Running down the towpath. Keep about a foot from his shoulder. Steady behind him. At his pace. At his heel. Like he's taking his dog for a Saturday morning walk along the canal towpath. At his heel. Misjudge it and bump him. Elbow to the ribs. Gets the dog back to his pace. Too many times like that. His knuckles. Sharp. To the groin. Am consistently off his pace. Grabs cock and balls in his fist. Dragging. Pulling. Maintaining the dog as if on his lead. Must keep to his pace. Must stay about a foot behind his shoulder. Tight behind him on the towpath. Keeping up. He's fit. Can run for miles at pace.
He enjoys it, all of it. Canal. Fresh air. Open sky. The quiet of it, the solitude of it. Taken us to a deserted part of the canal. Old, unused industrial buildings along it. Then woods. Miles and miles. Brushy, unkempt woods. Raw, wild.
Driven us here. Sometimes does on a Saturday morning. He is, fucken have to say it, a fucking maniac behind the wheel. He does not like to share. This includes the road. With other road users, other cars. Every other driver is a fucker, dickhead, bastard, stupid fucker, stupid fucking cunt. For the drive. Clench the seat. Breathe deeply. Not only can't say a word. Must remain calm. Appear to be at ease. This morning, frustrated in a traffic jam he slammed the brake. Suddenly, put his foot on the pedal. Reversed and screeched. Turned around on a penny. Fast and mean and angry. Swung around and swerved to the other lane. Seemed inches from other cars. Pulled away at speed in the other direction. Swearing all the way. Fucken hell.
But here now, in the quiet of the canal. A foot behind his shoulder. Steady at his pace. It's brisk. It's a chill wind. He's in long tracksuit pants. Long t-shirt and a waterproof. All he's put on me are the trainers to run in. And shorts. Too tight. Tight so the balls are pushing out. Visible. No underwear. Am commando for him. No t-shirt. Torso naked. Tight shorts showing arse crack. Pushing out. Up and down along the tow path behind him.
Come to a spot. Close to an estate. He's come here before. In the evening there's chaps. Sometimes. Quick fucks. Playing games. But it's Saturday morning. Sun bright in the blue sky. Too much light for the night creatures.
He slows, all the same. Comes to a stop. Match his pace and movement precisely. Catch breath. Reaches in his backpack. Takes a swig from his water bottle. Then another. Eyes up and down the canal again. Puts thumb in mouth. Empties some water from the water bottle into mouth. Am thirsty from running. Gurgle it down. Does it again. Snatches it away. Puts it back in his backpack.
There's a bench a little ways forward. He goes and sits down on it. Am a foot behind him. Standing there. Beside him. He casually pulls shorts down to ankles. Grabs balls. Pulls down. Am on knees now. All naked except for those tight shorts now loose on trainers. Kneeling naked beside him on the towpath. Not too far from that estate. Someone could come. He's got an eye though. Probably half a mile in every direction. In each direction up the towpath so he'll see someone coming. That's his job though.
Shoulders back. Arse up. Cock hard. Out. Displayed for him. At his heel. Kneeling naked.
Feel leaves and sticks on knees. It's cold.
He's put his bag beside him. Rustling about in it. He's enjoying a protein bar now.
Stonking great hard-on pulses in breeze. He allows coming only very occasionally. And this is one of the places he allows it. On Saturday morning run on the canal towpath. Kneeling naked at his feet while he rests and catches his breath. But he doesn't allow it every time. Not by a long stretch.
Protein bar in one hand, feeding himself, and with the other hand he casually slaps the hard-on. Laughs. Takes another mouthful protein bar. Wipes his mouth. Slaps hard-on again, harder.
"How long's this then?"
He means, how long since coming last? Because he don't take no notice.
"This is end of third week Sir."
"Hmm."
Bites his protein bar.
"Well that'd be fucking generous of me, wouldn't it?"
