I came to Austria to enjoy the Christmas break and to visit my former student Fritz Waldbaum, a local real estate agent. After a long day of northern adventures—snowmobiling, ice-fishing, snow fortress building—for the evening he took me to the chalet of his friend Richard. By the time we reached the place, night had folded itself over the valley, and the chalet glowed like a lantern in the snow. Its steep roof was heavy with frost, windows lit gold from within, smoke curling out of a stone chimney into the frozen air. Inside, the heat hit us like a welcome embrace: pine logs crackled in the hearth, the beams overhead dark with age, and long wooden benches set around a table already laid with wine, bread, and game meat.
Richard was a man of large build and an easy laugh, and he welcomed us as if we had stepped not into his home but into his circle. Around the fire, the talk was full of local stories—ski slopes, property hunts, winter storms. But soon enough, his nephew Karl appeared from upstairs. Eighteen, slim, and still carrying that restless energy of youth, he entered with a kind of polite eagerness that didn’t hide his curiosity. As soon as he learned I worked at a Canadian university, his questions tumbled out: what programs were strong, what life on campus felt like, how the winters compared to these mountains. He spoke earnestly, leaning forward over the table, his cheeks flushed with wine he probably wasn’t used to drinking. Fritz and Richard sat back, letting him pepper me with questions, their expressions indulgent, as if Karl had found a new toy in conversation.
Dinner stretched long into the night, the fire hissing as logs shifted, the smell of roasted venison lingering under the rafters. After the plates were cleared and Richard poured a last round of schnapps, Karl offered to show me to my room. He led me up the wide staircase, the wood creaking under our steps, and opened the door onto a simple but warm chamber: a bed with a thick down duvet, a jug of water and a glass on the bedside table, and a narrow window framing the silent mountains outside. Standing in the doorway, he straightened his shoulders as though imitating his uncle’s formal manners. “I hope everything is comfortable, Herr DuPont,” he said, with a smile that was both practiced and sincere. “If anything, knock on my door—it’s right across the hall.” With that, he wished me good night, leaving me to the quiet of the chalet, the fire’s warmth still clinging faintly to the air.
***
I exhaled into the hush, peeled off sweater, jeans, briefs, letting each garment drop onto the rag-rug. Naked, I slid between cool linen sheets that smelled of sun-dried cotton and distant pine. The bedside lamp painted gold across the pages of the new paperback textbook I’d carried from Zermatt; I propped two pillows beneath my shoulders, stretched my legs until my toes found the hot-water bottle someone had tucked at the foot of the bed, and let the mountain stillness settle over me like a second quilt.
Half an hour later the door creaked, soft footfalls padded across the boards, and Karl’s tousled head peered round the jamb. “Did you call for me?” he whispered, voice thick with sleep and nerves.
“No… but come in,” I answered, lowering the book I was reading. He slipped inside, closing the door with a careful click. Lamplight caught the white of his briefs—cotton, a size too big, riding low on sharp hipbones—and the faint quiver that ran through his shoulders. I shifted over, spread the crimson eiderdown, and beckoned him to sit. When he settled on the mattress I draped the spare wool blanket across his back, letting my knuckles graze the nape of his neck.
“What are you reading?” he asked.
I lifted the paperback so he could see the cover. “Cultural anthropology,” I said. “Studies cultures from around the world.” He took the book, pages fluttering in trembling fingers, and opened by chance to a chapter titled “Same-Sex Bonds: From Samoa to the Alps.” His eyes widened, then softened, tracing the photographs—two young men sharing a ceremonial embrace, bare torsos painted with ochre. The lamplight painted gold across the cheekbones of this hot teenager, while outside the wind scraped fir branches against the window, a quiet metronome to the quick pulse I saw beating at the base of his throat.
“What are they doing?” he asked me quietly, pointing at the picture. I told him the men press forehead to forehead, nose to nose, sharing breath to show they carry no weapons against one another—only trust. Karl’s eyes stayed on mine while I spoke, pupils widening like melt-water pools. When I finished he slowly leaned in, as if copying the photo. “I carry no weapons against you,” he said, sounding solemn and naïve. “I carry no weapons against you,” I echoed in all seriousness.
Our foreheads met first; a tremor ran through him, but he didn’t pull away. I felt the soft give of his hair against mine, the flutter of his lashes, the exchange of breath—his a little quick, mine deeper. Then the tip of his nose brushed the side of mine, it was a gentle slide that left a spark of desire racing through my body.
In that shared breath I tasted toothpaste and night-time nerves, and I knew the next touch would be his lips—I could feel the pull between us, an invisible thread drawing our mouths closer, heartbeats syncing as if we were two climbers on the same rope, trusting our lives to one another.
So I closed the last inch, letting my lips brush his—feather-light first. When he didn’t pull away, I pressed soft closed-mouth kisses along the bow of his upper lip, counting heartbeats. Then I caught the center of his lower lip between my lips and tugged gently, releasing the faint taste of mint. He muttered something breathy in German… I slid the tip of my tongue across the seam of his mouth, tracing the tender skin just inside the rim, and then I angled my head and brushed sideways, letting our lips slide together like silk on silk. He inched even closer, until I rested my mouth still against his, simply breathing him in. A quiet, trembling moan slipped from his throat.
At that sound his lips parted. I accepted the invitation slowly—my tongue meeting his, guiding without rushing, teaching the unspoken cadence: advance, retreat, circle, pause. Karl followed, hesitant then eager, the blanket sliding from his shoulders as the kiss deepened and the lamplight painted two shadows moving as one on the pine-paneled wall.
I slid my tongue along his, tracing the slick underside first, then curling upward to flick the tip against the roof of his mouth—showing him how a kiss can speak in layers. Karl answered with a shy push forward, his tongue meeting mine in tentative pulses, learning the rhythm I set. When I drew back to circle his lips, he followed, chasing the taste until our mouths sealed tighter and our breaths merged again.
His arms slipped around my ribs, palms splaying across my shoulder-blades; with a quick, eager tug he rolled us sideways. The quilt bunched between us as we landed, me half-buried in its warmth, Karl stretched on top, chest to chest through the fabric. Our legs tangled—his knee sliding between mine, the quilt cool against my bare skin while his body heat seeped through the cloth. I felt the tremor leave him; instead, a new confidence surged—hips pressing closer, mouth wilder, tongue now leading small forays into my mouth. Each time he advanced I welcomed him, letting him feel the hard beat of my heart against his, letting him discover how desire can turn nerves into bold, hungry motion.
I let my palms glide down the front of his chest, feeling the firm ridges of muscle beneath smooth skin, until my thumbs brushed those small, rock-hard nipples—dark as alpine berries against winter-pale flesh. A faint trail of hair ran between his pecs, soft under my fingertips, and lower the cotton of his briefs tented outward, straining with the proof of how quickly desire had replaced uncertainty.
I kissed his cheek first, then the corner of his mouth, and whispered, “Slow,” before trailing gentle presses along his jaw and down to the curve of his neck. When I found the hollow just above his collarbone, I lingered—lips brushing, breath warm—and felt the answering tremor that rippled through us both, a shared moan rising in the quiet room.
“You’re cold,” I murmured against his skin. “Get under my quilt.” I lifted the edge of the thick eiderdown, inviting him into the cocoon of warmth where nothing separated skin from skin.
The way Karl peeled off his briefs, I only had a glimpse of the dark bush and the dangle of his thin but enviously long erection over the tiny tight scrotum—just a fraction of a second, too fast—and slipped beneath the quilt, the heavy down settling over us like a warm, private sky. In the sudden closeness our chests pressed together, breaths mingling, and lower our hips found each other without guidance. My cock—thick, blunt and short, met his—slim, long, perfectly straight and hard as a metal ski pole—and nestled against him.
At first we simply let them lie parallel, heat meeting heat, pulse answering pulse because we were busy kissing… Then I rolled my hips: my hooded crown nudged the underside of his shaft, pushing upward until my foreskin slid back just enough to expose my swollen head and catch the slick slit of his glans beneath the rim. He gasped into my mouth; I answered with a low moan, and we began a slow, deliberate duel. I drew back, letting my thick shaft drag along his length, foreskin sheathing and unsheathing me with each stroke, while his slim cock slipped through the channel my hips created, glans rubbing against the firm skin of my belly. Each time our heads met—his slick, mine hooded—we paused, pressed, felt the throb of blood echo between us, then slid apart again, kissing wildly, tongues mirroring the push and retreat below. The quilt trapped our heat, our mingled breaths, the soft slap of skin on skin, until the friction of cock against cock became a single, pulsing rhythm racing us toward the edge.
I loved how Karl’s slim frame felt inside my arms—collarbone sharp against my chest, ribs fluttering like a bird’s wings, the faint tremor that said he might drown in me and still want to dive deeper. He pressed closer, unsure but hungry, and I opened my legs just enough to guide his long, slender cock beneath my balls. The first slide was awkward; he fumbled, hips stuttering, but the slick from his open glans coated the channel instantly, warm and glossy. I murmured, “Rock with me,” and showed him a slow, quiet roll. He caught the rhythm, then seized it—hips snapping forward, thighs slapping against the backs of mine, breath turning to short, fierce puffs against my neck.
Each thrust sent his shaft skimming along the sensitive strip behind my sac, skin sliding on skin, precum pooling and squelching with every push. I felt the soft give of his balls smack my perineum, the hard root of his cock slam against my taint, the slick head nudge forward until it kissed the underside of my own shaft. The faster he went, the more fluid we made—thin, silky threads that lubed the tunnel until his thrusts were smooth, violent pistons. He slammed against me now like a man who’d found his stride, the slap of skin echoing under the quilt, his narrow hips drumming a fierce cadence that shook the mattress and sent sparks racing up my spine.
A deep, sweet throb settled behind my balls, that dull ache that blooms when pleasure borders on too much. Karl’s slim shaft kept rolling along my perineum, slick and relentless, and the feeling burst up my spine. I couldn’t hold the sound—it poured into his neck, a loud, raw moan that startled him; his hips faltered, breath catching in fright.
I tightened my arms around his back, kissed the hinge of his jaw. “It’s okay, it’s alright, baby,” I whispered, voice ragged. “I’m feeling great… it’s because you make me feel so good.” I nudged my hips to meet his. “Let yourself free, too.”
The tension melted from his shoulders; a shaky sigh warmed my skin, and he found his rhythm again, slamming harder, chasing his own release while I held him close.
I felt the coil snap behind my balls; Karl’s slick shaft rolled along my perineum one last time and my first hot spurt shot straight onto the sheets—thick, almost syrupy. A second rope got tangled in my foreskin, and my hips bucked as tremors racked me; my thighs clamped around his cock and a third, thinner jet that dribbled down and pooled below me. I shook head-to-toe, voice cracking into a high, broken cry that echoed off the pine-panelled wall, every muscle locked in sweet, shuddering release.
Karl drove forward once, twice, then buried himself between my slick thighs and let go. A single powerful spurt shot out, hot and thin, painting the soft skin behind my balls before the second and third pulses pumped in quick, milky beads that slid down the cleft toward the sheet. His whole body went rigid, slim frame quivering like a bowstring, a low guttural grunt punching from his chest with each spurt. When the last drop oozed out he collapsed forward, forehead pressed to my shoulder, breath ragged, hips still twitching in the aftershocks while the scent of sex and alpine night filled the warm cocoon under the quilt.
We stayed tangled under the quilt, the eiderdown heavy over our cooling skin, while the mountain night pressed its hush against the window. Karl’s head rested in the hollow of my shoulder, his breath slowing until it matched the far-off tick of the wall clock. I traced idle circles along his spine, feeling the faint shiver that still rippled through him each time my fingertips crossed a vertebra. Between us, our softened cocks lay side by side, slick drying into a delicate glaze that sealed us together with every small shift. The scent of sex—salt, pine, and the faint sweetness of teenage skin—hung in the warm cocoon, and every so often he pressed closer, as if trying to crawl inside my heartbeat.
Outside, wind scraped a branch across the timber wall in slow, rhythmic strokes, and inside we floated, half-awake, half-dreaming, trading lazy kisses that tasted of milk and moonlight, until the quilt and the night and the whole Alps seemed to breathe with us in one long, shared afterglow.
“Sheets!” Karl whispered, the word half-laugh, half-gasp. He pushed the quilt aside and stood, bare feet silent on the pine boards. I propped myself on an elbow, admiring the long, lean line of him in the lamplight: shoulder blades sliding beneath winter-pale skin, the taper of his waist, the faint gleam where our cum still clung to his belly. He padded into the hallway, moonlight from the stairwell silvering the curve of his backside, and returned hugging a folded stack of fresh linen to his chest.
Back at the bedside we wiped each other with the crumpled old sheet—he dabbed my chest and between my thighs, I cleaned the streaks on his stomach, both of us slow, almost ceremonial. When the cloth passed below his navel I let my fingers follow, lifting his soft cock. It hung down now, somehow looking longer limp than hard, the shaft delicate, glans still partly bared and glistening with a bead of leftover slick. I turned it gently, marveling at the weightless slide of skin, the way the head drooped like a tulip on its stem. Karl giggled, shy, and twisted away, bending to snatch his briefs. I watched him dress, drinking in his youthful beauty. Then he helped me stretch the new sheet tight across the mattress, pressed a finger to his lips—our secret—gathered the soiled bundle, and slipped out, the latch closing with the faintest click.
***
Next morning the sunlight spilled across the frost as we pulled away from the chalet—Fritz at the wheel, Richard riding next to him, their voices low and steady, talking snow conditions and new property development leads. Karl wedged himself beside me in back, shoulder brushing mine, quiet in a way that felt heavier than the mountain air. He kept his face toward the window, but I caught the small reflection of his eyes—tired, bright, holding something unsaid—while the peaks stood guard outside, unmoved by any of our small, human departures.
At the terminal, Fritz shook my hand firmly; his grip felt warm despite the chill in the air, and Richard clapped me on the shoulder with the generosity of a man who opened not just his chalet but his heart to a nighttime visitor. Then Karl stepped forward. His voice caught when he said he wanted to see Canada, that he would apply to my alma mater, that he would come soon, somehow. His words tumbled out with that mixture of determination and youth that made me believe him even though I knew how long the path could be. His eyes shone wet, and he blinked hard, trying to laugh it off, but the laugh never came.
I pulled him into a hug, firm and lasting, feeling the tension in his shoulders give way against me. For a moment it felt less like a goodbye than a promise passed quietly between us. When we stepped back, his smile was unsteady but there. “I’ll see you in Canada,” he said, almost defiant through the tears. I nodded, adjusted my bag, and walked toward the gates, turning once to see all three of them—Fritz steady, Richard broad and still, and Karl standing a little apart, his hand lifted in a wave that lingered longer than the others.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
