Johanna - 5-2 free porn video

I woke up and looked around confused for a moment before I realized where I was – at the Jagerhof Hotel in Zermatt, Switzerland. I rolled out of bed, went to the bathroom and rummaged in my bad to get dressed. I found that I had only packed one set of athletic underwear. I did not want to wear the sports bra and panties from the previous day’s hard skiing. So I had to put on a regular lace-and-silk bandeau bra and matching panties.

I forgot about my underwear as soon as I was on the slopes. I began the day with much more confidence. I led the way down on the first run. I hit a headwall, took off and when I landed, I found myself in a steep rock-strewn bowl. It was wide open, and I really let it rip. I could hear the wind whistling in my ears even through my helmet. Every now and then, there was an exposed rock ledge or a small boulder, but on the wide expanse of the bowl, they were easy to avoid. There was nothing to slow me down. Just when I felt I was the fastest skier on the mountain, a red-jacketed figure flew by on my left, squeezing between me and rock formation so close that I felt the blast of his passing.

Thinking it was Dieter, I altered course and chased hard. He was skiing smoothly and effortlessly, and it didn’t seem possible that he had passed me so fast. However, it is much easier to follow than to lead, so I quickly caught his tracks. We were going so fast, that I stayed a bit farther back than I knew I could, recalling my tongue lashing from the older Swiss gentleman the previous day. I didn’t want to run into him.

It was a very long run. I carved a slightly wider turn to take a quick glance at my watch. I’d been skiing for over half an hour, but the slope ahead seemed to go on forever with no end in sight. Then all of sudden, the slope eased, and we were in a long gentle runout. I dug my edges in to generate a bit more speed on the easy slope and got closer to Dieter. It was strange, for his style seemed different from the previous day. He finally stopped on the flat, just in front of a small lodge.

I realized immediately that several things were wrong. The signs on the lodge were in Italian! The red-jacketed skier put his goggles up – it wasn’t Dieter! He looked over at me.

“You stayed with me all the way down?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“I was going over a eighty kilometers an hour.”

“I could have passed you back,” I said. “But I didn’t want to do any big jumps. I got yelled at yesterday for doing that.”

“Impossible!” he said. “I saw you at the top of the piste. You have terrible form.”

“Whatever,” I muttered under my breath, not wanting an argument. Then I spoke up. “Are we in Italy?”

“Yes. Do you have an international ski pass?”

“I don’t know,” I said, showing my pass to him.

“This is a student discount pass. It’s only good for the Swiss side.”

“Is that a problem?”

“It just means you can’t ride up any of the lifts here.”

“How can I get back to Switzerland?”

“You’ll have to pay for an Italian pass.”

“I don’t think I can afford that.”

“Komm mit mir,” he said, abruptly switching to German. (Come with me.) He had a Swiss accent, but even though it sounded strange, it was quite clear and understandable.

We went into the lodge and he spoke to the person at the service desk in rapid Italian. I stood by him, catching very little of what they said. The Italian at the service desk was a dark-haired young man who smiled at me a lot through the conversation. At the end of it, my new red-jacketed friend turned to me and said, “Du hast Glück. Er findet dich hübsch und wird geben dir einen Pass für eine freie Fahrt den Berg hinauf.” (You're lucky. He thinks you’re pretty and will give you a pass for one free ride up the mountain.)

I smiled as winningly as I could at the Italian and walked back out with my new friend. We got our skis on again and I followed him as he skated over to the lift station. Two gondolas and a tram ride later, we were at the top of the ridge, with Switzerland on one side and Italy on the other.

“Vielen danke,” I said to him. (Many thanks.)

“No problem,” he replied in English.

“What’s your name?”

“Thomas,” he said. “Thomas Lindt. You?”

“Johanna von Eschenbach.”

“Well, we’re back,” he said, pointing to Zermatt far below. “Switzerland. Have a nice day.”

He turned and went flying down the slope. I did not want him to think I was stalking him, so I let him get a good head start before heading down. I took a different route and soon lost sight of him.

I spent the rest of the day skiing by myself, always looking out for Ulrike and Dieter. However, it is such a big mountain that I knew the chance of seeing them was very small. I wasn’t too worried as I knew I would see them at our après ski at 1700.

I was at the top of the highest lift, thinking I would make this my last run of the day, when I saw Thomas Lindt again. I just caught sight of his profile as he was sliding his goggles back over his eyes. I called out to him, but he didn’t hear me. He poled over the headwall of a black slope and disappeared.

I skated hard after him. By the time I got on to the slope, he was a long way down. I went into a full tuck and raced after him, not quite thinking about why I was doing it. He was skiing aggressively. Even though I took the straight line down, going airborne over ridges rather than using my edges, I was barely gaining on him. I saw signs, but I was going too fast to read any of them. The slope seemed endless and I began to feel the burn in my quads.

I lost track of time and just concentrated on maintaining my rhythm with my eyes focused on his red jacket. Then I realized he was slowing, for I suddenly began to close the distance to him very rapidly. I dug in my edges and shed speed, to approach him at a reasonable pace.

Once I got close to him, I saw why he had stopped. He was standing on the edge of a sheer cliff wall. I stopped a few meters from him and looked down – it was several hundred meters to the trees and rocks far below. I put my goggles up and called out to him, “Thomas!”

He looked around sharply, put up his goggles, and saw me. His expression was shocked and angry, not welcoming at all.

“Why are you following me? Did my wife hire you?”

“I … I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I stammered.

“We are off-piste. The Zermatt ski resort limit was a few kilometers ago, there was a marker. This is an avalanche zone. Didn’t you see the skull and crossbones signs?”

“I didn’t see the resort marker. I couldn’t read any signs. You were going too fast.”

“Why are you following me?” he repeated.

“I … I don’t know. I saw you at the top and just wanted to say hello. Once I started following you, I just went into autopilot.”

He looked at me for a long moment.

“I should just leave you here,” he said. “There’s no way to ski back to Zermatt. Unless you have ropes, you’ll have to hike back all the way to that ridge up there.” He pointed up the way we had come. “It will take you ten or twelve hours. If you survive. It will be dark in an hour and temperatures will drop a lot.”

I looked back up the steep slope, then along the cliff edge. I saw a narrow chute off to the right that looked a lot easier than many of the descents I had done with Dad – if only I had ropes.

“I can hike back up,” I said.

I popped off my skis with my pole tips. I stuck the poles in my jacket collar down my back as Dad had taught me. Then I used the skis as heavy trekking poles and began to trudge back up. He let me go about twenty meters before he called out, “Stop! Come back here!”

“I don’t want to trouble you anymore,” I said, looking over my shoulder. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

I turned back up the mountain and he called out again, “Please! Just come back down to me.” I kept trudging, gritting my teeth against the steep pitch. “Okay, okay! I apologize for accusing you of following me. Just come back here.”

I looked up the slope and back at him. Then I snapped my skis back on and came down to him.

“Without ropes, there’s only one way down from here,” he said. “Follow me.”

“What happens when we get down? How will I get back to Zermatt?”

“I’m afraid you won’t be able to get back to Zermatt till tomorrow.”

He began skating laterally along the cliff edge. After a few hundred meters, it narrowed to a rocky ledge. He took off his skis and put them on his shoulder. I saw that he had alpine touring boots and bindings that were designed for hiking, so he walked confidently. I took off my skis and followed him, but I was much slower in my clunky downhill boots. It was hard to balance and I did what Dad always told me. I looked straight ahead for my next step and didn’t look down at the drop-off.

The ledge was only about a hundred meters long, but it took me a good twenty minutes to cross it – one careful step at a time. Thomas was waiting for me impatiently. The slope down was even steeper than the one we had skied earlier and strewn with exposed rocks and boulders.

The natural snow cover was uneven. On much of the slope, it looked too thin to be skiable. Thomas pointed far down to the bottom of a narrow cleft valley. It was already dark down there and the lights were on, marking a small cluster of structures. They were so far below us that the buildings themselves could not be seen.

“That’s where I’m going. We will spend the night there and I will arrange transport to get you back to Zermatt in the morning.”

I nodded.

“It’s treacherous terrain, there are very few ways down. Follow me closely, I’ve done it many times.”

We got our skis back on, put down our goggles, and he gave me a thumbs-up before taking off. He picked his way carefully, looking for skiable snow. I kept coming up on his rear and having to brake. Finally, I gave up. This was terrain that I was used to, I’d skied such open backcountry with Dad almost since I could walk. At the next opportunity, I passed him, and let my skis run. I heard him shouting, but I ignored him, concentrating on the lights below as my destination.

It was risky, but fun. I enjoyed myself immensely, constantly looking down the mountain for deeper snow to plot my route, juking right and left to avoid obstacles, getting airborne to go over them when they came up too suddenly. The lights of the tiny hamlet grew bigger and I grew more confident. Overconfident. There was a frozen stream and beyond it was a much flatter mountain meadow adjacent to the buildings. I went for a big jump and got almost two meters into the air to clear the stream.

I landed in the meadows just as I wanted, but the snow cover was thinner than I expected. My weight and momentum drove my skis right through the snow. I heard an ominous ‘crack!’ as my left ski struck a rock hidden beneath the snow and I knew I had snapped it. I picked up my left foot to avoid dragging the broken ski and managed to stop on my right ski.

I took off my skis, hiked back to my landing spot, and picked up my broken left ski tail. I looked up the mountain and saw Thomas’s red jacket, still far above me, skiing slowly and carefully, traversing regularly, unlike my headlong descent. It took him another five minutes to get to the frozen stream. He skied across a flat section and glided up to me across the meadow. He looked at my plight and pursed his lips.

“You’re crazy,” he said.

He glided past me toward the buildings. I slogged after him carrying the three pieces of my two skis.

It was hardly a hamlet, just three buildings and a barn. However, in typical Swiss fashion, all the buildings were in perfect condition. All three buildings had simple signs in gothic lettering. One read simply “Gasthof” (inn), the second “Gemischtwarenladen”, (general store), and the third “Damenladen” (ladies’ shop). Thomas was waiting for me in front of the inn with his skis on his shoulder. I followed him in.

Opening the door rang a bell and a middle-aged lady emerged from inside. We were in a cozy parlor with a cheerful fire in the grate. There were paintings and photographs of mountain scenes from all seasons on the walls. The furniture was solid and looked comfortable. The lady came up and gave Thomas a hug.

“Willkommen, Thomas!” she said. “Heidi rief an, um zu sagen, dass sie zu spät kommt und nicht auf sie zum Abendessen warten soll.” (Welcome, Thomas! Heidi phoned to say that she will be late and not to wait for her for dinner.)

She looked at me rather pointedly.

“Das ist Johanna von Eschenbach. Sie ist ...”  (This is Johanna von Eschenbach. She is...). He looked at me questioningly and switched to English. “Are you German? Or American? You have a nice accent, but I hear a slight foreign undertone. Most people would miss it, but in my business, it is important to place people.”

“I’m American,” I said.

“She’s an American student that accidentally followed me as I skied out of Zermatt. I had to bring her here.”

“Welcome,” said the lady, smiling at me. “I am Anna Müller, I own this inn.” She turned to Thomas. “Unfortunately, we are fully booked and do not have a room for Fräulein von Eschenbach. However, I can make up a camp bed in your room.”

“Has my bag arrived?” he asked.

“Yes, it is in your room. You are in the Matterhorn suite as usual.”

Thomas went through a side door, indicating with a nod of his head that I should follow him. It led to a small storage room. There several sets of skis and poles in brackets set on the walls and helmets on an upper shelf.

“What size shoe do you wear?” he asked as he put his skis into a bracket and his helmet on the shelf.

“Thirty-nine,” I said.

Mom bought all our shoes from French outlets, so I knew my European size.

He left as I was putting away my skis and helmet. I put my broken ski tail up on the shelf with the helmets. When I returned to the parlor, he was gone.

“Herr Lindt has gone up to the suite,” she said. “It is on the right at the top of the stairs – through there.” She pointed to curtains on the inner wall of the parlor.

“Thank you,” I said. “I must contact my friends and tell them where I am. What is this village called?”

“This is not a village. Just tell them you are at Gasthof Müller. Any local in Zermatt can tell them where you are.”

I texted Ulrike. She texted back immediately, “Glad to know you’re okay. I’m missing you at après ski.”

“You don’t have to worry about me listening to you having sex with Dieter,” I texted.

“You think I should give him another chance?”

“You’d be better off just masturbating in the shower.”

She sent me a laughing emoji and I stuck the phone in my pocket, smiling broadly. I went through the curtains and found myself in a short corridor. It led to a dining room that was set for the evening meal. There were stone stairs at the far end of the dining room. I went upstairs and found the heavy door to the suite. It had a brass plate with the word “Matterhorn” in ornate gothic lettering. I knocked and Thomas said, “Come in!”

I went in and found that he was in the bathroom. I took off my ski boots, my rain pants, my jacket, and my sweater. I went over to the full-length mirror and looked at myself in my jeans, wool ski socks, and white spandex turtleneck. My turtleneck was tight and outlined my black bandeau bra. Hints of black showed through the white spandex. I plumped my breasts with my hands, but they still looked pitifully small. My hair was sweaty, matted down by my helmet. I looked a bedraggled mess.

“The bathroom is yours, if you want it,” Thomas said as he emerged.

He had washed his face and hands and wore a cashmere turtleneck, dark trousers, a nicely cut blazer, and black loafers polished to such a high gloss that they looked like mirrors. I saw him for the first time without his helmet and ski clothes. He was a very good-looking man, tall, lean and muscular, with ice blond hair and very blue eyes.

I went into the bathroom and took my time washing my face and hands. Then I tried to straighten my hair with my fingers, but I only seemed to make it worse. I made a face at myself in the bathroom mirror and mouthed, “You look like hell!”

When I finally came out, Thomas handed me a box.

“Shoes,” he said, when I looked at him questioningly. “Size thirty-nine. I asked Anna to select a pair for you from the ladies’ shop. I’m sure you’ll like them. She has excellent taste.”

I opened the box and found a pair of open-toe slippers with high heels. There was a pair of black stockings and pink garters as well. I held them up.

“She thought you would need them to keep your feet from getting cold. You can’t wear those slippers over your ski socks.”

I went back into the bathroom and put on my new finery. I came back out and Thomas smiled. With the tall heels, I was almost as tall as him.

“A big improvement,” he said. “I’m always amazed how much difference shoes make to a woman’s appearance.”

“That’s what Mom says,” I agreed.

*

Anna had given us the best table in the dining room. It was tucked away from the others so even though every table was taken, it was very private. It was by the dining room’s stone fireplace, next to a wide window with a view of the Matterhorn. The soup was a hearty potato and leek creation and it was followed by the main course, which was venison accompanied by a very nice 2001 Louis Jadot.

“Anna must like you,” I said.

“I’ve been coming here for years. I pay her more than her regular rate.”

“And order very expensive wines,” I said, raising my wineglass to the light. “This is a very fine Grand Cru.”

“You know wines?” he asked,

“My mother is French.”

He looked surprised. He asked me about myself and the more he heard, the more surprised he looked. Finally, during the dessert, he raised his port to me.

“A German-American Marine father, a French professor mother, Montana, horses, skiing, Wisconsin, classical music, German. I’ve met a lot of people in my business, Johanna, but you’re the most mixed-up person I’ve ever met. And you look like you are in high school.”

“Is there something wrong with your eyes? I’m twenty!”

“Well, to someone as old as me, that’s not much different from high school.”

“And how old are you, grandpa?”

“Thirty-eight. I have a fourteen-year-old daughter and a ten-year-old son.”

“And what business are you in that you meet so many people?” I asked, curious.

“Private banking.”

“What’s the name of your bank?”

“My name – Lindt.”

“Did you start it?”

He started laughing.

“That’s what I like about you, Johanna! One moment you are so sophisticated, you know fine wines, the next moment you ask if I started Lindt Bank!”

“I don’t see how that’s so funny.”

“Private banking in Switzerland is very old, Johanna. Very traditional. Banks like Lombard Odier, Sarasin, Pictet, are hundreds of years old. Lindt Bank was founded by my great-great-grandfather in the nineteenth century.”

“You run it now?”

“Not quite. I’m the Chief Financial Officer. My older sister is Chief Executive, and my father is still Chairman of the Board.”

“You must be very rich.”

“We’re not poor.”

There was an old upright piano in the dining room and Thomas motioned toward it saying, “Why don’t we have a post-dinner air?”

“Do you play the piano?” I asked.

“No, but you said that you do.”

“I’m not very good!” I said, looking at the other diners.

“I’ll make you a deal. If you play, I’d sing.”

“You sing?”

“A little. Probably as well you play. We can make fools of ourselves together.”

“What do you want to sing?”

“Can you accompany Va Pensiero? By Verdi?”

“I’ve heard it lots of times, but I’ve never accompanied it. It’s pretty straightforward for the accompanist, though. It’s a deal.”

Thomas beckoned Anna and whispered in her ear. She smiled broadly and left. She returned a few moments later with a book of sheet music of operatic arias. I flipped through it till I found the right page, set it on the piano and seated myself. Thomas stood by me and cleared his throat.   

“Don’t you want to warn the other diners?” I whispered.

“No, let’s surprise them!”

I hit a few keys and then played a few scales to loosen my fingers. I read the music and ran over it in my mind. Then taking a deep breath, I skipped the orchestral part and began with the piano introduction. It was only about half a minute, but it seemed to last an hour. I heard all the conversations dry up and felt the weight of every eye in the room on me. Then I came to the short pause before the last two notes that heralded the vocal opening and looked up at Thomas. He was ready. I struck the keys, and he began to sing.

He was obviously a trained operatic singer. He had great range and power:

I looked in the mirror on the wall above my head and saw he had all the diners enchanted. They were nodding their heads and tapping their toes. By the time he opened the second stanza, first one and then another, and soon the whole dining room was singing along with him. Many began to stand as they sang louder, with great gusto. I played with more energy, trying to coax as much volume as I could out of the old upright.

And then we were done. The dining room erupted into applause. There were shouts of, “encore, encore,” and we were surrounded, our backs were thumped and everyone seemed to be talking at once in German, in Italian, in French and in English. An Italian gentleman implored me, “Suona qualcosa, qualsiasi cosa …” (Play something, anything …)

“Play something Italian,” Thomas whispered in my ear.

How I wished Mom was with me! I thought furiously for something that I could play without too many false notes. I found a book of famous classical pieces on top of the piano and leafed through it. I decided on the allegro from Vivaldi’s Spring. Mom had arranged it for piano for me to play at my middle school concert. I thought I could probably hack my way through it. I played it passably well – at least well enough for this crowd that was happy and rather tipsy by now. I got a huge ovation, led by Thomas.

The Italian gentleman insisted on singing Puccini’s Nessun Dorma. I found the sheet music for it in the book of operatic arias and accompanied him as best I could. He was not bad and when he was done, there was more shouting and cheering. Thomas pressed a glass of grappa into my hand and I chugged it.

I was past being embarrassed and began to play Billy Joel’s, Piano Man. Thomas joined me in singing it. As before, we soon had everyone singing along with us. I was loose now, and since no one was complaining about my missed and false notes, I played on. I played everything I could think of from the Beatles to Owl City. Truth be told, I was pretty awful, and Mom would have covered her ears at the way I played. But this crowd forgave me everything, sang along with me, clapped and hollered. I drank steadily as I played – I don’t know if it made me better or worse!

We kept everyone entertained for over an hour before Thomas and I took our final bows. There was more applause and then people finally began leaving. Thomas put his arms around me, hugged me tight, and I hugged him back. When we were finally alone in the dining room, he put his hand under my chin and tilted my head up to look him in the eye.

“Johanna von Eschenbach,” he whispered. “You are magnificent!”

He kissed me on the lips and his tongue came out probing, asking for admittance. I opened my mouth and welcomed him in. He kissed me like no one had ever kissed me before. He was artfully teasing, demanding attention, commanding obedience, and laying himself open to me, all at once. He moved his lips on mine softly, compliantly. His tongue moved in my mouth, guiding mine back into his. My heart began to race, and I felt heat in my belly slowly descending.

“Thomas!”

It was one word and it was spoken quietly. But the voice had such intensity that it sheared through my excitement, turning it off like a light switch.

We stepped apart. A blonde woman stood in the dining room. She was tall, elegant and beautiful. She wore a long cashmere coat, a diamond choker necklace with matching earrings, and her hair was in a fashionable coiffure. She looked like she was in her thirties. Her coat hung open, so I could see her figure. She had full breasts, a narrow waist and rounded hips. She exuded femininity – so different from me! – and I felt a wrench of envy. She must be absolutely captivating to men, I thought, jealously. She must be great in bed.

“Heidi,” said Thomas. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“Wer ist das... dieses Kind?” she demanded. “Schämst du dich nicht, Thomas? Sie sieht fünfzehn aus!” (Who is this… this child? Have you no shame, Thomas? She looks fifteen!).

She spoke standard Schweizer Deutsch, not a canton dialect, and enunciated very clearly, so I understood her.

“Hey,” I remonstrated in English. My words slurred a bit and I realized I was rather drunk. “I’m not a child! I’m twenty.”

“Johanna and I just played music together. A great success! We were just celebrating.” Thomas sounded like he was a bit sloshed as well. His eyes were too bright, his voice was too loud, he spoke English, and he didn’t seem to be picking up on her visual cues.

“For this, I drove three and a half hours from Zurich!” She switched to English and her tone remained polite, but intense. “Through heavy traffic and snow! To find you with a strange girl! How do you know she’s not working for your wife? Or for a newspaper?”

“Johanna followed me here by mistake,” said Thomas. “As you know, there’s no way to go back, it’s an avalanche zone –”

“You expect me to believe this ridiculous story?” She held her leather gloves in her hands, but now she put them on again. “I know a kiss between two people who’ve had sex when I see one. I could put up with playing second fiddle to your wife, Thomas. But I will not put up with your stupidity. I have too much to lose if I get named in your divorce. Or if our affair gets into the papers.”

She turned and began to walk out.

“Wait!” Thomas called after her. “At least stay the night. Don’t drive back to Zurich in the dark.”

“I’ll find a place to stay on the road.”

There was silence after she left. Eventually, Thomas said, “Let’s go up to the suite. Nothing we can do here.”

“You should go out after her,” I said.

“I know Heidi. Once she’s in a temper like this, she needs to cool down by herself. If I try to talk to her now, it will only make it worse.”

We went up to the suite. On the stairs, he put an arm around my waist and after a few steps, I put an arm around his.

“I’m sorry I upset your romantic tryst with your mistress,” I said, as we re-entered the suite. “She looks incredible. She must be great in bed.”

“Yes, she is a great lover. I was looking forward to the next few days.” He paused. “But she’s been so nervous the last few times we were together, it’s not been much fun. She’s worried that her husband suspects. Her children are teenagers and they would be very upset if they found out. I think she was looking for an excuse to end it with me.”

“You need a new mistress,” I teased.

“Yes,” he said, grabbing me playfully around the waist.

We were both rather drunk and I grabbed him back. We lost our balance and fell onto the bed. We wrestled for a bit before he said, “Do you want to apply for the job?” He lay on me supporting his weight on his forearms.

“I’m a poor replacement for Heidi,” I said, cupping my breasts by the underswells and pushing them up to make them look bigger.

“She’s a woman,” he said. “You’re a girl. But you ski better than she does.”

“Does she ski at all?”

“She’s Swiss,” he said with a trace of indignation. “Of course, she skis.”

“Well, I guess that’s something,” I said. “I ski better than a Swiss sex kitten.”

“She’s not a sex kitten,” he said with much more indignation. “She’s got a Master’s degree in medical robotics. She’s Chief Operating Officer of her father’s medical device company.”

“I’m sorry,” I said in a small voice, feeling rebuked.

He put a hand on my shoulder in a gesture of reconciliation and said, “Heidi can’t play the piano.”

“Neither can I,” I said, laughing. “I’m crap! You were just too drunk to notice.”

He laughed with me and spontaneously kissed the top of my ear.

“I’ve never seen anyone who skis like you, Johanna! You look like you’re riding a bronco in a rodeo, all power, sudden moves, and risk, but no grace.”

“I’ve never ridden in a rodeo,” I said. “But I have ridden a lot of wild horses. I’m just an unsophisticated Montana cowgirl.”

“Who’s deeply immersed in German and French culture. And studying mathematics at Göttingen, the best maths and physics university in the German-speaking world.”

“I’m about as good at mathematics as I am on the piano,” I said, laughing again. “I’m barely surviving. I hope I pass.”

“You’re very hard on yourself, Johanna.”

“I’m a realist. Mom’s a concert pianist, my sister Roberta is a math genius. Dad was …” My voice caught, and I sniffed. But then I gathered myself and put on a smile. “Dad was a real outdoorsman, a frontiersman. I’m just the one who can do a little of everything, and nothing well.”

He looked down at me and I couldn’t read the expression in his eyes. He looked so serious, that I thought our conversation was over and he was going to tell me to move over to the camp bed. But then he kissed the tip of my nose.

“I want to make love to you, Johanna,” he said softly. “Please.”

“You want to have sex with this mongrel bitch who followed you home? Now that your lovely mistress has walked out on you?”

“Don’t talk like that, Johanna.”

“It’s alright, Thomas. You’re wealthy and good looking, whereas I don’t have any money and I’m not beautiful. I know I can’t expect more than a quick one night stand with a man like you. You’re used to much better – rich, accomplished, gorgeous women like Heidi.”

He was silent, but he looked upset. I still don’t know why I did what I did next. Maybe it was because I was feeling guilty for intruding into his life and screwing up his carefully planned sexual getaway. Maybe it was because I was drunk and feeling reckless.

But I poked him in the chest and said, “But I think there’s a nice guy hidden in there somewhere, Thomas. I’m going to try and find him.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, still looking upset.

“Kiss me again like you did downstairs, and you can have me.” His serious expression disappeared instantly and his face broke into a smile. He kissed my nose again and I said, “That’s not going to cut it, Thomas.”

He kissed my cheeks, moving his lips across my eyebrows. It seemed like he was tracking liquid heat along my skin, leaving a tingling sensation. I parted my lips, waiting for his with eager anticipation. He made me wait, taking his time kissing my eyelids and my ears. When he finally found my lips, he kissed me slowly, languorously. He didn’t just stick his tongue into my mouth like all my prior experiences. He used the tip of his tongue to tease me, seeking a dalliance with mine, almost asking for permission to enter my mouth. I fenced with him, and he seemed pleased that I gave as well as I got.

I tasted his mouth, imbibed the smells of the wine, the port, the grappa, overlaid with his subtle masculinity. I wondered if he tasted me the same way, whether I was feminine enough for him. His lips tracked down my chin to my throat. I helped him pull off my spandex turtleneck. He stopped and I saw that he was looking at me in my bandeau bra, a strange expression on his face.

“I’m sorry I’m not –” I began, thinking of the many boys who had made fun of my small breasts.

“The beauty of a woman, the innocence of a child,” he breathed.

He cupped my breasts through my bra. I was glad I was not wearing a sports bra, for I felt his hands through the thin material. He teased my nipples and they stiffened and stood out, poking through the silk and lace. He slid down my bra cups, and his breath grew heavy as he saw my nipples standing on my small aureoles. He did to my breasts what he had done to my face – he traced his lips around and around my modest swells in concentric circles that grew smaller, smaller.

I felt the same liquid heat and made my back into an arc, pushing my breasts to his lips, for I wanted more, more. My nipples grew harder and redder and I was sure he would think I was a freak – the unbalanced sight of my small breasts with my outlandishly long nipples. I closed my eyes, prepared for the worst, but then I heard him say, “My God, Johanna, you’re a rare jewel.”

When his tongue brushed my aureoles, I gasped. Then he slowly took my left nipple into his mouth, a millimeter at a time. His teeth gently nipped at it as he did so. When he had it fully in his mouth, his tongue lanced out and speared it, while he simultaneously sucked. I cried, “Oh my God Thomas, you’re driving me wild!” He gave the same attention to my other breast and I cried out again.

Then he began tracing a path downward, using both his hands, all ten fingers as well as his lips and tongue. I was panting now, for the sensations were electric and all so new to me. It was as though I was having sex for the first time. He lingered over the swell of my belly, breathing me in, and then giving the same attention to my belly button.

“You have the sexiest belly I’ve ever seen, Johanna,” he whispered.

I was sure he was lying, but at that moment, I didn’t care. I just kept saying, “Oh Thomas, oh Thomas, oh Thomas” over and over. He unzipped my jeans; I raised my hips and he skinned them off me inside out. I don’t know how he managed it, but he got them off without moving my stockings or garters.

He dived in and his lips found the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, just above my stockings. I gasped again. He began to worship me, there is no other word for it. He was on his knees between my legs, hands on my pelvis, while his lips and tongue tracked upward, ever closer, ever closer. He made me feel special, like my pussy was a prize beyond price, like he was my supplicant begging to taste it.

His face hovered over my panties, and he inhaled me. I was so excited that I had not realized that I had thoroughly wet myself.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I cried. “I’ve never done this before –”

“Why, dearest?” he whispered. “You’ve given me the highest accolade – telling me how much I’ve excited you.”

“But I must be gross –”

“Johanna, you’re the sweetest smelling woman I’ve ever been with.”

He stripped my panties down my legs and off with ease born of great skill. Much to my relief, he moved faster now. His lips and tongue found my most intimate recesses. Initially, he probed lightly, but soon faster and faster till I screamed as I came.

It was the most intense sexual high I had ever had. He gave me a few moments to savor it, as he moved up and took me in his arms. Somehow, he had shed his clothes and I felt his skin against mine.

He kissed me again on the lips, as he tenderly rolled me on to my back. He slid on a condom, and then I felt his bulbous head. A moment later he was in me. He made love to me unhurriedly, allowing my slow-burning fuse to run its course. I was just enjoying the feeling of having him in me, holding me, caressing me, making me feel like I was the only woman he cared for. Just when I thought I could go on forever in this blissful state, I was surprised as I began to cum.

He seemed to know my body better than me, for he was waiting and came with me. He called my name as he came, “Johanna, Johanna, Johanna!” And I was thrilled.

*

I lay in Thomas’s arms, completely oblivious of the passage of time. Eventually, he pulled his arms out from around me.

“I’m going to have a shower,” he said. “If you want one, you can go first. Or we could go together.”

“Let’s go together,” I said.

He made love to me again in the shower, standing up and covered with soap and shampoo. The bathroom also boasted a large jacuzzi and we lazed in the jets after our shower, chatting.

We went back to bed and slept together, naked. He woke me at first light and made love to me a third time. Afterward, we talked, a mixture of English and German. Like Rudolf, he was easy to talk to. But he was unlike Rudolf in almost every other way. He was bright and well-read, but much more interested in practical things rather than theories.

For Thomas, knowledge was utilitarian – he knew things that helped him in his business, or in his hobbies. He had a mechanical knowledge of math needed for financial transactions. He was interested in opera and knew a great deal about it. He had grown up with money, so he knew a fair bit about the finer things of life.

But he was not boastful and did not talk about himself unless I explicitly asked him. We talked about his parents, who had decided to retire early and let their children run the family bank. We talked about his work at the bank and about his relationship with his older sister. He adored her, but said that she didn’t think much of him.

He let me doze again, and when I woke, the sun was streaming into the bedroom. The Matterhorn glimmered out of the wide window of our suite bedroom. Thomas was in the sitting room of the suite, dressed and ready for the day.

“I should text my friends and tell them what time I’ll be back in Zermatt,” I said, coming out of the bedroom in one of the inn’s fluffy robes.

“Don’t go,” he said. “Spend the holiday with me. Let’s ski Verbier today.”

“My clothes are in the hotel room in Zermatt. And I don’t have skis, remember? I broke one of the pair Ulrike lent me. I don’t know how I’m going to pay her back. Those were expensive skis.”

“Don’t worry about your clothes, we’ll get you something here. And I’ll buy you skis, if you’ll ski with me.”

“Well –” I was tempted. It would be nice to ski with Thomas, spend the rest of the holiday with him.

Just then, there was a knock on the door, and I opened it. It was Anna’s teenage daughter, who told us that breakfast was being served. She handed me a cardboard box and left before I could ask her what it was.

I took it into the suite and asked Thomas.

“It’s for you,” he said.

I opened it and found several sets of bras and panties, stockings and garters, as well as a cashmere sweater, and a skirt. I checked out the bras and found that they were all in my size.

“How did these get here?”

“I asked Anna to get them. While you were sleeping.”

“But how did she know my size?”

“I gave her your bra.”

“You didn’t!”

“Don’t worry, Johanna, Anna is very discreet.”

“These are very expensive clothes. I can’t accept them. I can’t afford to pay you for them.”

“You need to wear something.” He stood up and put his arms around me. “Listen, Johanna. I enjoy spending time with you. I want to spend time with you. I’ll pay whatever is necessary to make that happen. I can afford it.”

“It doesn’t seem right.”

“Text your friends that you’re safe and spending the holiday with someone you met. I’ll get you back to Zermatt in time for you to travel back with your friends.”

“Promise?”

“Of course. I have to go back to work, you know.”

I dressed in my new clothes and we went down to breakfast. Anna came to tell us that the rental car Thomas had booked had been delivered. It was a yellow Porsche with a ski rack. The Recaro seat was like a snug cocoon and I settled into it happily.

Thomas drove fast, the highly tuned Porsche engine roared, and we made it to Verbier in two hours. I suppose I had mentally transitioned to accepting his role as my benefactor – it was frighteningly easy to rationalize – and I did not protest as he took me to the ski shop and bought me a fashionable ski outfit and a new set of skis. He assured me these skis were better than Ulrike’s pair that I had broken.

We skied hard at Verbier. We both enjoyed speed and spent the morning on the steepest runs. He was much better than me on piste and I thought I saw a hint of satisfaction each time when he had to wait a few seconds for me at the bottom of each pitch. I talked him into leading me off-piste in the late afternoon.

“I don’t know this mountain as well I know Zermatt,” he said. “I don’t want to get us lost – I don’t have ropes and climbing gear. It would be embarrassing to have to be rescued if we got stuck. Don’t you find the piste challenging enough? This is the toughest ski resort in the world.”

“Let go to the Attelas ridge,” I said, showing him the trail map. “We can go off-piste to Les Ruinettes and catch the steeper runs that you like back down to the village.”

He agreed reluctantly. This holiday was the first time I had skied prepared, groomed trails, and he was faster than me on the open slopes. But I had grown up skiing backcountry and was always ready to turn or hop an obstacle in a split second. I knew I could cut in and around rocks and outcroppings off-piste better than he could.

I took private pleasure in having to wait for him at Les Ruinettes. He was obviously not pleased and really pushed it on the narrow steep chute down to the village. I drafted him, quads shaking and skis chattering as my edges bit at the perilously high speed. He was clearly stronger than me, and began to pull away toward the bottom. He got to the base of the runout about five seconds before me, popped off his skis and put up his goggles. By the time I skated to a stop, he was leaning on his skis laconically.

“My God, that was fast, Thomas!” I said dutifully, as I took off my skis.

As I expected, he looked very pleased and kissed me. It was nearly dark by the time we got changed and loaded the car.

“Where are we going?” I asked once we were on the road again.

“Montreux,” he said. “We’ll have a drink at the Jazz Café at the Palace, then dine at this little auberge I know in the hills. But first we’ll get you some eveningwear at the Maison. We don’t want you to stand out at the Palace.”

We got to the Maison just before they closed. The saleslady was very knowledgeable and professional. Thomas spoke to her rapidly in an impenetrable Schweitzer Deutsch dialect, so I assumed he did not want me to understand. I ended up in a Balenciaga evening gown with a new matching pair of slippers. As we were checking out, she handed Thomas a slim velvet-covered case and he gave it to me when we got back in the car.

It was a slim bracelet, set with pearls and rubies. I looked at it dumbfounded.

“I can’t accept this, Thomas!”

“The saleslady said rubies would set off your dark eyes.”

“It must have cost a fortune!”

“It wasn’t that expensive.”

“Was it less than a thousand euros?”

“Well, no.”

I snapped the case closed and handed it back to him.

“Just borrow it while you are with me,” he said, not taking it. “You can give it back when I drop you off in Zermatt in a few days.”

I hesitated.

“Well, okay. I want your word on this – I’m just borrowing it.”

Thomas talked to the maître d’ at the Jazz Café and got us a table with a view of the lake. He ordered a scotch, and I decided to have a glass of champagne. The waitress came with the drinks, and as she was setting them down, he excused himself to go to the men’s room. I saw him accosted by another well-dressed man through the glass in the corridor on the way there. I watched them talking and didn’t notice the girl till she said, “Hi!”

I looked up and saw a tall blonde. She looked like a Victoria’s Secret bra model, lean and fit, with firm full breasts, a well-shaped taut ass, and a face that begged to be photographed.

“Hallo,” I said. “Kann ich Ihnen helfen?” (Hi. Can I help you?)

“Bist du Deutscher?” she asked.

Her accent was terrible. I guessed she was an East European or a Russian.

“Nein,” I said, deciding against lying. “Ich bin Amerikaner.” (No. I’m American.)

“Well, let’s just speak English, then,” she said, sitting down in one of the free chairs with casual confidence. In English, she definitely sounded Russian. “He’s rich, your man. Where did you find him?”

“What do you mean?”

“Rolex Submariner watch, Armani blazer, Bally handmade shoes, Givenchy cashmere turtleneck – he’s wearing at least 12,000 euros.”

“I don’t see how it’s any business of yours,” I said stiffly, feeling put down by her knowledge and my total ignorance of Thomas’s wardrobe.

“Don’t get all upset, sweetie. You look very young, you must be new at this. How much is he paying you?”

“Excuse me?”

“You have on a Balenciaga gown, Christian Louboutin slippers, a pearl-ruby Bulgari bracelet. He bought those for you, didn’t he?”

I felt like I was going to be sick.

“I just want to help you, sweetheart. I’m very good at what I do. I can make it much better for him and more lucrative for both of us. Just introduce me, and leave the rest to me. Men like him always pay extra for threesomes. It will be very exciting for him – an American and a Russian, the cold war in his bed.”

I stood up, but was hit by a spell of dizziness and grabbed the table to avoid falling. I walked away from the table, away from the stunning Russian, away from the scene of my shame. I’m a whore, I thought. He bought me like he bought his clothes, his shoes and his watch.

I hurried to the coat check and got my comfortingly cheap Wisconsin winter jacket. Then I went down to the Bell Desk in the lobby.

“Ich hätte gerne ein Taxi, bitte,” I said. (I’d like a taxi please.)

“Wohin, Fräulein?” asked the man at the Bell Desk. (Where to, miss?)

“Zermatt,” I said. “Jagerhof Hotel.”

“Das wird viel kosten, Fräulein.” (That will cost a lot, miss.)

“Kann ich mit Kreditkarte bezahlen?” (Can I pay with a credit card?)

“Ich bin sicher, du kannst das,” he said, beckoning a bellboy. (I am sure you can.)

The bellboy led me down the wide steps to the apron and blew his whistle. A Mercedes taxi pulled up, I got in and said, “Hotel Jagerhof, Zermatt. Ich werde mit einer Kreditkarte bezahlen, wenn wir dort ankommen.” (I’ll pay with a credit card when we get there.)

“Schon gut!” he said as he put the car in gear. (Alright.)

*

I cried all the way to Zermatt. How could I have been so stupid! I kept thinking over and over. I don’t have any money, but I had my pride. How he must have laughed at me! Silly little American girl, he must have thought. He pretended to be so interested in me! And I told him my life story like a wide-eyed innocent. Mom and Roberta would be so ashamed of me.

I opened an internet video calling window, mindless of the cost to my limited data plan. I called Roberta. It was about two in the afternoon and she was at work, but she picked up my call.

“Hold on, Johanna, let me go outside into the lobby,” she said. I saw her walking out of her office corridor. “What’s up, darling? How’s Germany?”

“I’m in Switzerland, Roberta,” I said. “I’m… I’m …”

I started sobbing.

“Hush, hush, Johanna. Tell me everything.”

The story just poured out of me. I cried as I spoke and Roberta could see the tears streaming down my face. I could see the taxi driver looking at me in his rearview.

“You couldn’t have known, Johanna,” she said when I was done.

“Of course, I should have known, Roberta! He was meeting his mistress for a sexual tryst. She’s a rich, sophisticated Swiss woman, I saw her. It's obvious that he just saw me as a penniless American he could buy.”

“You’re just a teenager, Johanna. He should never have done what he did.”

“I’m twenty,” I said. I wiped my eyes, but I couldn't stop crying.

“You’re barely out of your teens. I wish I could be with you and cuddle you right now!”

“I miss you, Roberta,” I sniffled. “What should I do?”

“Rejoin your friends in Zermatt. Then box up everything he gave you and mail it back to him at his bank address.”

“Even the lingerie that I'm wearing?”

“Everything,” she said firmly.

“What about my jeans and rain pants and clothes that I left in his car?”

“Forget about them.”

“Okay, Roberta.” I had a sudden thought. “Please don’t tell Mom any of this.”

“Of course not, darling.”

I gave my credit card to the taxi driver at the Jagerhof Hotel, but he gave it back to me. He was a kindly old gentleman, who was perhaps in his sixties.

“Gib mir einfach dreißig Euro Bargeld,” he said. “Wenn du es hast.” (Just give me thirty euros cash. If you have it.)

“Aber der Betrag auf Ihrem Messgerät ist um ein Vielfaches höher –” I began, mentally converting the Swiss francs on his meter to euros. (But the amount on your meter is many times higher ...)

“Dreißig Euro decken meine Kosten,” he said. (Thirty euros will cover my costs.)

I took out my wallet and counted out thirty euros. He took my hand in his as I gave it to him.

“Du bist wie meine Enkelin,” he said, very softly. “Als du geweint hast, hat es mir das Herz gebrochen.” (You are like my granddaughter. When you were crying, it broke my heart.)

He squeezed my hand gently.

*

The rest of my semester abroad was relatively uneventful. Thomas called and texted me numerous times, left me long messages, but I did not respond. I followed Roberta’s instructions, boxed up everything he had bought me, and mailed it to him at the Lindt Bank in Zurich. I got the return receipt from the post office confirming that it was delivered. I wondered if the stunning Russian at the Palace Hotel in Montreux had managed to hook him.

Ulrike laughed off her broken ski when I offered to pay her for it. She told me not to worry, that she got it as a promotion from the manufacturer. She loaned me another set and we skied together a few more times at German resorts before the season was over.

She stopped sleeping with Dieter. Ironically, the three of us grew closer as the sex drained out of our relationship. We had a lot of good times together and made a lot of memories.

I couldn’t sleep on the Lufthansa flight back to Newark. The seat next to mine was occupied by a German gentleman and for some reason, he sparked thoughts of Thomas. The more I tried to repress them, the more intrusive they got. Eventually, I gave up and allowed the memories to come flooding in. I thought of Thomas singing Va Pensiero in his powerful baritone. I thought of his quick look of triumph when he waited for me on the open pistes, his momentary resentment when I beat him on the off-piste. In some ways, he was such a little boy! I thought of the way he kissed me, the way he made love to me. He taught me so much about my body, about myself. And he made me feel like a princess as he did so.

“I didn’t want your money, Thomas,” I whispered. “I just wanted your smile.”

“Geht es dir gut, Fräulein?” the German gentleman asked me. (Are you okay, miss?)

I realized I was crying.

“Oh, mir geht’s gut. Nur traurig zu gehen.” (Oh, I'm fine. Just sad to leave.)

“Du bist Deutscher?” he asked. “Lieben zurücklassen?” (Are you German? Leaving loved ones behind?)

“Im Moment ist mein Herz in der Schweiz.” (Right now, my heart is in Switzerland.)