“Hi fellas,” she called out cheerily, “are you looking at yesterday’s rushes?”“No,” One of them looked up at her and waved her over. “We’re watching YouTube, Abi, you must see this. You know the new TechAd guy who joined us last week, the Yank chap Walker Pickering, don’t you?”“Yes, vaguely, I met him here yesterday while I was nosing around seeing what had changed in my absence.” She hoped that she had kept her voice perfectly neutral. No need to mention that she had met Walker twice before and was due out on a date with him tonight.“Oh boy! You’ve got to watch this!” the film guy turned to the editor at the controls, “play it again from the beginning, Harry, we all want to see this again.”She rolled her eyes, expecting this to be a quick clip of slapstick or a ridiculously embarrassing outtake. She had known most of these men and boys for seven or eight years. They were good lads but they tended to act like big kids some ... no ... most of the time. She walked over to join them in. It smells of you.Outside the wind is a solid wall of sound. Only the stunted pine at the edge of the timberline impede its flow. The distant peaks are bathed in dim light, giving an almost unearthly beauty to our perch on the mountainside. Our tent is pitched on the soft, springy tundra, now matted by the rain.More wails in the distance! My blood runs chill, but you are there to reassure me. I cling tight to your hand and squat, my skin numb with cold and my hair already damp. At first I cannot let go. I glance up at you - proud, strong, lean - chiseled against the light background of the low, scudding clouds, and once again I am struck by how you seem to belong out here.Your head is thrown back in defiance to the wind and the rain and the slavering moose. The dim light glistens on your beaded naked body. I see your manhood profiled against the light and, in spite of my fear, desire awakens in me. My stream splashes in the turf and I groan quietly in relief. I see your own stream.
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