Logs cracked and spat sparks onto the stone hearth. Arnar, my former student from Iceland, who had brought me to the faraway lodge near a thermal pool with a very clear purpose in mind after a long day at the Reykjavik Seafood Festival, sat cross-legged on the wool rug, his copper curls catching the fire glow. When my knuckles grazed his accidentally, I felt the faint tremor that said he’d been waiting for that touch all evening. He smelled of pine-smoke and cold ocean still clinging to his sweater; when he laughed it came out small, almost embarrassed, as if joy were a language he’d only just remembered. I shifted closer, close enough to taste his breath—warm, faintly minty—and watched his fingers worry the cuff of his sleeve, restless, hopeful. “You look cozy tonight,” I murmured. He ducked his head, but the smile that followed was wide enough to warm the whole lodge.
Fire shadows jittered across the pine walls like they knew the script and wanted to play along. Outside, the wind scraped around the eaves, reminding us the night was sharp enough to cut, but in here the hearth breathed heat onto our shins. I laid my palm on his knee—no accidental brush this time—and felt the muscle twitch, a reflex that told me he was wound tight and ready. Smoke curled between us, sweetening the salt-skin scent he carried from the seafood festival we spent the whole day at. When I said, “This beats freezing by the harbor,” his grin went crooked, soft, entirely his. He inched nearer, wool trousers whispering over the rug, and answered on a murmur, “Já… perfect.” My fingers then climbed the sleeve of his sweater, each knit ridge a small thrill under my skin; his cheeks flared rose, pulse flicking at the corner of his jaw. The room shrank to firelight, wool, and the hush before a first kiss…
I stretched my legs toward the hearth, letting the heat crawl into my frozen toes while the day’s cold seeped out through my soles. Arnar’s breath hitched—just loud enough for me to catch—and he worried his lower lip between his teeth, eyes flicking to mine like he was asking permission without words. Woodsmoke wrapped us thick and fragrant; I breathed it in, grinned, and said, “Let’s get warmer, then,” adding a wink that made the corner of his mouth jump. He answered with a quick nod and a soft laugh that sounded like relief. I laid my hand on his thigh—light, deliberate—and felt the tension ease from the muscle under my palm as he leaned, slow and sure, into the space between us. Somewhere in the grate a log split, sparks popping, but the real heat was already moving under his skin and into mine.
I brushed my mouth to his—barely pressure, just heat—and the faint tang of his mint chewing gum greeted me, sweet and cool against the firy warmth of his lips. He answered with a tiny sound, half-sigh, half-surprise, then pressed closer, shy but certain. The smell of pine and the warmth from the hearth rose between us. I slid my hands under the hem of his sweater, pressing my palms to the small of his back, and felt the shiver that rippled up his spine.
“You taste like dessert,” I whispered to him, and he laughed into my collarbone, cheeks glowing copper in the firelight. I traced the curve of his lower lip with the tip of my tongue; his lashes fluttered, his breath hitched, and the hesitant eagerness I’d tasted earlier bloomed into something hungrier, something that asked for more without a single word.
The fire cracked like a whip behind us, sending a spray of sparks up the chimney. Arnar answered with a small, helpless sound—half moan, half sigh—as I tilted my head and took the kiss deeper, slowly and deliberately. I hauled him in until his sweater pressed against my shirt, wool catching on cotton, and the frantic drum of his heart thudded against my ribs. Burning wood and pine smells braided in the air; I pulled back just enough to mutter, “You’re heating me up,” and felt his laugh tremble out of him, soft, relieved. “Good, good,” he whispered, the words clipped by that lilting accent, and his breath warm on my cheek. My palms slid up under the sweater, tracing the lean line of his back, his young skin feeling like silk. His copper curls tumbled across his forehead, and the shyness in his shoulders gave way to something steadier, something ready to take the next breathless step.
I rested my brow to his, breathing him in—his exhale came fast, damp, tasting of mint and…nerves? Outside, the wind scraped the eaves like it wanted in, but inside the fire hissed low, keeping its own counsel. “Let’s take this further,” I murmured, and the words felt heavy, delicious. Arnar’s teeth caught his lower lip again, a quick flash of uncertainty, then—“Já, okay”—soft, decisive. My hands found his shoulders, fingers pressing wool into warm muscle; he stiffened for a heartbeat, then leaned into the grip, surrendering. I brushed my lips down the side of his neck and felt his gasp shiver against my mouth. His hands grabbed my forearms, nails grazing fabric, the last of his shyness curled up like smoke and drifting away. When I drew back, his eyes were bright, wide, already shining with the next yes.
I eased the sweater up, inch by inch, letting him feel the drag of wool before the fire’s warmth kissed his skin. When it cleared his head, his curls tumbled free, copper against pale shoulders that caught the orange glow and held it. He shivered—not from cold—and laughed under his breath, sounding small, surprised. The sweater dropped into a forgotten heap. The smell of pine and a spring clean smell of his body rose stronger now, sharp in the heated air.
“You’re gorgeous like this,” I said, voice low, almost reverent. Color flooded his cheeks, bright as the coals; he ducked his chin, grinning, while damp strands clung to his nape. I traced a slow line down his ribs, feeling the faint rise of gooseflesh under my fingertips, and watched his eyes flick left, right, finally settle on mine—shy, eager, ready for whatever came next.
His chest was a long, clean sweep—skin stretched thin over subtle rises of muscle that caught the firelight like polished birch. I laid my palm flat between his collarbones and felt the steady knock of his heart in his chest. Sliding lower, my thumb brushed the faint ridge of his sternum, then drifted left across a small constellation of freckles that dotted the upper curve of his pec—the color of pale cinnamon. Beneath that, the muscle tightened into a slim band, the kind dancers carry; I traced it to the soft dip just above his ribs where the skin felt like heated silk. When my fingers crossed his nipples, they drew tight, tiny peaks of rose against winter-white, and he exhaled through parted lips, shoulders easing as if my touch had unlocked a held breath he’d kept since the festival.
I leaned in and brushed my lips across his left nipple—just a whisper of contact—then drew it slowly into my mouth, rolling it gently with my tongue. Arnar’s breath hitched, a soft Icelandic curse—rough and gentle at the same time—slipped out as his fingers threaded into my hair.
I pulled back, blew a cool stream of air over the wet skin, then returned—this time flicking the tip of my tongue quick and light over the other nipple, brief, like tasting frost on metal. His chest rose sharply, his ribs now pressing into my palm.
Finally I opened my mouth wider, taking the whole areola in, sucking steady and warm while my tongue pressed flat, stroking in slow circles. Arnar arched into me, a low moan vibrating in his throat, thighs shifting restlessly against the rug as the fire painted shifting gold across his skin.
Arnar’s fingers found my buttons, slipping them free until the vest slid off my shoulders and the shirt followed, the fire’s warmth replaced by a rush of Icelandic night across my skin. I shivered—more from anticipation than cold—then stepped into him. Chest met chest, his pale skin against my olive tone, both still damp from steam and sweat. Our nipples brushed, stiffened, sparked; we swayed together, rubbing slow circles while mouths wandered—his lips tracing the curve of my collarbone, my tongue tasting salt along the ridge of his shoulder. Pressed together like this, heat built fast between us, skin sliding, hearts drumming in shared rhythm.
We stood up, holding each other close, and our hands slipped lower in the same breath, waists, hipbones, then the soft give of cotton. I cupped him first—my fingers met a long, slim shaft, skin velvet-tight, the mushroom head already bare where his thin foreskin had rolled completely back. He hissed through his teeth when I thumbed the broad rim. His palm found me next: my short and thick cock was already rock hard, foreskin bunched in a heavy overhang that swallowed half the head. He gave a wondering squeeze, feeling the weight, then pushed the skin back just enough to expose the slick tip. My balls swung heavy against his wrist; he explored their heft, rolling them while I let my middle finger slide beneath his loose sack—those small, liquidy orbs sliding like warm marbles inside thin skin. We stood there, foreheads touching, breathing hard, each learning the other’s shape by touch alone while the fire painted shifting gold across our ribs.
Buckles clinked—sharp, metallic—then fabric whispered down, his briefs catching for a heartbeat on the rise of his cock before slipping free. My shorts followed, pooling at my ankles. I looked: Arnar stood flushed in fire-glow, that long slim shaft curving slightly upward, the flared head dark rose and glossy, crowning loose, small pink balls that swayed when he shifted his weight from one foot with long sexy toes to the other.
I knelt, breathing hotly against his skin. First I took in just the head—slow suction, tongue circling the rim like tasting wine. He exhaled, and a short shaky laugh melted into a moan. Then, I opened wider, sliding halfway down, pressing my tongue flat along the underside, feeling the pulse beat against it. His fingers threaded my hair, hips giving a small, involuntary rock. Next I went deep until my nose met the soft copper fuzz at his base, held him there, my throat working, then pulled back with a slow, deliberate drag until only the tip remained in my mouth, slick and oozing salty precum. Above me his knees trembled; the only sound was the wet slide and the fire’s low crackle answering every shudder that passed through him.
I let his cockhead pop out of my mouth and held it just an inch from my eyes, admiring the sculpture of it—the foreskin rolled tight beneath the corona, the frenulum tight like a delicate cord pulling the glans downward, deep rose in color now. The rim flared like a shield, smooth and taut, begging for worship. I brushed my lips across the tip in a dry kiss, then painted it with the flat of my tongue: up the center, across the left curve, across the right—three slow strokes that left it shining. Closing my mouth over the crown, I sucked him in gently, feeling the short foreskin slide slightly higher under my lips; I drew back, grazed the ridge with my teeth—just enough to make him gasp—then sealed around him again and pulled hard, cheeks hollowing, tongue pressing the underside so the whole mushroom swelled between my gums. Arnar’s thighs quivered; a low Icelandic curse broke from his throat as his fingers tightened in my hair, guiding me to stay right there, locked on that perfect head.
“Slow, slow… I want to fuck you,” Arnar whispered, the words ragged, almost winded. I let the fat crown slip from my lips with a soft pop again, cool air rushing over the spit-slick skin. Rising, I stared: the slim shaft I’d first cupped had thickened, curving upward, the broad head darker, two thick veins corded beneath the surface. It jutted proud against his belly, shiny and surprisingly huge now, pulsing with each heartbeat. Awe flickered through me—how something so elegant could swell to this rigid demand—and I nodded, throat dry, thighs already loosening in anticipation while the fire painted gold across the length that would soon be inside me.
He led me outside onto the patio. Floodlights spilled white across the deck, turning Arnar’s skin marble-pale, copper curls blazing like embers. He stepped to the edge, slim back tapering to the rise of his ass, his cock swaying proudly in front of him, heavier than before—thick root, flared head glossy under the lamps—proud as a ship’s prow. With a soft hiss he slid into the water, steam billowing up around him like a curtain.
I followed, feet skimming the ladder, then pushed off and dropped. The pool was near-scalding, silica silky against my body, the slight smell of sulfur stinging my nostrils. I surfaced laughing, lunged, and he caught me—arms under my shoulders—so our chests collided, cocks mashed between bellies, hot water everywhere. We bobbed, dicks fencing beneath the surface, heads knocking, shafts sliding side-by-side in the buoyant heat. Sulfur belched each time we shifted; we wrinkled noses, burst into breathless laughter, the sound echoing off snowbanks while our erections kept nudging, neither willing to yield first contact.
We kicked off swimming across the pool together, without warning—no starting gun but the slap of water and a shared grin. Arnar’s crawl was smooth, elbows high; I matched him stroke for stroke, shoulders brushing, hips rolling. Every reach forward sent our cocks flicking through the current—random taps against thigh, hip, belly—each touch a spark under the sulfur haze. A knee slid between my legs, calf grazing my sack; I laughed, swallowed steam, felt my hole clench on nothing, a slow burn starting low in my gut. We tumbled at the far wall, bodies tangling—his chest to my back, his cock riding the cleft of my ass for a heartbeat before we spun apart, panting, eyes bright. The water buoyed us, but anticipation weighed heavier: that steady throb behind my balls telling me I wanted him inside before the pool cooled.
Arnar herded me against the tiled lip, water sloshing around our ribs, steam curling off our shoulders, and flashed a wicked grin. We set the rules without speaking: one breath, one dive, mouth on cock until lungs burned, then break and switch. Arnar went first—he vanished with a ripple, hands skimming my sides. Underwater his lips found me sideways, angled my shaft against his cheek, sucked twice, tongue flicking the slit before he let go and burst up laughing, water streaming off copper curls.
I inhaled, dipped, and hunted his swaying length. The pool blurred; I caught the mushroom rim between my teeth, gentle, then sealed over the crown, cheeks tight, tongue swirling three quick circles before surfacing gasping. Steam hissed off my face.
Next round he gripped my hips, spun me, mouth sliding along the underside—long, slow drag from base to head, lips like a sleeve, then released just as my thighs twitched. I retaliated: underwater I cradled his balls, took the head deep, let the suction pulse in tiny beats, counting heartbeats until bubbles escaped his nose and he shoved away, spluttering, eyes wild with delight.
We chased, cornered, traded—each dive shorter, each mouth hotter, until every flick of tongue felt like a promise and every laugh came out ragged, both of us trembling on the edge of begging for more.
Next, Arnar’s hands found my hips under the water and eased me against the pool’s edge, steam curling around our shoulders like a private sky. He turned me around and my asshole burned in fierce anticipation—now it was finally coming, the moment I’ve been waiting for all day, ever since I first saw him in the hotel lobby. I felt the blunt crown of him nudge my cleft once, twice, then settle; he then pushed in slow, steady, splitting me open until the fat mushroom head popped past the ring and slid deep. A low Icelandic murmur—elskan min, my darling—brushed my ear as he began shallow rocks, hips rolling like gentle surf, each stroke rubbing that flared rim against my aching prostate. One arm circled my chest, fingers teasing my nipple, the other stroking my hair back so he could kiss my temple between breaths, whispering “sæti, sweet,” again and again until the water sloshed in quiet rhythm with our joined pulse.
After a breathless minute he drew almost out, leaving me empty for a heartbeat, then returned at a new angle—hips tilted, cock gliding upward so the underside pressed my prostate on every entry. He kept the pace maddeningly slow, long slides that ended with his hips flush to my ass, balls kissing skin under the hot water. I felt his lips smile against my shoulder blade, heard the soft praise—“svo gott, so good”—as my channel fluttered around him. His free hand slipped down to cradle my shaft, thumb circling the head in time with each inward push, turning every thrust into a double spark inside and out until my thighs trembled and small ripples raced across the pool.
Finally he turned me, lifting my legs around his waist, bringing us chest to chest. In this cradle he sank in again, deeper than before, and the new angle made me gasp his name. He kissed me, tantalizingly slow—his tongue gentle, tasting of sulfur and desire—while his hips rolled in small, grinding circles, cockhead painting steady pressure against my prostate. Water buoyed us, letting him lift and lower me effortlessly; each rise ended with a soft clap of skin, each fall seated him to the hilt. Between kisses he breathed endearments—“ástin mín, my love,” “litli, little one”—voice husky, reverent, until the steady rub inside me tightened every cord of pleasure. I clung to his shoulders, feeling the swell and ebb, the sweet torture building until words failed and only quiet gasps and wet heartbeat remained, the night wrapped tight around us.
The pressure inside me gathered like warm rainwater rising slow against a dam—first a gentle swell, then a steady, insistent flood. Each small circle of Arnar’s hips nudged that swollen head across my prostate, a sweet ache that pulsed deeper than heartbeat. I felt the first tremor in my thighs, then the flutter up my shaft; my balls drew tight, heavy as stones now under the water. I tried to hold, to savor, but the next nudge cracked the dam—three cloudy ropes of come shot out, unfurling like pale ribbons into the pool, vanishing in the swirl of heat and sulfur. My cry came out as a broken whisper, toes curling against his lower back while the after-shocks rippled through my gut.
Arnar’s rhythm stuttered—hips snapped forward, cockhead grinding hard against that tender spot inside me. His fingers clamped onto my shoulders, nails digging crescents, and a low growl tore from his throat, raw, almost pained. I felt the first pulse inside—hot, thick—then a second, a third, flooding me, his shaft swelling with each jet. His balls, drawn tight, slapped wet against my ass as he drove in to the root, thighs trembling against mine. The head pulsed like a second heart against my gland, every throb echoing through my core, and I clenched around him, milking each spurt, feeling the heat spread deep while the water sloshed and the night air bit our shoulders and the only sound left was his ragged breathing and the soft slap of skin on skin as the last tremor rolled through us both.
… Arnar’s chest heaved against my back, breath ragged with spent desire, and the words tumbled out between kisses pressed to my nape: “Þú ert allt mitt… allt mitt, Augie… elska þig, elska þig svo mikið.” (“You are my everything… my everything, Augie… love you, love you so much.”) Each syllable landed warm, too warm, like he was pouring molten gratitude straight into my skin. I felt the softening length of him still tucked along my cleft, water lapping at our ribs, and the sudden flood of affection made my throat tighten. I wasn’t used to being adored out loud, not like this; the praise felt heavier than the sulfur in the air.
He wrapped both arms around my chest, cheek pressed to my hairline, and kept murmuring endearments—sæti, ástin mín—his voice trembling with leftover tremors of orgasm. The intimacy was almost too bright, like stepping from steam into moonlight, but the steady thud of his heart against my back slowed my own. I let my head fall onto his forearm, eyes half-closed, and felt the last of my resistance dissolve into the water.
His breathing steadied, hot puffs cooling on my neck, and I realized I was melting—not just body, but something deeper—melting into the heat of his gratitude, into the quiet certainty that he meant every breathy promise. I reached back, found his hip, squeezed once, and let the night hold us both.
***
Arnar lifted me onto the deck like I was something fragile, steam rolling off our skin into the cold night. He took a thick cotton towel, and began at my shoulders—slow, reverent strokes that pushed water down my back. He moved to my chest, palms gliding over nipples still tender from his mouth, then down my ribs, each touch deliberate, almost ceremonial.
As he carefully wiped me, my eyes went down to his cock, now spent and cooling. It had shrunk to a soft, short fold, foreskin draped over the head like a small hood, the whole thing no longer than a thumb. He brushed it with the towel, careful, and I felt the absurdity bloom in my chest: this tiny worm had been the thick rod that split me open minutes ago.
He folded the towel, pressed a kiss to my hipbone, and whispered, “Litli, you’re perfect.” I looked at him—copper curls damp, eyes bright—and realized the contrast was part of the wonder: the same shy boy who could become a spear, then return to something small and tender, all without losing the power to make me ache with love…
***
On a narrow lodge bed, Arnar spooned me tight, chest to back, one arm slung over my ribs and the other tucked beneath my neck. Between us his cock—soft now, almost child-sized—nestled along the cleft of my ass, a warm little comma that pulsed faintly with each slow heartbeat. I drifted off feeling that small weight, the contrast absurd and tender: the same shaft that had split me open now curled like a sleeping mouse, foreskin completely hooded, only the tip kissing my skin.
Sometime past midnight his hips rolled in a dream. The tiny dick stirred, sliding along my crease, and each lazy push nudged me awake. I pressed back, savoring the glide of him—how he could shrink to a thumb’s length yet still make my blood rush. His breath stayed even, but the rhythm woke my cock; it thickened against the cool sheet, the fabric catching the underside with every subtle rock. I shifted just enough to let the linen rub my frenulum, sparks blooming behind closed lids while I marveled at the miracle of scale: behind me, a delicate worm; in front, my own shaft rigid and aching, the two truths separated by the thin drum of my desire.
I kept the motion small, almost breath-like, hips rolling in tiny arcs. Each forward stroke dragged the sheet along my crown; each backward press cradled Arnar’s limp warmth against my hole, a promise and a memory at once. The friction built slow, sweet, a dry tide tightening low in my gut until my thighs trembled and a silent, shaking wave rolled through me—no spill, just a hard clench that left me gasping softly into the pillow. Arnar murmured something wordless, drew me closer, and the little comma between us gave a final twitch before settling again, both of us slipping back into the same warm dark.
***
Morning light, pale as whey, slipped through the huge windows. When I opened my eyes, I found Arnar already moving—copper curls messy, skin freckled and flushed, cock half-roused and bobbing – getting our clothes ready. I blinked awake to that quiet dance, the sight of him naked and purposeful stirring something tender behind my ribs. He caught my gaze, smiled shyly, and his half-hard dick twitched as if greeting me. “Shower’s hot,” he murmured, voice still gravelly with sleep. I rose, wrapped arms around him from behind, and we shuffled into the shower.
Under the hot spray we pressed our dicks together, water sluicing off our shoulders. I drew him close, foreheads touching, and eased my ample foreskin forward until the long hood swallowed his thick mushroom head completely—an intimate sheath within a sheath. He gasped into my mouth as I rolled hips once, twice, the trapped crowns sliding slickly against each other, nerves sparking through thin skin. Our tongues met, playful then urgent; he kissed me down my neck, lips lingering on the spot that made my knees buckle. The pleasure rolled in fast: Arnar moaned, fingers digging into my hips, and I answered with a low groan, loving how perfectly our movements aligned, how each small thrust sent twin shocks through us both.
The rhythm quickened; water drummed on our backs, steam clouding the tiny room. My balls drew tight, and I felt his cock swell inside the foreskin tunnel—then the first spurt, a warm slick pulse that wasn’t mine. A second later my own release followed, thin streams mingling, swirling out from under the hood and spiraling down the drain. I cried out into his shoulder while he kept kissing my neck, murmuring Icelandic endearments I couldn’t translate but understood. When the spurts ebbed we stayed locked together, breathing hard, my foreskin still sheathing us both. “Spring break,” he whispered against my skin, “I’ll come to Rome.” I nodded, knowing airports and calendars, knowing how life loves to scatter people like ash, yet in that steamy hush I believed him, believed us, and let the water run until the world outside felt far away.
***
Arnar drove me through the dim winter morning with a lightness I envied. His small car was meticulously clean and smelled of his yesterday’s spring rain freshness. He kept stealing glances at me, his red curls catching flashes of the weak Icelandic sun that broke through the clouds. The roads were quiet, the world still wrapped in its slow Arctic rhythm, yet in that car everything felt charged—his smile, his quick laugh, his hands on the steering wheel, all of it carrying a kind of restless warmth. I watched the mountains slip past us, dark and stoic, and I knew I would remember that drive more vividly than the lectures or festivals that had brought me here.
At the airport drop-off, he stopped short of the sliding doors, refusing to hurry. He jumped out, circled around, and opened my door like it was some grand gesture, though we both knew the clock was ticking. His eyes held mine with a feverish sincerity, like he wanted to burn every detail into memory. He seemed so young and so much in love with his idea of me… The way he stood there—slim frame leaning slightly forward, curls wild in the wind—looked as if nothing else in the world mattered but this moment. He told me he couldn’t imagine waiting long, that three months felt unbearable, yet he would be there in Rome, no matter what it cost. His voice shook a little, but his smile did not falter, and that combination—tremor and radiance—struck me harder than I had expected.
When I finally pulled him into an embrace, I felt him cling as if to anchor both of us against the inevitability of separation. His warmth, his scent, the faint scrape of his stubble against my cheek—all of it pressed into me with a desperation he didn’t bother to hide. I held him longer than I should have, aware of the curious glances passing us by, but unwilling to let go first. When I finally did, his hand lingered at my sleeve until the last second, and then he laughed—a short, nervous burst—and told me to hurry before I missed my flight. As I walked into the terminal, I turned once to see him standing there, red curls blown about by the wind, smiling like someone who had already decided that Rome would not be a promise but a certainty.
Come March, our schedules did not let us meet, but every time I hear water splashing I… you know… you know.
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