Guest blog: Adrenaline, squirting and hot après-ski

Image by the wonderful Stuart F Taylor

I don’t know why I feel it’s important to tell you this is a true story. Perhaps because I find things even hotter if they’re true. Perhaps because I like to dream that I, one day, might be rescued by a hot dude and then seduced so skilfully he has me laid flat and breathless with lust somewhere. Either way, this is a true story by Leda Marshall about an extremely hot après-ski experience, and it had me weak with horn. Enjoy!

Adrenaline, squirting and hot Après-ski

I’m standing nervously at the top of a snow-covered slope. The first part is steeper than I’d like, but I know after the first two turns the angle will ease and I’ll be fine. But if I screw up here there’s potential for… well, best case is an embarrassing face plant and worst case another injury. I am conscious of a slight ache in my knee, warm and snug in its steel and neoprene brace. Fuck it, it’s buggered already. Even if I do make it worse, I’ve an operation to fix it next month.

But still I hesitate. A couple of skiers zip past me, turning expertly, and I try and gather up the courage to follow them. I hum to myself, getting my body into the rhythm of the run, visualising myself coiling and uncoiling as I descend in perfect balance. A quick internal pep talk: rather than stepping out into the unknown, the trick is to pull your trailing foot back, so you’re in position and halfway through the first turn before your body realises what’s going on.

Three…two…one, I slide my foot back and I’m off. No time for second thoughts now… turn…turn…turn and I’ve done it. Through the steep part and I’m flowing down the open slope, adrenaline flooding my body, my thighs burning. God, I love this feeling – totally better than sex. If I ever had to choose between no more sex or no more fast ski runs, perfect days on the hill, or pushing myself to the limit on a climb, it would be a no-brainer.

But something’s wrong. The horizon shifts and instead of carving perfect arcs I’m tumbling arse over tit down the slope. Survival mode kicks in and I flip onto my front, struggling to keep my feet clear of the slope while I desperately try to brake with a ski pole. ‘Whoever said this worked was having a laugh,’ the part of my brain not focused on mortal peril thinks.

Eventually I slide to a halt, shaking. Mightily relieved no one saw me, I try to compute what just happened.

‘Hey! You ok?’ A figure skids to tidy stop beneath me. Shit. Where did they come from?

‘Yeah, fine,’ I say nonchalantly and immediately burst into tears. Fucking adrenaline.

‘I saw you go,’ he says, ‘you took quite a tumble.’

I can’t look at him. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

‘Look I’ll be fine,’ I say, sniffing and wiping my nose. ‘You don’t need to hang about. I’ll just get my breath and head down.’

‘You might need to fix your binding first,’ he says, crouching down to examine the snapped cable. Fuck.

Together we bodge a temporary repair, and I gingerly follow him down to the safety of the lift station, thanking him profusely as I wave goodbye. God, how embarrassing. Still, it could have been so much worse.


Later I’m in the hotel bar with Karin, my German room mate, my earlier run-in with gravity all but forgotten.

‘There’s a guy behind you,’ she says, ‘who keeps looking over at us.’

‘Oh yeah?’ I say, ‘is he cute?’ I sneak a look behind me and freeze. I quickly explain about the binding, the fall, and the adrenaline, all of which she finds hysterical. She looks over at him and smiles, which he takes as an invitation to come over. Fuck.

We chat, and I’m pleasantly surprised to discover we have more in common than eccentric skiing. He’s urbane, funny and disarmingly open. It doesn’t even cross my mind that he’s into me until a couple of drinks later, when Karin disappears, and things start moving alarmingly fast. ‘Fuck it,’ I think, again.

‘Let’s go outside,’ I say, taking his hand and marching across the room. He follows me out onto the balcony and I brazenly turn toward him, jump up to sit on the balustrade so we’re face to face, and lean in to kiss him.

Now it’s his turn to call my bluff. He pushes close against me, spreads my legs and works his hands up my top so my bare midriff is exposed and I can feel his clothed erection against my crotch. I’m embarrassed and thrilled; aware we’re being watched. I don’t want to be a public spectacle, but I don’t want to stop either.

‘I want to taste you,’ he breathes and because I’m alone and half-way round the world and in my cups, I want this more than anything else. Now.

But there’s a problem – we both have shared rooms and the place is packed. He guides me back inside and out into a corridor where he pushes me against the wall of an alcove, and bows his head to kiss me. With one of his hands braced against the wall next to my head I am more or less screened from passers by. I reach between his legs and as I rub his cock through the fabric of his jeans he lets out a low sob: It’s the hottest thing I’ve heard in a very long time.

Just then a group of drunken revellers squeeze past us and, guessing what we’re up to, shout lewd encouragement. We stumble outside unable to keep our hands off each other. It’s quieter here, but freezing. Undeterred, he shoves his hand into my pants and begins to stroke my slick cunt. The feeling is exquisite, but only serves to ramp up my frustration as I can’t move the way I need to. Instead, I shift my attention to his cock and as I start to unbuckle his belt I notice he’s shivering. Inspiration strikes.

Ducking inside again I pull him down some stone stairs and into the boiler-cum-drying room, slamming the door behind us. It’s dimly lit by emergency-style lighting and smells of bodies and musk and exertion. And it’s beautifully warm.

I move down to his belt again but he pushes my hands away, feels around my waist and in one movement grabs two layers of fabric and strips my top half. I’m feeling uncomfortably exposed now, I’m not sure I want it quite like this – what if we’re discovered?

But the hunger he looks at me with trumps all that. He kisses my neck, then my breasts, and bites down on one nipple – just hard enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to my clit. As he works it with his mouth, my cunt floods with moisture and I briefly wonder if I can come from this stimulation alone. But he’s already moved on and crouches in front of me, pulling at my leggings. As he yanks them down I step out of my soaking pants so I’m standing fully naked above his kneeling, clothed form. He spreads my legs and starts to lick and nuzzle my labia. I feel powerful and beautiful and adored.

I pull him to his feet and start to rub his cock. But again he moves my hands away.

‘Let me blow you,’ I say, ‘Please?’

‘No, I want to concentrate on you.’

‘You’re sure?’ I say.

‘Absolutely – I don’t want to miss anything.’

The door rattles and begins to open. We freeze as an arm appears and swiftly stashes a pair of boots in the rack by the door, then vanishes.

We relax again, and decide to move further inside where we can’t easily be seen. By this time I’m so far outside my comfort zone I barely bat an eyelid when he lifts me, carries me across the room and lays me down on the concrete floor.

He goes to work on my cunt again and I can feel the wetness flooding out of me. I push down my shame and relax into the sensation … turn … and turn… and turn. The word ‘ichor’ pops up from the annoying part of my brain I can’t switch off.

My cunt twitches a couple of times but there’s a nub of tension inside me which I can’t release.

‘How you doing?’ He asks.

I drag my mind back from the abyss and try to summon words and sentences: ‘’s really amazing but I can’t quite get there. I need to relax, but I can’t…’

‘What can I do to help?’

‘No, it’s me – I might piss if I let go.’

‘Well I don’t care and the floor doesn’t matter, just do it.’

He buries his face in my bush, ‘you taste awesome, you smell fantastic, and it would be so hot to watch you piss.’

I breathe out slowly, counting to ten, exhaling the tension from my body.

He slides his finger out of me, pressing hard around my urethral opening, then draws it up to and around my clitoris. Another shivery half-orgasm and my jaw locks up again in frustration. I want to cry.

‘Can I try something?’ He asks. He’s working my perineum with his left hand now, drawing the wetness towards my arse.

‘Go for it.’

He gently pushes a single digit into my bum, and as he slowly drags it in and out I feel my body change gear. He dips his head, and licks from my urethra to my clit. Warmth spreads across my pelvic floor and the urge to bear down and let go becomes overwhelming. I push his head away, then manically rub the same area, moving fast and sloppy. I stop, and hang in space.

We’re so close. I’m rock hard – I feel sure the slightest pressure in the right place will tip me over and I’ll come in my pants, but I’m enjoying this too much to care, and the tension makes everything more intense. I need to remember this.

I still my hand. She’s lying utterly quiet, eyes glittering, pupils gaping. Teetering on the edge of oblivion.

‘Let it go’ I say again ‘Your cunt looks so beautiful, just do what you need to,’

A flashbulb memory:

Clear fluid gushes from her cunt as her pelvic floor contracts and releases, contracts and releases, her hole twitching madly. She starts to bring her knees together but I’m ready for this and push her legs apart, my head between her thighs. A final close up as a single drop of milky white fluid trickles onto her labia, and I catch it with my tongue. ‘Blood of the Gods,’ I think, and now I’m crying too.


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