This is my trek with the guys. Not just a leisurely Sunday hike, no. Five full days, nothing but finance guys, all between thirty and forty years old, around Zermatt, at the end of June, a long weekend that turned into a real wild adventure. The heat was already intense from the start, that harsh mountain sun that makes everything stick. There were four of us: me, Derek, athletic brunette, thirty-six years old, and the three others, similar builds, strong, used to working hard during the week and letting loose on the weekend. Tents, backpacks, a portable barbecue, and the desire to get together with the guys, no frills, no women, just the mountains, sweat, and testosterone.
We walked like animals. Hours of climbing, descending, crossing scree slopes, endless trails. My pack was digging into my shoulders, the sun was scorching our necks. We were sweating profusely by ten in the morning. Our t-shirts clung to our chests, our hiking pants squeezed our thighs, and the strong, raw scent of men was already rising. We didn't talk much during the hike, just grunts, "Damn, that hill," and laughter when someone slipped on the rocks. In the evenings, we pitched our tents anywhere, or often slept under the stars, whatever the weather. One night it rained, another it was freezing cold, but we didn't care. We lit a fire, got out the sausages and beers, and grilled everything over the embers. We talked about work, girls, stupid stuff. We teased each other, slapped each other on the back. Nothing but raw, unfiltered, masculine camaraderie.
We sleep in sleeping bags, in our underwear or with our pants on depending on the temperature. During the day, we're often shirtless, comfortable among ourselves, totally at ease.
In the mornings, we washed in the icy streams. No construction site showers here, just the water flowing down the mountain, clear and freezing. We stayed in our underwear, soaked boxers that clung to our skin, quickly scrubbing each other, splashing and laughing. Some ended up naked; we were comfortable among ourselves, uninhibited, dicks on display, pubic hair, bare asses, etc. Nobody hid. We were dirty, we stank of yesterday's sweat, and we were fine with it. Five days without a proper shower. Five days sleeping in our clothes, shitting in nature, pissing against trees. Our bodies endured, our testosterone surged. Not a wank, not a touch, nothing. Just the desire building, heavy, between our balls.
On the fifth day, we head back down. Legs burning, backs aching, but hearts full. We shake hands in the parking lot, pat each other on the back one last time. "See you next time, guys." I get in my car, alone. Heading to my apartment in Lucerne. During the drive, I smell everything. The heavy fatigue, the sticky grime, the smell that has become my own. Five days without really washing. I reek of manhood, accumulated sweat, heat, earth, and wood smoke. Nothing disgusting, just the smell of a man who has lived outdoors, who has given everything he has.
I get home. I slam the door, toss the keys aside. The apartment is quiet, clean, almost too clean. I go straight to the bathroom. Without thinking, I start undressing. I take off my hiking boots, my socks stiff with sweat. My t-shirt, my pants. Everything falls to the floor in a pile. I stand in front of the mirror. My body is athletic, tanned, lean, my muscles still bulging from exertion. But there's dirt everywhere: traces of mud on my arms, on my thighs, a thin layer of grime in the small of my back, on my chest. I've taken a beating; nature has left its mark on me.
I glance down at my boxers. My white Calvin Kleins, the same ones I've worn for five days. They're faded, grayish in places, the fabric worn. I slide them down my thighs, they fall to my feet, and I pick them up. There are little piss stains that haven't completely disappeared, a tiny bit of dried juice that must be from a nighttime romp where I got an erection in my sleep, and faint fart marks where I let loose a few times during the day without holding back. I've never done this in my life, but now I find myself looking at them, inspecting them. And then I bring them to my nose. I sniff. My scent. My scents. Sweat, sex, skin, everything I've accumulated. I feel good in them. Fuck, I feel alive.
I sit on the floor, my bare ass on the cool tiles. The cold bites my buttocks. I lean against the wall, legs spread. I'm completely naked. I take my boxers and put them over my face, like a mask. The smell hits me immediately, strong, intimate, my own. I spread my legs even wider. My cock starts to harden, really hard, like a man in withdrawal after four days without anything. I slide my hands over my chest, down my thighs, and back up. I take it in my hand, my cock, and I start jerking off, like an animal. The veins in my forearms bulge, my fingers squeeze tightly. My cock is a straight rod, full of blood, dirty, the head smelling a bit after five days, but I don't care, I like it. The foreskin retracts with the friction, closes, opens, again and again. The skin slides, warm, a little sticky. My glans is sniffing loudly, it smells intensely, it stinks, I stink from my dick, but I like it, I'm sniffing hard.
I can already feel the first juice rising. I lift my eyes just in time. The precum arrives, thick. I take it with my fingers and lick it intensely. Excellent juice. Salty, warm, mine. I jerk off like an animal, relentlessly, sniffing the briefs deeply, taking a deep breath. Then I pull them down my chest. I rub them against my pecs, caress them through the fabric, touch myself with them, jerk off in them now, the boxer shorts wrapped around my cock. I'm going at it hard. I wipe my ass with it, arching my back, my pubic hair caressing the fabric, I bring it back to my nose and sniff again. I run it over my thighs, and up under my arms. I'm in a trance. Nothing else exists but this smell, this heat, this raw desire.
And I come. I felt the juice coursing through my cock from base to tip. Explosions erupting. Some in the air, I catch them with my open mouth, straight onto my tongue. The heaviest, thickest semen splatters against my abs, trickles down my cock, runs between my fingers. I take it all in with my fingers and devour it. My tongue sticking out like a dog's, I take it all. I lick, I suck, I savor it. I wipe the rest with my boxers and lick it again, down to the last drop, on the fabric, which I half-devour. The purest, most beautiful, most pleasurable solitary pleasure I've ever known.
I stay there for a while, naked, breathless, my body relaxed, the taste of my own semen lingering in my throat. Then I get up and turn on the hot shower. The scalding water washes over me, washing everything away. I stay under it for a long time, relaxed, drained, feeling good. I get out and throw my boxers in the washing machine at 40 degrees. A good machine for them too.
I go to bed, completely naked, in clean sheets that smell of laundry detergent. I lie down and close my eyes. I'm exhausted, but I feel good. The trek filled me, tonight's solitude has emptied me. It was nothing. It was everything. Five days with the guys, and this return to myself, raw, dirty, free. Tomorrow, normal life resumes. But tonight, I sleep like a king.
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Substack.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
