Image by the fabulous Stuart F Taylor
Today’s incredible guest blog is a long read, so make sure you’re sitting comfortably – with a sex toy of your choice if you’re in the mood – and let yourself fall into this intense and adrenaline-pumping fantasy. We’ve talked here before about risky sex and the way that fear can heighten a sexual mood, but I reckon the author of this piece – J K Mill (@jkmill on BlueSky)- has raised the stakes to heights that no one’s written about on the blog before (I mean this in a very literal way). So settle in for a piece of erotic fiction about climbing, and fucking, which ends on the most searingly memorable mental image I’ve been given in a very long time…
Tight Fit – fucking 150 feet up
Sometimes I’m glad I can’t see. When my cane enters the room before I do, the silence hits, heavy and wet, smothering any spark of anticipation. That’s bad enough.
They don’t see Mara the rock climber. They see some blind chick who only avoided crashing into the big table because her cane clipped it first. They sure as hell don’t see someone who’s about to scale a cliff alongside them. I’m grateful I can’t see their faces: shocked, embarrassed, pitying. Fuck that noise.
Truth is, the noise is worse than silence, because I can hear them taking me in, feel it in my chest. Zippers rasping and nylon webbing squeaking. A cattle herd’s worth of shifting feet.
Someone mutters “oh wow” quietly but not quietly enough, punctuated with coughs and throat clearing like I walked into a doctor’s office during flu season instead of a rock-climbing retreat.
I sweep my cane across the floor, find a clear patch near the side wall, and drop my bag. I don’t need help. I never do. They don’t know I’ve been climbing for ten years — five of them blind. I still get the same whispers all the time, like I’m a charity case instead of a woman with good hands and better legs.
I didn’t come to Aspen Draw Climbing Camp for a kiddie rock like these newbies who don’t know a carabiner from a cam. I came because I’ve already tackled everything worth climbing back home. But a new place means no muscle memory, no familiar holds, and no John, my best friend and belayer, the one holding the rope and keeping me from hitting the ground hard if I slip. I’m excited, but a little nervous too. Hell, isn’t that exactly how you’re supposed to feel on an adventure?
John was a lot nervous about me coming to Colorado for a fresh challenge.
“You won’t know the handholds. Or the belayer.”
“I don’t want a safety net,” I told him. “I want the thrill back. I want them to treat me like any other climber at Mount Participation Ribbon.”
He laughed, but from the sound of it, it didn’t reach his eyes.
“I’ve done enough climbs on easy mode,” I said.
He knew better than to push it. When Mara Rourke decides she’s doing something, she fucking does it. Blind, woman, mid-thirties, short, single, blonde, there’s always a stupid reason why people think I can’t or shouldn’t do something. It just makes me more determined.
The main instructor starts the safety briefing, and I zone out after the fifth time she says “just to be safe.” I’ve heard it all before: harness checks, helmets, no climb if it rains. No shame in bailing out, blah blah blah. After an eternity, the instructor moves on to the partner assignments.
I tune back in, but around me, the room breaks into a cacophony of motion: gear clanking, boots scuffing wood. Students pair off with instructors, calling names, doing buddy checks. I wait for the poor sucker who got stuck with the Ms. Magoo who thinks she’s Edmund Hillary.
A voice cuts through the chatter and clatter. Low, warm, and close.
“You’re Mara, right?”
I tilt my head toward the sound.
“I’m Noel. I’ll be your belayer.”
The voice is steady. Confident, not cocky. He’s close enough I catch a faint scent. Cedar maybe, or just clean skin and mountain air. I take a slow breath.
He’s tall, really tall. His words flow down to me like warm water over stone.
“All right,” I say. A good start, but it’s not the voice that has your life in its hands, it’s the man. He doesn’t flinch at the chill in my tone.
“I read your file,” he says. “You’ve got more experience than most of our instructors.”
“Including you?”
“No,” he admits. “Eighteen years.”
“So you drew the short straw — blind lady duty.” I’m relieved he’s experienced, but I bury it. I don’t show weakness to fellow climbers. That’s just bait for more pity, and I’ve had my fill.
“Nope,” he replies, unfazed. Then he’s silent. I’m not used to that at all. People love to fill the awkward void where my sight used to be with patter.
“Lucky you,” I say.
He gives a low, noncommittal hum. “You’ve been climbing blind for five years. I figured you’d be interesting.”
“Interesting. You mean like watching a monkey try to do long division?”
“No. Interesting like I won’t have to babysit any of these noobs.”
I can’t help but smirk, and I get an idea that would’ve made John have a stroke if he heard it.
“Then maybe you won’t shit yourself when I ask for a real climb.”
His warm laugh ripples over my skin, like the sun peeked out from behind a cloud.
He shifts closer, and the toe of his boot nudges mine, deliberately, and the contact lands like a spark low in my belly. Then his voice hits my ear, low and close, the gust that fans the flame.
“I was just going to suggest the same thing,” he says quietly, a secret between us.
He sounds calm and capable, and that’s probably too good to be true. He hasn’t asked if I need special help. But I’ve spent years working twice as hard for half the trust, so I need to be sure he’s solid.
“Back up a bit,” I say. “I want to feel who’s holding the rope.”
He obeys. I reach for where I guess his right arm is, but land on his chest instead. It’s broad, hard, cool under tight synthetic fabric. Like a steel plate wrapped in smooth skin. I press in slightly, just to be sure I’m not imagining it.
“Chest strap,” I murmur. “Check.”
I trace up to his shoulder — solid delts under thick harness webbing — then down his bicep. He’s not flexing, but there’s no give. Rope-burn calluses rough on his forearm. Chalk dust in his elbow creases. His wrist is solid, skin warm beneath a snug watch strap. His hand hangs loose at his side, fingers strong and dry.
I’m warm too. And maybe not completely dry. I lick my lips. Tall, buff, voice sending sweet vibrations through my ears and down my spine, between my legs, so I am very aware of how snugly my climbing tights are clinging to my vulva.
I slide my palm back up his forearm, slow. Still checking, I tell myself. Still cataloging. But my breath’s gone shallow, and part of me already wants to climb him.
“Good arms,” I murmur. “Good grip. No tremble.”
“Appreciate the review,” he says.
“Still checking,” I say quickly, too quickly, and slide my hand down and to the side, over his hip, and then down until I brush the edge of his thigh strap. The webbing cuts across solid quads, slightly flexed. Not bulky, but solid.
I pull back before I get carried away. He’s granite, and my knees are quivering Jell-O.
“You’ll do,” I say, trying to sound cool, aloof.
Me, my brain adds, needy and lame, like I’m a blushing schoolgirl instead of a kickass rock jock. It’s ridiculous. I’ve barely met him. But I don’t stumble into disasters. My body never lies — not even with a wildfire in my belly, an earthquake in my legs, a flood in my pussy.
Eyes are the real liars, and mine don’t get a vote. That’s how I know I want him bad.
Thankfully, Noel doesn’t take my arm or offer to carry any of my gear as we walk to the crag; he simply matches his steps to mine, staying one stride behind me so my cane doesn’t strike his foot. He gives me lefts and rights with economical precision, and that’s another point in his favor; I don’t do “hold onto my arm, dear.” This is the rhythm of two climbers, not blind woman and babysitter.
My body settles into a nice rhythm, allowing my mind to wander. I’m already picturing his body like a rock face: the smooth slabs of his pecs, the jutting outcrop of his cock. I wouldn’t need a rope to climb Noel, but if he wants to bring some to bed, well, bonus points for creativity.
The air’s thinner here in the mountains, but Noel speaks easily. He asks about my job (freelancer), my favorite climb (Smith Rock), and how my partner back home belays (from the bottom).
“I was thinking I’d anchor up top this time,” Noel says as we reach the crag, as cool and casual as the breeze on my cheeks.
I arch a brow. Either he knows I can do it, or he wants to see if I can. Either way, he’s on. And adding more Mara Points to his tally.
“A top, huh?”
“If my partner can handle it.”
The breeze isn’t enough to cool my cheeks. I can’t see if he’s red too, dammit. Or hard. No fair. “Good, I don’t bottom for just anyone.”
He gulps. Good. We’re even: flustered breath for flushed face.
“Route’s clean,” he says, back to business. He’s told me the climb’s 40 meters — 130 feet. Past a hundred, a fall will kill you.
“Got it,” I say, keeping my voice even and professional to match his. His cock can wait. Has weight, my brain pipes up. Big cocks are heavy. I try to listen to Noel describe the rock face.
“Natural sandstone,” he says. “Slabby start, vertical middle, crux up top. Ledge about halfway up, but it’s a tight fit.”
My brain, that unhelpful little bitch: I bet you are.
I nod, filing it away, sketching the wall in my head. I step forward and run my hand across the surface. It’s sun-warmed and gritty, but not too coarse. A seam runs left — shallow, sharp. Good edging. The rock smells like lichen and dust. Warm, not hot.
Not like my cheeks. Or my pussy. Fuck it, all of me, really.
“I’ll lead,” he says. “Set anchor at the top. You’ll follow on top-rope.”
Easy there, Rope Daddy.
“And then we’ll swap roles at the ledge.” It’s not a question.
“Sure. I guess that makes us switches.”
My cheeks burn again. Bastard. He’s winning, 2–1 in the innuendo game.
“Let’s go,” I say, maybe a little too sharply. I crouch to check my knot, but Noel’s voice drops behind me, low and maddeningly calm.
“You always this bossy?”
“Only when I want to see if Mr. Eighteen Years can take what I give him,” I shoot back.
He laughs. Fuck, that sound goes straight to my cunt every fucking time.
But also: Tie game.
I crouch and tie in. The knot’s solid, harness is tight. Noel checks his gear and clips in.
“I’ll head up, set the anchor, then belay you from the ledge. Give me fifteen.”
I stay still, listening as he climbs, the rope whispering, gear clinking, rubber soles digging into cracks and edges. My palms itch. Not from nerves. From need. I want to chase those sounds, catch him, make him be loud.
The breeze has finally cooled my cheeks. But it can’t reach the heat between my thighs.
“Anchor’s set,” Noel calls down finally, clear and relaxed. “I’m on the ledge.”
I chalk up fast. Palms slap the sandstone. It’s warm, gritty, familiar — but my body’s too wired. I’m already sweating and I haven’t even pulled yet. I find my first hold and drive upward, calves flexing, fingers locking in tight. One move, then another. My muscles remember what to do, even if my mind is elsewhere.
Rock not cock, Mara! Yes, very helpful, thank you.
The rope stays taut. His attention never wavers. I can feel it — not his eyes, but his presence. Like pressure on my spine, a breath on my neck. I focus on finding the holds, reading the rock like it’s the earth’s Braille.
His voice floats down, low and steady. “You’re halfway to the ledge.”
Simple. Calm. Like he knew I’d get this far. It hits harder than it should. Not the words — the confidence. Like I’ve already proven myself. Or that I never needed to. Which is it?
I reach for the next hold and ask, before I can stop myself, “So if it wasn’t the short straw, how’d you end up with me?”
A pause.
“I asked for you.”
My hand stutters on the rock. Not a slip, but enough to jolt me. I reset, fingers clenching. My breath takes longer to reset.
“Why?” I call up, sharper than I meant. “You don’t even know me.”
“I do my homework,” he says. “I read your stats. Watched your interview.”
I freeze. He what?
“You said, ‘Laura Ingalls didn’t need radar to know a storm was coming. I don’t need sight to climb, I just read the rock.’”
My throat tightens.
“I just had to meet the badass woman who said that.”
He lets it sit. Doesn’t follow it up with bullshit about how brave or inspiring I am, thank God. I’d climb up there and boot him off the ledge.
“Also,” he adds, dry as chalk dust, “the photo didn’t hurt.”
That does it. It’s not that I melt. It’s that he looked. He listened. He saw more than a headline; he saw me. Not Helen Keller on belay, but a fellow climber. A partner. Maybe even a fuckable one.
“So you’ve seen me,” I say, breath catching. “Not sure that’s fair.”
“Really? I would’ve thought you got a pretty good idea, the way you were groping me back at orientation.”
I grin. “I can think of at least two places I missed.” One I want to map with my fingers, the angle of his jaw, the sharpness of his cheekbones. The other I want to ride until my legs give out and a star explodes behind my eyes.
“So get up here and fix that.”
It’s hard to think rock not cock now — but conquering one gets me the other. So I climb quickly, every inch of those 30 metres a fuck you to gravity and a fuck me to him. My nipples are tight under my base layer. Sweat slicks my elbows, my knees. When I twist to reach a hold, heat smears wet between my legs.
I’ve never wanted to top out so bad. I reach, feel, and pull like I’m outrunning rising water. When I find the ledge, I’m flushed and shaking. And not just from the climb.
His hand finds my wrist, steady and firm, guiding me while I haul myself up. I let him. One forearm on the ledge, then the other. Push with my legs. Knees hit rock beside him.
“Twist ninety degrees,” he murmurs. “There’s a wall behind you. Sit back. Breathe.”
I do it, then unclip my helmet and set it next to me. It’s been the fastest sixty metres of my life, and I want my fucking prize. There’s a soft clunk as he sets his helmet down next to mine.
“On your knees,” I say. “I want to see you.”
Noel leans in, one cheek to my palm. I cup it, then bring up my left hand to cradle his face. His skin is hot and damp. He doesn’t move. I’m flushed, breathless, hungry — but I make myself go slow.
Well, slowish.
My thumbs trace the line of his jaw, tensed and rough with stubble that scrapes just right against my skin. I slide higher, brushing the hollow of his cheeks, tracing the sharp rise of his cheekbones.
His soft, full lips are parted. He’s holding his breath.
“Relax,” I whisper. “Let me.”
My fingers sweep upward, faster now, hungry. I trace the arch of his brows, the slope of his nose.
He’s handsome as fuck.
Then I slide both hands back down. My thumbs brush over the bow of his mouth, and his breath escapes in a trembling rush like my touch just knocked it loose.
“You’ve got a great mouth,” I murmur, soft and low. “Bet it gets you into trouble.”
“Just today, actually.”
“Lucky me,” I say, and I squeeze my hands, holding him still so I can push my lips on his, open, demanding, all tongue and teeth. He kisses me back immediately, matching my urgency, and clutching the back of my head. His hand fits there like it’s a perfect handhold, and I moan a little into his mouth. He tastes like salt and adrenaline.
Noel shuffles closer, knee brushing my thigh, and I kiss him harder. His other hand lands on my waist, firmly this time, his grip strong and confident, and I arch into it, hungry. The climb, the sweat, the rush — it all melts into this: heat, contact, his mouth on mine and my pussy aching for him. His breath catches when I bite his lower lip and suck it between my teeth. He groans deeply, and it vibrates down my spine, into the slick heat of my cunt.
I need to feel the rest of him. I press my palms to his chest. His heart is pounding under the slabs of his pecs, and I think it’s even more rapid and desperate than my pulse throbbing in my ears. That just makes me hotter, this drumbeat of his desire, and I want to feel his skin.
I slide my hands down over the tight, damp fabric of his shirt. He’s all lean muscle, no give anywhere. His breath breaks when my palms skim the top of his harness.
I follow the webbing, know exactly how it hugs the hips. Where it pulls tight, where it flexes. My hands trace the straps like I’m checking for wear — but there’s nothing frayed here except my self-control. I reach his thigh and press in, firm and greedy.
The heat coming off him is obscene. I press my hand higher, into the crease where thigh meets strap. That’s where I feel it — the solid weight of his cock, straining against the fabric. I grab it through his pants like it’s the rope, if the rope was a solid, throbbing thick length that makes my mouth water.
He growls as I grip him, a rough, raw sound to match the rough, raw way I’ve grasped him, and then his hands are on me, everywhere at once. One squeezes my waist, the other cups my breast, and then somehow both are there, kneading, stroking, brushing over my nipples through the thin stretch of my base layer and sports bra, and I arch into the contact, gasping into his mouth. My nipples throb, stiff and aching under his thumbs, and I squirm on the rock.
God, these hands are rough from climbing, perfect for scraping and dragging over me, and I’m cursing our clothes and harnesses.
I break the kiss to drag my mouth down his jaw, tasting sweat and heat. My hand’s still wrapped around the thick press of him, and when I give him a slow, deliberate squeeze, he groans, low and guttural.
“Fuck,” he mutters, rough against my throat. He buries his face in my neck, open-mouthed and panting, lips dragging along my skin like he needs to breathe me in. Not kissing, but devouring.
“You’re—” he tries, but doesn’t finish. Instead, he grips me back.
One hand drops between my legs, fast and hungry. I spread them, needing him to grasp me through the clingy heat of my climbing tights. I’m soaked. My cotton panties cling to my cunt, and I sense trembling need in his fingers when they press into the wet heat.
He pulls back slightly, just enough to press again, firmer this time. Yes, a woman can be this wet, especially when she’s groped by a hot as sin buff man who kisses like he’s been waiting years for my lips.
“Jesus, Mara,” Noel growls, and he presses harder.
I grind against his hand, frantic, chasing friction. The whole world narrows to this: his fingers rubbing my cunt, his thumb dragging hard over my nipple, the burning ache where I need him the most. I rock against him, desperate to feel him deeper, rougher. This is not enough. I need him in me, not later at the cabins, but right fucking now. I’m practically mewling with it.
“Can we even…” I pant, frustrated, desperate, half-laughing against his neck. “In all this goddamn gear?”
Noel exhales sharply. “Maybe. If you straddle, we stay clipped in.”
“Fuck,” I whisper in frustration. “My tights, the thigh loops.”
“Just stay still. Hands on my shoulders.”
I obey, heart hammering, and then both his hands are on my crotch, big and strong, yanking at the seam, grabbing fistfuls of spandex. There’s a brutal skrrtch of tearing fabric — loud enough to scare off any wildlife close by. Even the zrrrp of his zipper sounds hungry. Then he grabs my hips, lifting me like I weigh nothing, and I gasp.
I barely get my panties pulled to the side in time for him to lower me onto his cock — thick, hot, throbbing — shoving it into me in one perfect thrust.
Oh fuck, we’re really doing this, fucking on the side of a cliff, and the stretch is so good it steals my breath.
The little bitch in my brain was right about the tight fit. Noel’s cock drags along every nerve inside me, and I can feel him all the way up. I sheathe him, slick and aching, and every inch he sinks into me makes me clench — trying to keep him, feel him, memorize the weight and heat of him from the inside out. I didn’t know I could take someone this fast, this deep, but I do, and I want more. I tighten my legs around his hips, unwilling to stop moving, urging him faster, deeper, each glide creating mind-melting friction in my cunt.
I can feel every twitch inside me. Every shift of his hips drives him deeper, makes me gasp. His breath breaks against my neck, hot and ragged, and he yanks out my scrunchie to grab a fistful of my hair. My cunt tightens around him intent on wringing the heat out of his body. I put my own hand in his hair, twisting my fingers in his curls, dragging him down until our mouths crash together again.
Noel’s fucking me harder now, rough and frantic, and I whimper into his kiss. It’s so good, the kind of good that threatens to shatter me too fast, too soon.
But I want to take my pleasure from him, use him. Ride him. Rub my aching cunt on his cock and get myself off like a fucking animal.
“Stay still,” I pant. “Let me.”
He groans like that nearly kills him, but he obeys, hands gripping my waist, jaw clenched.
Now he’s the anchor point, and the pleasure is rising, climbing as I grind, each move of my hips catching my clit just right. It’s sharp and hot, like dragging a live wire across raw skin — too much and not enough, all at once.
“I’m so close,” I breathe, almost angry with how good it feels. “Don’t you dare move.”
“You’re not leading yet,” he growls, pushing me back roughly so I’m leaning against the rock wall. There’s another huge ripping sound as he tears my panties in two. Before that sound even fades, he’s pounding into me again, and oh good Christ, one calloused thumb is vibrating on my clit, dry coarseness on slick softness. His other hand bunches my hair, holding me, grounding me as he sends me soaring.
Three points of contact on the rock, that’s the rule.
His cock inside me, his thumb on my clit, his other hand fisted in my hair, but I’m not safe or grounded at all now, I’m off-route, off-balance, out of control.
I don’t know how long he fucks me like that. I know my moans and curses echo off the rock wall, that I’ve lost my grip on his neck, and settle on the iron of his chest, that my thighs are trembling more than they ever have on a climb. I know we are completely soaked, because my thighs are wet, and I hear the obscene wet slaps we make as he fucks me. I’ll bet his balls are coated too, the front of his pants turning dark.
Noel groans like he’s aching, like this is wrecking him too, and it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard, amplified by the rock wall behind us and bouncing back, our sex in stereo. I clutch his cheek, fingers under his jaw, thumb in his mouth. His hot breath is a chinook on my skin as he loses control, hips bucking wildly. His growl is a rumbling rockslide against my fingers as he rubs my clit even faster.
Each of his ragged exhales is an invitation to let go, lose myself to his cock and thumb, his strength, and his need for me. And I do.
I let go.
My orgasm hits like the snap of a rope pulled tight — sharp, brutal, the jolt of tension pushed past its limit. My body locks down around him, cunt, thighs, fingers buried in his hair. I don’t fall. I grip. I quake. I cum, wet and loud, wringing him with everything I have.
Noel keeps moving through it, hips pumping, thumb still circling as I ride the aftershocks. It’s too much for him, because he gives one final, deep thrust, and pulses deep inside me as he climaxes. His roar reverberates off the rock as he fills me.
We stay like that for a long time, clipped to the rope, joined in the slick heat between us, breathing like we’ve just topped the climb. My body relaxes, but my mind starts buzzing.
This wasn’t just lust. Not just adrenaline or risk. We found something else — wild, raw… Fuck, I think I already miss him and he’s still inside me.
My breath slows. My thighs ache. My fingers twitch, itching to move again. He nuzzles my face, kisses my temple, and I feel the smile on his lips; stunned, reverent, almost disbelieving.
“I’ve got a hoodie in my pack that will cover you up,” he whispers. “Let’s go down, back to my cabin.”
So sweet. And we will. Fuck, I’ll move in. But I didn’t come all this way to quit with 60 feet left to conquer.
“I’ll put it on later, thanks,” I whisper back, loving the rasp of stubble on my skin. “I’m not done with the climb.”
He chuckles dryly, like he knew I’d say that, and helps me shift off him. There’s a squelch of wet fabric, a hiss through his teeth, and the sudden brush of cool air against my wet pussy and ruined tights makes me shiver. I feel for my helmet and clip it back on before I stand and turn to face the wall.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
I shift my weight and reach for the first hold, my thighs still trembling. The rock is warm against my palms. My cunt aches. My chest is buzzing. I climb. Behind me, I hear nothing from Noel. No breathing. No movement. Just silence.
Sometimes, I’m not so glad that I can’t see. This time, the shocked silence isn’t heavy with pity and caution; Noel’s been struck mute. I have to settle for imagining his pretty mouth is open in a dumbstruck O as he watches me ascend, my dripping bare pussy framed by torn tights and thigh loops.
Imagining that perfect cock getting stiff for me again, already.
“You don’t need to call the route. Just keep looking at what you’re looking at.”
I smile wickedly as he stutters and sputters beneath me, trying and failing to come up with a retort. I wiggle my ass and start to climb faster.
I act like I’ve won, like I’m in control again. But truth is, I’m in a hurry. The sooner we top out, the sooner we can unclip and I can fall into him.
And I want that fall so fucking badly.
