circle the men had formed in the stream. They began kissing, licking, groping and stroking each other. The mighty views of stone and snow, the sounds of waterfalls and cows, the taste of water and saliva, the touch of cold elements and warm muscles, the smell of grass and flowers, all ran through the naked men.
Karl held his right hand on Martin’s well-honed buttocks. He was so fit and so precise. His left hand was fondling the inner thigh of Hugo, with the occasional caress of the balls. There was so much potential for action in him. He leaned forward and placed a kiss on Hermann’s strong chest. He felt the heartbeat. He smelled Alejandro’s playful curls as Alejandro was licking Hermann’s hardened nipples. Hugo’s fingers were sliding up and down between Karl’s buttocks and Martin had established a secure grip around Karl’s dick. The sensations were strong, the flow between the men rhapsodic.
Karl soon felt Hermann’s great-girth penis in Alejandro’s palm, Martin’s balls in Hermann’s loving grip and the taste of Alejandro’s neck in Hugo’s sucking mouth. For a moment Karl felt Martin’s intense awareness of all the pulsating joyful feelings that shot upwards from Alejandro’s butt and the pre-orgasmic tingle at the tip of Hermann’s penis. It was getting blurry what the source of any sensation was. It was a bundle of moving men in crisp flows who felt everything. If it made dicks tingle, they sensed it. A more precise specification made no sense.
The flesh pressed closer under the force of the flow. Vertigo began to invade their senses as they moved up the waterfall, followed by a moment’s panic, but through their joined bodies and wills, they pushed on. A strong, nourishing current pounding at the smooth rock became part of their perception. The duration of time was shortened, and they perceived the waterfall take shape. It was neither water nor rock that defined the waterfall. It was the completed unity that, by a mighty force, made the parts real.
The form this force took from within the five men’s view was like a troll, that big, rough creature of natural motion. And not the run-of-the-mill troll of the polite fantasy books, not even the soft-core ones. The shape of the troll included a several metres long dick. A proper troll.
He was a rough fucker. His penetrations reconfigured bodies, rather than simply giving interior parts and spots a playful tickle. But he was in command of his powers, aware of what it took to make the smooth stone yield. Like the very best dominant lover, he brought the elements into position where they naturally had to be. Joy, in its purest dick pendulum form, made water, rock, moss and silt discover the beauty they could form.
It was orgasmic. The parts playing together, grinding, smooth, white, loud, foamy and nourishing, all under the mighty force of the oversized troll fucking good.
Karl had sympathy with the moss, the finely smoothened stone and the silt. With all of it. With how it moved. With the very being of this very special valley waterfall. He understood it. It was becoming real and felt through a strong, oversized, primitive hard dick motion.
Simultaneously, the five men opened their eyes. They were still in the water. Their breathing was quick, their hearts racing, and their mouths had the taste of the finest minerals sucked from the bodies and elements. They knew without a word uttered that they had all communed with a timeless mythological beast.
Rapidly, the men climbed out of the water. Unlike the exit from a typical cold-water dip, the men returned to the grass in full splendour, as it were, no small frozen willies that day. But they were freezing. Despite the summer air, an active stance was required to recover from their delicate engagement with nature and the supernatural, which had left them sore and tender, even a bit embarrassed, yet also incredibly strong.
The absence of a sauna or shower, and the imprudence of lighting a bonfire, left them with only one option: sex. They again formed a circle, this time on the grass and lying on their sides, dick-to-mouth in a closed loop. The sucking was fast and vigorous. They needed warmth.
As strong and eager men, if the friend and lower down by the groin performed his dick worship especially well, the man was in turn driven to perform even better on the dick he aimed his lips and tongue on. One does not need to be a fancy mathematician to compute that with such rich and powerful manly feedback cycles at work, hip-shaking, ball-draining, heart-thumping orgasms were soon gushing over the Lauterbrunnen valley floor.
A few minutes of playful pinching and groping followed. Warm and happy men need these moments removed from the burdensome things of the world, and where better to spend that moment of reprieve than with good naked men.
As they walked back to their chalet near the entrance to the valley, the men remained silent. They were in deep contemplation. The mystical had revealed itself, looked them in the eyes, slapped its fat dick across their cheek and commanded them to man up, grow strong, and make good things real. Not even the sound of transport helicopters, the smell of burnt rösti, or the pushes needed to get past the crowds in the village broke the five men’s silent reverence for what had happened.
It was unfortunate that they made their ominous discovery when they returned to their dwelling. The worry they expressed, perhaps at first glance exaggerated, made sense, knowing what they had come in contact with before. Some powers are not to be trifled with, even less so lost to unworthy men.
The adventure had to proceed nonetheless. There was too much left to understand, too much love-making that demanded to become real.
