Madman
Marc Fischer stepped into the gleaming lobby of the F+ Munich office building and felt a rush of adrenaline hit him square in the chest. At twenty-five, fresh out of his master's program in business administration back in Cologne, he had just moved across the country for this exact moment. The firm specialized in high-stakes consulting for the biggest German car manufacturers, and Marc had crushed the assessment center. He was one of only three new hires selected from over two hundred applicants. His lean, athletic frame moved with easy confidence as he adjusted the knot of his tie. Blond hair neatly combed, clean-shaven face glowing from the brisk walk from the S-Bahn, he looked every bit the sharp young professional he intended to be. Underneath the crisp white shirt and tailored navy suit, though, his body was already humming with the kind of restless energy he usually burned off on a long run or a beach volleyball court. Today, that energy had nowhere to go except straight into his new life.
The elevator doors slid open on the fifth floor and deposited him into a bright, open-plan workspace filled with glass partitions and sleek desks. A young woman with sharp eyes and a warm smile approached him immediately.
"Hi, you must be Marc Fischer," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Emily Berger. Welcome to the team. I'll be your onboarding buddy today."
Emily was twenty-eight, dressed in a crisp blouse and pencil skirt, and she radiated the kind of disciplined efficiency that made Marc relax instantly. She walked him through the basics: security badge, email setup, the shared drive full of client files on the latest Volkswagen and BMW projects. Within minutes she had him seated at his new desk, a coffee in hand, and was pointing out the key players scattered around the open office.
"That's Chris over there," she said, nodding toward a thirty-two-year-old man hunched over dual monitors, glasses perched on his nose. Chris gave a quick wave and a shy grin before diving back into whatever spreadsheet held his attention. "Smart as hell, but do not ask him to join anything that involves actual physical movement. He once tried a company hike and lasted about fifteen minutes."
Marc chuckled. "Noted."
Emily's voice dropped a little as she gestured toward a desk near the window. "And that is Josh. California transplant, thirty-five, and the only person here who can make even the most brutal deadline feel like a comedy sketch."
Josh looked up from his keyboard, flashed a bright smile, and stood to shake Marc's hand. He had an easy, athletic build under his button-down, dark hair tousled just enough to look intentional, and an openly friendly vibe that screamed "instant ally."
"Welcome to the madhouse, Marc," Josh said, voice carrying a faint West Coast lilt. "If you need the real scoop on anything, or just someone to vent to after your first week of soul-crushing PowerPoint marathons, my door is always open. Or my Slack channel. Whichever is less depressing."
Marc liked him immediately. There was something comforting about Josh's humor, and the quick, knowing glance they shared told Marc that Josh had already clocked him as family. Good. Being openly gay had never been an issue for Marc, but it was nice to know he had at least one person in the office who would get it without explanation.
The morning passed in a blur of introductions and orientation slides. By eleven, the entire division was called into the main conference room for a team alignment meeting. Marc took a seat near the back, notebook open, trying to look both eager and professional. The room buzzed with quiet conversation until the door opened and Frank Klink walked in.
The air seemed to shift.
Frank was forty-six, and he carried his age like a weapon. Short, perfectly styled brown hair framed a strong, angular face dominated by a neat, trimmed beard that accentuated a square jaw. His dark suit was tailored to perfection, hugging broad shoulders and a chest that clearly spent serious time in the gym. Even from across the room Marc could see the way the fabric stretched over powerful arms and a flat stomach. Frank moved with the kind of disciplined authority that made everyone sit up straighter. He set a leather portfolio on the table, scanned the room once, and began speaking without preamble.
"New faces today," Frank said, voice deep and clipped. His eyes landed on Marc for a fraction of a second longer than the others. "Marc Fischer. Masters from Cologne. Top performer in the assessment center. You'll be supporting the BMW account directly under my lead."
Marc nodded, pulse quickening. Up close, Frank was even more striking. The faint scent of expensive cologne drifted across the table. Marc's gaze flicked involuntarily to the way Frank's shirt collar framed the base of his throat, to the subtle flex of muscle beneath the fabric when he gestured. Marc had always had a weakness for the dad type, the confident, older, in-control kind of man who looked like he could bench-press a small car and still make it look effortless. Frank checked every single box. And yet there was an edge to him, something cool and distant in those sharp hazel eyes that warned Marc not to get too comfortable.
Frank continued, laying out the current portfolio. They were in the middle of a massive project for one of the premium manufacturers, pressure high, deadlines tighter than ever. He expected excellence, he said. No excuses. When Chris asked a clarifying question about data timelines, Frank's response was short, almost dismissive.
"Figure it out, Chris. That's why we pay you the big numbers."
A few people shifted uncomfortably. Emily shot Marc a small, sympathetic glance. Josh rolled his eyes so subtly only Marc caught it.
The meeting wrapped with Frank assigning action items. As people filed out, he lingered by the door.
"One more thing," he announced, voice carrying across the room. "I run a small group after work three times a week. Keeps the mind sharp, the body sharper. Anyone interested is welcome. We meet at the Englischer Garten entrance near the Chinese Tower. Six thirty sharp. No stragglers."
Most of the team exchanged quick looks. Chris muttered something about "death marches" under his breath. Emily smiled politely but shook her head. Josh leaned toward Marc as they left the conference room.
"Don't do it, man," he said quietly, voice laced with amusement and warning. "Frank's a machine on the pavement. He runs like he's trying to outrun his own personality. First session, he basically bullied two guys off the team last quarter. Calls it motivation. I call it being a massive dick. Trust me, stick to the gym on your own time."
Marc nodded, but something in his chest had already decided otherwise. He had always loved running. It was his escape, his reset. And the idea of sharing that with Frank, of seeing that powerful body in motion, sweat darkening his shirt, muscles working under those expensive clothes, sent a low, warm spark through Marc's stomach. He knew it was probably stupid. He knew the warnings. But the thought of holding his own next to a man like Frank, of pushing himself while trying not to stare at the way Frank's broad back moved, felt too tempting to pass up.
By the end of the day, Marc had his badge, his laptop configured, and a stack of reading material on the latest automotive supply chain challenges. Emily had already walked him through three client files and offered to grab lunch together the next day. Josh had sent him a Slack message with three GIFs and the words "survival tips for new meat." Chris had nodded at him once in passing, eyes already back on his screens.
Marc was packing up when Frank appeared at the edge of his desk.
"Fischer."
Marc looked up. Frank stood there, arms crossed, suit jacket now off and draped over one forearm. The short sleeves of his dress shirt revealed forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. Marc's throat tightened for a second.
"Yes, Mr. Klink?"
"Frank," he corrected, though the word came out more like an order than an invitation. "Running group. You in or not?"
Marc didn't hesitate. "I'm in."
Frank's eyebrow lifted a fraction, the closest thing to surprise Marc had seen all day. "Good. Don't be late. I don't slow down for anyone."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Marc staring after the broad line of his back and the confident stride that screamed control.
Josh appeared at Marc's side a moment later, shaking his head.
"You absolute madman. I warned you."
Marc grinned, trying to ignore the way his pulse had kicked up again. "I like a challenge."
Josh laughed. "Famous last words, my friend. Just don't say I didn't tell you."
Marc locked his desk, slung his bag over his shoulder, and headed for the elevators. Outside, the Munich evening was cooling off, the city lights beginning to flicker on. He thought about the week ahead, the projects waiting on his laptop, the new apartment still half-unpacked in Schwabing. But mostly he thought about six thirty tomorrow at the Englischer Garten. About lacing up his running shoes and stepping onto the path beside Frank Klink. About the slow, deliberate way he would hold himself back at first, matching pace without revealing how easily he could pull ahead. About the heat that would build between them under the trees, the sound of their breathing, the occasional brush of shoulders when the trail narrowed.
He smiled to himself as he stepped onto the street. This job was going to be interesting. Very interesting.
The next afternoon Marc arrived at the meeting point ten minutes early. The park was beautiful, paths winding under ancient trees, the distant sound of the Eisbach surfers echoing faintly. He wore his favorite running kit: black compression shorts that hugged his lean, athletic legs, a fitted gray tank that showed off the definition in his shoulders and chest, and the lightweight trainers that had carried him through half-marathons back in Cologne. His blond body hair was trimmed neat and short, just visible at the collar of the tank. He stretched lightly against a tree, feeling the familiar pull in his hamstrings, already imagining the burn that would come later.
At six thirty exactly, Frank appeared.
He wore tight black running shorts and a matching compression top that left almost nothing to the imagination. The fabric clung to every ridge of muscle across his chest and abs, the dark hair on his torso visible through the material in a way that made Marc's mouth go dry. Frank's legs were thick with power, calves carved from years of disciplined training. And between those powerful thighs, the unmistakable outline of a very large, uncut cock pressed against the tight fabric, thick and heavy even at rest. Frank carried himself like a man who knew exactly what he looked like and exactly what effect it had.
"Glad you showed," Frank said, voice low. He didn't smile. He simply nodded once and started jogging without another word.
Marc fell in beside him.
The first kilometer was easy, a gentle warm-up pace along the gravel path. Frank set a solid rhythm, breathing steady, arms pumping. Marc matched him effortlessly, keeping his own stride light and controlled. He could feel the older man's presence like a physical force: the heat radiating off Frank's body, the occasional huff of breath, the way Frank's broad shoulders rolled with each step. Marc kept his eyes forward, but his peripheral vision caught everything. The flex of Frank's ass under those shorts. The way sweat was already beginning to darken the fabric between his shoulder blades. The heavy swing of that impressive cock with every stride.
They ran in silence for the first twenty minutes. When Frank finally spoke, it was clipped and direct.
"You keep up better than I expected."
Marc allowed himself a small, modest smile. "I run a lot back home. Helps clear the head after long days of spreadsheets."
Frank grunted. "Good. I don't carry dead weight."
The words were harsh, but Marc felt a spark of heat low in his belly anyway. He liked the challenge in Frank's tone. Liked the way the older man pushed forward, testing him without realizing it. Marc held back just enough to stay neck-and-neck, never letting on that he could surge ahead and leave Frank in the dust if he wanted. Not yet.
They finished the loop, five solid kilometers, both of them breathing harder now, skin glistening. At the water fountain near the start, Frank bent to drink. Marc stood a step behind, watching the way the compression top rode up to expose a strip of tanned, hairy lower back, the waistband of the shorts dipping just low enough to hint at the trimmed dark hair disappearing beneath. When Frank straightened and turned, their eyes met for a beat longer than necessary.
"Same time Thursday," Frank said. "Don't be late."
Marc nodded, throat tight. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Frank walked off toward the parking area without another word, leaving Marc standing there with his heart hammering and a very clear, very inconvenient awareness of how turned on he already was. He adjusted himself discreetly in his shorts and started the walk back to the S-Bahn, mind replaying every flex of muscle, every heavy breath, every arrogant tilt of Frank's head.
... To be continued
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