The Detachable

The gondola rumbles behind you at the top station. You stumble after Jamal on rubber legs carrying his poles and yours. You damn pussy is still fluttering with very pleasant aftershocks and Jamal’s cum is already leaking warm and thick down the insides of your thighs in your suit. The suit clings as though you are naked, the outer layer waterproof, the inner sodden and reeking of sex. Every step makes the seam drag across your oversensitive clit cruelly. You’re grinning like an idiot, dazed and dripping, when Jamal’s phone buzzes sharply in his pocket.

He fishes it out, glances at the screen, then stops dead. “Wait.” His voice drops an octave, suddenly serious. “This is you… not Jo but Jack?” He turns the phone toward you. The screen shows a screenshot from some sketchy personals board a “casual encounters” hookup site. The heading screams in all caps:

JACK IN GIRLFRIEND’S BODY ON LIBIDO PILL — AUCTIONING 10-MINUTE GONDOLA RIDES AT THE BIG EASY. PRIVATE USE ONLY. BIDDING STARTS AT $200. SERIOUS INQUIRIES ONLY. PINK SUIT PICTURE ATTACHED.

Below it is ann unmistakable photo of you in the fluorescent bubblegum one-piece, cleavage spilling, pigtails swinging. The listing goes on: “Submissive, insatiable, no limits. Former straight guy now perfect fucktoy. Gondola privacy guaranteed.”

You stare. Your stomach drops through the snow. “Um… oh yeah. That is me. Jack. I’m actually a dude.”

Jamal throws his head back and laughs… deep, rolling, delighted. “No you ain’t. You are definitely a slut. I mean damn, girl…” He reaches out, cups your chin, tilts your face up so you have to meet his eyes. “You ain’t no man. Not anymore. Not with the way you just screamed my name and your tight slutty pussy milked every drop of cum from my cock like you were born for it.”

Heat floods your cheeks. Shame and arousal twist together so tight you can barely breathe. The listing is real. Jo must have posted it, or maybe Kate did it for laughs. Either way, you’re being auctioned. Publicly. For quick gondola fucks.

Jamal pockets the phone, still grinning. “Come on, princess. Your rides whoring hookups start after our lesson finishes. We’re taking the quad chair next. More… exposure.”

He leads you away from the gondola, down a narrow access track toward a high-speed detachable quad. It isn’t so groomed and your skis sink awkwardly in the fresh snow. You’re unskilled, clumsy, uncoordinated, still shaky from the fucking but somehow you follow Jamal, staring at the lift in disappointment. The lift is running empty and that doesn’t rule out hanky panky but the logistics of fucking in the open on chair high above the snow with only a safety bar to protect you are not good. A bored operator in the shack gives Jamal a lazy salute and doesn’t even glance twice at your glowing pink disaster of an outfit.

You reach the turnstile. It’s taller than you remember. You try to ski through gracefully; instead your skis straddle it and your cleavage bumps against the turnstile pole. You briefly worry that the naked skin of your breast will stick to the metal. It’s icy cold but non shock thank god. Nipples frozen to the turnstile would have been one too many indignities. You have to hop, mittened hands flailing, ass jiggling in the suit as you scramble backwards and Jamal patiently waits. A man in the queue behind you stares appreciatively at your ass as you slide back, teeter and then forward through the gate and onto the slow-moving chair. The seat catches you under the thighs and bumps you upward. You yelp, legs kicking, until Jamal’s strong arm hooks around your waist and hauls you properly onto the bench beside him.

The chair lifts smoothly, climbing into open air. That’s when it hits you. Jo has Acrophobia… shit. You’re afraid of heights.

The ground drops away fast. First ten feet, then twenty, then forty. The valley opens below like a white abyss. No gondola cabin. No walls. Just a thin aluminum bar and endless nothing under your dangling pink boots. Your breath catches. Chest tightens. Vision tunnels. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck! Jamal! Jamal! The bar! The safety bar! Please!”

Jamal frowns as he reaches across calmly, lowers the bar and holding it in place. Doesn’t help. You’re hyperventilating now, short frantic gasps, clinging to his jacket with both mittened paws, face buried against his chest “I… I can’t! I’m gonna fall. The height! Please!”

He considers you for a second, your small, trembling, pink and pathetic form, then a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face. “Need a distraction, princess?”

Before you can answer his gloved hand finds the zipper at your sternum and drags it all the way down in one ruthless pull. Cold air slams your bare skin. You big breasts spill free, nipples instantly rock-hard. He doesn’t hesitate and quickly shoves the suit open wider, exposing you completely from throat to crotch. Then his fingers dive between your legs.

Two thick digits find your clit, swollen, raw, still pulsing from the gondola and circle hard. You jerk, a strangled moan ripping out of you. He doesn’t tease. He plunges straight in, first two fingers, then three, curling the digits against that spot inside while his thumb confidently mashes your clit in a steady toe curling rhythm.

The fear doesn’t vanish. It just… drowns. Pleasure roars up so fast it whites out everything else. Your hips buck helplessly against his hand. The chair sways gently with the cable’s motion, amplifying every thrust of his fingers. You’re exposed. Your tits bouncing in open air, pussy stretched and dripping around his knuckles, the entire empty mountainside potentially able to see if anyone looks up from below.

You don’t care. You come almost instantly, a violent, full-body, grand-mal seizure of bliss. Your back arches. Your eyes roll. A raw, animal scream tears from your throat and echoes across the bowl as your jaw goes animalistically slack. Your cunt clamps down so hard it forces his fingers deeper, juices gush, soaking his fingers, dripping in fat drops onto the snow far below. Your tiny legs thrash, boots kicking uselessly. You would have fallen off the chair if he wasn’t pinning you in place with his free arm around your ribs.

He keeps fingering you through it all, mercilessly, drawing out wave after wave until you’re sobbing, oversensitive, begging incoherently.

“Too much! Jamal! Fuck! God!” Only then does he slow, easing his fingers out with a wet suck. He lifts them to your lips. You open automatically, licking your own mess off his glove like a trained pet. Salty. Musky. Humiliating. Perfect.

The chair enters the top terminal, detaching and decelerating. He zips you up just enough to keep your tits from flopping free mid disembarkation, though the front is still half-open, cum-streaked cleavage on full display.

The lift operator stares and you notice he is identical looking to the guy at the gondola bottom station! “Jamal! Ed said you scored some primo pussy!”

“Yeah, Ned was not lying. This is Jack! Here. I’ll send you her link…”

You’re boneless, head lolling against his shoulder as he helps you off the lift, half carrying you when your knees refuse to lock.

Away from the unload ramp he steadies you, big hands on your hips. “Still scared of heights?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear.

You manage a shaky laugh that turns into a whimper. “N-not… anymore…”

“Good.” He clips your skis back on, then his. “Next run. Weight forward. Finish every turn. You do it clean, I’ll fuck you on the next gondola ride. You want that?”

Your cunt clenches so hard fresh cum leaks out around the edges of the suit. “Yes sir,” you breathe. “Please.”

He laughs again—low, dark, satisfied. “Then ski like you want to be fucked, princess. After our lesson you’ve probably got buyers waiting.”

You push off behind him, legs trembling, body singing, mind blank except for one thought… More. Always more.