[ENF] The Alpine Retreat (AI story)

[PeterCInsekt]

It was the dead of winter in 2019, high up in the Swiss Alps, where the air bit like a thousand tiny knives and the snow blanketed everything in a deceptive peace. Raj Patel, a 19-year-old Indian kid fresh off a failed semester at some no-name university in Zurich, had come here to end it all. He'd hitched rides from the city, his backpack stuffed with nothing but regrets and a crumpled note he never planned to send. Depression had been his shadow for years—clumsy fuck-ups in school, a family back in Mumbai who expected too much, and a string of rejections from girls who saw him as the awkward brown guy with zero game. Tonight, he figured, a leap from one of these jagged cliffs would do the trick. Quick, cold, done.

But fate, that b*tch, had other plans. A blizzard whipped up out of nowhere as Raj trudged through the pines, visibility zero, his lanky frame shivering under a thin jacket. He slipped on an icy root, tumbled down a slope, and crashed through a snowdrift right into what looked like paradise—or hell, depending on your view. There, in a cleared glade behind a massive wooden chalet, was an outdoor sauna setup: steaming hot tubs and wooden benches under string lights, the heat melting the falling snow into mist. And in that mist? A dozen women, all stark naked, lounging like goddesses who'd forgotten their robes.

Raj froze, not from the cold, but from the sight. These weren't just any women—they were tall, athletic Nordics, Scandinavian beauties with skin as pale as the snow around them, blonde hair cascading down backs arched in relaxation. Ages ranging from 23 to 30, their bodies were a feast: firm tits perked up in the chill, asses curved like ski slopes, pussies shaved or trimmed in ways that screamed confidence. One was stretching, her long legs parting to reveal pink lips glistening from the steam; another laughed, her heavy breasts jiggling as she splashed water on a friend. Their fair features—high cheekbones, blue eyes—were worlds away from the dark-skinned girls back home. To Raj, this was forbidden fruit on steroids, a diversity of beauty he'd only jerked off to in porn. His dick stirred despite the freeze, eyes wide, drinking in every inch of their exposed forms.

He must've gasped or something, because suddenly heads turned. "Was ist das?" one shrieked, her hands flying to cover her bush as she bolted upright. Chaos erupted—screams echoing off the mountains, bodies scrambling for towels that weren't close enough. They huddled, arms crossing over nipples, thighs squeezing shut, faces flushed redder than the sauna heat. "Intruder! Call security!" another yelled, her voice piercing the storm. Raj, captivated and exhausted, snapped out of it too late. He turned to run, but his clumsy ass slipped on the slick decking, face-planting into a snowbank.

By the time he scrambled up, two burly guards—probably locals hired for the chalet—had him pinned, his arms twisted behind his back. The women, now haphazardly wrapped in whatever they could grab, formed a circle around him in the chalet's warm lounge. It was a sorority retreat, they explained through gritted teeth: a private wellness weekend for these Swedish and Norwegian expats living in Europe, strictly no men allowed. They'd rented the place to unwind, bare it all, and now this peeping tom had ruined it.

"Leave him out there," snarled a 28-year-old with fiery blonde curls, her towel slipping just enough to tease a nipple. "Let the storm take him. Fucking pervert." Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group—some wanted to call the cops, others joked about tying him to a tree and letting hypothermia do the work. Raj, bruised and defeated, didn't fight. Hell, part of him welcomed it. But then, Ingrid Larsen stepped forward. At 25, she was the group's yoga instructor, her lithe body still half-exposed under a loose robe, green eyes soft with something like pity. "Wait," she said, her accent thick and melodic. "He's just a kid. Look at him—lost, half-frozen. We can't kill him."

The debate raged: hostility from the hardliners, who saw Raj's brown skin and wide-eyed stare as an invasion of their sacred space. "He ogled us like meat!" one spat. But Ingrid pushed back, arguing mercy in that calm, Nordic way. Compromise won out—Raj would live, but as their servant. Grueling tasks to pay for his intrusion: chopping firewood in the biting wind, shoveling endless paths through the drifts, scrubbing the sauna decks on his knees. It was meant to break him, a punishment wrapped in labor.

Raj accepted eagerly, no hesitation. The next morning, as the blizzard cleared to reveal sparkling peaks, he started. Axe in hand, he hacked at logs, sweat mixing with snowmelt under his borrowed parka. His muscles screamed, but so did his mind—finally quiet. Stolen glances at the women, now clothed but still provocative in tight leggings and sweaters, fueled him. Ingrid checked on him often, her fair hand on his dark shoulder, a smile that hinted at more. "You're stronger than you think," she'd say, her breath warm against his ear.

Days blurred into a rhythm. The work was brutal—blisters on his palms, back aching from hauling sleds of supplies up slopes. But Raj thrived. No more suicidal thoughts; instead, a perverse joy in servitude. He'd catch glimpses during their sessions: a towel slip here, a changing room door ajar there. The women's bodies, once a shocking contrast to his own heritage, became a beacon. Ingrid, especially—her interventions turned flirtatious, a shared mug of hot cocoa leading to whispered confessions. "I saw how you looked at us," she teased one night by the fire. "But now, you're one of us. Sort of."

By the retreat's end, Raj wasn't the clumsy depressed kid anymore. He was alive, hardened, hooked on this new life of sweat and stolen beauty. As the women packed up, Ingrid slipped him her number. "Come visit Sweden," she winked. "Plenty more work... and rewards." Raj grinned, the Alps fading behind him, his journey far from over.