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Rocky Mountain High

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She was my better guide to unsafer sex…

1

The boys teased that she was the older woman.

She was, but only in number.

They ribbed that she’d stolen my innocence.

Far from it; I offered no complaint.

I was an almost-legal-for-everything-everywhere, skin sack of raging hormones, seventeen-year-old college freshman, and she was a petite, adventurous, provocatively promiscuous grad student of almost twenty-six. What’s the difference? About nine years. To our instantaneously connected libidos, there was none. However, to my titular buddies that stayed behind, that number made all the difference in their high elevation, small town minds. I had become the man, the myth, and their fucking legend.

Parting advice for Week of Welcome was simple. Get laid. Quickly take off the edge so I could focus on my studies, and more importantly, concentrate on that next rendezvous, and the one after that, and so on. I was told college equals sex. I did the simple math again. One of me. Thousands of them. Odds for success: sensational. To meet the campus ladies, a friend’s older dropout brother advised that I join a club, but not just any student organization like ballroom dance or tai chi or Young Centrists of Canada, but one offering fulfillment and meaning.

He was joking, of course.

My recommended shortlist was Amnesty International, PETA, and Greenpeace. Amnesty was too political, too serious, and too damn real. Hard pass. PETA was existentially thought-provoking and heartbreaking at the same time, but this fair weather vegan would feel pangs of guilt every time he stumbled stoned to 7-11 for a midnight dog and a cream soda Slurpee. Super hard pass on PETA. So Greenpeace it was. Plus, it was rumoured that Greenpeace had the hottest dick-liking chicks on campus.

Kylie and I didn’t physically meet for a couple weeks, so my best laid plans of getting laid, had not yet been laid to rest. As much as I wanted it, I couldn’t get it and bilateral wrist and elbow tendonitis was setting in. However, I knew it was out there, so I remained patient. Nervous and scared was more accurate. I began to worry. What if I couldn’t get laid? Two weeks in and still nothing. Getting it had become the predominant thought in my mind. I urgently needed companionship and on a college student’s budget.

After the first informal meet-and-greet in the Greenpeace club office, and no luck after a few cheap drafts at a campus pub with the club’s socially woke lovelies, I desperately attended the first official G-peace member meeting which took place in a second floor campus recreation meeting room. It was filled with sexy and intelligent young women of all makes and models, and the room was flanked by windowed views of the ice rink below on one side and the rock climbing facility on the other. I was trapped in the middle of my wandering mind when the orientation turned into a goddamned history lesson. Fuck. Good thing I smoked before the show.

Greenpeace was founded in Vancouver in 1971. Got it. Killing Mother Nature and all her creatures is bad. Fine. Playing God with genetic engineering is bad. Got it. Deforestation, toxic waste, and nuclear everything is bad. Fine. Fossil fuel burning has hyper-accelerated climate change and that’s bad too.

Got it.

Got it.

Fucking got it.

There’s also good stuff. Good. Let’s hear it.

Through proper peer-reviewed scientific research, re-education, and tireless lobbying, we, the free labour students on campus will unite with more of the world’s most annoying, and can then change attitudes worldwide, take action, and hopefully make a big fucking, hairy ass difference.

Fabulous. Please, please tell me there’s more.

After ten minutes of gloom and doom, my shallow pool of inner-voiced sarcasm had almost run dry. Even Greenpeace’s legendary ecotage had lost its luster. I allowed myself to dream about taking down a whaling ship and then celebrating in mass orgy. I had already begun my list of invitees. But there was no mention of that or any such thing. All I heard was fucking posters and motherfucking pamphlets. It was time to cash out. I began rethinking my world-saving commitment in the pursuit of feral feline shagging when a horny elbow struck my ribs.

“Pay attention, fuck stick,” a fellow doobie-smoker breathed instruction. “You might learn something.”

That sounded familiar.

You’re the climber?” she asked incredulously with her whispered ambush. “I was expecting something… better. You don’t look like much. More like a Walmart shelf stocker or an old lady’s cat sitter.”

This was not happening.

I turned to what I recognized as another’s love of flirting sarcasm expecting something else, but in the presence of her familiar beauty, I tempered my ripping reply. It was Kylie. She was the teaching assistant for intro to psych. Older, but obviously just as immature. Perfect. Not faculty. More perfecter, I humorously thought given the poor grammar and limited understanding of teacher-student boundaries. Her inappropriateness was grey-zoned thus green-lit for innuendo banter.

“I’ve been known to boulder about Banff,” I nonchalantly replied.

“Boulder?” she guffawed with a light salting of interest but more heavily peppered with mock. “How old are you, twelve?”

Like two buzzed gunfighters swaying in the middle of a hazy main street standoff, time stood still and we now stared at our reflections in each other’s dilated pupils, contemplating the other’s past, while pondering the potential of our mirrored future. As the droning up front continued to trumpet earth-saving platitudes, we continued to stare, both fighting the urge to rip off each other’s clothing. Who would flinch first?

I did with cunning intent. However, Kylie was already one step ahead.

“I completed my first free solo at twelve,” I said, countering her age insult with a braggart’s in-your-face coincidence. “I’ve lost count how many since. Sometimes, I boulder just to awe and inspire the weak, bruised, and fragile. I like giving back, you know, to the less fortunate; to people such as yourself.”

“My, my, we have a cocky savior,” she said as her fingers began inspecting my head for steel plates and jagged cranial edges. “I can’t find much damage. Must be inside. Gimme your hands, Solo.”

Hands Solo. My endearing new nickname, usually shorted to Solo, was then born and stuck for years with its intended double entendre.

I placed my weathered and calloused hands palms up in front of Kylie. To some, the dry, thickened skin on a climber’s fingers and on the heel of their palm would be a self-respect red flag of moisturizing neglect, but to a fellow climber, they were badges of honour and proof of life.

Kylie cupped one of my larger-than-hers hands in her thinner and equally calloused finger tips. While using her thumbs to slowly travel the length of my fingers, instantly activating urgent sexual awareness in the correct locations, Kylie stopped at each tip and depressed her stone-ground shortened nails. She did this with each of my fingers, with me fully expecting her to soon take each digit into her luscious mouth. To say this finger tease got this climber rock hard is cliché. It is, but I certainly was.

While Kylie seductively explored me, I lost myself in the mess of her blackish, curly locks that danced about her darker-skinned, guilty-pleasured face, hair that bounced against the back of her spaghetti-strapped white shirt that exposed a shoulder feather tattoo. Like me, Kylie had a lean, powerful build sculpted from lost time rock climbing, with powerful shoulders and a gently flared upper back. But I paid more attention to her front. The evident arousal promoted by her perky pokies brought my failed Week of Welcome mission back to life.

“Show me,” Kylie blurted.

“Show you what?” I asked, fearing she wanted immediate dick exposure.

“That you can climb.”

“Why,” I replied, somewhat relieved that I’d assumed wrong. “Something in it for me?”

“Always,” Kylie smiled. “And depends.”

“Depends? Depends on what?”

“Depends if you can climb, dumb ass,” Kylie shot back. “The climbing wall. Tonight. Show me yours, Hands Solo, impress me, and I just might let you play with mine.”

“What time?”

“Eight-thirty,” she replied. “You’ll have time to stretch or pray or whatever a cocky poser like you needs to do. One shot. First to the bell.”

“You say cock a lot,” I said, hoping to bait another spirited response. It didn’t, so I eased back into my recycled plastic chair and obnoxiously scanned her lean, athletic body, starting with her trail runners, past her gently-curved, denim-clad hips, and ending with her cock-smacking, rosy pink lips. “What if I don’t like what you have to offer?”

“You will,” Kylie confidently said as she negotiated a stoner stumble while staggering away to find a seat nearer the front.

“Don’t you want to know my name?” I asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” Kylie replied, flashing a grin as she left me alone to die with more Greenpeace indoctrination. “Impress me or not. We’ll see. Don’t be late.”
 

2

A vertical indoor climb is harnessed and geared for safety, and isn’t usually fraught with the same pitfalls and dangers of granite or limestone. However, having arrived early, I briefly conversed with our awaiting spotters and after absorbing a few Kylie stories, I thought that I’d been too confident with my challenge acceptance. Kylie was something of a climber, and something a climber doesn’t need. She had commandeered a distracting position in my head. On the wrong day, at the wrong time, that could be fatal.

And as I waited, I began imagining her in other, more compromising positions. I had had fun with other female climbers, but not a woman that much older and smarter than me. A non-campus me might have been intimidated, but this post-banter, burgeoning-confidence college version thought better. Climbing was in my wheelhouse; my comfort zone. I had nothing to lose, and had a hell of a lot to gain. That two-week-old fuck-free monkey had to go.

“I’m surprised,” Kylie said as she startled us from behind. “I feared a pup like you might suffer some performance anxiety.” This time, she did the scanning, trying to intimidate me by taking her time with her assessment of my shirtless body, my non-attire preference when climbing, which too was low-fat, lean-muscled, and sculpted for extensive pain and fatigue.

“Do you ride all the guys like this?” I asked as I stood tall in obstruction of her taunting attempt.

Kylie placed her hand on my bare chest and whispered, “Only the ones I want to fuck.”

This produced another face-to-face standoff and cranked the palpable sexual tension to eleven. I liked her. I really, really did.

As Kylie peeled off her t-shirt, exposing more tattoos, her breast-compressing sports bra, and a flat, muscled abdomen, she refocused us onto the task at hand.

“Here’s the rules, slick. Pick a line. Stick to it. No crossing over. First to ring the bell… ”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Can we free climb?”

“Students that go splat aren’t good for campus insurance premiums,” she answered. “But our spotters will give us plenty of slack.”

“Ready?” Kylie asked as she doubled-checked the snugness of her harness, and then gave mine a twig and testicle-jarring shake.

“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t the only type of harness you’ve worn?” I said, attempting to undermine her focused confidence. Kylie was in her zone, ignored that bait, but still managed a smile. “Okay, fine. Just say when, princess, and I’m going to ring your bell.”

That did the trick.

“Don’t stare at my ass,” Kylie said, apparently needing the last trash. “I’d hate for some mid-range swelling to affect your climb.”

“Not only do you say cock a lot, you constantly think about it, don’t you?”

That produced one last smirk. We both then got serious, found and committed to our line, and waited for belay confirmation. We signaled to start and a spotter counted us down.

Ready.

Set.

Climb!

It wasn’t even close.

For the boy that bouldered about Banff, I knew I was panty-soaking impressive to most knowledgeable female climbers. I had rung the bell before Kylie had gauged where I was in comparison. To do so, so quickly, on an unfamiliar track, was either a sign of sheer athleticism, or arrogant recklessness. Today, it was both. I had a primal mission. While I waited for Kylie, I heard the laughing ground crew say that I’d climbed like a coked-up gecko.

“How the fuck?” an exasperated Kylie wheezed as she reached me, the awaiting victor, while I dangled like a lower rung primate, with one hand curled into a ceiling-mounted grab hold and the other beating my chest with bravado. “How the fuck, man?”

We all have our secrets and I wasn’t about to share mine. I’m no Alex Honnold, but I was always a safe ‘n speedy ascender. I’ve not officially competed, but my buddies and I sometimes rock raced for beers, brunch, and bragging rights, but never for someone or something like Kylie.

“Nice technique,” I smarmily replied while giving Kylie’s cute little butt a gentle kick. “No need for a hand solo tonight. Shall we just do it up here then?”

“Saturday, you cocky bastard,” Kylie answered as she swung her lower body across, wrapped her legs around my waist, and pressed her crotch against my dick. She then stole a quick kiss before uncrossing her ankles. “We’re going higher. Don’t leave your balls at home.”
 

3

We left before sunrise and drove inland for about an hour before Kylie found the illegal but abandoned logging road, and then drove another fifteen minutes to its end. The Douglas-fir and red cedar coastal mountain forest mix of Kylie’s tribal land had not yet woken, but my body had already become restless with adrenaline coursing through my extremities.

For those with vertical addiction, an early morning flat rock climb was the only way to begin a day. For me, anticipation always turned to nervousness, then anxiety and fear, but always ended with excitement. I deliberately didn’t share another secret. I suffered from vertigo. The knee-buckling dizziness was embarrassing, at times, debilitating, and if not managed properly, downright dangerous. I seldom got out of position and rarely looked down. For me, climbing wasn’t a death wish; it was a rich endorphin rush.

During the drive, we easily shared ourselves, except for me and that silly spine-tingling thing. I was born to park rangers and raised in Banff, Canada’s oldest and most famous national park. The Rocky Mountains were my school, babysitter, and playground. Kylie and I had mountain life in common. She was born and raised on these sacred lands, full status, and eagle spirit free. After the elders caught her yet again climbing their revered totem poles, they pointed her young, fearless energy in another climbing direction. Her people humbly called it, Big Wall. Our paths were quite different, but we found each other in this same cosmic place.

The repurposed aluminum-framed, polyester-tarped portaledge we were climbing to was initially used by tribal members who camped out, sometimes for days, at tree top levels, to watch for old growth Douglas-fir poachers. These were private lands but some felt stealing First Nation’s resources for multi-million dollar mountain cabin mansions was acceptable. With some elder coaxing, the RCMP and the federal government eventually got involved. The thieving subsequently ended, preserving one of the most spectacular coastal rain forests in the Canadian Pacific Northwest. This forest and Big Wall was our Saturday’s destination.

The balance of our travel was filled with tales of mountains, misery, and misfortune. Kylie had climbed monster flats like Half Dome and El Capitan, the ones of which most climbers dream. She’d stumbled and had witnessed many fall, some even to their death. I had not, yet. Climb long enough, and everyone eventually knows someone who has. But climbers don’t dwell on misery. Death was their accepted risk for their adrenaline reward.

As for climbing stories, Kylie’s best was captured and frozen in time. For guys, we can just point and shoot. But for women, squatting is preferred. While harnessed for safety, Kylie was relieving herself with her backside hanging over the portaledge edge, when she lost her balance and a tourist’s telephoto lens caught her dangling upside down, laughing, while having pissed all over herself. That spectacular image answered a question of many non-climbers. However, many still have questions about number two, and Kylie was thankful on that day, she’d not taught that teachable moment.

Conversely, I hadn’t traveled for climbing as much and the best I could offer Kylie, or consider tasteful for sharing, was when I was younger, about ten, while hiking with my parents in the badlands near Drumheller. While looking for dinosaur fossils, I had fallen on a small, ground-covering patch of cacti. For the next fifteen minutes, and dozens of passing-by afternoon hikers, I demonstratively protested as my dad held me down and my mom pulled barbed needles from my bare ass. Climbers are a sturdy breed, but that humiliation still stings today.

“We won’t need much gear, and it’s clean and bolted to the top, but bring what you need,” Kylie had advised the night before. “Not many have access, so we store some gear on site.”

By the time the fog dissipated and the day rose behind the west-facing wall, I saw through the monstrous firs and cedars the 5.10 we were to climb. Grade Five. Steepest of climbs. Ten. Not the toughest, but challenging enough. As we approached, the sunshine filtered through the tree tops, but we remained in Big Wall’s shadow when we reached its base. The air was crisp, but later, the sun’s warmth would be directly upon us.

It was no El Capitan or Half Dome, but Kylie said Big Wall’s hundreds of meters were just as invigorating and picturesque, even though we’d only be climbing half its prominence, or about Seattle’s Space Needle height. We’d still tower over the landscape and have a clear view to the Pacific.

“It’s a bit chilly,” I said as we strapped into our harnesses. “But we’ll… “

I then froze because Kylie flashed me some muff and brown-nippled breast.

“You asked what was in it for you,” she said and winked. “Up for some clucking?”

“Do you really want to climb naked?” I asked, more concerned about cold weather shrinkage than derriere goose bumps.

“Not particularly,” Kylie laughed. “Just wanted to see how far you’d go.”

I thought I knew.

“We’re going up about two hundred meters,” she continued, then pointed to our suspended target. “Ever get laid on a portaledge?”

“Became a man there.” I lied.

“Always got a quick answer, don’t you, Solo?” Kylie said while shaking her head. “Let’s get climbing. Follow my lead and we should be bumping uglies in no time. Plus, the view from up top is spectacular.”

The climb wasn’t complicated with dynamic heroics, but at times, it was challenging. Climbing free or harnessed had inherent risks, but so did climbing clouded with pending fornication on one’s mind. Every time I looked up, there she was spread apart, reaching for the next edge or hold, and once in a while, she’d smile with that fabulous ass beckoning my company. Thankfully, we climbed safely sharing a rope, and we added respect to our mutual attraction.

Once at the floating platform, Kylie confirmed the single master anchored point was still securely fastened in the rock face. She then checked the connecting nylon ropes for fraying and UV damage before removing the storm screen, which allowed the artificial ledge to lower into position.

We inspected the aluminum frame and polyester bounce mat, which was slightly narrower than a single bed. With no visible damage, Kylie declared it bomb proof. We climbed on, shortened our leashes, and Kylie opened an empty haul bag for secured storage of our shoes and chalk bags. She then opened another filled with emergency supplies.

“Lookie what I found,” Kylie gleefully said, grinning as she raised a partially smoked blunt. “I do hope we have matches.” We did. Waterproofed and safely stored.

“Care for some?” Kylie offered as she lit the joint and took a hit. “We’re going to be here a while.”

“Logic I can’t argue,” I replied and took my first of two hits before registering the platform’s bounce and sway. Kylie had stripped herself of everything, including to my astonishment, her safety harness.

“Your next,” she said as she took the joint and another lung full. “It’s almost time for your reward.”

Growing less inhibited and against my better judgment, I did as she suggested. While I now sat nude, slightly high, and harness-free, Kylie placed our clothes in a stuff sack. Expecting her to clip the bag over the side, like she had with our harnesses, Kylie instead dropped the bag to the rocky landing below, and we watched it silently explode upon impact. Exasperated, while experiencing some instant dizziness, I could barely giggle, “You silly fucker.”

“No need for clothes up here,” Kylie said as the sun was almost overhead and her hand began easy work on my already hard thing. Out of reflex, she asked about condoms, and we both burst out laughing, probably more so from the weed’s effects than from the irony of what we were about to do.

“Solo, my ass,” Kyle demanded. “I need a good butt fuck.”

“Don’t we all,” I giddily replied, surprised how fast the weed had struck and how accommodating I’d become. “It would be my pleasure to tap your fine backside, m’lady. I don’t suppose you brought any lube?” We stared at each other as we had in the classroom, before getting giggle-stupid again.

“Just rinse me off, slobber, and bury your tongue,” Kylie said after rinsing the sweat from my dick. Message understood. I then leaned back length-wise on our narrow sky bed, and Kylie straddled my face so I could rinse, lick and lather her tightly-sphinctered back door while paying equal attention to her precious, tan-coloured lips. For what seemed like hours but was probably minutes, the two of us high-elevation stoners proceeded to sixty-nine at two hundred meters against one cliff above thousands of trees. Again, the math was simple, but the risk taken was extremely complex.

Stoned.

Vertigo.

Anal Sex.

We took no safety precautions whatsoever. It was a recipe for disaster. I was about to have the unsafest sex of my life and all I felt was that lusted rush. However, my concern spiked considerably when Kylie said we would fuck facing the ocean. That meant we only had the portaledge’s meter of width for position. Stupidly stoned, I said, “Okie Dokie.”

On her knees with her legs together and her hands securely gripping the aluminum edge, Kylie arched her back like a stretching cat, and presented her ass, begging me to stretch it open and fill ‘er up. I carefully rose to straddle her body, trying to minimize the rocking and swaying of our hanging bed, not once thinking our suspect activity could loosen that single, solitary bolt that supported us. Trying my best not to look beyond her pretty brown eye, I assumed my pile driver position, spat for slide, and pushed inside.

“How do you like me now?” Kylie asked as she clenched and unclenched my rectum-shaping cock with her tight ass. “Was I worth it?”

Wondering now how best to fuck her worthiness, I abandoned bracing for balance. I held Kylie’s hips and slid her ass along the length of my cock instead of pounding into her, fearing she might lose her grip or I’d fuck us through the fabric platform. I balanced like riding a surfboard, and prayed I didn’t accidentally look down, fall forward, and wipe us out.

So, I closed my eyes.

For the first bit, it was a pleasant ride and the forest’s silence crooned in my head. Only a zephyr of mountain breath blew, caressing my hypersensitive skin, and in the distance, I heard the weak scream of a bald eagle. I felt my blood flow and heard my heart beat, and also listened to Kylie’s soft grunts as my cock moved gently inside, sinking it deep to its end. I also marveled at the immediacy of our connection.

“Sometimes, Solo, I like fucking to Floyd,” Kylie said while humming the psychedelic song in tune with my plunging, ball-slapping strokes.

“Solo, do you ever wonder what it would feel like to fly?”

Oh no.

“Solo, I want to fly… “

“NO! Kylie, wait… ”

Kylie released her grip and slid forward over the aluminum tubing edge while simultaneously straightening her back and extending her arms as if she was cliff diving into Mexican waters. I panicked as I fell forward onto her hips, trapping them against the aluminum edge, while scrambling for a rope. My eyes instinctively opened and spine-tingling vertigo kicked in while again seeing our exploded clothing distribution below. Fighting the shock and the woozy onset, I had both fallen forward and flailed to find a nylon rope, which thankfully prevented us from tumbling over. My other hand found the aluminum frame next to our hips, the same she had been holding.

As we precariously teetered slightly past parallel, I spread my legs and wedged my feet between the mountain and the frame, while my hands white-knuckled both grips for security. And with my surprisingly hard dick still deeply imbedded, I pinned Kylie’s pelvis for additional balancing support. Only my pressed pelvis against Kylie’s ass had prevented her from going over. Possibly realizing this necessity, Kylie bent her legs back so her heels dug into my hamstrings, which now locked our bodies together. From above, it must have looked like we were mating in flight. But from below, we were on the precipice of a tandem plummeting death.

“Kylie! What the fuck?” I screamed.

“Do me good, Solo; make me cum in the sky,” Kylie slowly sang, ignoring my exasperation while singing her own words to Pink Floyd’s classic.

Do me good, Solo; make me cum in the sky…

“You’re fucking nuts, you know that?” I shouted.

“Just alive, Solo. Just. Ahh-Live!”

Not surprisingly, I was harder than ever but scared as shit. I knew there was no reasoning until she came, so I tried to calm my trembling body with closed-eye meditation, caught my lost breath, and confirmed my feet were firmly wedged. I then re-gripped both holds and obliged. With her heels firmly anchored into me, I slowly lifted my hips to see how far I could pull out before pushing back in. It was enough to make things interesting, but for Kylie, not progressive enough.

“Rub my clit,” Kylie begged as she soared, arms fully extended while gently banking one way then the other. “Please Solo, help me cum.”

I wanted to scream but I was laughing, nervously laughing at myself, because I couldn’t decide which hand to use.

“It’s so beautiful,” Kylie cooed. “The trees. The mountains. The sky. The ocean. I feel so free, Solo; yet so connected. Don’t you? Don’t you feel connected and alive too? Have you ever experienced anything more spectacular?”

I wanted to answer but couldn’t. I was still embroiled in my slow motion self-debate. I finally deduced that holding the rope kept my center of gravity back from the edge, so I quickly maneuvered my other hand off the rail and underneath, and hopefully, would quickly bring Kylie to orgasm. Her loud gasp again opened my eyes, and I saw the beauty she spoke of. I knew if I looked out and across, and not straight down, I might manage the triggering effects.

“Oh God, yes!” Kylie howled as I circled her swollen clit while pressing into her from above. “Just like that. Please don’t stop.”

With each succumbing moan and its partnered shuddering howl, Kylie’s vocalized pleasure ricocheted off the rock face and filtered through the forest below. I continued, as instructed, rubbing and gently thrusting, while taking in the panoramic beauty of our experience.

“Oh Solo… ” Kylie howled again, only this time louder, with more shudder in her voice. “So close… I’m almost there… ”

I maintained my circling pace, edging her closer to her airborne dream. Had she not been in superior physical shape, her back and arms would have given out long ago, but that’s not Kylie. She was built like me to overcome extreme pain and fatigue, knowing that addictive charge of endorphins would soon be her friend.

“Yes… Yess… Yesss… “ Kylie squealed as her body began trembling in flight, and the onset of her pelvic spasms matched her ass’s clenching squeeze on my cock. “So. Fucking. GOOD!”

Still dueling with my cranial buzz and the majestic view’s deadly potential, and nowhere near my own orgasm, I gently rubbed around her clit through to the blissful end of her intense and mutually-satisfying orgasm. We then took pleasure in the remainder of Kylie’s flight before carefully returning to safety.

“Holy shit,” I said, almost hyperventilating in relief as I moved as far from the edge as I could, with me sitting upright and my sweaty back pressed against the cold granite wall. “I can’t believe we did that.”

“Solo, look,” Kylie blurted while kneeling next to me. “Down there. Wolves.”

I cautiously peeked down and directly below us was a pack of confused wolves looking for the lone howler that they thought had called to them. One wolf then howled and waited for a response, so Kylie responded, and another wolf answered back before the skittish pack disappeared into the forest.

“What do you think they said?” I asked.

“My wolf speak is a bit rusty,” Kylie jokingly replied as she straddled my lap and slid her snug pussy down my upright cock. “But I think that last wolf said, ‘Fuck her again, Solo. She really, really likes it.’ ”

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