Chapter 3: Day 2: Match Makers
The morning air was sharp enough to cut glass. Julie emerged from the tent feeling hollowed out, her muscles stiff from the cold ground and the residual tremor of the night before. Claire crawled out after her, moving like a wounded animal.
“I did not sleep,” Claire announced to the entire campsite, her voice carrying across the frost-bleached rocks. She glared at Julie, who was lacing her boots with exaggerated innocence. “Not one hour. It was like sleeping next to a chain-smoking bear. A very rhythmic, possessed bear.”
The German couple offered sympathetic nods. Val chuckled. “Earplugs. Lifesavers.”
“I brought three pairs. They were useless. The vibrations came through the ground.” Claire poured instant coffee into her mug with the solemnity of a priest performing last rites.
Mark was already up, repacking his daypack beside Tim. Tim was stretching, his broad shoulders straining his thermal shirt. “Gonna be a big one today, mate. Real elevation gain. Gotta keep the engine primed.”
“Speaking of engines,” Mark said, his tone casually conversational as he tightened a strap. “You see Julie’s tentmate? The French woman, Claire?”
Tim glanced over. “The pissed-off one?”
“That’s the one. She’s not always pissed-off. Maybe she hasn't got it good for a while if you know what I mean: Apparently, she’s recently divorced. Owns a pastry shop in Lyon. Came here to, and I quote, ‘escape men and find myself.’”
Tim stopped mid-stretch. “Pastries, eh?”
“Yeah. And from what I overheard last night, the escaping-men part isn’t going so well. She was complaining her ex-husband was useless in bed except when it comes to snoring. Among other things.” Mark zipped his pack shut, the sound final. “Seems like she might be in the market for a… distraction. A fun, uncomplicated one. Before the whole ‘finding herself’ bit gets too philosophical. Too bad I'm married if you ask me.”
A slow, thoughtful grin spread across Tim’s face. He looked at Claire with new eyes, no longer just the angry neighbor but a potential conquest with a compelling backstory. “A distraction, you say?”
“Just a theory,” Mark shrugged, handing Tim a protein bar. “Might be more interesting than rugby statistics.”
On the other side of camp, Julie was employing similar tactics. She walked with Claire as the group began the day’s trek, the path now a rocky scramble through sparse, alien-looking giant heather. The landscape felt exposed, the sky a vast, aching blue.
“I am a zombie,” Claire moaned, stumbling on a loose stone. “A beautiful, French zombie who will die on this mountain because of your sinuses.”
“I am deeply, deeply sorry,” Julie said, not sounding sorry at all. She steadied Claire with a hand. “Look, maybe you need a different kind of exhaustion. A pleasant one.”
Claire squinted at her. “What is this ‘pleasant exhaustion’? Is this an accounting term?”
“No. It’s a human one.” Julie nodded ahead, where Tim was powering up the trail, his calves defined even through his hiking pants. “See that? That is a vacation fling waiting. A beautiful, muscular, Australian vacation fling. He’s single. He’s got that… exuberant energy. The complete opposite of a husband who pronounces ‘crêpe’ wrong. It can be a trophy or something you never have to talk about again.”
Claire followed her gaze. “He is very loud.”
“He’s young. And look at him. He’s built like a… a rugby player.” Julie leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Imagine those hands and energy focused on something other than sport. A purely physical, no-strings distraction. If I was the one divorced, yumm.”
A flicker of interest, sharp and pragmatic, lit Claire’s tired eyes. She watched Tim leap effortlessly onto a large boulder and turn to offer a hand to Val. “He is a specimen.”
“Yeah. You re not going to marry the guy.”
By midday, the scheme began to bear fruit. The trail had steepened into a relentless series of switchbacks. The group strung out like beads on a slope. Tim, suddenly finding his stride beside Claire, was explaining Australian rules football with sweeping hand gestures. Claire was listening, or pretending to, her head tilted in a way that showed off her neck.
Mark dropped back to where Julie was pretending to adjust her trekking pole. “I think he’s switched codes,” he murmured.
“I think she’s considering a tasting menu,” Julie replied.
They watched as Tim made a joke. Claire laughed, a genuine, throaty sound that carried down the wind. Tim’s chest seemed to inflate. He pointed ahead to a rocky outcrop. “Bet the view’s cracking from up there. Fancy a quicker pace?”
Claire glanced back at Julie, a silent question. Julie made a shooing motion with her hand. Go.
With a slight, determined smile, Claire turned and matched Tim’s stride. They moved ahead, their conversation fading into the crunch of boots on scree.
The opportunity was a door swinging open. Julie immediately stopped, crouching to rummage in her pack. Mark paused beside her. “Everything okay?”
“Just a stone in my boot,” Julie said, too loudly. “You go on.”
“I’ll wait. Safer in pairs.”
They stood there, a pantomime of minor inconvenience, as the rest of the group passed them. Val and David. The Germans. Eli the guide, who gave them a questioning look.
“We are fine!” Mark called. “Just a rubble in her shoes. We’ll catch up!”
Eli nodded, pointing ahead. “One hour to lunch stop. Do not linger.”
They waited, the silence between them swelling in the thin air. Finally, the two British women, Margaret and Joan, came into view around the bend, moving at a steady, plodding pace. They were breathing hard but smiling.
“Everything alright, dears?” Margaret asked, her face flushed.
“Just a pebble,” Julie said, standing. “We’ll walk with you.”
But Margaret waved a hand. “Oh, don’t you wait for us! We’re perfectly happy at our own speed. A tortoise’s pace, but we get there. You youngsters go on ahead.”
“Are you sure?” Mark asked.
“Positive! Go on, before you get cold.”
It was the last piece of permission they needed. With a final wave, Mark and Julie turned and started up the trail, leaving the two older women behind. Within fifty yards, a bend in the path swallowed everyone ahead. They were alone. The only sounds were the wind, their own labored breathing, and the furious, hopeful hammering of their hearts.
The path ahead was empty, winding through a field of surreal, giant senecio plants that looked like something from a Dr. Seuss book. The world had narrowed to this dusty track, the immense sky, and the space between their two bodies, humming with a tension that was equal parts desire and terror.
He reached for her gloved hand. She took it. Their fingers linked, a simple, devastating connection. For now, they didn’t speak. They just walked, together, into the vast and waiting silence.
They just walked, together, into the vast and waiting silence. Their pace quickened, boots crunching on the volcanic scree in a rhythm that felt like a heartbeat. They rounded another bend, the trail now deserted ahead, and Mark suddenly veered off the path towards a cluster of massive, house-sized boulders that offered a sliver of privacy from the wind.
“Here,” he said, his voice thick.
He pulled her into the lee of the largest rock, a hollowed-out space dusty with gravel and sheltered from the biting wind. The sun was weak but direct here, a pale spotlight on their desperation. They dropped their packs with a thud, the sound swallowed by the immensity of the landscape. No words were needed. Their cold, gloved hands fumbled with zippers and belts, their breathing already ragged from the altitude and the frenzy.
They laid his unfolded rain jacket on the hard ground. He was on his back, hiking pants and underwear shoved down to his thighs. She straddled him, her own leggings a tangled brace at her ankles. She guided him inside her with a sharp, gasping thrust, her body arching as he filled her. The air was so cold it burned her lungs, but where they were joined was a furnace.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his hands gripping her hips, his eyes wide with a kind of shocked reverence. She began to move, a rough, grinding rhythm born of years of absence. His thumbs dug into the flesh of her ass, pulling her down onto him harder with each upward roll of her hips.
One of his hands slipped from her hip, his fingers trailing through the sweat-slick groove of her ass. She felt the blunt, seeking pressure of his fingertip against her other hole, a question in the push. She slammed her hips down, pinning his hand between them, and shook her head. “Not here,” she panted, the words clouding in the air between their faces. “Later, when we’re done with this hike, I want you to fuck my ass. But now I need to walk.”
"I want you to fuck my ass" electrified him. A violent shudder ran through his body. His face tightened, his jaw clenching. “Christ, Julie, I’m gonna…”
She saw it, the imminent loss of control in the strain of his neck cords. She didn’t want it over yet. In one fluid, desperate motion, she lifted herself off him, his cock springing free, slick and gleaming in the thin mountain light. She moved up his body and took him into her mouth, swallowing him deep, her tongue working the sensitive head where his orgasm was already gathering.
He cried out, a strangled, echoing sound against the rock. His hands fistfuls of her hair, he pulsed into her throat, his hips bucking off the ground. She sucked him through it, drinking him down until he was soft, until he lay spent beneath her, chest heaving.
But she was unfinished, a live wire of unmet need. She turned, presenting herself to his face, one hand braced against the cold boulder. “Your turn,” she breathed, and lowered herself onto his mouth.
He needed no instruction. His tongue was voracious, lapping at her with a focused intensity that wiped every other thought from the world. He licked and sucked, his hands squeezing her ass, pulling her harder against his face. She rode the rough flat of his tongue, grinding against him, her own fingers digging into the rock for purchase. The orgasm ripped through her, harsh and convulsive, her thighs clamping against his head as she muffled her scream against her own arm.
They collapsed into a heap of trembling limbs and disheveled clothing, the cold seeping back into their sweat-damp skin almost immediately. For a long minute, the only sound was their gulping for air in the thin atmosphere. Then, the practicality that had defined their reunion reasserted itself.
“We have to move,” he said, already pulling up his pants.
They dressed in a frenzied, silent ballet, shaking gravel from clothes, avoiding each other’s eyes for a moment as the enormity of where they were and what they’d done settled back over them. He folded the rain jacket, stained now with earth and their shared fluids, and stuffed it deep into his pack.
They scrambled back to the trail, their bodies loose and heavy with spent adrenaline. They walked quickly, wordlessly, for ten minutes before they saw the bright colors of the lead group’s jackets ahead, stopped for lunch on a broad, sunny ledge. Tim was showing Claire how to adjust her trekking poles. Val and David were sharing a bag of nuts.
Mark and Julie fell into the group, their arrival unnoticed. They mentioned the british lady were following behind. They sat apart, pulling out their own water and snacks, their bodies singing with secret electricity.
"Ca va?" asked claire to Julie "Your cheeks are red"
"Yeah I'm okay - really need a break though. He walks faster than you." Far below, they could see the two tiny, slow-moving dots of Margaret and Joan, still climbing methodically toward them, blissfully unaware of the raw, frantic history that had just been written in the stones above.
Far below, the two tiny, slow-moving dots of Margaret and Joan seemed to measure a different, more patient time. Eli called the group to move, his voice cutting through the heavy silence that had fallen between Julie and Mark. The afternoon’s trek was a brutal, sun-scorched march across the Shira Plateau, a vast, windswept plain of black rock and stubborn yellow grass that made the lungs burn and the head pound. Julie walked mechanically, her body a collection of sore muscles and humming nerve endings. Every shift of her backpack strap reminded her of the grip of his hands.
He replayed the words in his head, a relentless loop: I want you to fuck my ass. She had said it before, but the filthy, intimate promise was always turning his gut over. He walked ahead of her, his stride purposeful, but she saw the way his shoulders were set, a tension that had nothing to do with the altitude.
They shuffled into Shira 1 Camp as the sun bled orange over the jagged western rim. The camp was more exposed, more desolate than the last. Tents were pitched on a hard-packed dirt circle that felt like the roof of the world. Everyone moved slowly, the altitude now a tangible weight. Claire was quiet, her earlier irritation replaced by a contemplative exhaustion. Tim hovered near her, handing her a water bottle without being asked.
Dinner was a quiet affair of lukewarm soup and dense bread. The communal tent buzzed with the low murmur of fatigue. Val complained of a headache. David massaged her temples. Eli reminded them to drink, to listen to their bodies. Julie watched Mark from under her lashes. He was listening to Eli, nodding, but his knee jiggled under the table with a frantic, repressed energy.
After the meal, Tim produced a flask. “A wee dram. Medicinal, for the altitude.” He poured a little into his metal cup, then offered it to Claire. She hesitated, then accepted with a small, tired smile.
“I suppose my neurons need thawing,” she said, taking a sip.
“We’ll stay by the fire for a bit,” Tim announced to the group, gesturing to the stone ring where a few porters were burning scraps of wood. The feeble flames fought the immense cold. Most of the group mumbled goodnights and headed for their tents. Mark caught Julie’s eye as he stood. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod towards his tent, then turned to Tim.
“Don’t keep them out too late,” Mark said, his voice casual. He winked. “They need their beauty sleep.”
Tim grinned, raising his cup. “No worries, mate. Just warming up.”
After 2 min Julie stood and said "Actually i'm bit" and walked towards the tend. Her heart began to slam against her ribs as she passed Mark and Tim's tent. "Mark can I borrow your headlamp?" she asked loud enough that everybody could hear her. “Claire has it by the fire and i need to go to the toilet first,” Julie said, her voice unnaturally bright.
“Sure,” Mark replied from his tent. “It is a tomb in there already.”
Mark’s tent was a dark hump, the fly only half-zipped. She dropped to her knees and crawled inside without a word.
He was lying on his back in his sleeping bag, but he wasn’t sleeping. The glow from a headlamp illuminated the sharp planes of his face. He was already hard, the shape of him evident through the bag. She unzipped it quickly, her fingers numb and clumsy.
“Headlamp,” she whispered, the lie perfunctory.
“Bullshit,” he breathed, pushing the bag down to his waist.
"Switch it off Dumbass"
There was no ceremony. She yanked his thermal pants and boxers down just far enough to free his cock, which sprang up thick and already leaking. She bent and took him into her mouth in one deep, swallowing motion. It wasn’t sensual or slow. It was frantic, a means to an end. She used her hand on the base, her mouth a wet, tight channel, sucking him with a sloppy, noisy urgency. Spit dripped down her chin, onto his stomach.
She gagged as she took him deeper, the head hitting the back of her throat, her eyes watering. She pulled back, gasping, and licked a rough stripe down to his balls, taking one and then the other into her mouth, sucking the tight skin, her tongue working. He cursed, a continuous, whispered stream of “fuck, yes, just like that, you filthy angel.”
Her left hand still worked his shaft, slick with her saliva. Her right hand, cold from the outside air, trailed down his perineum. She pressed a dry finger firmly against the tight pucker of his asshole. He jolted as if shocked.
“Julie–”
She didn’t pause. She spit messily into her palm, wet her finger, and pushed it back, applying insistent, circling pressure. Then she breached him, just the very tip of her finger slipping inside, a shocking, intimate invasion.
His hips bucked off the sleeping pad. That was it. The combination of her sloppy, gagging mouth and the obscene pressure of her finger-tip inside him tipped him over a precipice he’d been balancing on all day. He came with a strangled shout, his release pumping hot and bitter into her mouth, his body bowing tight as a wire. She swallowed convulsively, milking him with her hand until he was soft, her finger still lodged inside him.
From outside, very close, came a burst of laughter. Claire’s giggle, high and bright, followed by Tim’s lower rumble. They were right there, by the fire. Julie kept sucking Mark’s softening cock, her feet, still outside the tent.
She pulled away, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. They stared at each other in the near-dark, the animal truth of what they’d just done lying between them like a third body. She backed out of the tent on her knees, her feet trailing behind her, and re-zipped the fly without a word.
Back by the fire and on her way to the bathroom, Claire said. “Sorry I kept your lamp. Did you find one?”
“Yeah. Mark had one,” Julie said, her voice strangely calm but her whole body trembling.
Later on, when Claire came to bed, Julie waited until her breathing evened out into the first shallow waves of sleep. Then Julie took a deep, deliberate breath and let it out in a long, rattling, guttural snore. It was a masterpiece of obstructive sleep apnea, a chainsaw starting in a library.
Claire shot upright. “Non. Non, non, non!”
Julie snorted, smacked her lips, and launched into another volley, even louder.
“Julie! Wake up! You are doing it again!” Claire hissed, shoving her shoulder.
Julie mumbled incoherently and turned over. The silence that followed was thick with rage. Julie lay perfectly still, a vicious, triumphant smile locked behind her sealed lips, listening to Claire’s furious, awake breathing in the dark.