I park up. Walk slowly up the hill along a path cut in the waist-high grass.

I looked on the internet recently - there was once a row of houses here in the 60s. On the other side across the picnic area, where the trees curve up to top of the hill. And the

old maps show a station on the line in the cutting beyond.

But now the trains just thunder through.

You can just about recognize the views from the top, down across the city, with the help of the text. And even the pictures of the street - it looks a bit familiar, if you think

hard. It is strange that all the other old images of the city from the same era - hanging in pubs and council offices - they are instantly recognizable, like old friends - but

this is different.

It is both the same place and yet a different place.

There is not even the trace of a building now, not even a rough path and - where did all the trees come from? In as many years as a boy becomes a man, a town becomes a wood.

Crickets sing in the grass.

For he maketh his sun to shine on the evil and on the good.

At the top, I rest awhile, look back down the slope. I pull a packet of cigs from my jeans pocket. There is one left. I crush the packet like a failed opportunity and discard


I slip into the gap in the trees and the cool, soft, silent shadow settles on my shoulders. I amble to the end of the wood. The railway cutting far below to the left, and the

canal fifty feet down on the right come together here, so the wood narrows to a end point.

They have repaired the steel fence protecting the drop to the railway on the left. You used to be able to get through, descend the steep track to the railway, and cross the canal

bridge to one of those heavenly areas where no-one goes, but for a reason. You still can get there, but it is more difficult.

So I turn around, and pad along the bottom track. Pine cones and dead bracken. High above the canal. Watch the runners on the towpath. Their bodies.

I climb the steep earth bank, back up to the top - just inside the trees. There is someone here now - dirty jeans, reddish t-shirt, neither old nor young.

I slow, loiter about ten yards off. He is nice, dark hair, thin face and high cheekbones. Usually there is some long courtship, where we face off,rubbing our crotches - might be

a cop etc. But he just gets his dick out right away. Blatant.

In respect of length and width, good, but not excessive, and in good proportion. Uncut, hardening - horizontal, straight.

A male without blemish. Deep brown eyes.

I feel his flesh, firm and dominant as I slip his skin backwards and forwards over the now rock hard shaft. I had already loosened my belt. He has undone my buttons and with his

left hand mauls my cock. I am excited, my glans is sensitive and he is rough. I flinch, but he holds me with his right hand which slips down, between my buttocks.

'Can I fuck you?'

I think he is foreign. Polish?

'Not here'. I say looking around.

'I know somewhere'

It is all so quick - not like uaual. He breaks away, and walks out into the open sunlight, then down the hill. I follow, hauling up my jeans and doing up my flys as I hurry after

him. He does not look back but he knows that I am behind him as he crosses the car park, out along the road and across the bridge, down the steps to the canal path. Between the

bridge and the wall of the mill, there are a few trees here alongside the path, just 30 yards or so. I have not been here before. In the trees, up a small bank and onto a high

wall, where we are together again. We are only a few yards from the towpath - with its endless traffic of joggers, cyclists, families, kids, old couples out wandering, but there

is a small corner in the wall so we cannot be seen.

His cock is out again. He does not undo his jeans, just his fly, he has the length not to need to. He is very hard now. I know what is to happen. I have no lube, so I squat

down, suck as much spit as I can, and take him in my mouth. This does for a few seconds but then he lifts me up, spins me and pulls my waistband down. Not much choice now.

I pull them down to my ankles, bend over and brace myself against a tree trunk. But he produces a condom and puts it on, and I have not got much spit left to lubricate myself. I

feel the tip of his penis probing, pushing. I have not been taken for weeks and my hole is tight and dry. The pain is sudden, I scream a little and pull away. For all the fact

that he is coarse and eager, he seems to sense the problem, spits loudly on his hand, gropes me behind and sticks a finger up my arse - then his hand on my back and he is trying

to penetrate me again.

'Please slow', I say.

I fight against him pushing inside me.It still hurts a bit, but then my areshole knows it is beaten and I relax as he begins to pump slowly, then more deeply and quicker - the

pain has gone now and I just feel that - well how can I describe it - where my need to submit to the satisfaction of a man merges with that feeling of fullness in my rectum.

He thrusts and I wank. I can hear people on the path a few yards away. His hands grip around my waist as he pounds into me for those few last quick, hard strokes and then slips


I straighten up, turn and face him.

That serene, relaxed and empty feeling, like when you have held it in for a while and then had a really big crap.

He slips off the johnny, heavy with cum and slings it into the undergrowth, slips his cock away.

He is smiling now. He is nice. I wish I knew him more.

I wank furiously, he watches and in a few seconds, my seed is dripping onto the forrest floor.

He leaves. Not furtive, rushed and guilty. Not slow and reluctant. Just wanders away, easily. I watch his tight jeans crease under each buttock as he walks.

I have to pull my trousers up and wipe my hand on some ferns. By the time I emerge, he is nowhere to be seen.

Out of the shade of the trees, I feel the sun on my back. I am sweating.

I light another cigarette and walk back to my car.



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