Playboy Trip Patagonia - Episode 2

The drive climbs and the landscape tightens, snow fields pressing against the road's edge. A jagged ridge finally breaks the sky open. At the trailhead the wind tastes of ice. You step out and feel it cut straight through clothes, pull nipples tight against fabric. Boots crunch on frozen ground as we leave the car behind. The path curves upward, every step harder than the last, until we hit a flat stretch of rock overlooking an untouched valley. Here the air is thinner, sharper. Breath turns white. You lean against a boulder, its cold surface seeping through denim onto skin still flushed from the climb. The valley yawns below, empty, quiet, waiting. I press close, fingers sliding beneath layers to find warmth. Your mouth finds mine, teeth grazing lips that already sting from the cold. I taste the wind on your tongue. Hands work buttons, zippers; fabric parts in tight, urgent movements. Cold fingers meet hot skin, and the shock makes you arch. I drop to my knees on the stone, drag your trousers down, bare flesh meeting the mountain air. Your cock stands hard against the open sky. I take you into my mouth in one slow glide, lips sealing tight, tongue pressing flat along the underside. You gasp, the sound snatched away by the wind. Above us peaks glint white; below, miles of silence. I work you deeper, throat flexing, saliva warming skin the wind tries to chill. Your fingers knot in my hair, hips rocking once, twice, driving into the heat of my mouth while the cold gnaws at every other inch of us. The mountain watches, indifferent, vast. You come with a raw sound that echoes once before it dies. I swallow, pull back, lips glistening, breath clouding between us. Nothing else moves. Only the wind, and the slow drip of spit cooling on stone.