I came here to stop spiraling. Or, more precisely, to learn something with my hands. Something that didn’t involve deadlines, screens, or watching my reflection twist under dressing room lights.
Three weeks ago, I was in Paris, burning through another breakup and trying to pretend I didn’t care. This week, I’m in the Périgord forest, suitcase in hand, swatting mosquitoes and wondering if I’ve made a massive mistake. The summer air was hot and I felt sticky.
The van dropped us off in a clearing that looked like something out of a postcard from the ‘70s — all pine and heat and cracked wood. The workshop stood at the center: a long, open barn made of honeyed timber, roof thick with moss. To the side, there were three cabins, squat and sun-bleached, each with shutters half-hanging and wildflowers growing up their sides like they were reclaiming them. Everything smelled like sap and dust and something faintly metallic — tools, maybe. Or sweat.
I’d signed up for the summer woodworking residency on a whim. The brochure promised "craft, calm, and reconnection," and the photos showed smiling people holding chisels over handmade chairs. It looked quaint and harmless.
That was before I saw him.
He was stacking planks when we arrived, shirt already damp at the back from the heat. Bastien, the info packet had said — head craftsman, instructor, and founder of the workshop.
But Bastien didn’t match the name in my head.
This man didn’t look like a Bastien. He looked like someone who’d been born in a barn, raised by wolves, and now ran the whole place with nothing but a glare and a set of calloused hands.
He wore a greying tank top, tucked into dusty canvas work pants. Muscled arms, tan from the kind of sun you only get from real labor, not from balconies. His jaw was sharp under a messy, week-old beard. There was a leather bracelet on his wrist that looked more like a tool than a fashion choice, and a cigarette tucked behind one ear.
He didn’t look up when we arrived.
Didn’t say a word for a full minute — just slid a heavy board onto a table, wiped his hands on his pants, and finally turned to face us like we were more work he hadn't asked for.
His voice, when it came, was dry and low:
“Welcome. I’m Bastien. Don’t touch anything unless I say. Don’t point tools at each other. Don’t whine.”
Someone snorted nervously. Bastien barely glanced at them. Then his eyes landed on me — or maybe on my cream trousers and gold-rimmed sunglasses. Either way, I felt it like a finger trailing my throat.
"We're going to have a hot week there, which is both good for the wood but bad for students in general." Then he looked directly at me."Cabin three’s got a fan. Looks like you’ll need it, cityboys.”
My stomach dropped.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or blush. My name didn’t matter. My story didn’t matter. To him, I was just that guy who looked a bit too fragile I guess. And yet... he hadn’t said it cruelly. Just stated it calmly.
He invited us to sit for a while in front of the barn, sitting on mismatched benches that had probably been built by previous groups — wonky legs, uneven slats, everything smelling of old varnish and pine needles. The cicadas were already in full swing, the sun starting to lower behind the trees like it was melting into them.
Bastien stood in front of us, arms crossed over his chest, one boot resting on a log like he was about to deliver a battle speech.
No clipboard. No notes. Just him, the dust, and the kind of posture that says I don’t need to prove anything to anyone.
He looked… absurdly good.
The tank top clung to his chest — not in a “look at me” way, but in a functional, sweat-soaked, muscles-for-a-purpose way. His pecs were the kind that didn’t come from a gym, but from years of lifting things heavier than excuses. His arms — corded with veins, forearms tanned and dusted with sawdust — were crossed in front of him like they were used to being tools themselves. Every time he shifted, some tendon moved under the skin and I had to look away or risk being very, very obvious.
And then my eyes got caught by a fascinating tool that was growing in Bastien's pants: a visible bulge, right under the eyes of everyone. He didn't seem to care. Maybe he didn't even know his big dick was starting to be a bit too obvious.
I refocused on the bench plank in front of me. It had a rough spot. Splintered. Not unlike my brain. Bastien finally spoke, voice like crushed gravel and black coffee:
“You’ll work in pairs. Eight of you, four projects. You’ll learn to cut, sand, mortise, and finish. No machines without me there. No skipping steps. No calling home to ask your papa how to hold a hammer.”
A few people laughed. I didn’t. I was too busy watching the way the sun hit his collarbone, and how... how his dick was moving from time to time, trying to break free from his pants.
“Work starts at eight. If you’re late, I won’t wait. If you’re careless, you’re out. I don’t do babysitting.” Then he pointed toward the barn with his chin. “You’ll each get your own set of tools. Treat them like your toothbrush. Use them. Clean them. Don’t lend them Okay?”
I found myself wondering how many times those hands had sharpened a blade. Smoothed a table. Held someone’s. Then I looked at his neck, thinking it might be safer territory. It wasn’t. There was a bead of sweat trailing from just under his ear down into the hollow of his throat, and I immediately redirected my eyes toward the treeline.
He paused, looked at each of us, gaze settling briefly on me — not long enough to mean anything, but enough to make my spine straighten.
“You’re not here to impress me or play tough guy,” he said, eyes narrowing just a little. “You’re here to learn. Wood doesn’t care who you are. It will bend for you if you respect it. It's all about patience and respect.”
Then, he uncrossed his arms and turned toward the barn. I couln't help but steal glances at Bastien's crotch. Each time, the bulge seemed to have grown even bigger. 7 inches, 8 then 9 now. I couln't stop stairing and I started fantasizing about what it would be like to wrap my lips around that thick head. I even started to see it move from time to time, twitching like a living creature in his pants.
“Dinner’s at seven Now you should get to your rooms to unpack.” He said while grabbing hiw cigarette from his hear.
The others stood, stretching and murmuring. Someone cracked a joke about splinters. I didn’t move. I sat there a second longer, heart knocking against my ribs, watching him walk away into the barn. He didn’t look back.
I met with Bastien after souper, around 10pm. I was in need of some fresh air and a quick walk around the woods was the perfect activity before sleeping.
Well, saying I wasn't looking for Bastien would have been a lie. I really wanted to see this hunk of a man a bit more, at least to be sure that his stares were only playfull tease and not flirting. I also wanted to see if his cock was really that big, or if me hunger for straight men hadn't artificially increased the size of his tool.
He was standing outside his door, barefoot, one hand holding a chipped enamel mug, the other tucked into the back pocket of his work pants.
And below that… well.
The fabric of his pants was worn soft from years of use, hanging low on his hips. It left nothing to the imagination. It seemed even bigger now. There was also a visible precum stain right where his glans was poking.
I immedtialy froze, my gay eyes glued to this monster. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care:
“Can’t sleep?” he asked, his voice softer now. Less gravel, more ember.
I shook my head. “My room is a bit too hot right now.”
He nodded. Sipped his drink. I tried not to stare at his package — how big it looked around the mug, I could almost see a vein that curved all the way to its glans, like some sculpted wood. For a stupid second I imagined pressing my mouth to that exact spot, sucking and licking the precum out of his pants.
He gestured toward the bench outside his cabin.
“You can sit. I won’t bite.”
I gave a short laugh and moved closer, careful not to trip on a root. The bench was warm from the day’s heat. I sat, arms close to my body, eyes doing everything they could not to drift downward again.
“You know, first time I came here, I was a mess,” he said. “Didn’t even know which end of a hand saw was up.”
I blinked. “You?”
He smirked — just slightly.
“Everyone starts from nothing,” he said. “You just gotta show up. And shut up, sometimes. Listen. Touch the grain. Let it teach you.”
His voice lingered in the air like woodsmoke. I tried to find something clever to say. Failed. So I just asked:
“What’s in the mug?”
He looked at it like he’d forgotten it was there. “Special coffee,” he muttered. “With some tasty cream.”
I smiled. “You always drink that before sleeping?”
"Sure I do. Best thing to fall asleep to" He said calmly.
And then — quiet. The kind of silence that stretches but doesn’t press. That lets you feel your own heartbeat.
He glanced down at me once, and in that moment, I swear I forgot what breathing was.
His hips shifted slightly, he positionned his left arm so that it rested on his heavy pole. This was not my imagination, right? The dude was clearly trying to hide his dick from me... Or was he?
He started to move his arm a bit, back and forth, his elbow his dick slowly.
Fuck.
Does he realise what he's doing right now? I know straight guy tend to put their hands up their package without noticing but... this was something else.
A few minutes passed by, I was still obssesed by his beast of a cock. He broke the silence with his deep voice:
“Wanna taste it, boy?” he said, applying more pressure to the head of his penis, making it twitch and release more precum.
I swallowed hard.
His pants was messier than ever and you could guess his dick was around - I suppose - ten inches.
I couln't move. I was stuck, as solid as a statue.
"Alright. Well, see you tomorow. Don't be late boy."
He stepped inside, closed the door without a sound.
“Night,” I managed, voice tight.
I sat there a long time, staring at the dark, willing my thoughts to calm down, and wondering how someone could be made of silence, sawdust, and sin in equal measure. I was addicted.
