Trailbreaker
by Mr. Nobody
Chrissy climbs all over him.


--Names, locations are coincidental. This is fiction for readers who are
adults.--

"This one goes to Mirror Lake. Three...three-and-a-half miles, one way. And,
this one," her finger moving along a different line on the map, "goes to
Channel Lake. That's Kargill Trail, the one you were asking me about."

"Now I see." He understands better what he couldn't the other day at the
coffee shop. "Well, shall we try it?"

It doesn't matter to her. She knows these trails like the back of her hand.
The choice can be his. They open their packs and check out provisions --
lunch, extra socks, camera, sunoil, repellent...

She watches him. He carefully folds his new trail map and stuffs it next to a
wad of brochures from the ranger's station. "That's weight you're carrying,
you know." He ignores her comment. She finds him an irritation, what with his
questions at the station why he cannot sign the climber's register, wasting
valuable time staring at old pictures on the wall, taking those ridiculous
brochures. Alas, this is the price of bumming a free ride to the trail, she
guesses.

It is a popular, remote spot in a national park. A gravel parking lot. A dozen
vehicles. A handful of people, like them, examining gear before setting out on
hikes, overnighters, or more serious climbing. Some look to be more ambitious
than others, their equipment in large piles. Others, like her and this man,
are out for a quick day hike.

She is Chrissy, a seasonal waitress at the lodge. They meet two days earlier
in the coffee shop. He motions for more coffee. She approaches and sees the
hiker's pack next to him in his booth. A few unsolicited comments about this
trail and that trail, and he's hooked. This is information he craves. She
pours his coffee and moves on.

He peppers her with questions as she walks by. How long has she been climbing?
"My whole life; third summer here," drumming her fingers on his table, looking
down at him, anticipating yet another question before moving on.

She's fetching, what with the athletic, outdoorsy look, the short blond
crew-cut and the terse answers to a clueless neophyte. The deep tan is not
cosmetic. Her face has tons of permanently etched sun freckles. He watches a
noticeably well-developed forearm pour his coffee, and with it the suggestion
this young woman knows her ropes, knots, carabiners, and pitons. Free time to
her is climbing time. She's out there every hour she isn't slopping food to
tourists like him. Give her two back-to-back days and she does the serious
stuff, the rocks, the technical mountaineering, the friction-climbing a
five-hundred foot exposed face, loving every minute of it.

"I have a bicycle, but usually I hitch with a guest." She tears off his check
and hands it to him, answering his tenth question, this one on how employees
get around if they don't have cars. "I've been late for work just twice.
People cover. It's no big deal," answering number eleven. She moves on,
refilling.

One more (number twelve), "Can you describe the Kargill Trail to me?"

Her mind works as she speaks, "Make you a deal. Thursday I'm off. Give me a
ride and I'll show you. Let me know. Bye-bye." She moves on.

...the greens on the lower trail are still wet. He feels them brush against
his shin, above his hiking socks. He is glad to have on a jacket. Six-thirty
on a Thursday morning and it's still quite chilly, dewy.

They go at it steadily for fifteen minutes before he stops and adjusts a
strap. Then they move on. He warms soon thereafter, his breathing only
slightly labored this early in the climb. A week in the high country and he
feels reasonably acclimated to the altitude. Chrissy stays a few feet in front
of him, setting a business-like pace.

He notes the serious mileage on her boots, the scuffings, the neat roll of the
socks, the remarkable muscularity in the legs. She lifts and never drags, each
step a careful choice. Unlike him, she does not catch her toes. She does not
stumble. Her pack is steady on shoulders as broad, if not broader, than his
own. Her thumbs ride high on her chest straps to avoid numbness in the hands.
She releases them now and then and swings her arms with authority. She seems a
mule.

"Okay?" She pauses. "Wanna stop?" He exhales a wordless "okay." Speaking while
hiking robs his breath. He coughs trying to say something to her. His neck
feels sweaty even though it's still quite chilly. He swigs water.

She removes her nylon shell and ties it around her waist. Her shirt shows a
very serious build. She drinks from a water bottle, the leakage running down
her throat, her neck flexing with each swallow. She finishes with a big
inhale, her forearm swiping her face and mouth. A hand reaches up to encourage
circulation away from the wrist and down the arm.

They head on, the straps of her backpack riding on pronounced curves in her
shoulders, her neck region. She is impressive.

She photographs some small flowers, then later an elk eating in a nearby
meadow. She controls the pace. He stops when she suggests and drinks when she
recommends, only more. "Don't get dehydrated!" Later, he stops to remove his
pack. She massages his shoulder to remove a knot forming. She talks some. He
can't talk and hike at the same time like she can. Her hands are strong.

"That," her hand extending, "is McTavish, your lodge." She points. "Here it
is," her finger roaming the map in her other hand, "right here." Her personal
copy is heavily used, with holes worn in the folds. He sees it is seven miles
to the lake. They are doing two miles per hour by his guess. Three to four
hours up, lunch, and then back in two. They'll be at his car by one-ish.
That's standard hiking. He swigs more water.

They reach the lake at eleven. Add another fifteen minutes for a nice flat
rock on the opposite side, out of the way and catching the full sun. Secluded.
It is warm, refreshing. He sits, slipping off his pack and scooting on his
shorts until the pack serves as a pillow. There he rests, soaking up the hot
sun for a moment, the illusion of hot air at this altitude, his legs
stretching out and feeling a cool breeze suddenly grow chillier when he's not
moving. His laces are loose. His feet breathe, and swell. Chrissy walks around
and surveys. She shoots some lichen.

She cannot believe it, a picnic blanket. She watches as he unfolds a picnic
blanket from his pack, a thin, thermal job from years back when his kids were
little. Something to sit on, she assumes.

"Pleasant, huh?" He looks up at Chrissy, his smile admiring his handiwork.
"Please," bowing like a gentleman, hand sweeping wide to beg her pleasure,
"join me."

Chrissy wiggles out of her pack and lets it fall to her hand before setting it
to the side. She kneels, saying little to this, reaching for her pack and some
snacks.

He stretches out the length of his blanket, his toes pointing to the water's
edge a few feet away. She is perhaps a yard from his left shoulder. He rolls
to see her, but the sun is too bright. His forearm shades his face. "You were
saying...?"

"Law school. I dunno."

"What, two years of college left?"

She nods, biting an apple, his questions tiresome.

"So, twenty-one?"

Trying to talk with her mouth full of apple, "...No, nechhhhts Mayhhhh."

He rolls to his back. "To be twenty-one again...," sighing, laughing at
himself. He mumbles. He catnaps. He mumbles.

She doesn't care hearing about his ex in Atlanta. He bores her.

She stands and espies the far shore, the disappearing specks three people
leaving. Within a minute, no one. No one to look. No one to hear. The large
boulders just in front block any direct sight.

She steps over his head, his body stretching out, on his back, before her. The
toes of her hiking boots meet under his neck and her heel interiors slam
against the sides of his head, the grip instantaneous and overpowering. She
peers down, watching his reaction, the knees jerking, the boots bicycling the
air, the hands grabbing at her leg, tugging the blanket, reaching for
anything. Ineffectual. Her hands on her hips, boots pressing harder, watching
him fight.

She plays with him, ONE!, a powerful, Prussian heel-click to both sides of his
head. And he shouts, a tinny, small man's shout. Bam!, again. His sound
doesn't carry well, the thin air, the shore too far, up-wind. No one to hear.
She lets him shout. His pitch says he's hurting now. Her legs are so powerful.
The boots press. She makes him choke on his words and his spit, looking down
her right leg doing it to him, seeing how strong she is. He begs her to stop,
her response to pivot the boots, to tighten. She looks down the other leg and
smiles from this angle.

She realizes the risks, the way he kicks, the chance he might roll, all this
despite the brutal boothold her heavily muscled legs achieve on the little
head. She takes very deep breaths, concentrating on not losing balance and
imperiling her grip, looking forward, extending her hands to her sides like a
scarecrow, rapidly lowering into a controlled squat.

It is a deep knee-bend, knees together, heels lifting off the blanket, the
skull pressed between the leather of her ankles. Her weight is on the soles of
her boots, their sides creasing as she lowers suddenly. With her thighs
parallel to the ground, he is secure. He shouts at her. By lowering more she
can push her hams, her ass, into his face. She wants to hold him completely by
the neck before doing this, so she shuffles her feet, coaxing his skull until
she feels her heels touch behind it. Now she holds him in a triangle at the
crook of her knees, his neck between her lower legs, the grip total. He cannot
roll on her. Her fingertips reach down for balance, but she does not tip. She
moves her boots to achieve a perfect, swallowing grip. The old picnic blanket
comes apart as she twists her boots.

By lowering like this, she has options. Bouncy-bouncy. Let's bounce. She
begins bouncing. She smirks. Her butt bounces on his face.

Bouncy-bouncy. She curls herself forward and grabs her legs tightly below the
kneecaps, bouncing her hard, muscular ass against his face, each pounce
driving the back of his skull onto her boots, bouncing harder and harder.

She keeps pounding her ass into his face, bouncy-bouncy. He coughs, his shouts
interrupted.

"Uh, uh...UH!" Three bouncy-bouncies. "Uh, uh...UHHHH!" Three more.

If he is able to reach up and slap and claw at her, he does not, and he
cannot. The hits to his head are incapacitating. Her exhales drown his sounds.

It becomes a chant, her exhales do. An uncooperative child who makes a noise
while repeating some impudent act. Three-four time, the bounces punctuating
the tone, the accent on the third bounce, rapidly, "uh-uh...UH, uh-uh...UH,
uh-uh...UH!" She stares ahead, feeling sexy and smiling sexily, her tongue
wiping her teeth, "uh-uhhhh...UNNNNGHHHH!" and she grunts more loudly and hits
this man hard.

She stops and falls backwards, extending her hands behind and catching
herself, walking on her hands, her boots clasping his head as she lowers. She
sits on the stone and slouches back on her elbows, carefully releasing the
head and sliding her boots forward quickly before he slips free, shoving them
under his back until her laces disappear. Her legs come back together and
press on his face, pinning his head to the blanket.

Heels dig into the blanket. She flexes her shins, pulling up her boot tips,
then lowering them, and then up again, over and over, scraping his back with
her boot tips -- and up and down, up and down go his chest and shoulders. The
effect is dramatic. She plays with him, each time bowing him, his legs sliding
up and down on his blanket, over and over.

Please stop! She assumes he's begging, her calves distorting his speech. She
looks down her left leg, now over to the other...looking down her right one,
back and forth, back and forth. She is unsure which looks more shapely, more
muscular doing this to him. She prefers her right. Both calves become hard,
her legs rigid, her knees dimpling when she tenses this way, her quads big
knots just above her knees. Her legs a pry-bar, his skull a fulcrum, his face
a pivot point. Her butt presses to the granite and she lifts his shoulders
with her boots. He squeals. She wants to smash his head, teetering on him like
this.

She likes this, her staggering development. Shins wide and sexy, smooth,
tanned skin reflecting the sun. She pushes her calves against him as if
pressing thick mud into his mouth. It stifles his noises and he gags for air.
She presses. He is at her mercy, weak, her lips parting, smiling, a solitary
finger on his right hand shaking like palsy from something she's doing to him.

She rocks him slightly to feel for a stone under the blanket, something larger
than a pea, perhaps a jagged feature of the granite's face. She presses when
his head centers on a bump. The squeal turns into a piercing scream. Slight
shoving pulsations make him jerk sharply, convulse. She sits up to catch this,
propping her sides on her elbows, her head tilting, her look investing, her
jaw rocking lazily. She pushes harder. High-pitched shrieks. It's unclear what
she's doing, so she pushes with steady pressure and simply watches the man go
berserk. She closes her eyes, working this sweet spot, breathing deeply,
rapidly, pressing him, feeling him.

She releases and gasps for air, her chest heaving, her neck and shoulders
sweaty as she lowers to the granite to compose, her chest needing to heave
awhile, her heart pounding. She wants more. A subtle relaxation and a bend of
the knees -- her legs become rigid again and she slams, not pushing, but
slamming hard, hitting his face, her knees lifting and slamming down again,
pounding him until he stops screaming. She stops, lifts her knees again,
watching down her side at him.

Hands paw aimlessly, wobbling. He never achieves a grip on her legs. They are
simply too much, too big, even for a grown man's hands. His fingers feel like
little ticklers now more than anything else, the sensation something almost
erotic to her, her eyes closing to hands wisping across her skin like flies.
He cannot budge her, never could, and won't. He groans. She wonders if he's
worried, or confused by her, or if he can even think.

She looks far away and smiles, listening, feeling him, her lips spreading as
she smiles, thinking how unfair NOT to do him all the way, and NOT to get off
doing it.

Her right hand reaches down and works her belt, her buckle, her fist spreading
her zipper, her panties expanding as she digs. Her mouth sucks on her other
fist. The young, shapely leg muscles squeeze his neck and skull, gripping up,
cinching tightly on him, wringing him with a sensual cadence, two lesbian
pythons in heat going for the same jungle rodent. She moans, teeth clenching.
One calf slides back and forth against his head and then lets the other get a
feel before the two join and press his cheeks, squishing his facial features.

Her nose scrunching up at this, grunting sexily, her hand busy now, the wet
slosh of three fingers, very much into it now, her body writhing, husky
exhales, very very much into it, the buttons on her shirt earning their keep.
It is the onset of something very special and satisfying.

She clips her boot against her left Achilles, under his back, her right calf
dominant. Legs cock. She shuts her eyes and shoves, pressing his face, driving
the top of his head into the blanket, left leg pushing up, wrapping the neck
around, beyond limits. Her shoulders grab granite, her fingers tear the
blanket, face grimacing. Legs lock. Her neck cranes, head claws, chest swells
hugely, small of her back arching off the blanket. Big, rugged legs bowing at
the knees, boots lifting. Lifting him. Throttling the neck. Twisting about in
her grip, kicking, boots tangling in the blanket. Hungry legs swell, feed. She
gushes out pent up air, a loud grunt, finishing, her shorts wet. Dinner's
over.

It takes some time to cool down. Chrissy stands, eventually. The last minutes
twist him into an abnormal shape. Horrific minutes. This pleases her, as does
the dark piss all over his shorts and blanket. She looks into the noon sun
like some Aztec priestess, reaching up to accept a gift, her arms coming down
into some sort of flexy smugness, her lips Mussolini-puckering with
satisfaction at beefy forearms with veiny ridges running under her leather
watch strap. She moves about, examining things. Her right hand draws to her
mouth and she strums her sticky fingers against her thick, wet, kissing lips
while walking around.

She removes all his clothing, everything, leaving only that which rots.
Everything goes into his backpack, neatly. Identification, money, his
sunglasses, boots, everything. Those brochures. Then, the blanket. The man is
spread out on the stone. Her sacrifice. As she stares to the far shore, her
boot presses his head. She prefers the heel. She pushes, her eyes moving to
the mountain peaks to her left, her full weight into it now, the feel of a
coconut pressed against a sidewalk.

The crevasse is but one-hundred yards away, but something of a climb. She
carries him various ways, dragging him, over one shoulder, then over both,
lifting him overhead and pushing as he rolls from her hands. He wedges deeply
in a crack between boulders. Back at the lake she slides his pack into her
expandable version. His cameras go around her neck. His belongings, his
brochures, burn with the rest of the day's trash in the new environmentally
responsible electric arc incinerator at the lodge. The register at the
ranger's cabin holds no name. No one remembers him from one busy day of
hiking. There are no questions asked at the coffee shop. A maid packs his
belongings and cleans his room. A truck tows his car.

Chrissy hikes twice more that week, almost squeezing in a third. Nearly two
weeks later, on a whim, she chooses a high lake with a flat rock next to the
shore on the far side. A family has the spot, but cleans up and soon leaves.
Chrissy sits and snacks. She smiles, suns. She loosens her shorts.

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