Isolation

It was late spring, just past midnight. I lay in the thick grass and pulled my thermal jacket tightly around my shoulders. The temperature had dropped another ten degrees in the last hour. My head was cocooned in the puffy fur-trimmed hood, only my frozen nose and upper lip exposed to the frigid air. Despite the hour, the sky was murky blue and the diffused light cast shadows across the mossy rock that I lay next to. It was the only refuges from the insistent north winds blowing across the Icelandic prairie. In the bend of the creek lay my pony. She had broken a leg on the steep rutted trail that ran along the creek bed on the other side of the rocks. I had hired the poor creature just a day ago in Hvammstangi, but still I cried when I shot her through the head. Her charcoal colored coat and jet-black mane reminded me of a donkey, but she had been light and agile as a gazelle until the moment she slipped out from under me on a slick patch of ice. I held the camera in the air and snapped a picture of myself with the dead animal behind me. I thought, this might be the last photo ever taken of, or by me.

My guide Lars met me five days ago in Reykjavik, and after a quick briefing from the office in London we packed ourselves into a very small car and drove north to Borgarnes, a small town hugging the southwestern coast. Our mission was to chronicle for the magazine the nomadic herds of ponies that the Icelandic people bred in the northern regions. They were the main form of transportation in some of the less accessible areas of the mountains, and until recently also served as a major source of dietary protein. 

Lars and I shared a room... not to save money; it was the only accommodation available in the three-bedroom hostelry. The view through the single window was of the bleak, stony shoreline. The wooden boats bobbing in the choppy water of the harbor greeted us as we stepped into the room. Like the rest of this town, the room was devoid of warmth. The pathetic fire glowing in the charcoal stove did nothing to chase away the chill. I pulled a bottle of Russian vodka out of my camera bag and poured us a drink. Then another. The warmth of the clear liquid was dulling my senses. I felt it’s cozy effect spreading slowly through me. Lars was grateful.

Hes began to unpack his bag and draw himself a bath. Lars was Icelandic, originally from Hellissandur, a true descendant of the Vikings. His blonde hair was cut like Prince Valiant, shaped like a straw-colored cap over his pale round face and thick blonde beard. As he undressed I checked out his body. He was a big man, but not heavy. Pretty hairy, covered in a soft drift of pale yellow hair that shone in the dim light like strands of silk. He was built from a generous amount of thick muscles and just enough subcutaneous fat to keep him warm on these frigid northern nights. I watched his cock sway between his legs, his large milky-white balls dropping into the water as he lowered his massive hips into the steamy bath. He settled in, sighing with satisfaction as the warmth penetrated his aching body. He confessed to me that he hated feeling cold and damp, with some embarrassment, as if the admission made him a bad Viking. Lars big hands gripped the edge of the tub with his elbows dangling over the side, his beefy biceps flexing as he grabbed at the porcelain. 

I sat on the edge of the bed, mesmerized by his magnificence. Lars caught me staring at him, and smiled. There it was again! I had picked up unspoken signals from him all afternoon, my instinct telling me that this man might be more interested in fucking with me than he was in guiding me north. Lars asked me to bring him another Vodka. I was happy to oblige. He held out his arm as I passed the bathtub and grabbed my ass, pulling me backward to the edge of the tub.