Auburn Ski Camp: First Sessions
So, here am I, lost in thought about this beautiful man before me.
Well, Brian Chesney . . .
I smell a bit of smoke from the fire I hope I have set within you. I see by the almost shocked look on your handsome face that you were not expecting me to call your bluff.
I’m not here to talk about me. I’m here to talk about you. I am here *for* you, after all. This is why you’ve paid me. This is my service to you. To kick your ass. To make you think of possibilities you did not know existed in our sport. Possibilities for you to dominate it.
You will go to the tournaments. You will go to the world conferences. You will go to the very Winter Olympics themselves. I will teach you to become a Grand Master of the Nordic ski. You will become one of the few Americans capable of matching a Norseman in his own world.
I will help you to reclaim the right to wear your blonde hair with honour and touch that hot blood in you that is my kin and ancestry. Brother.
You will earn me.
Because I want you, Brian Chesney. I want you with me.
I want you by my side orienteering the wilds of our icy world. I want you to see the Aurora over the Forever White! I want to kiss you there under that eternal humming glow. Make love to you where the snow reflects the stars. Rest with you on bows of pine. I want you to feel with me the bite of the ice that makes your hairs stand on end. That bite that can kill, but at the same time makes you feel more alive than you have ever felt in your life.
But, we have much work to do, you and I.
I look across the gulf between us over the mahogany coffee table. I see the fire in your eyes. A reflection from the fireplace? No. Not just that.
You want me too, do you not?
You will want to please me.
You will want to earn my respect.
You will earn that if you succeed with me.
But, you also want to earn my love?
Oh Brian! You need not earn what is freely given. This you were given the day you were born!
But I can only say it to you once. For with the Finns it is a word so powerful, so eternal, that it can *only* be said once. It is enough. It is forever. It is the only fire the Arctic wind cannot quench. It is the heart of sisu! The art of perseverance. The only reason to fight and to live.
So, on that day that we commit to death as our only parting, then that day you will hear me say “Minä rakastan sinua.” I love you . . . and never again.
“Ok then. Deal it is.” I say.
I stand and reach forth my paw to shake on it. Brian eagerly rises and grips my hand once again only this time it is no impersonal thing. He squeezes my hand through my glove with a tender squeeze. I return it. A small thrill shivers through me like when a bit of snow drops from a tree branch and finds its way to slide down my naked back under my warm clothes.
I seem to catch a similar shiver in Brian’s quivering handshake.
It amazes me, but I cannot lose focus.
“Come, Mr. Chesney! Time to start. Get your gear. We head for the south ridge.” I command as I straighten to my full towering height.
“What? Now?? But I just got here?” Brian is incredulous. I brook none of this.
I clap my hands sharply. “You came to ski! Let us ski! I will wait for you at the head of the groomed track. Do not worry, we won’t stay on the kindergarten glide for long,” I assure my new apprentice threateningly.
He is shocked into action by my clap. He hustles over to the elevator.
“No!” I declare emphatically. “We climb the stairs when we are in training. Around the corner and to the left, if you please, Mr. Chesney.” I catch Jimmy and Sabrina trying to stifle their giggles as I coax my charge.
“Say what?” Brian glares at me with those lupine eyes. It has no effect. I close the distance between us in two great strides, chasing him away from the elevator button.
“Yes! Go! You will climb higher things on our treks I assure you. Off with you!” I lightly whack him on the butt.
Rather than ball up his fists and commence with the throwing of punches, Brian gets another shocked look that then turns into a wicked grin.
“Ok . . . Coach.” He winks. I almost melt right there, but he will not see it.
“Yes. Good. TODAY!” I shoo him around the corner where he finds the stairwell.
Five stories. For a boy like Brian, that will not even raise a sweat, but from now on no machines will be used. Only muscles. His legs must be iron to move through the snow for hours without stopping.
I turn on my heel, grab my florescent orange ski satchel, and march toward the door. A wink and a smirk from me toward the occupants of the concierge desk sends both Jimmy and Sabrina from insipid giggles to peals of laughter.
So, I can still feel the handprint on my ass. I’m looking at myself in the mirror. Perfect red hand print. Rubbing the hand print into my smooth ass, I figure it will be today’s keepsake to remind me who’s in charge here. I don’t think Snowflake knows his own strength though. That was quite a thwack!
I usually don’t take to folks dominating me. I tend to want to kick their ass, but not this time. I kind of like it! My stiffening cock tells me so.
I hike back up my boxer jocks. The cool, stretchy, black material feels good on the hot handprint. The tightness of my package basket and my boxer’s front leg feel good on my hardness too. It takes a bit of bumping and grinding to get everything in there. I don’t have time to whack off. Hopefully when I’m distracted by skiing it will go down to semi-hard at least. I might pop just walking though . . . oh well!
I’ve already unpacked my thermal suit. It’s black with blue racing stripes. It’s made of a special thermal microweave that stretches like biker shorts. I got it from REI. It does three things for me:
- It keeps me warm without having to wear tons of bulky clothes.
- Its unique sharkskin weave cuts down on wind resistance and its inner lining sucks up my sweat nicely.
- It’s tight and shows off my body so that everyone can see how fucking hot I am! My bulge will be very noticeable right now due to its turgid state. That should make Jimmy faint right there!
Of course, it’s Snowflake that I aim to impress. This outfit was costly!
I also put on my thick ski gauntlets specially made for long distance skiing. They are lined with a silky substance that grips my hands well while leaving them pretty flexible. There’s lots of leather padding on the palms to prevent blisters.
Then I slip on my bright blue thermal vest that is more for visibility than warmth. It should stand out for miles.
I sit down on the bed and pull my ski boots on. They’re really neat. So complicated I can’t even begin to describe them. They are black with blue reflection stripes and they have special grooves to click into my ski bindings. They’re pretty stiff and high topped for my metal edged skis. They’ll lend great support for my ankles during turns.
I have my tough graphite poles and my sleek metal edged waxless skis. All I gotta do is slide in the bindings and then snap my boots into the grooves and I’m off! No wasted time waxing and waxing.
I put on my blue hat with a red poof and then my gold photochromatic ski sunglasses and stare at myself in the mirror again.
Fuck Yeah! I rock this shit!
I sling my equipment bag over my shoulder, get my skis, and I’m down the stairs ready to make my grand exit!
There I am striding into the lobby, hot as hell, expecting Jimmy and ‘Sabrina’ to cum all over their legs at the sight of me and what greets me? Snickers!
What the actual fuck?
Both of them are covering their mouths, barely restraining themselves. Jimmy is fucking beet red and ‘Sabrina’ with ‘her’ big cock is only a little paler.
I look at the two of them like, ‘What?’
Sabrina manages to pull herself together to inform me that:
“(snort) Um . . . Snowflake’s waiting for you outside at the (hee) ‘head’ of the track . . . Mr. Chesney.” At the punctuated word ‘head’ Jimmy fucking near collapses. Sabrina stares pointedly at my crotch.
I look down . . . yeah. I should have whacked off up there. I’m pretty ‘defined’ through my body glove.
“Uh-Uhmm, you (fff) might wanna . . . move your . . . ass, Sir. ~explosive snort~” Sabrina holds her mouth closed. Jimmy just runs into the back room cackling. I think he’s peeing himself.
“Unbelievable!” I shake my head at them.
“No tip!” That sends Jimmy screaming and stomping in the back room.
“Fuck it all . . .” I mutter, still shaking my head as I exit the scene. They gotta be drunk. I should complain to the manager, but, they’re both so fucking cute I don’t wanna. Though I don’t get what’s so funny exactly. Their silly behavior is kind of infectious and I find myself smiling as I walk out the door despite myself.
Outside, it’s absolutely gorgeous. Blue sky! Green pines with their fresh smell! Pure white snow! The slap of cold on my face brings the blood to my cheeks and to my nose! It’s kind of refreshing in a numb way. My breath puffs out like I’m smoking.
I trudge over to the head of the groomed track that opens up going east. I barely make out the white figure of Snowflake as he’s squatting down with his back turned to me. He has a fine back and his butt splits so sexily as he squats. My cock isn’t going down yet. If anything it’s stiffer.
“Hey boss! Waxing up?” I ask the obvious.
He rises and turns to face me with the grace of a ballet dancer. All smooth and in one motion. His icy eyes freeze me in place.
“Yes, of course. Have you done likewise?” He asks me pointedly.
“No need!” I pat my skis lovingly.
“Waxless and metal edged!” I beam with pride.
“Ah. Yes. Of course they are. Best that a lot of money can buy an amateur.” Snowflake just loves to do that, I’ve noticed. Poke a pin in my balloon! Asshole!
“Ok . . . I give. What makes having state of the art waxless skis amateurish?” I grouse.
“You cannot customize your glide for the track and the conditions with precision.” He says with authority.
He steps aside to show me his skis and, frankly, I’m astonished! I almost laugh at him! What the fuck are those things? They’re relics!
They are made of highly polished wood with no metal edging or anything! The edges are simply bevelled parts of the skis themselves. Also the bindings were a weird combination of wood grips, leather straps and . . .! Wow! Are those whale bone strap eyes? How the fuck old are these things? I admit, they are actually quite beautiful, but they belong up on a wall as decorations. Not as actual skis to use!
“Those . . . uh. Like, those are kind of old, dontchya think?” I ask with a note of sarcasm.
“Yes. They are old. They have been in my family for five generations. See?” He holds one up and shows me a spot at top of the ski. It has a weird design there that looks like it’s been burned in somehow.
“That is a skiing rune. It protects me as I ski. It is an old tradition not much done anymore. Sad really. I think there would be less accidents if they continued to put them on the skis.” Snowflake tells me this like he actually believes this shit!
Five fucking generations?
“Um. Ok?” I must have quite a look on my face because Snowflake just stands there blinking those lovely lashes at me with that stoic frozen look he seems to always have plastered on his pale puss.
“Mr. Chesney, allow me to explain something to you that you may not understand or even want to understand. There is a near supernatural element to the art of Nordic skiing. Men of my blood have been doing this for possibly 2000 years! They literally lived and died on skis like these! They hunted reindeer. They fought wars with those Russian barbarians. Sometimes, babies were conceived and born upon them! These are Life, Mr. Chesney! To have such items passed to you from your ancestors is a gift beyond the words to describe. I carry on my family’s name not by calling myself ‘Halla’ but because the rune on this ski belongs to no other family but mine! It is who I am and I am what it is. To use them and carry on does honour to all that I am and all that my forefathers were.” A flush of pink rises to those alabaster cheeks as his passion swells. His justified pride!
“As for technical information, I can only say that the maker of these skis must have been a Stradivarius in the creation of skis! The glide is so smooth and in such perfect control, when waxed just right, that it is nearly impossible to beat me in these when I pick up speed. It is why I am not allowed to use them in competition.” He explains.
“Well . . . we’ll just see about that then!” I declare like a fool.
“Yes. I hope you see lots of things, Mr. Chesney. Maybe you will learn a lesson of importance. The skis do not make the skier. The skier makes the skis!” Snowflake states sharply.
“Now. Bind up. You take lead. I want to watch your form.” Snowflake commands and then returns to the tedious job of leather strapping his ancient skis to his white boots.
I lay my ‘amateurish’ modern skis down and snap my bindings and boots into them almost instantly. I test. Solid!
“I’m set. You say go, then?” I want to confirm again that Snowflake really wants this because I may be drinking a beer by Lake Tahoe by the time he gets done tying those pieces of wood to his feet.
“Yes. I want to watch your form.” Snowflake reiterates with no emotion.
“Ok . . . I’ll let you check out my ‘form’!” I say playfully while I turn and wiggle my ass a bit.
“Nice. Go.” Snowflake drones tonelessly at me not even looking.
A little disappointed, I take my graphite poles and push off. Before long I am past the initial push and glide and I’m rhythmically ‘ski walking’ on the flat snow at speed. The glide on the snow is great! Packed powder! The best for a fast pace!
I hear a swishing noise and then feel a breeze pass my right ear.
I see a white clad ass in front of me suddenly and long white clad legs kicking and pushing in the unusually awkward looking action of the skate skiing form.
I taste muddy snow in my mouth as Snowflake’s blowback catches me in the face! How in the fuck did he get from all the way back there to up here so fast?
What’s worse, he’s actually picking up speed in front of me! I’ve never seen anything like it! He’s leaving me in the dust!
Pissed, I start to push and slide faster and faster until my quads and calves burn like fire! My knee starts to really ache, too but, despite my best efforts I can’t catch up to Snowflake!
At last, Snowflake skids to a stop in front of me and I almost fall down trying to brake myself. Something pops in my knee, but not more than just a little ping.
“How the fuck did you do that?” I want to know.
“Conditioning. Rhythm. Wax.” Snowflake intones.
“Tomorrow, we get you waxable skis and we start the leg strengthening exercises. The rhythm you will pick up in time when we pace together.” Snowflake says.
“But, what’s wrong with these damn skis? They cost a fucking fortune!” I’m shouting now.
“You can throw those away. They are less than useless.” Snowflake shrugs as he turns back to his trek.
As he takes off, he parts from me saying: “You look tired. Get Jimmy to give you a massage. Enjoy yourself! See you in the morning.” With that, Snowflake disappears into the white distance like a ghost. I stand there with my mouth hanging open like a big fish’s!