Running the Hills

This is my first attempt at erotic writing - I would really really love any feedback or constructive criticism!

A three-sport athlete all through high school, and a captain of my college's club rugby team, I've always been in good physical shape. At 6"1', 200 lbs, I've got the build of a linebacker – big chest, solid legs, broad shoulders – generally muscular and strong. But as I began pushing 30, I found myself slipping just a bit. My stomach wasn't quite as flat as it used to be, my legs were starting to get just a bit less "solid" and more just "thick," and I found my energy level waning a little. I wanted to be back in the shape that had always made getting girls relatively easy in my youth.

That's not to say that I was doing this just to get girls. My girlfriend swore she didn't notice a change, and our sex life didn't reflect any lack of desire, but this was more for myself, for my own peace of mind and satisfaction, to be able to keep up with the young Turks in the office.

So here I was, 29, in Northern Virginia on a sunny September morning, running hard up the hilly wooded path near my home. It was relatively isolated and little-used, and a pretty challenging run, with steep climbs and tricky down slopes, stretching over a seven-mile loop that would take me back to the street that ran past my driveway. I had gotten to the point where I was doing the seven miles relatively easily three times a week, and felt good about myself. I had also gotten to the point where I didn't worry as much going down the hills.

So my mind was elsewhere as I descended the second-to-last hill before I would turn onto my street. I was sweating pretty good considering the cool morning air, my gray t-shirt darkened in the center of my chest and under my arms, but I felt good. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day, I was just about done with my run, well before 9 AM, and I had the rest of the day to look forward to. And my mind must have been dwelling on that, because as I went down the hill, I suddenly felt my feet slip from beneath me and I crashed to the rock-studded earth, rolling over twice before managing to stop myself against a thick tree trunk at the side of the path.

I sat there a moment, catching my breath, breathing heavily through my mouth, hesitantly searching my body for any serious injuries, feeling a few scrapes and what would soon be bruises on elbows, knees, shoulders. But all-in-all I seemed okay. I pulled myself to my feet and took a step and my ankle gave out.

I sat back down quickly, wincing, looking down at my right ankle. It looked okay, but I could feel it throbbing now, a twinge on the outside. I had broken the ankle before, playing basketball in college, a pick-up game, but this felt different, more like a sprain. I tried putting a little weight on it again, without standing, and felt pain. Tried rotating it a bit, more pain. I was angry at myself, stupid, careless. Now I'd be laid up for weeks, maybe a month, unable to jog, having to hobble around everywhere. All because I lost my concentration for a second. Idiot.

To make matters worse, I heard someone coming down the path behind me. Great. Some asshole's going to laugh as he blows by me. Awesome. But then, even worse, I heard the footsteps slow. Fuck. They were going to stop. Just keep going, I'm fine, I thought. But the footsteps stopped, just next to me on the hillside. "Are you okay?" Inevitable.

Without turning my head, I nodded, "Yeah, I'm fine, just twisted my ankle." Keep going. Move along, nothing to see here. No such luck.

"Yeah, these hills can be tough if you're not used to them." That was a bit much. I turned my head, squinting against the morning sun that was just spilling over the hilltop, behind the speaker to the east. I could tell from the deep voice it was a man, but I could see little more than a silhouette against the glare. I raised a hand to shield my eyes.

He was bare-headed, his dark brown hair damp at the brow and around his ears, neatly-trimmed. Athletic shorts coming to just above his knees, a dark blue t-shirt, darker against his chest. He stood with his hands on his hips, breathing steadily, apparently little winded from the recent climb. His face reminded me a bit of a politician's – almost too central-casting handsome and all-American looking. He was older than I, probably in his early to mid-40s, but looked younger than his age. He had a similar build to mine, fit and solid, obviously an athlete in his youth but still taking care of himself. I could see the outline of his chest through the t-shirt, that and the definition of his arms made it apparent he lifted in addition to his runs. His eyes were in shadow.

"I run here all the time, actually." My reply came out less bitter than I had originally intended. My pride had subsided a bit as my adrenaline slowed. He was obviously just trying to help a fellow runner in need. "Don't know what happened – just stopped thinking for a second and I was down."

He laughed softly, not unkindly. "Yeah, that'll do it. Could happen to anyone." He crouched down on his haunches next to me, close enough that heat from his workout radiated off his body. "It's just a sprain nothing's broken, right?"

I looked down at the ankle in question, turned it a little, winced again, but managed to reply, "Yeah, no, it's not too bad."

"Can you make it out of here?"

I nodded, pointed down the trail. "I live not far from here, over on Carlton. I can make it."

"You sure? Wouldn't want you to take another spill trying to get down these hills."

"Yeah, I'm fine." I pushed myself up to my feet, grimacing as I put weight on my ankle, and felt his hand on my arm, steadying me for a moment, and then it was gone. I took a step, hesitantly, and pain shot through me. It was all I could do not to cry out, but apparently the pain was obvious, because I again felt his hands on me, one on my elbow, the other on the small of my back.

"You don't look fine. I'm going to help you down the hill." His hand pressed my t-shirt against my lower back, just above the waistband of my shorts, and I could feel the warmth of him through the fabric, his big hand nearly spanning my hips. I could only nod in thanks. Pride could only carry me so far.

We began moving slowly down the hill, avoiding loose rocks and gravel, the sun filtering through the tree cover overhead. He didn't speak accept to introduce himself as Mike, and that took until we were about halfway down. I told him my name, and that was the extent of the conversation. Twice I put too much weight on my leg, wincing visibly each time, drawing a sharp breath, and each time I felt Mike's hands on me, steadying me, taking my weight easily.

After the second stumble, he stopped for a moment and lifted my right arm up over his shoulders so that he was basically carrying my right side, my foot not having to make contact with the ground. I felt his body against mine, felt the firm muscles of his shoulders beneath my arm, felt the heat from his side pressing against me, and then his thigh brushed mine as we stepped together down the slope and suddenly I felt myself growing hard. I almost fell again. My mind screamed, blood rushed to my head and my heart was suddenly pounding in my chest.

This was new. And it wasn't a Seinfeld-esque "It moved." This had quickly turned into a full-fledged throbbing hard-on, within seconds, and now I was desperately trying to think of anything but the closeness of his body and the smell of him and the feeling of sweat beneath his t-shirt as he helped me down the hill, trying to think of anything that would calm me. My throat was dry, I couldn't breathe. I could feel myself straining hard against my the boxer briefs I always wore when I worked out, prayed silently that they were constraining me enough that there wasn't some obscene bulge in my shorts. Why was this happening. Was it just the injury, the endorphins rushing through my system? Just an unconscious reaction to the touch of another person? My girlfriend would not be happy.

Then we were at the street. I could see the back of my house, my small backyard, the glass doors that led to my living room. I stopped, took my arm from off his shoulder and quickly bent over at the waist, reaching for my ankle, feigning concern for the swelling there, trying to shield his eyes from what I was sure was a massive bulge in my shorts. "How's it feel?" I heard him ask, his voice deep.

To my relief, I felt my mind pass the point of no return, the throbbing in my crotch subsiding. I slowly straightened up, not making eye contact, not trusting my body to not betray me once again. "It's okay, I think." It actually didn't feel too bad. The pain had ebbed just a little, but I could see the ankle was swollen in my sneaker. "I'll be fine."

"You sure?" The concern in his voice was obvious. I turned to him, saw his eyes and his face clearly for the first time. He was tan, obviously good-looking, his eyes dark brown. I saw the definition in his jaw line as he swallowed, his face clean-shaven and smooth, his skin clear.

"Yeah. Thanks, though, for your help." I smiled, the sun warming my face. "I live just over there," I said, pointing, "I can make it the rest of the way."

He glanced at my house, looking away, neither of us speaking for a long moment. The morning sun felt good, burning away the last of the cool air from overnight, blossoming into a slightly unseasonably warm September day. A light breeze moved through the trees above us, branches dancing, rustling, the movement of the air over my skin drawing goose bumps that disappeared with the wind. Neither of us moved. Finally, he spoke.

"Hey." He seemed to pause, and I saw him swallow. "You mind if I come in and use your phone? I never carry my cell with me, and I should call my wife and tell her I'm running a little late. She'll be wondering why I'm not home yet."

I felt a chill rush through me as he mentioned his wife, similar to the feeling one gets when a dreaded appointment is not kept. Relief mixed with questions. What had I wanted him to say? He was inviting himself in, but to call his wife? Was I thankful he was married? I didn't know. My mind raced, my pulse throbbing. I glanced down, at his hand, saw no wedding ring. But there was a tan line where it should have been. He caught me, and laughed, almost sounding forced. "I always take my ring off when I go running. I lost the first one just after we got back from our honeymoon on this same trail. She was not happy."

I smiled, thankful for an excuse to act normal. "You're not married, right?"

I shook my head, my mind having trouble producing thoughts, working through the permutations of what was coming from my mouth, not knowing the reasoning behind it. "No, I'm not. I've got a girlfriend though." I don't know whether the last was intended as a boast, or a warning, or something else.

He nodded, looked back at my house. "You guys live together?"

I shook my head again. "Nah, not yet. She's over on Madison."

He nodded, his gaze going to the tops of his sneakers, then back up, directly at me, looking like he wanted me to speak. I didn't know what to say. "So, could I give her a call?"

I felt myself blush. "Oh, yeah, your wife. Sure, of course, yeah. Least I can do." I began shuffling slowly across the quiet street, wincing slightly each time I set my injured foot down, the pain lessened, probably from the swelling. He followed at my side, watching me for a few steps.

"You need help, or you got it?"

"I got it, thanks. It feels a little better." I smiled, "Probably shock setting in, right?"

"Yeah, probably." I could hear him smiling back, in his words. "Make sure you get some ice on that."

"Yep, not my first one of these!"

"I guess it comes with the territory – keeping in shape, you're bound to have an accident sometime."

We had reached my back door, and I put my fingers down the front of my shorts, pulling out the drawstring to which I had tied my doorkey. As he watched, I used it to open the glass patio door, pushed it open, feeling the rush of the air conditioned interior. I stepped aside and gestured for Mike to go in ahead of me.

"Thanks." He moved inside, and I followed, closing the door behind me.

"The phone's in the kitchen." I gestured to the next room. "Not sure why I still have the landline, guess I just never bothered to get rid of it. Help yourself to a glass of water."

"Thanks," he said again, and stepped into the adjoining space. I felt my eyes following him, and I averted them quickly, but not before getting a good look at his hard calves, the muscles clearly defined, thick and strong and solid, up to big thighs, dark hair, tan. I heard the sound of the phone being taken off its wall mount.

I made a choice. "I'm gonna run rinse off real quick, before I can't move on this thing," I said, loudly, in the direction of the kitchen. "Make yourself at home." Before he could answer, I moved as quickly as I could towards the downstairs bathroom.

I closed the door behind me, letting the pain in my ankle subside, resting myself on the clean porcelain sink for a moment, my heart pounding in my chest, my shorts strained once again at my audacity. I didn't know what I was doing, but I knew what I wanted. I sat on the toilet and unlaced my sneakers, pulled my socks off after them, seeing my ankle swollen, not as much as I had feared. Maybe it was just a strain. Then I stood and pulled my damp t-shirt off over my head, seeing myself in the mirror over the sink, admiring my chest for a moment, my stomach, my arms, avoiding my eyes, my face, not willing to meet my own gaze. Then I hooked my thumbs in my shorts and my boxer briefs, pulled them down and off together, stepping out of them, leaving them in a pile on the bathmat.

I saw myself, hard and swollen, hanging between my legs, my dark hair neatly trimmed, my balls still pulled up tight against my body from the exercise. I scratched myself absently, smelling the scent of sweat and musk, and then reached into the shower and turned on the water. The water pressure was good, and I quickly stepped in, adjusting the temperature, feeling the warm water pouring down over me, cleansing, cooling.

Then I heard the door to the bathroom open. My heart stopped. I froze under the water, the opaque shower curtain drawn. I knew what was happening, but I couldn't move.

There was no sound from beyond the curtain for a second, but I could sense his presence in the small bathroom. Maybe I could hear him draw breath or maybe it was just the pounding heartbeat. Then he pulled the curtain open. I looked down, the stream of water beating on the top of my head, running down my body. I didn't look at him.

He stepped into the shower. I finally looked up, saw he must have undressed in the living room. I saw his bare feet, noticed his clean, neat toenails for some reason, slowly raised my eyes up his strong legs, up his thighs, saw him, his size, saw his girth, swollen and hard and thick, slightly longer than my six and a half inches, and thicker. I tried to look away, finally succeeded, feeling the water getting warmer on my shoulders, my neck, looked higher, His naked body was magnificent, the lines along the bottom of his abs sculpted, his stomach flat, his chest big and solid. His arms and shoulders were strong and defined. I couldn't meet his eyes. I felt myself swell, spasm without a touch.

Neither of us spoke as he drew the curtain closed, the enclosure, the privacy from a nonexistent audience making me somehow less panicked at what was about to happen. He stepped towards me, his hand going out, but instead of reaching for me he took the bar of soap from its tray built into the wall. As the water ran down over both of us, he first rubbed the bar over his bulging chest, lathering it slowly, bubbles forming on his naked torso; then under his arms, over his shoulders, down his defined biceps. I couldn't breathe. I could almost feel myself choking, my tongue was so thick in my mouth. I realized I was panting loudly in the small space. His body was wet and soapy and glistening, his muscles clear under his tan skin, and then his hand moved with the soap down his stomach, down between his legs, coating himself, and I heard myself groan aloud, my eyes locked on his hips, seeing his hand move slowly over his thick shaft, the soap coating his swollen head. I felt myself leaking.

Then his free hand reached out, took mine. I felt his fingers on mind and I swallowed hard, couldn't breathe, and he pulled me towards him, pulling my hand to his hips. I felt my fingertips brush against his stomach, his abs, his hips, then I felt the head of his cock under my fingers and I almost lost control of myself. My breathe shot from my lungs in a loud moan, and my hand closed around him, feeling his thick shaft in my fingers, feeling it's solidity, its firmness, squeezing it and hearing him groan softly somewhere far away, my blood buzzing loud in my ears, my heart pounding from my chest. He was so warm and hard and thick and his body was against mine, wet and hard and warm, his skin against mine, his thighs pressed against my legs, his arms moving around me, holding me under the water, feeling his bare chest on mine, hot and strong and wet, his head dipping and his lips resting on my shoulder, feeling him kiss me softly under the water, my own mouth finding his neck, uncertain, only knowing that this felt so right, so good, I couldn't stop now, and I kissed his neck and his shoulder, his ear, felt him swell hard in my hand and he moaned.

I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, could only feel him, his naked body against mine, his obscenely huge cock thick and heavy in my hand, and the water rushing down over both of us, together alone in the shower. My hand moved of its own accord, on instinct, pumped his shaft once, slowly, pulling up to his head, back down, feeling the soap making him slick, heard his sharp intake of breath in my ear as I pumped my fist on another man's cock for the first time. I pulled back enough to be able to look down between us, saw my fingers wrapped around his shaft, watched, mesmerized, almost as if I were watching someone else, saw my hand moving on his thick cock, watched myself pumping it slowly, seeing his ab muscles tense and relax, saw his chest rising and falling, saw his swollen head, red and dark and soft, swelling hard, then I felt myself dropping to my knees.

The floor of the shower was cool beneath me, and I lowered my head, wanting this too much to think about what I was doing, about my girlfriend or myself or anything, wanting nothing more than to taste him. And then my mouth was on him, feeling him impossibly big between my lips, huge, bigger than I thought humanly possible, wondering how a woman could ever do this without choking herself, but I needed it. Needed it so badly. Wanted it more than I had ever wanted anything else.

I swallowed, tried to breathe through my nose, felt water pouring off my head, tasting the sweat, the salt on his taut skin, feeling his hips involuntarily thrust just a bit, heard him whisper above me, "Sorry." I wanted to make him feel so good. So fucking good, wanted to make him feel better than his wife ever had. I opened my mouth as wide as I could, tried to let my throat relax, felt him move deeper, taking him deeper, swallowing over and over again, felt my tongue drag over his head, his shaft, remembering what I knew felt good, pumping my fist slowly at the base of his cock while I worked my tongue and my lips over his head. I heard him groan loudly somewhere far above me, felt his hands on my head, gently stroking my wet hair, moving my tongue faster, wanting him, wanting him to want me, wanting him to feel like I felt, feeling my own cock throbbing below me, forgetting about my own need for a moment, loving the feeling of this man's cock in my throat. I moaned, deep in my throat, the vibrations apparently working through his cock and he moaned with me.