Getting on the next gondola lift…

You ski back down the groomed run with Jamal’s skis bracketing yours once more, his body a solid wall of heat and control at your back. You try to concentrate on remembering how you used to ski. The way you used to move, how your stood, how you shifted weight from your downhill ski but it’s not there. Jamal is making it impossible to remember. Or maybe it is impossible to remember.

Every gentle push forward grinds his half-hard cock against the cleft of your ass through the slick pink fabric, a constant reminder of the promise he whispered at the top. He was going to fuck you with his big fat cock. Your legs tremble, not from the skiing, which is still embarrassingly basic snowplow, but from the relentless throb between your thighs. The suit is ruined inside, the inner fabric is completely soaked with your own slick, streaked with his drying cum, the crotch seam sawing mercilessly against your swollen clit with each small turn. You bite your lip to keep from moaning out loud.

The Big Easy bottoms out near the gondola loading zone. It’s still eerily quiet and there are no crowds, no lift lines, just the diesel engine, the subtle hum of the cable and the clump clump sound of gondolas going over pylons. The tow operator is a handsome, lanky, fit Caucasian guy in his early twenties, snowboard boots unlaced, beanie pulled low and oozing a cool indifference. He leans against the control panel with a lazy grin. His eyes lock onto you immediately, not just the screaming pink suit, the cute pigtails spilling from under the helmet… no it’s the half unzipped one piece with your deep cleavage still glistening with faint pearly streaks that catch the sun. Yeah. Your money shot…

Jamal doesn’t even slow down. He guides you right up to the loading platform, one big hand firm on your hip.

The operator’s gaze drops blatantly to your chest, then flicks to Jamal with a knowing nod. “Putting the ‘private’ in private lesson, hey man?”

Jamal chuckles low as he steps into the gondola and turns to guide you into it. “You betcha.” Before you can process the casual bro code exchange, Jamal spins you around to face the outwards through the still open gondola door. His fingers find the zipper tab at your sternum and drag it down in one smooth, deliberate pull.

“Oh shit!” You gasp in a high girlish voice as cool air hits sweat damp skin and your heavy breasts spill free, nipples already peaked and dark against the pale curves. The dried cum from earlier gleams vividly across the upper swells, a clear record of what happened on the last ride up.

The operator’s jaw slackens. He lets out a low whistle, eyes wide. “Goddamn.”

Jamal doesn’t stop. The zipper keeps descending, down past your navel, down over the mound of your sex until the suit parts completely down the front. Cold bites at your shaved, glistening pussy, your lips puffy and slick, your clit visibly engorged and throbbing. You whimper, knees buckling slightly, but Jamal’s arm bands around your waist to hold you upright.

The gondola door slides shut automatically with a soft ding, cutting off the operator’s view just as his hand twitches toward his phone like he’s about to take a picture. The kid’s disappointed groan is audible even through the glass.