Using my own juices for lubrication my hand begins to slowly stroke up and down my rod. I close my eyes again and fully surrender myself to the fantasy of her. My fist twirls, grips, relaxes, teases all along the entire length of my shaft as my imagination takes over. I imagine the taste her lips against mine, the feel of entwined tongues locked in a deep passionate kiss. My nose, still filled with the lingering effects of her perfume, overwhelms me as I imagine her breasts, finally naked and free, pressing tightly against my chest. I stroke my rod faster, driving myself toward much needed release, allowing myself to moan in real pleasure as I picture her manicured nails running down my back as she pulls even me into an even tighter embrace. My hips begin to thrust in time with my own movements as I imagine her breath warm against my neck as she gasps and moans against me. I quickly drape the towel across my chest, pumping myself even harder and faster, as I demand her impending. He had to trust the tent. He had no choice. He'd done all he could; worrying was energy-sapping and he needed his energy to stay warm, to heal.He lay awake through the screaming, buffeting horrors of the night, the seething, whining sound of snow and ice crystals driven against the tent fabric by seventy and eighty knot winds. The upper half of the tent whipped far over, yielding like a slender reed in a gale. That was its salvation. Upright resistance would be flung from the ice shelf and driven into the sea.He slept, feverishly; his leg throbbed, his face flushed. Breathing came fast and shallow. He gasped with the exertion of living. His body rallied its defenses against the infection in his deep wound, festering and spreading its poison.He dreamed of struggle. He dreamed of standing against invisible enemies, using his will to live as a shield against their offer of blissful surrender, of their call to submit to the inevitable, to ease into sleep and calm acceptance, to be.
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