Isolation

The water had frozen in my parka, so although very cold I no longer felt wet. In fact I felt very little. I had thought to lie next to the dead mare for warmth but she was in the creek bed, soaking wet. The intense cold had dulled to a sting, and finally I just felt numb. Lying in the grass behind the rock was the best thing to do, at least the biting wind was not ripping at my face, trying to tear what little warmth I had from me. The camera would perhaps record my last moments. I held it high in the air and heard the shutter whine as it snapped open for a split second. I wondered, just as I lost consciousness, if the aperture setting was open enough for the low light.

The air was warm on my face. I snuggled down into the soft lambs wool pelt that was wrapped around my shoulders. I smelled the musky, humid scent of damp earth, and something else...some kind of meat, roasting. I opened my eyes. There in front of me was a whole lamb, hung from a spit over a roaring wood fire. The golden brown skin was crackling and hissing, hot beads of fat dripping into the hot embers. I looked around in a haze. A one room cottage, walls of mud and timbers. The roof was steeply pitched, and probably made of turf. A small staircase leading to a loft space, likely a bedroom. I had seen these structures before. Modest accommodations for simple people with few needs. A popular form in the far north of Iceland. They were meant to keep out the cold, nothing more. 

The door sprang open, and a blast of arctic air blew through the room. A man stepped in out of the cold and dropped a bundle of wood at the fireplace. He was dressed traditionally, his body wrapped in large pelts of fur and wool. He wore the customary hat, a wide brimmed black leather Stetson with a fur band. He turned to me and peeled off the layers, revealing a tall lean man with delicate features. His face was expressive and gentle. A mop of glossy brown hair and scruffy beard, shocking azure blue eyes. His broad shoulders tapered to a slim waist. Even under his bulky rag knit sweater, I could see he was in excellent shape. He crossed the room with a hot cup of sweet tea, and sat on the edge of the cot. The tea was soothing and warmed my aching bones. Thumping himself on the chest, he repeated "Ingolfur". I understood, and told him my name was Jimmy. I looked at him closely. He was probably very young, but the hard life of a sheepherder had aged him. Still, he had a rugged, robust look that was very attractive. His startling blue eyes were very expressive. I asked him where I was, but he didn’t seem to understand English. I tried German, my only other language, but no luck. He understood my confusion, and showed me a local map. I was miles from where I thought I was! No one would have ever found me if this man had not.

Ingolfur had brought my bag into the cottage. I motioned for it, and he fetched it to me. The cell phone was dead. I asked him in pantomime if he had one, but he smiled sadly and shook his head no. The man began to prepare his meal. I watched him as he laid out two plates, two cups, and took the steaming carcass off the fire. He looked over at me, concerned. I was really feeling quite good, and I told him with a smile and a nod. He looked pleased, and brought a thick sweater to me. It smelled faintly of mould, and tobacco. I put it on and joined him at the table.

The lamb was delicious, served next to a buttery pile of stewed greens. We washed it down with several dark beers, most likely a local brew, as the bottles had no labels. He sat back in his chair and lit a pipe. I wished I could speak old Norse, his native language, to let him know how grateful I was for my rescue, and this kindness at his table. I was feeling the brew, a warm, cozy sensation that all was right with the world. Ingolfur was beautiful. His life was so simple, so foreign from my own, yet in him I perceived the same human kindness that made me weep for a suffering pony. I reached across the table in a gesture of friendship, placing my hand on his forearm. He didn’t pull away, but instead reached out and touched my cheek. He rubbed his fingers into my two-day growth of stubble. I saw something in his eyes. Attraction? Lust? Being isolated in this remote, harsh land must make a man hungry for human contact. In what form would it come? How far would a simple man go to find sexual release? In any case, we crossed the room together and lay next to each other on the cot before the fire. 

He ran his hand under my borrowed sweater, feeling my muscular chest and smooth stomach. I did the same. He was slim, athletic, and very lean. Ingolfur's muscles were very well defined, no excess fat anywhere. I took him in my arms and pulled him close to me. His breath was fragrant, a mix of the pipe and the beer. I placed my lips on his and drew him into a kiss. He was tentative, hesitating as my tongue explored his lips, seeking entry into his soft, warm mouth. He stopped resisting, and yielded to me. I pulled his sweater over his head, revealing the velvety skin of his shoulders. Reaching down to his pants, I released the drawstring and pulled the waistband down his hips. His cock was hard and throbbed in my hand as I gently massaged the shaft. 

I didn’t know how far to take this, how aggressive I could be with this strange, exotic man. I decided to test his limits, placing my mouth on one of his pink, puckered nipples. He arched his back and moaned. I was emboldened, and traced a path with my tongue through the light brown hair that ran down his belly to his crotch. Wrapping my lips around the shaft of his generous dick, I pushed my face down and pulled his uncut shaft into my mouth. Ingolfur spoke something soothing in his language, I understood its meaning without a translation. His hands caressed my neck as he began to gently pump his hips, driving his swollen head further down my throat.

The warmth of the fire was intense. The chill outside was forgotten as we connected in passion. The man pulled my head back, pulling his dick out of my hungry mouth. He surprised me by turning himself around and placing his face under my crotch. As I took his cock back into my mouth, the man began to lick the pre-cum from the head of my penis. He was new to this, I could feel his timidity. I didn’t rush him, although I ached to shove my prick deep into his face and blow my nut. I pressed gently against his lips, and entered his mouth slowly. He gagged for a second, so I stopped to let him breathe and adjust to my intrusion. He grabbed me firmly by the hips and pulled me into his throat. We were fully consumed in each other, a perfect masculine connection, a completed circle. Our warm bodies were pressed firmly against each other, bellies to chests, cocks to mouths. He sighed again, a signal I took to mean he was getting what he needed. He rolled his hips, shoving his cock deeper into my face. The crown hit the bend and slid effortlessly down my throat. I pressed more aggressively into him, and he felt my pubic hairs rubbing on his nose. My spit ran down his meaty rod and made his heavy balls shiny and wet. I massaged them as I sucked, and I felt them tighten and contract. He was about to cum. I pushed my head into his crotch as his engorged dick shot a torrent of thick jism into the back of my mouth. The taste was bittersweet, and I devoured every drop. His body shook, then relaxed, and he opened his throat to accept my face-fucking. His head was thrown back in the thick padding of the cot, and my cock was gliding effortlessly deep into his mouth. I didn’t know how he would react to a throat full of cum, so I pulled out and shot several thick threads across his face, trailing off into his hair and clumping in thick wads on his heavy beard. We fell asleep in that position: our heads on each other’s inner thigh, our faces nestled in each other’s cum-soaked crotch.

The article was great, the pictures stirring and evocative. The lead picture on the cover that month was a man in a red parka, huddled behind a moss covered outcropping of stone in the deep grass if the Icelandic tundra, his gray pony lying behind him in a pool of red stained water. The crystals of ice forming on her thick black mane looked like diamonds in the pale ever-blue light.