A wonderful thing is being a boy standing half-naked, just jeans and nothing else, your bare feet gripping a narrow ledge and you are stretched, your fingertips keep you upright as they grip the edge of the ledge above you.

The only thing between you and the night, you and the freezing fog, you and the claustrophobia that darkness brings to mountains and large stretches of land, is your skin.

It's freezing cold and your balcony doors are open. Music is pouring out along with the heat in your expensive mountain house. You turn your head and you can see that heat shimmer while it rolls out. The music is the King of Pain, by The Police, and you close your eyes and imagine that blue whale beached by the springtime's ebb, because that's how you feel.

You're up and out of water. Where at one time you were in a place where you were beautiful and you could do the most amazing things, you've now come to a place where you no longer belong. The funny thing is it's the same place. The place is beside your husband and you've traded a dry mountain home for a wet one.

Gravity transforms the beauty and strength of a whale into a helpless beast. The sun which barely reached him before as the weakest blue tendrils now eats him alive.

That's how I felt last night. I was freezing standing there on the ledge of my balcony, but not shivering. The forest, the mountains seemed as small as me and as large as my blown up heart and the fog had sound.

All I wanted in that moment, on the ledge, and when you stand at an edge you feel this pull, and it comes from your stomach, and it starts in the darkness underneath you and it blossoms in your chest, stings your shoulders and arms, and makes you want to cry, because you're standing at the edge, above a fall which could hurt you very badly at least, and kill you at best all I wanted was him.

All I wanted in that moment was his arms to wrap around my hips and squeeze me hard. Then that hook in my stomach that falling down feeling, wouldn't be as strong, wouldn't be as much, if he were there with me last night, if my husband was home.

I closed my eyes as the ice air attacked my chest. The piercings in my nipples were small circles of slow fire, they were so cold. The buttons in my fly freezing through the denim became a part of my cock, that was hard despite that falling feeling, hard despite the fear, hard despite the fact that Greg wasn't there.

It hurt, but it felt fucking fine, so fine when I did look down, because breathing cold air hurts and I didn't want to start coughing and lose my hold on the ledge above me and fall a raw smile unfolded inside me when I saw the head of my cock standing up out of my jeans, over the edge, squeezed tight by the fabric red and pink because it was freezing outside, my precum pooled there thick on the inside edges of my foreskin a conduit to the cold and it was the sharpest, most precise needle that pushed in from the frozen outside into the inside of me.

All I wanted in the moment was my husband's arms around my hips and his hands undoing the freezing metal buttons on my jeans. All I wanted in that breath was him pulling the cold stiff denim down, him helping me kick them off into the darkness below, him nudging my legs apart, and his face his tongue working a wet trail on the inside of my thighs so his spit is hot, the air that hits it is cold, and my cock and my balls have never been this frozen and on fire at the same time.

I wanted to feel his nose dragging hard across my ass, so I know that he was pushing his face hard into it, so that when he pulls me apart with that thick lick, when he takes me from behind like that, his twisting muscle undoing me from behind my balls, he's going to go for that other muscle inside of me.

He strokes the outside of my hole, with the freezing rain, the softest bullets hitting me. The iced tree branches break, snap, and are gunshots, and he is eating me out while I am half frozen. My cock has never been harder, it reaches out into the freezing fog, pulses through that mist, and I push back grinding myself onto that tongue squirming inside of me. My fingers are breaking off little bits of stucco because I'm gripping the ledge above me so hard. I look down.

His arms wrapped around my waist jerks me backwards, because I am pulled forwards towards falling, because he's finger fucking me with two fingers as he's eating me out and my cock is aching and boiling ice-icicle dripping, melting, in the sun, going to break off the roof going to fall off the roof and smash to bits, smash to pieces

You can burn up in ice and disappear. You can stand on a ledge forty feet above the earth, the earth at an angle, because you're on the side of a mountain but your mountain is behind you and inside of you.

The world is a trip, dance, spin, and you believe you are falling because you're cumming and moving, your feet are no longer on the ledge. You're in the air, because your mountain, your husband, has lifted you up and over the ledge and back into him, back into the bedroom, back into the music, back into him and onto him, and you came, it was freezing, you thought you were falling and dying, but you came, and the night has just started, because he your husband has just started.

He is my mountain and I come to him, pull myself up by my fingertips trying to know him and occasionally I admire a secret, like a view from the top of the mountain, his smile upon me finding the real him is a cold wind bitten with ice and aspen.

My husband Greg tastes dark and crisp, like some sort of fresh winter snow on a pine bough that you just grabbed a handful of and ate. So does his cum. And I have never fallen before in the harshest darkness as I have in his hands and his eyes. The Colorado mountain, the ledge, and the ice can only imitate my mountain.




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