Afterglow
Copyright© 2025 by Eric Ross
Interlude: Panic at the Glacier
Erotica Sex Story: Interlude: Panic at the Glacier - They met in an alley: wild, reckless, unforgettable. Ginger never meant to fall for Coco’s chaos. Coco never meant to fall for anyone at all. But between stolen nights, whispered dares, and the kind of heat that burns through skin and bone, something unruly grew — something more dangerous than lust. This is not a story about taming a wild thing. It’s a story about becoming wild enough to stay.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Humor BDSM Light Bond Spanking Group Sex Anal Sex Cream Pie Massage Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Squirting Voyeurism Big Breasts Hairy Public Sex
(Iceland, Between Paris and Tokyo)
The lagoon didn’t move.
No waves. No wind. Just milk-colored stillness, broken by jagged shards of blue ice drifting like ghost ships across the surface. Coco stood near the edge, her back to me, arms rigid at her sides. Her hair was unbound, silver strands caught in a lazy breeze that didn’t stir the water.
I crunched up the gravel slope behind her, breath visible in the Icelandic air. We’d flown in from Paris the night before—an impulsive stopover before Tokyo. She’d said yes with that usual shrug, the one that said why not but never why.
Now she was silent. And the stillness felt personal.
“You cold?” I asked, stepping beside her.
Her jaw twitched. She didn’t look at me.
“This place is fucked,” she said, low.
I waited.
“It’s too still. Too quiet. I hate it.”
The wind picked up for half a second, then died again. Even the air felt hesitant.
She exhaled, sharp and sudden. “I shouldn’t have come here. Shouldn’t’ve said yes.”
“Because it’s cold?”
She finally looked at me. Her eyes were glassy. Wide open. Like she’d forgotten how to shield them.
“No,” she said. “Because quiet places make it hard to not remember.
Something in my gut dropped. “Remember what?”
Her gaze went back to the lagoon. A long silence. Then—
“My sister drowned.”
I didn’t move.
“She was seventeen. I was twelve. We were at a lake. She said she’d swim out to the dock. She laughed the whole way. Like she always did. And then—” Coco swallowed. “Then she just ... didn’t come back.”
A pause. Shallow breath.
“I didn’t scream. I didn’t run. I just ... froze. Like a fucking idiot. Like maybe if I stayed still, it wouldn’t be real.”
I reached for her hand. She flinched, but let me take it.
“They said it was a seizure. That it wouldn’t have mattered. But I’ve never really believed them.”
Her voice cracked. “I think that’s the moment I learned to run. From everything. From quiet. From stillness. From anything I can’t fuck my way out of.”
I squeezed her hand. She didn’t squeeze back.
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