January and June in Vail

June and January in Vail Ch 01

Divorced banker to reluctant Daddy on skis

This story is entirely fictitious. It traces the feelings and the actions of a divorced, middle-aged bi-curious man as he discovers a lot about himself. All characters engaged in sexual activity are over 18. Two chapters have been written at this point. No AI was used in the production of this story. © 2024, Brunosden, All rights reserved.

Despite the light snow that was falling, I easily found the VRBO chalet just west of commercial center of Vail. I pulled into the driveway and under the carport. Everything about the trip so far had presented problems. The flight from Houston where I had been on business all week to Denver had been delayed. So I had little time at home to make the luggage switch. I hoped that I hadn't forgotten anything important. Traffic was unusually heavy leaving Denver. Light snow had fallen throughout the journey to Vail, cutting the speed limit on I70. And on the day before the trip had begun, my best friend and co-worker had called to report a positive COVID test--and canceled. So I was going to be alone for the week.

The VRBO hostess was waiting (thanks to a series of cell phone txts) and showed me around. The place was mountainside and really nice. Fortunately, we had pre-ordered food, wine and beer so the house was stocked for a day or so. Despite the late arrival, I would not have to go back out to dine on a Saturday without reservations. It was late afternoon and already dark. I was antsy, anxious and maybe even a little angry that my carefully planned vacation was now very open. I was a careful planner with a life totally in order. But, not this time.

This was my annual ski vacation week in late January, and this year, for the second time, I was going to be alone in the modern, but rustic looking, chalet. Two years ago my wife of 15 years had announced she was getting a divorce two weeks before the trip and, of course, didn't come. I had been increasingly insistent that I wanted a child before it became too late for her, hopefully a son--but she was equally firm that she didn't want children. So I guess the divorce was inevitable. I should have seen it coming. And this year, Pat had given me the COVID news with little chance to invite an alternate companion. It wasn't his fault obviously, but it was still disruptive.

I had been looking forward to this trip all year. Skiing had been a passion for almost 5 years since we have moved to Colorado, although because I was a workaholic and participated only a week a year, I hadn't made much progress. I was only one small mountain away from the bunny slopes.

Although I'm in pretty good shape for a 39 year old investment banker, I'm basically not athletic. I work-out faithfully four or five days per week, usually including a run. I'm lightly muscled with almost no fat. I've still got all my hair--and it's raven colored and curly, although my profession means it's kept short. I'm 6-2, 185, now living and working in the Mile High City.

I'm the kind of guy (with translucent porcelain skin) who shows a five o'clock shadow at 10 a.m. so I've adopted groomed facial hair, kept really quite short. Surprisingly it's soft. This always makes me stand out among other clean-shaven bankers. My pecs are lightly brushed with hair and I've got a promising treasure trail (which fortunately leads to a very nice treasure). Otherwise I'm nearly hairless. The fact that I'm reasonably buff, generously hung, together with the groomed facial hair means that I get hit on all the time by gays at the gym. It really doesn't bother me. They've got good taste in men. I've actually been tempted a few times when the guy looked good enough, but I've never taken the bait.

I'm also shy and a loner. No cruising in bars for me. In that sense, I'm really two people: aggressive and competitive in business, but careful and tentative in my personal life. My wife had complained that I had changed after the wedding--to a controlling alpha male. I didn't see myself that way at all. Perhaps my "alpha" only emerges once I know my partner. And of course it would be natural for an investment banker, trained to negotiate hard and win, to carry those attitudes into personal life. A few match-ups from friends since the divorce had all ended in bed. So, apparently it wasn't hard for me at all. No connection so far, despite what I'm told are "youthful good looks," good manners, a masculine appearance--and great financials. But I also learned that a life of casual hooks with middle-aged women was leaving me cold. And my bi-curiosity was peaking. I wanted a relationship. And I wanted to experiment.

We--really I--had decided this trip was going to be different. I was going to make progress on the slopes and I was going to hit the bars--with Pat as my companion. Apres-ski and alcohol were going to be the tools for me to get rid of the shell. Pat was known in the office as the gregarious, party-loving Irish wit although a lightweight at the bargaining table. I knew he was bi and linked with both women and men at various clubs. Almost my exact opposite. I was counting on being his wingman. We were planning a wild week, and had specified a chalet with two separate masters so we might both be able to score.

We had hired a ski instructor for the week. Private, expensive lessons. But, that's the price of progress. And I really wanted to be a SKIER as well as a PLAYER after this holiday.

After Sandra (the VRBO hostess) left, I made a sandwich and sat before the fire with a bottle of cab nearby. We were starting early tomorrow. The instructor was meeting for breakfast and then it would be a day on the slopes. So I turned in early and sober.

We had arranged breakfast at the chalet for our initial meeting. When Carlos arrived, the coffee was made and the scrambled eggs and bacon were kept heated in the electric fry pan. He was on time, but at first I thought perhaps it was someone else. He didn't look at all like a Carlos. He was about 6 foot, a little shorter than I, with dirty blonde long hair, a pink clear Nordic face with dazzlingly white teeth and full lips. When he removed his ski parka, I realized that he was slim and lightly muscled. In fact, he looked like one of those well-developed and well-endowed models appearing on Bel Ami--certainly good looking, boyish, but not a body builder. He was wearing a tight flannel shirt over a tee and threadbare jeans which definitely conveyed ski-bum and teen.

(Okay, some explanations: It turns out that his mother was Spanish, but had married a Swede. It was pretty obvious whose genetics carried into Carlos. And yes, Bel Ami. I did watch gay porn. Just curious. I didn't seem to be attracted to any of the many women with whom I had been paired with since the divorce. I definitely got off more frequently in front of my laptop than in bed with a female partner. I could definitely imagine getting off by sticking my cock in one of those model's asses, maybe in a threesome. But I'm definitely not gay. Maybe a little bi. I often associate gay with soft and feminine--and that is not me. But on line.....)

Carlos had a pleasant voice, and he was a little tentative, acknowledging an older authority figure. He had a masculine demeanor--starting with the serious hand-shake in which his huge hand totally enclosed mine, and the sensual smile of a guy who knew how attractive he was. I guessed immediately that he wasn't having any trouble picking up dates at the many bars at the base of Vail Mountain. He was unquestionably a really attractive hunk. And we were going to be together for a week. He pulled off his ski hat to reveal a head of blonde curls--like one of those Botticelli cherubs. Despite his physique, he gave off the impression of a young boy in his prime and enjoying life, but maybe down on his luck or at least funds. Somehow I thought my luck might be changing. He was at least as good a wing man as Pat would have been--maybe more. I'd invite him to club with me. He'd attract women like flypaper. Maybe I'd pick up a nice lady. And if he gave me any signal, I'd certainly fuck him. Boy, I was horned. I could go either way!

Over breakfast, I learned that Carlos was 22 (he really looked about 18, even if I stretched it), a junior at CU in Physical Therapy-Massage Therapy. That school was in a suburb of Denver, not on the main campus in Boulder. Because of the needs of the ski industry and the financial needs of students, CU had gone to a trimester system--and Carlos always took off the winter semester to act as a ski guide and instructor to make money for his tuition and life. He asked a few questions about my ski experience and noted that it would be just the two of us. He seemed happier about that than I would have guessed.

Carlos was quiet and reserved. And he kept a constant gaze on my face and body which unnerved me just a little. I hadn't yet worked out what he was all about. But it seemed to be a cross between fear and admiration. I didn't think I had given him cause for either--yet.

Within an hour of first meeting, we were on one of the T-bar lifts. We were going to start with an under-used easy-average slope so that Carlos could judge my level of performance and move from there. So of course, klutz that I am, I fell getting off the t-bar! This wasn't starting well. Carlos quickly righted me, and I realized just how strong and muscular he was. I think he deliberately pulled me into his chest and held me for a few seconds longer than necessary for me to get my balance (and of course I could feel his wood even through his jeans and my ski pants). Interesting. "Okay, let's see what you've got." (I was wishing that I had said that.)

I started down, Carlos following closely behind. I didn't fall again, but I did frequently snow plow to reduce my speed. We made it to the bottom without incident. I was smiling with self-satisfaction, as Carlos started walking back to the lift. "Next time, no snow plows. I want to see you use those glutes and thighs to gently curve down the hill. The poles are for balance, not braking." He patted me hard on the butt. "Next time I'm gonna see how much speed you can develop on a tougher slope. Then after lunch, we're heading to a steeper, more difficult slope. You can do it, Mr. McAllister. I've seen it before. You're going to be okay. Just need to lose some fears and inhibitions. Your ski persona needs to catch up with your business success. You're obviously an alpha. Act like it. Even if you fall." While in line, he reminded me of a few downhill technique pointers. And I strongly suggested that he drop the "sir's" and that I was "Kelly."

He was going to push me hard--well out of my comfort zone. But I was already so attracted to him that I would try. He was the kind of guy that you wanted to please or maybe seduce. Even if there was danger in my attempts to prove to him that I was worthy of his continued instruction and attention.

Fortunately, I didn't fall (at least not from the lift) for the rest of the day. Twice more down the slope. The first time I used wide curving arcs to control speed--but put an incredible amount of pressure on my glutes and thighs to keep the skis in line. My legs were burning at the bottom. And then I had the exhilaration of a fast shot down the mountain. Carlos was smiling from ear to ear. And I was beaming--at my progress and at his approval.

In the afternoon, we moved to a more difficult slope. And after three runs, I was exhausted. Totally beat. And past experience had taught me that I was going to be very stiff and sore very soon. Fortunately, it was already dusk. "If I could walk to the bar, I'd offer you a drink. But, I'm afraid if I sit on a bar stool or in a booth, I won't be able to get up again. I know it's not in the contract, but if you'd like to come by the chalet for a drink, we're well stocked. I really don't like to drink alone."

He responded quickly, "Sure. I don't have any other plans for tonight."

We used the mountain base bus to return to the chalet. I immediately started the fire which the staff had laid in the huge stone fireplace. "There are two showers. You're welcome to use one if you'd like. Don't worry. The chalet comes with daily maid and linen service." I pointed to a room behind the sitting area, and went to the owners' suite on the other side.

I emerged a few minutes later. Carlos had obviously finished first. Our ski equipment and clothes had been carefully hung and arranged in the drying room, and he was sprawled on the sofa facing the fire. "I hope that I'm not being too presumptuous, but everything was a bit damp." He was wearing only a tee and spandex trunks. My breath caught. He was quite a specimen--definitely Bel Ami material. The tee barely concealed his muscular chest and wide shoulders. He had nice deeply cut abs--as much from malnutrition as exercise, I thought. He had thick skiers' thighs and the outline of his equipment in the pouch left nothing to the imagination. He was hung, really hung, and he was chubbed (at least I hoped that was chub). If not, I was in serious trouble. (What the fuck made me think that? This guy is a kid--and a boy for Chrissakes. And even if something happens, I am certainly going to do the pitching. What difference does it make how big he is?)

I stepped into the room. The fire had already heated it to toasty warm. So I pulled off my sweater, revealing a poor-boy tee worn over cargoes. Both of us were barefoot. I guess that when I pulled up the sweater, it exposed my gut because Carlos whispered, "Nice abs, Kelly. Very nice abs. Not Daddy abs at all. They're almost a nice as your butt."

"What can I get you to drink? I've got wines--California--and several different IPAs--I don't know any of them."

"Can I see the IPAs?" With those words, he rose from the sofa. He was like a god arising from the leather shell. His curly blonde hair swept down over his deep blue eyes. And the muscles popped. And he was one of those guys that don't respect personal space. He was so close, I could have reached out to touch him.

I knew (maybe it was just a hope) at that moment that I was probably in for more than ski instruction this week. And I guess he did too.

"I noticed they've got a massage table in the second bedroom. I can help if those glutes and thigh muscles are beginning to tighten up."

Now I was sure. I think I'm about to experience my first man on boy sex. At least a happy ending. Was I ready to take that step? Then, I looked at him and recognized the expectant hunger in his boyish face. And he of course recognized that he had me. He was probably an experienced escort as well as ski instructor.

To buy a little time to think about the consequences of what was possible, I stalled. "Let's have a couple. Then, if I can still move, I'd be grateful for some massage therapy."

"If I have to, I can carry you to the table."

Okay, the parameters were set. We each grabbed a bottle and sat before the fire, outstretching our legs to the cocktail table. Our thighs touched, and I pulled away quickly only to catch his little smile. Even in my cargoes, he could tell I was aroused. And there was no question that his chub had grown to a semi. I had had a few happy ending massages, but always with masseuses. He was definitely trying to seduce me. I wondered if he was going to try to top--and what it was going to cost me.

A few minutes later, Carlos moved into the guest room and set up the table. He returned. "They've even equipped the place with oils. Do you have a favorite scent?"

I looked at the three bottles he was holding out. I decided that I was going all in. "Yeah. Nordic Spring. I'm hoping it smells like you." Then I carefully rose from the sofa, exhibiting lots of stiffness! I stripped as I moved to the table and stretched out belly down. Meanwhile, he had removed his tee displaying a gym-built body with wide shoulders, well-developed delts, slab pecs that were so hard they pushed the nipples out nearly a half inch, deeply cut abs, and belt vees that pointed the way to paradise. And he was completely hairless. I knew immediately that his success as a ski instructor was not entirely dependent on his slope skills--and his future success as a physical therapist was virtually guaranteed. He was definitely a beautiful boy.

I noticed also as I placed my head into the holder that he was oiling his torso before he began. I was tingling with excitement. I guess he wanted to smell like a Nordic Spring.

He started of course with long slow strokes to spread the oil while feeling for knots and stiffness. "I thought you said you were a regular gym buff? You've got a lot of nice definition. And, you shouldn't be this tight. I guess maybe you've been exercising the wrong muscles." With those words, he tapped my ass and allowed his fingers to drift into the cleft--implying that I was a gym-slut and a liar about my squat program. Little did he know I was a virgin to manflesh. Only toys had been where no man had yet gone. And I was yet to penetrate the mouth or anus of a man or boy.

For some time he was very professional, kneading tight shoulder muscles, putting pressure on the lower back, manipulating my upper arms. Then he moved to the lower part of the table (and me). Each leg was oiled; calves were pressed into submission by his strong fingers, as he slowly pulled my legs into a vee. Then it was hands on the thighs, pushing hard particularly on the inner muscles. Fingers casually drifted and touched my cock which he could obviously see was rigidly erect and stretched out in the vee on the table and my large soft balls. Then he moved to the other leg, repeating all of the same sensuous movements.

He climbed on the table, kneeling into the vee and began the long strokes from the bottom of the glutes to the shoulder blades, placing the weight of his body into the massage. I realized that he had removed his shorts. His cock, whose size I hadn't yet fully determined, was resting in the crevice, sliding up and back as he continued the back strokes. Nice feature for a therapist: a third arm that massaged the butt cleavage. It felt like a fucking log. He was huge. Maybe even as big as I was. If I wasn't going for this, now was the time to stop. He was obviously signaling that he wanted to fuck me. But no. Involuntarily I wiggled my ass provocatively and pushed up to meet his fingers--and his log. My body, specifically my butt, had answered for me. I was ready to take this boy--or maybe even be taken by him.

He sat back on his haunches and started to pummel my ass globes, pulling them apart and pounding them into soft pillows. I felt a finger on the rim which tapped the entrance a few times. I shivered and raised my buttocks in response. But, Carlos quickly dismounted and tapped me to turn over.

I did of course, embarrassed (just a little) by my obvious erection. Carlos had all the right words. "Nice trim. I like silky pubes and the trail. And that's quite a dick. Any guy would be happy to be so endowed. I'm guessing it's over 9 and the hood is a nice feature. Nice and tight and big. Too bad so many Americans are cut." I knew he was flattering me. It wasn't 9, maybe 8 on a good day and thick with a nicely defined head. My divorce had not occurred because I was inadequate in bed. Our decision not to have children was my wife's choice, not my inability to plant her.

Meanwhile, his own cock had reached action size--probably close to 7 and a half, although thinner than mine, but also hooded. It was perfectly straight with a bulbous head concealed in a nice dark wrapper. The rigidity showed off the blood vessels and the tube along the back that would carry his seed. His pubes had been shaved. He was clean and pink. He started with my legs this time, massaging the hard knots from the front of my thighs. When he did so, he bent over and his supple moist lips were only inches from my cockhead. Just a little more, please. His fingers nudged my balls, and I bumped up until my dick touched his lips. He licked it like a lollipop, but quickly pulled back, waiting for my lead.