The Forest of the Male

Every morning, at six o'clock sharp, I would put on my running shoes, wear my short black lycra shorts that clung to my thighs like a second skin, and leave the house heading towards the forest that bordered the city. I was thirty-two years old, with an athletic but not exaggerated body — a long-distance runner, not a gym enthusiast —, and running was my ritual. Not just to stay in shape, but to escape the stress of work, the noise of the office, and that constant feeling that something was missing in my life. The forest was my sanctuary: narrow paths covered in dry leaves, tall pine trees that filtered the morning light into golden rays, the singing of birds, and the smell of damp earth after the rain. No one bothered me there. Or so I thought.

The first day I saw him was a Tuesday in late October. The air was cool, almost cold, and I was running at a steady pace, breathing deeply, feeling my muscles warm up. The main path branched off into a narrower one that led down to a clearing by the stream. There, sitting on a fallen tree trunk, was he. A mature man, easily fifty-five or sixty years old. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a well-groomed gray beard and short hair sprinkled with gray hairs. He wore tight black leggings, the kind cyclists wear, but which he had made his daily uniform. The fabric was so fine and clingy that it left nothing to the imagination. Everything was visible: the powerful thighs, the marked calves from years of exercise, and above all... his cock. God, it was impossible not to look at it. It hung heavy, thick, like a stuffed tube under the lycra. The bulge was so evident that it seemed like the fabric was about to tear at any moment. He wasn't wearing underwear; that was clear. The contour of the head, the thickness of the trunk, even the shape of the balls... everything was drawn with pornographic precision.

I ran past him without stopping, but my gaze deviated on its own. He looked up, smiled with that calmness of someone who knows exactly what they're showing, and I felt a heat rise up my neck. I accelerated my pace, but my heart was no longer beating just from the exercise. That night, in the shower, I couldn't help but touch myself thinking about that bulge. "It was just a coincidence," I told myself. "I won't see him tomorrow."

But I did. The next day, Wednesday, he was on the same tree trunk, doing stretches. The leggings again, his cock even more marked because the cold had made it harden a bit. I passed by more slowly this time, pretending to adjust my pulse watch. He looked me straight in the eye and nodded with his head, like greeting an old acquaintance. He didn't say anything. Neither did I. But I ran the next five kilometers with my cock semi-hard inside my shorts, rubbing against the fabric with each stride.

Thursday. Friday. Saturday. Sunday. Every day the same routine. I would leave at six, run eight kilometers through the same circuit, and there he was. Always in blac...