The morning started with another weird feeling of intimacy.
We gathered under the open shed behind the main workshop, where rows of wooden benches stood like pews waiting for a meeting. The air smelled like pine resin and metal filings. A dozen of us, tools in hand, waited while Bastien set out blocks of raw wood — thick, pale planks, each one with a different grain.
He wore the same fitted work pants from yesterday and a red checkered shirt over a tank. The shirt's sleeves had been cut off, revealing his arms streaked with old scars and a fine layer of dust.
“Today,” he announced, brushing his hand over the wood like it was skin, “you’re not building anything. You’re just learning how to touch.”
Someone giggled. He didn’t flinch.
“Feel the lines. The grain. Let it tell you which way to go. If you fight it, you’ll splinter everything.
I standed at the back of the group, trying to absorb every word.
"Once that's done, try to replicate this basic move. Carving recquires patience and care. So take a good look boys."
Bastien's hands moved with a grace, carving intricate patterns with ease, as if he was cutting though tissue. It seemed so simple. I watched, mesmerized, as the wood shavings were falling to the ground.
We started slowly, each of us with a block, a chisel, and a fear of failure. Some began chatting softly in pairs or small groups. I stayed quiet, focused on my hands. The chisel felt awkward — too heavy and too precise at the same time. I could already see I’d shaved the wood unevenly.
“Stop.”
His voice again — right behind me.
I froze.
“You’re pressing too hard,” he said. "Let me."
Suddenly, Bastien was at my back, his body almost brushing mine. I could smell him — cedar, sweat, and a hint of something smoky. He reached around me without hesitation, his left hand resting lightly on mine, his right guiding the chisel.
His fingers were warm, swollen and strong, like twice the girth of mines!
“Like this,” he murmured, close to my ear. “Follow the curve. Feel it first, then move.”
He leaned in, chest brushing my shoulder.
I couldn’t breathe. His bicep grazed my arm, and I felt everything all at once — the pressure, the heat, the way his rough breath stirred the hairs on my neck.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah,” I lied.
He seemed to notice I was a bit acting weird, but still pressed his body to my size.
"Just remember: wood will tell you what it wants to be. Just need to listen."
Then, I felt something else—a stiff object, pressing into my back.
At first, it was a subtle touch, almost imperceptible. But as the minutes pass, it grew more insistent, more demanding.
It's his cock, right? His gigantic cock? Must be it.
We stayed like that for a moment too long. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. I could feel my own cock stirring, my body responding to his proximity. I decided to let go, to give in to the sensation. I pushed back, just slightly, testing the waters. I felt his cock, hard and thick, press back against me.
The fact that we were surrounded by all the other students made all this even hotter. It was risky, but so fucking good - in a forbidden way.
He pressed even harder into me and I could almost feel his dickhead touching my leg.
"Bastien," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "What are you doing?"
"Just helping you find your rhythm, bud'. Sometimes, you need a little pressure to bring out the best in you."
His dick felt bigger and bigger, pressed against my right buttock, lying there, simply, as if nothing strange was happening. As if it was a normal thing to do with a student.
Fuck... Does he realized what's going on down there? Is he oblivious to the fact his horse cock was pressing against my ass?
What if the other saw us? We were clearly too close right now. Too close to be just in a standard teacher-student situation. Too close for it to be an accident. Too close to be a wrong move. All this was just inappropriate.
It felt like minutes were stretching to hours. I barely could focus on my work but I did let him guide my hands, slowly.
Suddenly, he stepped back, clearing his throat.
“Better,” he said. “Much better.”
I didn’t dare look at him.
He moved to the next student, and I exhaled, shaky.
Fuck, I'm not learning anything with this kind teaching.
Right after the lunch break, I found myself standing at the edge of the workshop watching the forest beyond the clearing. It was a peacefull place, perfect to have a sit and digest.
I heard a lighter.
It was him, exhaling smoke, one arm over my head.
“You from Paris, right?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“That explains the hands.”
I looked down at my palms, already red and sore.
He chuckled. “You’ll toughen up.”
A silence fell again — not uncomfortable, just… dense.
"You enjoy the course so far?" He asked, not really paying attention to me.
"Ye... yeah! Actually I was surprised about how wood felt. And It's always nice to see it taking the right shape."
The other students were still finishing lunch, talking a bit far from us.
“She loves sitting where you are,” he said, eyes still on the trees. “She loved it I mean. Said the view made her feel real again.”
I didn’t say anything.
"She's not here anymore?" I timidly asked.
“She left last winter.” He tapped ash into the dust. “Even took my favorite coffee grinder.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He shrugged. “I still talk about her like she’s here. Old habits.”
I looked at him then. His face was turned away, but something about his posture felt cracked open. I knew he was acting tough the whole time.
“You miss her,” I said, before I could stop myself.
He nodded once. “Every goddamn day.”
Something flickered behind his gaze. Like... acknowledgement.
Then he stubbed the cigarette out with his boot and straightened.
“Come on. Your block of wood’s still need attention.”
He said it with a softness that surprised me.
The rest of the day went smoothly. No awkward closeness or intimate dialogue. Just good work being done. I felt like I was gaining confidence in my moves.
I kept thinking about his kind words towards his ex-wife. He didn't bear his ring so I guess they were divorced for good, but the way he talked about her... it seemed like he still cared for her, deeply.
I was just about to go to bed, wondering if I should really keep my pyjamas on (just a shorty and some oversized-shirt). The summer weather was clearly not the best with extra layers.
What does Bastien wear in bed? Does he keep his boxers or even his tank on?
I began to imagine his swollen muscles glistening under the moon and his throbbing member trapped in a pair of tight boxers.
Stop, idiot, you're making up stories again!
I went for brshing my teeth at the small sink, trying to calm my curiosity.
I felt stupid for believing he could be flirting with me. This dude was just a sad and lonely carpenter, trying to cope with the end of a relationship. He must have been lonely and his manners and social cues must have been a little rusty.
He couln't be into someone like me, a guy at that!
Three soft raps on the door. Not urgent. Not hesitant either.
Shit!
I froze for half a second, toothbrush still in my mouth. Then I spat, wiped my face with a towel, and padded barefoot across the creaky floorboards.
I opened the door.
It was Bastien.
Still in his work pants, now rolled up to his calves. No shirt, just his dark tank top that clung to his chest and revealed a nice set of chest hair. He smelled like coconut soap and wood.
“Hey,” he said, casual, like we bumped into each other at a bus stop.
“Hi.”
“Sorry bud', it’s late. You have a lighter? Mine’s dead.”
I blinked. “Uh. Yeah, probably. Somewhere.”
I stepped aside to let him in before I realized what I was doing.
I don't smoke, you fucking idiot!
He ducked under the doorframe and entered, glancing around the room, like if he was at home. I mean, technically, it was kinda his place, but now that I was sleeping in this cabin, his presence felt a bit intrusive.
It wasn’t much — a bed, a desk, some books stacked on the floor, my clothes hanging off a chair. The overhead lamp cast a soft, golden light. And me, standing there like an idiot, barefoot and flushed.
So I opened drawers I knew were empty. Checked pockets I hadn’t worn in days. Even looked behind the stack of books near the bed, like I might find one there by accident. My heart pounded the whole time, loud in my ears.
Behind me, Bastien chuckled softly.
“Don’t have to turn the place upside down for me, boy.”
I froze, embarrassed:
“I just… I always have mine in my backpack. Somewhere.”
He stepped further in, hands in his pockets now, his body language easy. He glanced around the room like he was curious what someone like me lived in.
His eyes landed on my bed, then flicked away.
“No worries,” he said. “I thought I had mine earlier, but it’s probably in one of my other jackets. Just felt like a smoke.”
I stood there, trying to find something to say to make things less awkard.
“You smoke often?”
He shrugged. “Less now. Amanda hated it.”
The name dropped like a stone on my head. I tried not to react.
I rummaged through my bag, acting like I really had something, without noticing that my ass was just facing him.
“You sleep in those?” He asked, his eyes pointing at my short.
I looked down, mortified. My thighs were basically out for inspection. I didn't have much hair on my legs - my ex actually liked them smooth.
“Didn’t think anyone was going to knock on my door.”
He chuckled and scratched his hairchest, bursting from the neck of his tank:
“Fair.”
For a second, we just stood there. Him, looking at my butt, not in a rush to leave. Me, in my too-thin shirt and ridiculous shorts, skin tingling with awareness.
He looked at me then, properly.
“Always this helpful, hon'?”
Damn.
Did he realised he called me honey? Was he joking? What is normal for him?
“I guess... I try to be.” My cheeks were burning.
I turned around, hoepless.
It was time to stop this poor little acting and admit I didn't have a lighter. Maybe he'd already figured it out.
Our eyes met, and he suddenly looked away, as if embarrassed. Then, he placed his large left hand on his package and pressed down, heavily, several times. I could clearly see his massive glans stretching beneath the fabric.
“Well, thanks anyway. I’ll manage." He quickly turned to me and walked away. "Night.”
Again, he was leaving way too fast, like if he was escaping something.
“Night.” I barely managed.
He stepped back into the dark, and I closed the door slowly, breathing like I’d run a mile.
Why did you pretend?
I leaned my forehead against the wood of the door, every nerve in my body still alive with the echo of his presence.
This is dangerous.
It’s wrong to read into this. Wrong to let myself imagine things — his hands, his chest, his smile.
He’s not mine to want.
But I still stood there a long time, in my too-short shorts, burning from the inside.
And I didn’t sleep for hours.
The way he was looking at the trees while smocking back there actually made me think about my own breakup.
I was the one who ended the relationship. There were a bunch of reasons, but the main was: he went overjealous and manipulative. Breaking friendships, social circles or even family ties, all this was not worth being loved. I hoped I'd learned my lesson.
I definitely didn't need a shaky relationship with a divorced guy right now.
Wait, what relationship? He's not even into you for god's sake!
He's the straighest acting dude you ever met.
And yet he clearly seemed...
And yet...
A heavy knock on my door woke me.
Wait, what's going on? My alarm didn't work?
A little lost, I sat, feeling a little sticky from all the night sweat.
Another round of knocking.
And then I saw the time on my watch.
SHIT!
Bastien is going to kill me!
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