I arrived to Norway upon the invitation of my student Sander Nilsen, who had taken my course in Intercultural Communication five years earlier. Sander promised me a wilderness adventure: a dog sled race, an ice-fishing trip, a wax massage, Milky Way stargazing and a sauna in the evening! Naturally, I agreed as quickly as I could type “yes” on my keyboard. Sander’s friend Trygve met me at the airport well past midnight and took me in his car to a faraway retreat in a beautiful lodge with spacious rooms and huge windows. As soon as my head touched the pillow that night, I fell asleep—deep and absolutely relaxed by the ambience of the place.
When I came down to the restaurant that morning, dawn had only just begun to thin the dark. The snow outside held a faint pink like bruised fruit, and the streetlamps still threw soft halos on the snow-covered ground outside. Inside, the dining room smelled of coffee and warm bread. I chose a table by the big window and watched the light ease over the town. For my breakfast I took some pale and yellow scrambled eggs, several pieces of smoked salmon gleaming like copper, and a wedge of brunost, a sweet type of fudge that tasted of caramel and quiet farms. A mug of strong coffee warmed my hands and steadied my thoughts.
As I made my way to the lobby, I saw the tall figure of my former students instantly: Sander was impossible to miss. He stood by the door, tall and lanky but in a massive coat and a wool hat pushed low, with his blond curls and rosy cheeks showing from under it. He looked at me in my thin sweater and a meager jacket, laughed and waved a bulky down jacket and thick snow trousers at me with a grin. “You’ll need these,” he said, and his grin looked like both instruction and invitation.
I hurried upstairs and changed, feeling huge and bulky—and very hot! But when I stepped outside, the cold hit me like a clean slap. My breath turned into small clouds that vanished in the air. A team of huskies waited, with small energetic bodies and bright eyes. Their paws dug into the snow, and their breath smoked. After seating me down, Sander handed me an additional fur blanket and a steaming paper cup of more coffee. “Don’t try to pet them, they bite strangers,” he said. “Just get in. They are easier to trust when they run.”
He stood behind me on the sled runners and gave a short, sharp command. The dogs surged forward as a single living organism. The settlement’s wooden houses passed in a soft blur, smoke from chimneys curling like little grey question marks. The sky sat low and brittle, and the only sounds were the runners’ whisper and the dogs’ steady pant. “We are going to the forest lake,” Sander shouted. “Ice-fishing is so much fun!”
We slid over white fields that stretched into forever, the dogs running in a rhythm so steady it felt like breath itself. Their paws hit the snow with soft, quick thuds, sending up powder that shimmered briefly before settling again. The sled’s runners whispered against the packed trail, and the cold air cut clean through my scarf, stinging but somehow welcome. The horizon was pale and endless, where sky and snow blurred into one thin line. From time to time Sander shouted a word in Norwegian, and the dogs veered slightly, obedient and eager. I gripped the sides of the sled, half for balance, half to orient myself in that wide, weightless silence.
Soon we reached a birch grove, and tree branches, heavy with snow made us duck as we swished by, sending diamonds of snow scattering in small showers. After an exhilarating ride on a winding forest path, we finally broke free onto the frozen lake, a pale sheet that gleamed under the thin sun. The dogs came to a stop after making a spectacular arc around the center of the lake.
Sander handed me a small tin of cream. “Okay, let’s catch some char,” he said. “But first rub this on your nose and ears. The wind bites worse here.” I did as he told me, and the cream produced a faint, warm film across my face.
He set an auger to the ice and turned it until the blade chewed through with a low grinding sound. We sat on the folding stools with lines in the hole and waited. The silence on the lake had weight to it — not empty, but full of small things: a distant rattle of harnesses, the far-off exhale of the dogs, the soft creak of ice. The world around us seemed held in suspension, as if the air itself were listening.
Sander sat motionless except for the slow curl of steam rising from his thermos. His fishing line hung straight into the dark hole, unmoving. I could see the frost gathered on his lashes, tiny crystals catching the weak sunlight. The ice beneath us groaned now and then, a long, low sound that rolled through the stillness like a sigh. I felt the cold creeping through the layers of my coat, but I didn’t mind. There was a kind of peace in waiting — in doing nothing but breathing, listening, and letting the frozen world speak for itself.
Soon, however, if there were not a promise of a more fun evening, this big city boy—me—would have been bored stiff sitting there looking at the sinker. Thank God, in a few minutes Sander pulled up a bright, fat char that flashed silver and pink. He caught another fleshy one shortly after, and an even bigger one after another 15 minutes, when I felt already half-frozen. He packed them in snow and laughed. “Leave them to freeze a little,” he said. “We will eat them later.”
Then he brought out from the nearby lodge a pair of Finnish skis — two runner platforms with a narrow seat. One person sat, the other stood on the runners behind and pushed with a gliding foot. He helped me onto the seat first and stepped up behind me. When he kicked off, we took off as smoothly as a good train, the runners sliding quickly, and whispering against the snow. Sander showed me a few risky moves: he leaned his weight on one runner and hooked a tight turn, he balanced on a single foot to gain speed, and once he made a small hop that sent our sled skimming over a crust of snow. He laughed, and I laughed back, our laughter sounding light and easy despite the cold.
We raced around the lake, leaving dark tracks that crisscrossed the white. I asked to trade places and soon got the hang of it, even attempting a few tricks, and overturning us, of course, in the process. Roaring with laughter we got up, helped each other clean off the snow, and went off again, trading places every ten minutes until we were breathless and hot, and the entire area around the lake and on the ice was criss-crossed with the maze of our runner tracks.
When we returned, the dogs lay with their noses tucked under their tails. We took the skis back to the squat wooden cabin near the shore. The door opened on a different world: warmth hit us like a hand, and the smell of honey and resin rose up. Two guys in simple work shirts nodded at us and guided us to wide tables. “For Aurora watching we’ll need even more protection,” Sander said. “Lose the clothes.” I looked at him in astonishment. “Well, not ALL the clothes,” he laughed. We’ll reserve this for the sauna!” We undressed to our underwear and lay down on the tables, exposing our backs to the two gorgeous masseuses.
They began by covering our backs with warm bee wax. At first it was almost too hot, a golden heat that ran in thick ribbons along the skin. The smell of honey was strong and sweet. The wax pressed and smoothed across my shoulders and back until my muscles felt as though they were loosening like ropes.
Then they turned us around and large soft hands started their dance across our chests. The heat sank deep. I felt old, travel-tied knots unwind under my curly-haired masseuse’s hands. When the wax cooled, it formed a thin, protective film on the skin. The effect was odd and wonderful — my ribs seemed lighter, and my chest opened as if I had shed a small load of the day.
Afterward, wrapped in towels and sitting with cups of spruce tea, we tried the frozen fish we had caught. Sander had kept the sauce in a thermos so it stayed warm and fluid. He sliced the frozen char paper-thin, the knife making a clean, bright sound on the board. At first the fish was close and cold on the tongue, tasting clean and fresh, more like meat than fish. Then the sauce touched it — mustardy and sweet, with a sharpness like lemon and a whisper of dill — and warmth flowed down my throat. The contrast was striking. The flesh was firm and almost buttery despite the cold. The sauce melted slightly on contact and released a gentle heat that moved from mouth to chest. It warmed me more than I expected, as if the taste reached farther than the tongue.
We ate slowly, talking about small things. Outside, the light shifted and the air grew thinner.
Sander glanced at the field and nodded. “The sky will arrive soon,” he said. We stepped back onto the snow, and woke up the dogs. Initially waking up grudgingly, they soon barked happily, sensing a new trip, and Sander had a hard time keeping them still as I tried to position myself on the seat. This was when I realized how the protective film on my body was helping me. Sander gave me another cup of spruce tea to go, and we ventured back into a wide open spot at the edge of the forest.
The night came quickly in that latitude. Stars pricked the indigo above, and the Milky Way lay across the sky in a dense, luminous strip. Then a pale green shimmer stitched itself along the horizon. It began as a ghost, then gathered into a curtain that rolled and unrolled in slow, deliberate motions. Hints of purple threaded through at the edges like the burner of a gas flame.
We sat on the sled, quiet, and watched the aurora unspool. The snow took on a faint emerald wash. The dogs seemed to understand the quiet of the nature around us and lay down with softer breaths. For a long time we said nothing. Then Sander read a poem, he said, belonging to a Norwegian classic:
Above the darkened ridge
the heavens flare — green,
violet, pale fire,
a whisper of the sun
returning through the night.
We stand and do not speak.
The snow forgets its color,
the air forgets its cold.
Only the eyes remember
what burns without heat,
what moves without sound.
I saw what the poem spoke of before Sander even finished it. The ridge beyond the lake had dissolved into shadow, and above it, the sky moved like breath — green and violet arcs that seemed to think rather than burn. The snow around us no longer looked white but alive, pulsing faintly with the light that slid over it. The air had lost its bite; I felt it on my face but without edge, as if even the cold had stopped to watch. The dogs were quiet, their shapes dark and still against the snow. For a long moment I forgot the sound of my own voice, of Sander’s beside me. Everything — light, ice, breath — folded into one wide silence, and I understood why no one ever managed to describe it quite right.
I took out my phone, still warm from being pressed against my chest beneath the coats. My fingers felt clumsy in their gloves as I fumbled to frame the sky — a foolish act, really, as if I could trap that living light inside a screen. The camera blinked, clicked a few times, and I slid it back under the layers before the cold found it. For a moment, I wondered if the pictures would come out at all, or if they would be just dark smudges where color once moved. Then I stopped caring. I tried instead to hold the scene in my mind — the ear-splitting silence, the quiet shapes of the dogs, Sander’s face turned upward — and to take a photograph the way the heart does: without sound, without glass, only the stillness of seeing…
The cold pressed in at last, sharp enough that my lungs burned, and Sander clapped his gloved hands. “We should get to the lodge before our toes forget how to be toes,” he said, with that grin I had seen in the morning.
The ride back was slow and reverent. When we reached the lodge, light spilled like honey into the snow. “I need the gear,” Sander said, pointing at the pants and the jacket that I had long seen as mine. We went upstairs to my room, and I changed, returning the warm pants and the jacket, feeling suddenly quite bare.
“Before you warm up, let’s hit the sauna,” Sander said. “Let’s leave the clothes here, remember? Skin to skin!” and he laughed in a way that make me catch my breath from excitement of what I knew was going to be fun.
***
We stepped into a dark hallway with low and shadowed walls, and followed it to a huge wooden door at the end. Sander pushed it open and we entered the annex.
The ante-chambre was narrow, lined in pale pine, the wood glowing faintly under a single warm bulb. Benches ran along the walls, two beds with fresh linen stood side by side in the center, and a row of hooks held a few robes from previous guests. Towels were folded neatly on the shelves, and a small window looked out onto the snowy courtyard, casting a pale light across the floor.
I hung my bathrobe on a hook and glanced at Sander as he did the same. The door to the sauna room creaked open, amber light spilling toward us. Inside, the benches rose in two tiers, the wood smooth and worn, glowing in the heat. On the stones sat a black iron bucket filled with water and several tiny bottles of herb tinctures. The scent of birch and wood smoke hung thick in the hot air.
From the sauna, I could see the door back to the ante-chambre, and beyond that, a second door, which led to a smaller, colder room. The sink pool was dug into the snow-covered floor under a roof, the dark water still and misting faintly. The room itself was much colder than the sauna, the walls simple, unpainted timber, the snow packed firm underfoot. I noted the route: from the sauna, through the ante-chambre, one could step into that icy water without leaving the annex. Everything looked orderly, quiet, and ready — the promise of warmth, chill, and steam waiting just beyond the next door.
***
When we got inside the red-hot sauna, the heat jumped at me as a hot blanket, but after a day in the chill it felt welcome. I dropped onto the warm seat, and let my gaze travel while steam blurred the cedar walls. Sander stood in front of me, rail-thin, almost translucent against the walls, his ribs looking like faint ridges beneath winter-pale skin. Tiny coal-dark nipples perched high on his narrow chest; I found myself staring longer than polite, surprised how delicate they looked on a man. Lower, a dense black bush exploded against the white, tight balls tucked up like walnuts in a drawstring bag. His cock hung long but reed-slender, the kind of childhood stretch you keep pulling to see how far it goes—shaft slightly curved, head small and neat, almost shy under the hood of foreskin. Everything about him felt fragile yet hotly attractive, and the contrast stirred a slow, unexpected heat in my gut.
In a second he turned, and slid on the hot bench next to me, saying “Shit! Ow! Fuck!” as he settled on the hot wood. When he finally settled I couldn’t but slide my arm along the hot pine bench and curl it around Sander’s sharp shoulders; he folded into me like paper into an envelope, collarbones light against my chest. With smaller men I always feel larger than life—my forearm spans their whole back, biceps cup the ridge of their ribs, and they seem to breathe with my lungs. Sander’s temple settled against my neck, damp hair sticking to my skin, and the scent of cedar mixed with the faint salt already rising on him. Holding him felt like wrapping a single sheet around a warm body: no resistance, just quiet surrender, the kind of fit that makes you want to keep pulling until nothing shows but your own arms.
Steam wrapped us like a single thick blanket, the heat pressing skin to skin until I couldn’t tell whose pulse thudded against my ribs. Our breaths found the same slow rhythm—inhale together, exhale together—while sweat beaded on my temple and traced cool lines down Sander’s narrow chest, pooling where his shoulder met my arm. I felt us melting at the edges, chests softening into one shared rise and fall. Beneath my palm his ribs fluttered, pace quickening; each lift pressed those small dark nipples higher, stiff and glossy in the red cedar glow, proof that the heat inside him was matching the heat I carried.
The sauna heat seeped past skin and sank straight into bone, loosening knots I hadn’t noticed since morning. A cold I’d carried all day—sharp-edged, restless—started to drip away with the sweat rolling off my chest. Each breath pulled scorching air deep, thawing the tight space behind my ribs until my heartbeat felt slow, almost sleepy. I sagged against the bench, aware of weight but no longer fighting it, the chill inside dissolving into a heavy, golden calm. For the first time in hours I wasn’t bracing against anything; I was simply melting, and it felt like coming home to a warmth I hadn’t known I’d lost.
The air turned liquid fire; holding him felt like clutching a branding iron, so I let my arm slide off his shoulder and drop to the bench between us. Sweat sprang from every pore—rivulets racing down my spine, pooling at the small of my back just long enough to cool before the next wave scalded them dry. My chest dripped like an icicle in fast-forward, droplets hanging from nipples, stinging as they reheated. Sander stood up suddenly, his thin frame ghosting through steam, and emptied a pail of water from the bucket with a few drops of some tincture he added across the stones; a sharp hiss rose, the scent of crushed eucalyptus burst open, cool-bitter on the tongue, cutting the heat for one bright second before the wall of warmth closed in again.
The eucalyptus hit like a slap of mountain air—sharp, clean, slicing straight through the fog of steam. My lungs snapped open, ribs stretching wider than they had all day, as if someone’d untied a rope around my chest. Weight lifted so fast the room tilted; blood pounded behind my ears, pulse drumming at each temple while the sweet-sharp scent spiraled deeper. I felt suddenly weightless, almost floating on the bench, head light, heart racing to catch up with the breath it finally had room to take.
Sander watched me ride that rush, eyes half-lidded, satisfied with the effect it left. He tipped the bottle again—just a few drops this time—then set it aside and leaned back, arms stretching overhead until the dainty muscles in his chest rolled under sweat-slick skin. The new hiss of vapor curled between us, carrying that cold-clear sting straight into my sinuses, flooding the air, making each breath strangely cold in that heat.
After fifteen minutes, the heat became intense, and Sander suggested we cool off; I nodded, rising unsteadily on the legs softened by the steam. We jumped out together, gasping at the cooler ante-chambre air, our slick bodies brushing as we hurried through it toward the covered shed.
The night air inside the shed hit like a cold palm against my chest—nipples snapping tight, sweat seemingly turning to prickles of ice across my shoulders. Sander’s hand found the small of my back, guiding me through the doorway, fingers sliding on the film of moisture still clinging to my skin. Inside the shed, dim lantern light painted everything gold: rough planks, the square sink pool steaming faintly, our shadows stretching long across the walls. He stepped in first, water lapping at his calves, then turned and offered me his palm—simple courtesy, but the way his thumb grazed my wrist said otherwise. I took it, lowered myself, and the plunge swallowed us whole. It was cold enough to steal my breath and make my balls draw up tight, cock jerking against the sudden chill, but thankfully Sander kept that steady grip, holding me upright. Five seconds in the cold grip seemed like a minute, but soon I felt his hand pulling me out, and I gratefully followed.
Rushing back, the contrast reignited the sweat almost instantly as we collapsed onto the bench, closer now, our thighs pressing together lightly. We simply sweated in the renewed heat, the silence feeling quite comfortable, until Sander pulled me into a loose hug, his arms wrapping around me in a gentle, reassuring hold that made my heart quicken. I could feel the steady thud of his pulse through the slick skin of his chest, each exhale fanning warm across my temple while the steam curled around us like a curtain, sealing the world outside. My hands found the small of his back of their own accord, fingertips gliding on the film of moisture there, and we stayed locked in that slow, breath-to-breath sway, the heat softening muscle and resolve alike until every heartbeat felt shared between us.
His fingertips traced slow circles down my triceps, each pass leaving a cool stripe that vanished under fresh sweat almost immediately. I let more of my weight sink against him, collarbone sliding on collarbone, feeling the faint tremor in his ribcage that said this wasn’t casual anymore. Steam beaded on his jaw; when he turned his head the droplet dragged across my neck, a tiny river that slipped all the way to the hollow of my throat before heat swallowed it. My own hands slid lower, palms fitting to the curve of his waist, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin of his lower back—testing, asking—while the sauna wood creaked softly beneath us, keeping time with our matched breathing. Ah, how hard it was not to kiss, not to grab the sweet length of his pale dick shining light in the semi-darkness of the sauna. Only the trained dick of someone who went to the sauna every Sunday in the Russian quarter of Vancouver could stay limp in these circumstances… Wait, wait, Augie, it’s coming, coming soon…
… The next time we raced through the ante-chambre and dove into the pool, the chill slid over me like smooth glass—no gasp this time, just a low hum in my chest as nerves lit up everywhere the pool touched. Sander’s hand found my hip beneath the surface, thumb tracing a cold arc across the bone while his eyes stayed on mine, pupils wide from the dim lantern. My skin felt thinner, every droplet that slid down my chest registering like fingertips, cock stirring against the piercing cold instead of shrinking. When he shifted closer, knee slipping between mine, the water moved around us in quiet ripples that lapped the sides of the sink pool.
… The latch thumped shut behind us and the heat folded over our shoulders like a heavy quilt just pulled from the dryer. I drew a breath and felt it settle deep, thick with eucalyptus and the ghost of birch smoke; every pore opened at once, sweat rising before we even reached the upper bench. Sander dropped beside me with a soft grunt, skin already glassy, the cedar planks warm against the backs of his thighs. Somewhere in the stones a drip hissed, and the whole room seemed to pulse—heartbeat-slow, conspiratorial.
He shifted, elbows on knees, fingers drumming an idle tattoo against his own shin. Restlessness radiated off him like another layer of steam. I let my gaze drift for the first time: down the slope of his chest, the faint scatter of blond hair darkened by sweat, the flat plane of his stomach rising and falling a little faster than the heat demanded. And there, between thick thighs relaxed wide, his cock—minutes ago a pale, wrinkled stub from the ice-cold sink pool—was beginning to lift. Thin no longer; it thickened visibly, lengthening along the crease of his groin, the foreskin slowly drawing back as blood answered whatever silent drum the sauna was beating.
A single bead of sweat rolled off my temple and landed on my own knee, stinging hot. Sander’s fingers stilled. He didn’t look at me, but I felt the shift: the air tightening, the bench shrinking, the slow swell of him now unmistakable—half-hard and rising with each steady breath, as if the steam itself coaxed him awake. My own pulse answered, thick in my throat.
He turned to me without warning, one broad hand sliding to the nape of my neck, the other cradling my jaw like he meant to keep me there forever. The first brush was soft—just the salt-slick slide of his lower lip—but then his mouth opened, hot and certain, and the kiss dropped straight through me. His tongue found mine on the first stroke, slow, deliberate, mapping every corner as if the sauna air had turned to honey and we had all the time in the world to taste it. I felt the bench tilt, or maybe my spine did; every muscle loosened under that claiming sweep while the wet heat of him—sweat, steam, mead-tinged breath—poured down the back of my throat. When he pulled away a fraction, the room swayed; our foreheads stayed touching, the kiss still echoing in my pulse, salt and cedar and something wild now loose between us.
A ragged breath slipped between us before his mouth dropped to the curve of my throat. Teeth grazed first—light, testing—then a gentle bite that sent a jolt straight to my groin; he soothed the sting with a slow, flat lick, tasting the fresh sweat already blooming on my skin. I let my head fall back against the cedar slats, eyes half-closed, pulse drumming loud in my ears. Each kiss moved lower: another nip at the hollow beneath my ear, a lazy swirl of tongue across the salt-slick ridge of collarbone, then lower still, tracing the thin line of hair down my sternum. My arms stayed loose at my sides, palms open, body melting under the deliberate map he was drawing—skin singing wherever his mouth landed, the sauna steam sealing us inside a private, humid hush where his confidence grew with every shudder he coaxed from me.
The stones hissed their last breath and the air mellowed from scald to balmy wrap; without fresh steam the heat loosened its grip, letting my shoulders sink deeper into the cedar. I drifted under the slow drag of Sander’s tongue—long, unhurried strokes from sternum to navel, each one drawing a small, helpless sound from me, more sigh than moan. My fingers found his damp curls, and I stroked them absent-mindedly, feeling the faint tremor in his scalp each time my hips gave a lazy rock. Between us his cock—now fully hard, hot as the bench beneath us—nudged my thigh, pulse beating against skin slick with shared sweat. I let my knees fall wider, inviting the weight, and he answered with a low hum that vibrated straight through my ribs, the sauna settling around us like a cooling tide we had no intention of leaving.
He slid lower, palms skimming the slick plane of my chest until thumbs settled over my nipples, pressing slow, deliberate circles that sent sparks racing under the sweaty skin. His mouth followed—hot breath first, then the velvet flick of his tongue, tasting steam and cedar and the faint tremor of my pulse. He drew one nipple between his lips, sucking gently at first, then harder, the flick-flick of his tongue matching the lazy roll of his hips so the hard length of him rubbed a wet trail along my inner thigh. I arched without thinking, shoulder blades grinding into the bench, fingers scrabbling for anything to stabilize me while the humid air thickened around the soft, broken sounds he was pulling from my throat—each tug of his mouth brought another wave washing me boneless beneath him.
He drifted lower, lips skating the thin sheen of sweat that clung to my stomach, each kiss a hot spark against overheated skin. His tongue dipped into my navel, a slow swirl that drew a shaky hiss from me, then traced the sharp ridge of my hip bone—once, twice—until the muscle jumped beneath the tease.
Sauna heat wrapped us like live wire; every breath felt scorched, every lick amplified until I could feel the echo of it in my pulse, in the heavy throb between my legs. My thighs trembled apart without permission, hips lifting in tiny, helpless jerks while soft, ragged whimpers spilled into the thick air—sounds I barely recognized as mine, offered up to the wet drag of his mouth and the greedy warmth that refused to let either of us cool.
He eased my legs open, palms gliding down slick skin until thumbs pressed the hollows beside my kneecaps, spreading me wide like a book he meant to read aloud. Hot breath ghosted up the trembling inside of my thigh—first the left, then the right—each kiss placed a fraction higher, lips brushing the sensitive seam where leg meets groin. My cock strained, bobbing with every ragged breath, but he ignored it, choosing instead to torment the thin skin just beneath, tongue flicking in slow, wet lashes that sent sparks shooting straight to my core. I felt myself sink deeper into the cedar, hips canting, thighs falling apart until the sauna’s steam folded around us like a second skin—my moans low and broken, hissing in counterpoint to the soft splutter of cooling stones, the whole room narrowing to the wet heat of his mouth and the unbearable space he kept refusing to close.
At last his tongue met the base of my cock—one slow, flat swipe that dragged every drop of sweat and heat upward in a single, glistening stripe. I groaned loudly now, the sound cracking in my dry throat as he repeated the path, unhurried, worshipful, each lick pressing just hard enough to feel the pulse beneath skin. My hips lifted of their own accord, chasing that velvet warmth, but he held me down with a steady palm across my pelvis, pinning me to the bench. Again and again his tongue traveled from the root of my cock to the crown, lingering beneath the ridge to circle the sensitive underside until I was trembling, fists knotted against the bench, sweat stinging my eyes and dripping onto my chest—lost in the slick, rhythmic devotion he refused to rush, the whole world narrowing to the slow, wet glide and the thunder of blood in my ears.
He rose slowly, sweat-slick chest heaving, metal gray eyes locked on mine with a hunger that seemed to pulse in the thick air. “Too tight in here,” he murmured, voice low and rough, nodding toward the door that led to the ante-chambre. I could only nod, legs unsteady as he hooked an arm around my waist and hauled me up; our bodies slid together, cock to hip, before he steered me forward. The latch clicked, steam curling out behind us like a reluctant sigh, and the sudden drop in temperature hit my overheated skin like needles of bright ice—nipples tightening, sweat cooling into tiny rivulets that raced down my spine.
We stepped across the cool tiles, and Sander reached into his robe pocket for that only thing I knew he could hide in there, and my balls responded with a dull ache of want. Then, Sander’s hands found my waist and steered me toward one of the two beds made up with fresh linen. Moonlight from a high window painted a silver rectangle across the sheet; he paused there, palms sliding to my hips, and lowered me until the mattress took my weight with a soft creak. I lay back, pulse loud in my ears, and he knelt between my legs—knees planting wide, thighs still shining with sauna sweat, breath coming slow and steady.
For the first time I let my gaze linger openly on him. His cock now stuck straight forward, proud and slightly curved downward like a lowered railway schlagbaum—thick, blunt head darker than the rest of him, flared and glossy under a bead of sweat that clung to the slit. Behind it the shaft narrowed into a lean, elegant arc. His balls hung loose and low in the cooler air—two small, oval weights swaying gently each time he shifted, the sac lightly furred and delicate against the heavier column above.
He must have felt my stare; a slow smile tugged at his mouth, but he didn’t speak—just leaned forward.
He rolled me like I weighed nothing—one smooth tug at my hip and I was on my belly, knees drawn beneath me, elbows braced against the fresh sheet that smelled of starch and distant pine. Dim wall-lamp light striped across my back, turning sweat to liquid gold while he knelt behind, thighs framing mine. Two broad palms slid under my hips and lifted me, until my ass angled high and open, cool air kissing places the sauna had kept hidden. I heard his breath catch, then the first warm flick: the tip of his tongue tracing light, perfect circles around my rim, feather-soft yet electric.
Each lap tightened the coil in my gut. He kept the pressure maddeningly gentle—one wet circle, pause, another circle—until the muscle fluttered on its own, begging without words. My shoulders dropped, spine bowed lower, fingers clawing linen as shudders rolled through me in waves. Still he stayed patient, tongue dipping just enough to taste the give, then retreating, teasing the edges until I was panting open-mouthed into the mattress, every nerve funneled to that wet, insistent point. In the hush I could hear the soft slick of each pass, the creak of the bed as he leaned closer, the low hum of approval vibrating through skin—his skill turning my passivity into pure, helpless ecstasy, body offered up like clay for the slow, circular sculpting of his mouth.
His tongue flattened, broad and hot, pressing in so the muscle yielded on the first slow glide—then pulled back, only to return sharper, pointed, flicking quick staccato taps that made my thighs jerk against his hold. He varied the pace like he knew the exact meter of my pulse: long, luxurious strokes that dragged a low moan from my chest, followed by rapid, shallow darts that stole my breath and left me clenching empty air. The ante-chambre’s cooler draft licked across my damp back, contrasting with the molten warmth he kept pushing inside me, heightening every nerve until I felt each tiny ripple of his tongue as a spark shooting up my spine.
I dropped to my forearms, ass higher, spine liquefying under the assault. My gasps turned raw, broken—please, Sander, please—words I didn’t plan, spilling into the hush while he answered only with a hum that vibrated straight through flesh. Every invasive swirl felt deeper than the last, his strong hands tilting my hips further, spreading me wider, claiming new territory with each velvet probe. The shift from sauna’s blur to this quiet, half-lit room made it intimate, almost illicit—just his mouth and my yielding, the soft squelch of saliva and sweat, the bed creaking in time with my tremors as he drove me to the edge of begging for more than tongue.
One hand left my hip and slid beneath, fingers closing around my rigid cock in a single, sure grip—slick with sauna sweat and his own spit, no friction, just smooth, gliding pressure. He matched the rhythm instantly: tongue spearing deep on the in-stroke, fist pumping root-to-crown on the out-stroke, turning my body into a taut bow pulled from both ends. My forehead ground into the mattress, cries muffled by linen as he found the perfect tempo—rimming, stroking, rimming, stroking—each cycle winding the coil tighter until I couldn’t tell whether the sparks were shooting forward through my cock or backward into his mouth.
I tried to rock, to meet him, but he held me pinned—hips lifted, thighs spread, every muscle burning with desire. Remnants of steam still clung to my skin, mixing with fresh trails of saliva that cooled and reheated with each breath; the cushions beneath us grew damp, squelching softly with every thrust of tongue and slide of fist. My balls drew up, breath ragged, and still he didn’t relent—just kept driving me along that razor edge, his young hunger relentless, my older composure shattered into raw, open-mouthed surrender.
He drew back just long enough to strip away the last of his own sweat-slick skin—that hidden condom packet ripped, rolled, then a quick squeeze of a small layer of lube from a small sachet on the condom package… One coated finger returned to my rim, tracing gentle circles before sliding in to the first knuckle, crooking slowly, stretching with patient pulses that pulled low moans from my chest. “Easy, Augie… let me feel you open,” he whispered, breath warm against my shoulder blade, voice steady enough to calm the tremor in my thighs. A second finger joined, scissoring tenderly, the cool gel a shock that quickly melted into heat; every inward stroke brushed that sweet knot inside me, turning my ragged exhales into soft, pleading sounds that echoed off the tiled walls.
When he shifted closer I felt the blunt, sheathed head nudge once, twice—then settle. I couldn’t see his eyes, but the weight of his gaze burned between my shoulder blades as he pressed forward, slow, deliberate, letting the foreskin pull back completely and his broad crown breached the ring in one long, controlled glide. My breath hitched; he paused, palm smoothing up my spine, thumb tracing a calming line while my body adjusted around the thick intrusion. “Breathe,” he murmured, and I did—long, shuddering inhale that opened me wider—so he slid deeper, inch by inch, the lean curve of his cock filling me until hips met ass with a soft, damp slap.
The final push seated him completely; for a heartbeat we stayed locked, sweat dripping from his chest onto my back, our pulses syncing through the thin barrier. Then he drew back just enough to let me feel every ridge of him before rocking forward again, steady, unhurried, the real connection finally kindled—my body yielding, his guiding hands firm, the ante-chambre’s quiet broken only by our mingled breath and the slow, slick sound of him beginning to move.
That downward arc fit like a key sliding home—every slow drag forward scraped sweet fire across my prostate, a perfect, deliberate drag that made my toes curl against the mattress. He started gentle, hips rolling in long, syrupy waves, the curve gliding over the sweet spot again and again until breathy whimpers spilled out of me uncontrollably. Then his pace lifted—thighs smacking my ass with wet, sharp claps—each thrust punching a high, pathetic cry from my throat while his own breath turned to guttural grunts, loud and reverberating off the walls. Sweat dripped from his chest onto my back, hips snapping faster, that downward bend stroking the gland relentlessly until I was a shaking, whimpering mess beneath him, every slam lighting sparks that pooled low and urgent, ready to burst.
He slammed in deep, froze for a heartbeat—cock pulsing on the brink—then folded over me, chest slick against my spine. Hot tongue dragged up the valley of my back, lapping sweat, teeth nipping the nape hard enough to make me yelp before he soothed the sting with a slow swirl. Still buried to the hilt, he began a lazy side-to-side rock, hips sketching arcs that rolled that curved shaft along every inner wall—left, right, up, down—like he was stirring me from the inside. The motion tickled nerves I didn’t know existed; lightning sparks shot through my gut, my knees jack-hammering against the bench while high, breathless giggles turned to desperate whimpers, my whole body shuddering under the sweet, tormenting swirl of him.
Every sense collided at once and I couldn’t track a single one—his tongue sanding a wet strip up my spine, the rasp of it mixing with the huff of his moans that always melted me; behind that his curved cock rolled slow circles inside me, brushing fresh sparks across the gland while his balls—cooler, somehow—rested loose and heavy against my perineum, a strange, dangling counterweight. Then his hand: fingers clamped around my shaft like an iron cuff, trapping foreskin half-hooded so the trapped glans throbbed, aching for friction that never came—sweet hurt, maddening itch. I writhed between the four points of pleasure-pain, mind fragmenting—lick, breath, stir, slap, squeeze—each sensation vying until they blurred into one overwhelming hum that had me babbling incoherently into the mattress, unable to choose, unable to breathe.
He straightened, chest lifting off my back, and the next thrust came sharp—hips snapping so hard our skin cracked like a wet towel, echoing off the walls. The rhythm rebuilt fast: slam, withdraw, slam—each downward curve grinding my prostate on the pass, his balls slapping wet against my perineum in perfect counter-time. The hand around my cock unlocked its choke just enough to piston—tight ring sliding up, cresting the ridge of my crown with a fierce, milking tug, then driving back down, foreskin forced to roll but never quite clear the head. Over and over: pelvis pounding, fist commanding, the two beats syncing until I was a sobbing knot of heat, ass clenching helplessly around the relentless curve that owned it, every slap pushing a grunt from him and a broken cry from me, the ante-chambre nothing but skin-on-skin percussion and the slick sound of him taking complete control…
A guttural roar tore from his chest—long, animal, vibrating through my ribs—and the sound snapped the coil: my orgasm detonated in white-hot pulses, cum flooding his fist as it clamped hard over the head, catching every jet in that tight ring. I felt the first spurt hit his palm, the second squeeze through, the third weaker, the fourth a tremor—each one milked by his grip while my ass clamped around his driving cock. He slammed deep, growled again, deeper, primal—and then four hard shudders rocked him: one, two, three, four—hot bursts flooding the condom inside me, each throb a distinct heartbeat I felt along my tender walls.
Still buried, still pulsing, he collapsed forward, chest slamming to my back, breath ragged against my neck. The growl softened into a low, satisfied rumble while he muttered gravelly Norwegian I couldn’t translate—something thick with awe and ownership—words vibrating through sweat-slick skin as we stayed locked, hearts hammering together, the only motion the slow drip of cooling cum between his fingers and the aftershocks twitching inside me.
… A minute later he braced a palm against the wall and pushed upright, thighs trembling, that downward curve still jutting proud—glossy with lube on the condom, veins straining beneath flushed skin. One thumb hooked the ring and peeled the latex slowly; the condom slipped off like a shed skin, a heavy bulb of milky come swinging at the tip, catching the dim light like some secret pearl. I couldn’t look away: that small translucent pouch held the most private part of him—proof of every raw growl and thrust, now quiet and exposed in his fingers.
… Five years ago he had sat in the front row, wide-eyed, asked earnest questions about intercultural communication and wilderness tour traditions, and never missed a tutorial—bright, polite, almost boyish. That night the same man stood over me, chest heaving, face glittered with sweat, eyes soft yet feral, confidence etched into every line of muscle. The contrast knotted my stomach: the diligent student who once blushed over a misplaced pronoun now gripped a condom brimming with his own spent desire, and had just ridden me into the crumpled sheets on a narrow bed without a shred of hesitation. I felt the echo of his growls still rattle in my bones and thought, impossible—yet there he was, northern guide, generous host, relentless lover, holding the tangible evidence of how thoroughly he’d rewritten the syllabus…
***
Next morning the terminal at Tromsø Airport felt more like a cabin than an airport, built of glass and pale wood, the kind that absorbed the cold light rather than reflected it. Beyond the windows, the snow lay deep all over except the brown runway, and a line of mountains rose ghostlike behind the mist. Inside, everything smelled faintly of coffee and pine cleaner.
Sander stood near the glass wall, his red hair glowing copper in the dim light. He wore the same heavy wool sweater from the cabin, sleeves pushed to his elbows, hands buried in his pockets. He looked younger there, somehow — tall, awkward, and too open for his own good.
We had said almost everything the night before, collapsing together, naked and sated, on the bed in my room. We never promised each other anything; we just said that we both had enjoyed it, and It had been a kind of truce between bodies and minds, restless in the morning no less than last night.
Sander looked at me, hesitant, then asked, “You’ll come back, won’t you?” His voice carried that easy northern tone, half-playful, half-serious.
I adjusted my scarf, pretending to study the boarding pass in my hand. “Only if you promise not to boil me alive next time.”
He laughed — that broad, boyish laugh that startled the quiet of the hall — and for a moment I wished the flight would delay. We shook hands, firm but brief, and I turned toward security. When I looked back, Sander was still by the window, watching the snow swirl across the tarmac.
***
Since then we have only met twice, both times having just ten to twenty minutes, but fucking without preliminaries and without a bed could be—I found out—as hot, if not hotter than a carefully arranged date. Last time he fucked me, he was freshly circumcised and fucked me longer. Oh, and he’s had the surgery to correct the downward slant. Now his dick is perfectly straight, and… well, it does not push the places I so wanted it to push again. I think I love Sander the way you love a cozy friend who makes you feel good without too many words.
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