The Forest of the Male 2

Winter truly set in in the forest from mid-December onwards. Snow began to settle on the higher paths, the pines became laden with white, and the air grew so cutting that each breath was like swallowing crystals. But I continued to venture out at six o'clock sharp. I wore thermals under my running shorts — thin black leggings that became slightly transparent with sweat —, a fitted sweater, and shoes with studs to prevent slipping. The cold burned my lungs, but it also kept me alert, excited. Because I knew he would be there. He was always there.

After that first time in the secluded clearing, everything changed pace. It was no longer just a casual encounter that escalated into wild sex. It became a strict routine, almost ritualistic. He set the rules, and I obeyed without question. If I arrived late — even if only by five minutes —, he would wait for me with a frown and his cock already half-hard beneath his mesh clothing. The first slap would arrive before I could even greet him. "Where the hell were you, slow bitch?" And then he would fuck me harder than usual, as punishment. I learned quickly to be punctual.

One morning in late December, with snow falling in thick flakes, I arrived at our usual meeting point — the fallen tree trunk by the stream that had become our altar —. He wasn't sitting down. He was standing, with his hands in the pockets of a black waterproof jacket, his grey mesh clothing soaked through by the snow that melted on contact with his warm body. His cock was more pronounced than ever: the cold had made it retract slightly, but the bulge was still obscene, thick, and heavy. He looked me up and down as I panted from my run.

"Take off your sweater," he ordered without preamble.

I obeyed. The cold hit my bare torso like a whip. My nipples became hard instantly. He approached me, grabbed me by the nape of the neck, and kissed me violently, thrusting his tongue down my throat. He tasted of tobacco and freshly brewed coffee. As he devoured my mouth, his free hand went down to my leggings and slipped his fingers inside, directly to my ass. I was already trained: I had been going without underwear for weeks so he could have immediate access.

"Today you're going to try something new, faggot," he murmured against my lips. "Open your mouth."

I stuck out my tongue. I expected his saliva or maybe for him to spit on me. Instead, he stepped back, pulled down his mesh clothing to mid-thigh, and aimed his cock directly at my face. The stream of urine was hot, intensely yellow against the white snow on the ground. He filled my mouth in one go. I swallowed as fast as I could, but it was too much. Some of it escaped from the corners of my mouth, ran down my chin, down my bare chest. The contrast between the warm urine and the cold air was brutal. I groaned involuntarily.

"Drink it all, pig. Don't leave a single drop on the ground. Lick it clean, or I'll make you lick the ...