My experience with Luca - a Swiss military man

[bankai-shikai]

I decided to write this story as a kind of reset—something raw and pulsing to cut through the fog I’ve been in. The extended, detailed book about my first relationship with Andrej took a toll on me that I haven’t been able to shake. I hit a wall. Flat out. And then, on my way to work this week, I passed a group of young Swiss men in uniform, Wiederholungskurs—mandatory military refresher training. Just a glimpse of them was enough. Memories surged. My body remembered what my mind tried to shelve.

---

Yeah. I had an experience once. With a military man. More than just sex—there was a tension to it, a thrill. It was official, it was forbidden, and that made it impossible not to write about. Maybe this story is an excuse. Maybe I need that friction to ignite something creative again. Whatever it is, here we are.


Imagine me in 2018.


I was 25. A fifth-year medical student, technically in my fourth year due to how the curriculum was structured. As part of my training, I got assigned to a clinical placement in a military compound in a small Swiss village. The name sounded poetic. It isn’t. But it feels poetic when you’re standing in the shadow of the old Salzhaus—a pale, stone building with medieval bones. It used to be a salt warehouse. Now it's partially repurposed to serve the Federal Department of Defence. Stark corridors. Heavy doors. Ancient wood alongside cold institutional lighting. A strange combination of history and control. I liked it.

The compound had several roles, but I won't bore you with logistics. What mattered to me was this: I was there to clinically assess the new recruits. I had to determine if they were healthy enough to be brutalized by weeks of military drills. Most of them came and went—one group stayed. That’s where I met Luca.


If you've read my previous writing, you’ll know I emigrated from Serbia with my family. Switzerland was a clean slate, though not an easy one. The transition wasn’t smooth. My Serbian identity marked me as an outsider in a place that values order and conformity more than it lets on. Still, I kept my head down and got through the entrance exams. By 2018, I was quietly confident I’d make it to the end.


Back in Serbia, I trained at an MMA club from 2008 until I left in 2012. In Switzerland, the isolation hit differently. I never joined another gym. Most of the good ones were in Bern or Zürich—too far, too expensive, and too foreign. What I had was a small outdoor gym near the river, a battered bike, and a pair of running shoes. Jogging through the misty mornings and hammering out bodyweight sets kept me sane. I stayed fit. Fit enough that I still turned heads in scrubs. But let’s be honest—at 25, it’s not hard.


So this was the setup: me, fit but tired, going through the motions of my training, trying not to think too hard. The village wrapped in autumn fog. The Salzhaus casting long shadows. And a line of recruits waiting for their medicals, shuffling in with nervous energy and too much testosterone. Among them, one face stuck. Luca.


But I’ll get to him.


This is just the beginning.

—

I met him on my first day.


I walked in through a reception of sorts, where I was greeted by a Swiss guy around 25, wearing glasses and looking like he was born for orderly environments. I told him who I was and why I was there, and he led me down a sterile hallway to a small, windowless room where a registered nurse was already waiting.

Her name was Catherine—at least I think it was. Early thirties, warm, efficient, with a smile that said she’d seen it all. She was in charge of helping the soldiers with their medical paperwork and initial bloodwork. I was there to assist her, mostly with the blood draws, though of course I had no real experience.

"Don’t worry about it. After twenty fails, you’ll get it. It’s always the same," she said, flashing that same smile.

It didn’t help.

The first one was a success. Beginner’s luck. The next five weren’t. Shaky hands, wrong angles, too much pressure. But by the end of the first hour, I was sliding needles like a pro. I found a rhythm in it, a ritual, a quiet control.

That’s when he stumbled in.

Luca. Twenty years old. Blond. Glasses. Nervous. He looked like he belonged in a computer science lecture, not a military intake. That contrast hit me hard. He had that clean, soft look—the kind that screams untouched and eager to please. The kind I hadn’t seen in a while, and exactly the kind that turned me on.

He hesitated at the door like he wasn’t sure he belonged in that room. His eyes flicked around quickly before landing on me. A second too long. Then he looked away, adjusting his glasses. I felt a flicker of something in my gut—not just attraction, but recognition. He was out of place here. So was I.

"Name?" I asked, trying to keep my voice clinical, neutral. The kind of voice I was supposed to use.

"Luca Baumgartner," he said, voice steady but quiet, like he was testing the waters. His accent was unmistakably Swiss-German, but his tone was gentle, almost fragile. It caught me off guard.

I nodded, flipping through the clipboard. "Sit. Right arm."

He moved slowly, like every motion was being measured. When he sat down across from me, I noticed the faint line of veins under his pale skin. The kind of skin that bruises easily. The kind that stays red long after it’s touched.

I wrapped the tourniquet around his bicep, fingers brushing against his arm. He didn’t flinch, but he looked at me again—directly this time. His eyes weren’t shy. They were searching.

"You’re not Swiss," he said.

It wasn’t a question.

"No," I replied, more bluntly than I meant to.

He smiled faintly. “But your Swiss-German is very good.”

The needle slid in smoothly. I watched the vial fill, but I could feel his gaze still on me. Not just polite curiosity—more than that. That quiet electricity. That moment when you both know, even if you pretend you don’t.

He stood up when I finished, but before he left, he turned and said, "You’re good at it. The blood thing."

I smiled for the first time that day. "Thanks. It only took six failures."

"Lucky number seven, then," he said, and left.

I stood there for a second longer than I needed to, staring at the door. I told myself I was just replaying the technique in my mind.

But really, I was thinking about his voice. The way he looked at me. And I knew I had to have him.

The next step was obvious. That night, lying in the single bed of my rented attic room, I opened Grindr. Signal was weak and the interface slow, but I scrolled through the grid with the same mix of hope and doubt I always had in small towns. Blank profiles. Headless torsos. Guys with zero info and zero interest. And as expected, no one remotely resembling the slim, blond, bespectacled boy who had just walked into my bloodstream earlier that day.

Still, I scrolled. I messaged once or twice, half-heartedly, but nothing pinged back. It was the usual blackout. A typical thing for this quiet, tight-lipped part of Switzerland. Repression wrapped in politeness. Desire that never quite reaches the surface. I shut the app and stared at the ceiling, already replaying every second of my encounter with him. The way his gaze lingered. The way he said my blood draw was good. As if it mattered.

And then I remembered something—Catherine had mentioned earlier that she kept a roster of the recruits who were staying on for the full training course. My heart jumped before I could stop it. I told myself I just wanted to be prepared, to know my patients better. A lie I let myself believe for about ten seconds.

The next morning, I casually circled around her desk while she was out of the room. The list was there, clipped and printed, tucked under a stack of folders. I scanned the names, eyes darting, pulse rising. And there it was. Luca Baumgartner. Line twelve. Assigned to the extended training group. He was staying.

The flush I felt was almost embarrassing—hot, stupid excitement. I could barely stop myself from grinning like a teenager. It was ridiculous, really. But in a place as buttoned-up and regulated as this, even a whisper of possibility felt dangerous. Electric. I folded the knowledge into myself like a secret note passed in class. He was staying. And so was I.

 

[Codger]

I’m hooked. Now reel me in!

 

[Split018]

Lijep pocetak , jedva čekam nastavak

 

[ottoman_ultraman]

Looking forward to this story! Really enjoyed your story with Andrej!

 

[Barberseville]

As a Swiss resident in a small village with a military base nearby, I am keen to see how this plays out. Love the military guys here, love beefy Serbians too.

 

[Sublad119]

You have a beautiful writing style. I loved reading this introduction to the story and am really looking forward to its development

 

[BiteSize]

I decided to write this story as a kind of reset—something raw and pulsing to cut through the fog I’ve been in. The extended, detailed book about my first relationship with Andrej took a toll on me that I haven’t been able to shake. I hit a wall. Flat out. And then, on my way to work this week, I passed a group of young Swiss men in uniform, Wiederholungskurs—mandatory military refresher training. Just a glimpse of them was enough. Memories surged. My body remembered what my mind tried to shelve.

---

Yeah. I had an experience once. With a military man. More than just sex—there was a tension to it, a thrill. It was official, it was forbidden, and that made it impossible not to write about. Maybe this story is an excuse. Maybe I need that friction to ignite something creative again. Whatever it is, here we are.


Imagine me in 2018.


I was 25. A fifth-year medical student, technically in my fourth year due to how the curriculum was structured. As part of my training, I got assigned to a clinical placement in a military compound in a small Swiss village. The name sounded poetic. It isn’t. But it feels poetic when you’re standing in the shadow of the old Salzhaus—a pale, stone building with medieval bones. It used to be a salt warehouse. Now it's partially repurposed to serve the Federal Department of Defence. Stark corridors. Heavy doors. Ancient wood alongside cold institutional lighting. A strange combination of history and control. I liked it.

The compound had several roles, but I won't bore you with logistics. What mattered to me was this: I was there to clinically assess the new recruits. I had to determine if they were healthy enough to be brutalized by weeks of military drills. Most of them came and went—one group stayed. That’s where I met Luca.


If you've read my previous writing, you’ll know I emigrated from Serbia with my family. Switzerland was a clean slate, though not an easy one. The transition wasn’t smooth. My Serbian identity marked me as an outsider in a place that values order and conformity more than it lets on. Still, I kept my head down and got through the entrance exams. By 2018, I was quietly confident I’d make it to the end.


Back in Serbia, I trained at an MMA club from 2008 until I left in 2012. In Switzerland, the isolation hit differently. I never joined another gym. Most of the good ones were in Bern or Zürich—too far, too expensive, and too foreign. What I had was a small outdoor gym near the river, a battered bike, and a pair of running shoes. Jogging through the misty mornings and hammering out bodyweight sets kept me sane. I stayed fit. Fit enough that I still turned heads in scrubs. But let’s be honest—at 25, it’s not hard.


So this was the setup: me, fit but tired, going through the motions of my training, trying not to think too hard. The village wrapped in autumn fog. The Salzhaus casting long shadows. And a line of recruits waiting for their medicals, shuffling in with nervous energy and too much testosterone. Among them, one face stuck. Luca.


But I’ll get to him.


This is just the beginning.

—

I met him on my first day.


I walked in through a reception of sorts, where I was greeted by a Swiss guy around 25, wearing glasses and looking like he was born for orderly environments. I told him who I was and why I was there, and he led me down a sterile hallway to a small, windowless room where a registered nurse was already waiting.

Her name was Catherine—at least I think it was. Early thirties, warm, efficient, with a smile that said she’d seen it all. She was in charge of helping the soldiers with their medical paperwork and initial bloodwork. I was there to assist her, mostly with the blood draws, though of course I had no real experience.

"Don’t worry about it. After twenty fails, you’ll get it. It’s always the same," she said, flashing that same smile.

It didn’t help.

The first one was a success. Beginner’s luck. The next five weren’t. Shaky hands, wrong angles, too much pressure. But by the end of the first hour, I was sliding needles like a pro. I found a rhythm in it, a ritual, a quiet control.

That’s when he stumbled in.

Luca. Twenty years old. Blond. Glasses. Nervous. He looked like he belonged in a computer science lecture, not a military intake. That contrast hit me hard. He had that clean, soft look—the kind that screams untouched and eager to please. The kind I hadn’t seen in a while, and exactly the kind that turned me on.

He hesitated at the door like he wasn’t sure he belonged in that room. His eyes flicked around quickly before landing on me. A second too long. Then he looked away, adjusting his glasses. I felt a flicker of something in my gut—not just attraction, but recognition. He was out of place here. So was I.

"Name?" I asked, trying to keep my voice clinical, neutral. The kind of voice I was supposed to use.

"Luca Baumgartner," he said, voice steady but quiet, like he was testing the waters. His accent was unmistakably Swiss-German, but his tone was gentle, almost fragile. It caught me off guard.

I nodded, flipping through the clipboard. "Sit. Right arm."

He moved slowly, like every motion was being measured. When he sat down across from me, I noticed the faint line of veins under his pale skin. The kind of skin that bruises easily. The kind that stays red long after it’s touched.

I wrapped the tourniquet around his bicep, fingers brushing against his arm. He didn’t flinch, but he looked at me again—directly this time. His eyes weren’t shy. They were searching.

"You’re not Swiss," he said.

It wasn’t a question.

"No," I replied, more bluntly than I meant to.

He smiled faintly. “But your Swiss-German is very good.”

The needle slid in smoothly. I watched the vial fill, but I could feel his gaze still on me. Not just polite curiosity—more than that. That quiet electricity. That moment when you both know, even if you pretend you don’t.

He stood up when I finished, but before he left, he turned and said, "You’re good at it. The blood thing."

I smiled for the first time that day. "Thanks. It only took six failures."

"Lucky number seven, then," he said, and left.

I stood there for a second longer than I needed to, staring at the door. I told myself I was just replaying the technique in my mind.

But really, I was thinking about his voice. The way he looked at me. And I knew I had to have him.

The next step was obvious. That night, lying in the single bed of my rented attic room, I opened Grindr. Signal was weak and the interface slow, but I scrolled through the grid with the same mix of hope and doubt I always had in small towns. Blank profiles. Headless torsos. Guys with zero info and zero interest. And as expected, no one remotely resembling the slim, blond, bespectacled boy who had just walked into my bloodstream earlier that day.

Still, I scrolled. I messaged once or twice, half-heartedly, but nothing pinged back. It was the usual blackout. A typical thing for this quiet, tight-lipped part of Switzerland. Repression wrapped in politeness. Desire that never quite reaches the surface. I shut the app and stared at the ceiling, already replaying every second of my encounter with him. The way his gaze lingered. The way he said my blood draw was good. As if it mattered.

And then I remembered something—Catherine had mentioned earlier that she kept a roster of the recruits who were staying on for the full training course. My heart jumped before I could stop it. I told myself I just wanted to be prepared, to know my patients better. A lie I let myself believe for about ten seconds.

The next morning, I casually circled around her desk while she was out of the room. The list was there, clipped and printed, tucked under a stack of folders. I scanned the names, eyes darting, pulse rising. And there it was. Luca Baumgartner. Line twelve. Assigned to the extended training group. He was staying.

The flush I felt was almost embarrassing—hot, stupid excitement. I could barely stop myself from grinning like a teenager. It was ridiculous, really. But in a place as buttoned-up and regulated as this, even a whisper of possibility felt dangerous. Electric. I folded the knowledge into myself like a secret note passed in class. He was staying. And so was I.

Very excited to know more about you and Luca Baumgartner. Please continue!

 

[sportytim]

Thread watched , great beginning of a story!

 

[bankai-shikai]

Thank you for your time and beautiful words. I am writing and probably going to finish the next part of the story tomorrow.

 

[bankai-shikai]

The following week crawled by at a glacial pace. Every hour felt padded with anticipation, stretched by the ache of waiting. I had expected to see Luca again almost immediately—but of course, things are never that convenient. It turned out his group wasn’t scheduled to start their official training until the next week. I only found that out after a few days of quiet fishing, pulling threads of conversation here and there, all without raising suspicion.

Discretion became my new discipline. I had to be careful. I didn’t want to give Catherine—or anyone else—the idea that I was... interested. That I was watching anyone. Still, my curiosity leaked out around the edges.

Catherine, sharp as ever, caught on anyway. She was the kind of woman who missed nothing. Direct, unsentimental, but not unkind. She didn’t ask, at first. But by the middle of that week, she started poking—playfully, but purposefully. Did I have a girlfriend? Was there someone back in Bern? Or maybe someone closer?

I sidestepped at first, shrugging it off. “Too busy,” I said. “Medicine doesn’t really leave time for romance.” She didn’t buy it. Her smirk said she’d heard it all before. Eventually, I gave in—sort of. I told her I didn’t have a boyfriend.

Not a girlfriend. A boyfriend.

It was the first time I’d said that out loud at work. And oddly, it felt... easy. No big confession. No drama. Just the truth, dropped into the air like any other fact. I added, half-laughing, “It’s hard not to notice this troop of men we’re surrounded by every day.” Catherine raised an eyebrow, chuckled, and said nothing more. That moment could’ve hung awkwardly. But it didn’t. It just passed.

The rest of the week passed slowly—tediously, even. Nothing much happened. I started arriving early to work just so I could go jogging before my shift. There was a long trail that followed the river near the barracks, and it became part of my routine. Crisp morning air, breath fogging up, my shoes pounding the dirt path, legs burning in that good, addictive way. But beneath it all, I was hoping. Hoping I’d catch a glimpse of him. Hoping someone would mention his name. They didn’t.

By the time Monday rolled around, I was wound so tight I could barely function. I spent most of the day pretending to focus on charts and blood samples, when in reality, all I could think about was whether I’d see him again. I didn’t. Not that day.

Later, Catherine let it slip—recruits only had free time on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Swiss military life was brutally structured. Their days started at six in the morning and ran well into the night. This wasn’t a neat eight-hour shift; it was full immersion. Hours divided into blocks of training, discipline, sleep. The only real exception? Tuesday and Thursday nights.

Tuesdays, if I remembered correctly, they were allowed to relax on base until around ten p.m. Thursdays were different. They were granted a *proper* release—permission to leave the compound entirely, go out into town, kinda disappear into civilian life until midnight, maybe a little longer depending on their commanding officer’s mood.

I clung to those two nights like lifelines. Two windows a week. Two chances. I didn’t know what I was waiting for exactly—just that something in me had started waiting.

On Tuesday, I woke up around five in the morning, drenched in sweat from some strange, restless dreams. I decided to shake it off the only way I knew how—by starting the day with a jog along the river. After about ten minutes of running through the old part of the village, its cobblestone alleys still sleeping, I veered toward the wooden bridge that crossed back over the river. I figured I’d make the loop across and continue down the riverside before reporting for my shift.

As I came back across the bridge, breathing steady, sweat cooling on my back, I glanced up—and that’s when I saw them. The first recruits were starting to dress. One of the barracks windows faced directly out toward the path I was on. First floor, curtains open, lights on. I could see them clearly. Their olive green shirts over the shoulders, bare chests, some still in boxer shorts, moving around casually like no one was watching.

I didn’t see Luca. Of course not. Fate rarely gives you what you want on the first, or sometimes second try. But even so, I watched. Not for long—just a few seconds, long enough to feel that low, guilty thrill coil tight in my gut. It was voyeuristic, yes. But I didn’t care. It had been a long time since I’d felt anything that real.

I kept jogging, turned back toward the river, heart pounding harder now for reasons that had nothing to do with cardio. The pressure built quickly—tension, heat, that desperate, horny edge that had been gnawing at me for two weeks. I had gone too long without touch. Too long without release. And right then, it felt unbearable.

I stopped, looked around. The path was empty. Quiet. The late summer air was brisk, enough to keep most locals indoors at that hour. Swiss joggers weren’t exactly out in droves here, especially not before dawn. So I stepped off the trail, leaned against a tree tucked behind the brush, and let myself give in to it. I was so hard it hurt. My thoughts blurred. All I could see were silhouettes in a barracks window, half-naked, unaware. I wasn’t proud of it. But pride had nothing to do with it.

In the next moment, I found myself in some slow paced movie pressed up against that tree, forehead damp, breath sharp in my throat. The tension—the heat—had built up so fast I felt like I was burning from the inside out. I yanked my white T-shirt over my head and flung it carelessly onto the grass beside me. There was no plan beyond this. No hesitation. Just one singular need to relieve the ache that had taken over every cell in my body.

My palm slid down over my chest, across my abs. I closed my eyes.

And there he was. Luca. That soft, blond Swiss boy with his glasses slightly slipping down his nose, looking up at me with that innocent, unreadable gaze. Kneeling. His mouth barely parted. Waiting—expecting. That image hit me so hard it nearly knocked the air out of my lungs. I didn’t fight it. I couldn’t.

A few seconds later, the tension snapped. Release came fast and sharp, almost violent in its urgency. As it faded, the cold clarity that followed hit just as hard—the kind of fragile quiet that always comes after. I leaned my head back against the bark, panting, flushed, wondering if I’d ever actually experience what I had just imagined. Would he ever look at me like that? Would we ever even be in the same room again?

Realistically, I knew nothing about him. Not where he was from. Not how long he’d stay. All I knew was that I wanted to see him. Just to see him.

I picked up my shirt—already smudged with grass stains—and pulled it back on. My chest still buzzed with leftover adrenaline, but now it was laced with something else: shame. Not deep, moral shame—just that faint flush of embarrassment that comes when you let your feelings steer you too far into fantasy. I exhaled hard, wiped my palms on my shorts, and jogged back toward the compound.

Since the room I was staying in was located behind the military compound, I had to pass by it every time I came back. So I jogged slowly, still damp with sweat—and with shame. That lingering heat in my chest wasn’t from the run anymore. It was what I had just done, what I had imagined, and how completely it had swallowed me.

In the distance, I spotted a figure near the front entrance of the base—a soldier, clearly off-duty, smoking a cigarette. The uniform clung to him in all the right ways, the smoke curling around his face like something out of a film. I wasn’t prepared for what I saw when I got closer.

It was Luca.

I didn’t know what I’d expected. Maybe for him to vanish between paperwork and drills. Maybe for him to be the type who drank protein shakes, not lit cigarettes in the foggy Swiss dawn. But there he was—smoking, relaxed, leaning against the wall like it was all nothing.

Like me, once.

Our next interaction began with his first words, casual and unexpected.

“Did you fall?” he asked, eyebrow slightly raised.

I slowed to a walk, forcing out a crooked, confident smile that probably looked more like a grimace. I wasn’t exactly the picture of composure—shirt wrinkled, breath short, skin flushed.

“No. Just needed a moment,” I replied. “Leant against a tree and... sweated it out.” I tried to pass it off with a sheepish laugh, hoping my nerdy grin would mask the chaos just beneath the surface.

“Want a cigarette?” he asked, holding out his pack.

I hesitated for half a second before taking one. “Yeah. Actually... I could use one.”

He lit it for me. As I brought it to my lips, I caught the way he looked at me—head tilted slightly, eyes tracing over me in one smooth line, top to bottom. It was subtle. Intentional.

“I didn’t know you lived around here,” he said, exhaling a slow cloud of smoke. “Thought I heard in the base you were commuting from Bern.”

The mention of Bern caught me off guard. I hadn’t expected him to remember that. I hadn’t expected him to ask.

“Would’ve been a bit much to drive back and forth every day after work,” I said, taking a drag. “So I asked around and found someone willing to rent me a room for two months.”

“Two months,” he repeated, nodding like he was trying to memorize the number.

“Yeah, seemed like the most practical option.”

“Yeah... I guess it is,” he said, eyes not leaving mine.

The moment he said that, I caught something new in his face—something unguarded. Vulnerability, maybe. His eyes were heavier than the night before, and already he had the faint beginnings of dark circles under them. One day into training, and it was showing.

“Tough first day?” I asked.

He exhaled, slow and tired. “Yeah. Definitely. I don’t think I’m really cut out for this army stuff.”

There was no irony in his voice. Just exhaustion.

I looked at him, tried to offer some kind of grounding—something to ease the weight he was carrying. “It’s not for most people,” I said, but I don’t think it landed the way I intended. He just nodded, eyes distant.

“You looking forward to going out tonight?” I asked, changing the subject.

His lips curled into the faintest smile. “Yeah, I think it’s nice that we already get a break on day two. I’ve got the feeling the next few weeks are going to be... rough.”

“What’ve you got planned?” I asked, trying to sound casual but probably failing.

He shrugged. “No clue, honestly. I think I’ll see what the guys are doing. Stick with the group. You know any spots around here worth checking out?”

I paused, thinking. “It’s a small village,” I said. “Not much nightlife, unless you’re into cowbells and church bells. But there’s a little bar by the river, just at the edge of town. End-of-summer kind of place—half alive, half closing down for the season. You might’ve seen it already.”

“Sounds like a vibe,” he said.

“You could swim there, too, if you’re into that,” I added, watching his expression closely.

He raised an eyebrow. “Skinny dipping at sunset with my military platoon? Sounds unforgettable.”

I laughed. “Depends on the company.”

He smirked. “What about you? Any big plans for tonight?”

“Honestly? No. I was thinking of staying in. Reading, maybe studying a bit.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly in that way people do when they’re about to test the waters. “Would you be... open to joining us?”

It hit me off guard—not the invitation itself, but the way he said it. Like he meant it. Like he actually wanted me there.

I hesitated. My gut screamed yes, but something pulled back. I wanted to see him, spend time with him. But the idea of being surrounded by his troop—of performing interest while keeping everything under wraps—made my skin prickle.

“I appreciate it,” I said, watching the tip of my cigarette burn down, “but I think I’ll pass. Tonight.”

He nodded, slowly. “Some other time, then?”

I looked up at him. “Yeah. Some other time.”

—

Believe it or not, that one sentence—*Some other time*—cost me half a lifetime. Or at least, that’s how it felt. The truth was, I wanted to spend time with him—badly. But I wasn’t ready to do it in a group of men I didn’t know. A bunch of recruits. His troop. The idea of navigating that kind of space—masculine, anonymous, tense—just made something in me freeze up.

So, I stayed in. Despite everything I felt, despite how much I wanted to go, I stayed in my room that night. Told myself there would be other chances. He was going to be around for a while, after all.

The interaction between us that day hadn’t been satisfying. It barely scratched the surface. But oddly, it gave me a sense of relief. A kind of pause I hadn’t realized I needed. I didn’t think about him obsessively the rest of the day. And after the intensity of that morning—after what I’d done in the trees—I needed distance. Perspective. I realized then that I couldn’t trust my impulses. Not when I was that turned on, that wound up. Not if I wanted any of this to unfold into something real.

But old habits die hard.

Later that night, lying shirtless in bed with the window cracked open to let the cool air in, I reached for my phone and opened Grindr again. I stared at the blank grid for a moment, then—fuck it—I gave in. Two new profiles had popped up nearby. No photos, no names. But both of them were within the age range Luca would fall into.

And yes, I know how pathetic that sounds.

 

[Mewtation]

This story is so good the anticipation is killing me

 

[BiteSize]

Looking forward to Part 3!

 

[stan789]

ok, I need 10 more posts about this asap, pisuvaj pobrzo molime teeee!!!!!

 

[Split018]

Nemoj nas mučit top

 

[bondigo]

The following week crawled by at a glacial pace. Every hour felt padded with anticipation, stretched by the ache of waiting. I had expected to see Luca again almost immediately—but of course, things are never that convenient. It turned out his group wasn’t scheduled to start their official training until the next week. I only found that out after a few days of quiet fishing, pulling threads of conversation here and there, all without raising suspicion.

Discretion became my new discipline. I had to be careful. I didn’t want to give Catherine—or anyone else—the idea that I was... interested. That I was watching anyone. Still, my curiosity leaked out around the edges.

Catherine, sharp as ever, caught on anyway. She was the kind of woman who missed nothing. Direct, unsentimental, but not unkind. She didn’t ask, at first. But by the middle of that week, she started poking—playfully, but purposefully. Did I have a girlfriend? Was there someone back in Bern? Or maybe someone closer?

I sidestepped at first, shrugging it off. “Too busy,” I said. “Medicine doesn’t really leave time for romance.” She didn’t buy it. Her smirk said she’d heard it all before. Eventually, I gave in—sort of. I told her I didn’t have a boyfriend.

Not a girlfriend. A boyfriend.

It was the first time I’d said that out loud at work. And oddly, it felt... easy. No big confession. No drama. Just the truth, dropped into the air like any other fact. I added, half-laughing, “It’s hard not to notice this troop of men we’re surrounded by every day.” Catherine raised an eyebrow, chuckled, and said nothing more. That moment could’ve hung awkwardly. But it didn’t. It just passed.

The rest of the week passed slowly—tediously, even. Nothing much happened. I started arriving early to work just so I could go jogging before my shift. There was a long trail that followed the river near the barracks, and it became part of my routine. Crisp morning air, breath fogging up, my shoes pounding the dirt path, legs burning in that good, addictive way. But beneath it all, I was hoping. Hoping I’d catch a glimpse of him. Hoping someone would mention his name. They didn’t.

By the time Monday rolled around, I was wound so tight I could barely function. I spent most of the day pretending to focus on charts and blood samples, when in reality, all I could think about was whether I’d see him again. I didn’t. Not that day.

Later, Catherine let it slip—recruits only had free time on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Swiss military life was brutally structured. Their days started at six in the morning and ran well into the night. This wasn’t a neat eight-hour shift; it was full immersion. Hours divided into blocks of training, discipline, sleep. The only real exception? Tuesday and Thursday nights.

Tuesdays, if I remembered correctly, they were allowed to relax on base until around ten p.m. Thursdays were different. They were granted a *proper* release—permission to leave the compound entirely, go out into town, kinda disappear into civilian life until midnight, maybe a little longer depending on their commanding officer’s mood.

I clung to those two nights like lifelines. Two windows a week. Two chances. I didn’t know what I was waiting for exactly—just that something in me had started waiting.

On Tuesday, I woke up around five in the morning, drenched in sweat from some strange, restless dreams. I decided to shake it off the only way I knew how—by starting the day with a jog along the river. After about ten minutes of running through the old part of the village, its cobblestone alleys still sleeping, I veered toward the wooden bridge that crossed back over the river. I figured I’d make the loop across and continue down the riverside before reporting for my shift.

As I came back across the bridge, breathing steady, sweat cooling on my back, I glanced up—and that’s when I saw them. The first recruits were starting to dress. One of the barracks windows faced directly out toward the path I was on. First floor, curtains open, lights on. I could see them clearly. Their olive green shirts over the shoulders, bare chests, some still in boxer shorts, moving around casually like no one was watching.

I didn’t see Luca. Of course not. Fate rarely gives you what you want on the first, or sometimes second try. But even so, I watched. Not for long—just a few seconds, long enough to feel that low, guilty thrill coil tight in my gut. It was voyeuristic, yes. But I didn’t care. It had been a long time since I’d felt anything that real.

I kept jogging, turned back toward the river, heart pounding harder now for reasons that had nothing to do with cardio. The pressure built quickly—tension, heat, that desperate, horny edge that had been gnawing at me for two weeks. I had gone too long without touch. Too long without release. And right then, it felt unbearable.

I stopped, looked around. The path was empty. Quiet. The late summer air was brisk, enough to keep most locals indoors at that hour. Swiss joggers weren’t exactly out in droves here, especially not before dawn. So I stepped off the trail, leaned against a tree tucked behind the brush, and let myself give in to it. I was so hard it hurt. My thoughts blurred. All I could see were silhouettes in a barracks window, half-naked, unaware. I wasn’t proud of it. But pride had nothing to do with it.

In the next moment, I found myself in some slow paced movie pressed up against that tree, forehead damp, breath sharp in my throat. The tension—the heat—had built up so fast I felt like I was burning from the inside out. I yanked my white T-shirt over my head and flung it carelessly onto the grass beside me. There was no plan beyond this. No hesitation. Just one singular need to relieve the ache that had taken over every cell in my body.

My palm slid down over my chest, across my abs. I closed my eyes.

And there he was. Luca. That soft, blond Swiss boy with his glasses slightly slipping down his nose, looking up at me with that innocent, unreadable gaze. Kneeling. His mouth barely parted. Waiting—expecting. That image hit me so hard it nearly knocked the air out of my lungs. I didn’t fight it. I couldn’t.

A few seconds later, the tension snapped. Release came fast and sharp, almost violent in its urgency. As it faded, the cold clarity that followed hit just as hard—the kind of fragile quiet that always comes after. I leaned my head back against the bark, panting, flushed, wondering if I’d ever actually experience what I had just imagined. Would he ever look at me like that? Would we ever even be in the same room again?

Realistically, I knew nothing about him. Not where he was from. Not how long he’d stay. All I knew was that I wanted to see him. Just to see him.

I picked up my shirt—already smudged with grass stains—and pulled it back on. My chest still buzzed with leftover adrenaline, but now it was laced with something else: shame. Not deep, moral shame—just that faint flush of embarrassment that comes when you let your feelings steer you too far into fantasy. I exhaled hard, wiped my palms on my shorts, and jogged back toward the compound.

Since the room I was staying in was located behind the military compound, I had to pass by it every time I came back. So I jogged slowly, still damp with sweat—and with shame. That lingering heat in my chest wasn’t from the run anymore. It was what I had just done, what I had imagined, and how completely it had swallowed me.

In the distance, I spotted a figure near the front entrance of the base—a soldier, clearly off-duty, smoking a cigarette. The uniform clung to him in all the right ways, the smoke curling around his face like something out of a film. I wasn’t prepared for what I saw when I got closer.

It was Luca.

I didn’t know what I’d expected. Maybe for him to vanish between paperwork and drills. Maybe for him to be the type who drank protein shakes, not lit cigarettes in the foggy Swiss dawn. But there he was—smoking, relaxed, leaning against the wall like it was all nothing.

Like me, once.

Our next interaction began with his first words, casual and unexpected.

“Did you fall?” he asked, eyebrow slightly raised.

I slowed to a walk, forcing out a crooked, confident smile that probably looked more like a grimace. I wasn’t exactly the picture of composure—shirt wrinkled, breath short, skin flushed.

“No. Just needed a moment,” I replied. “Leant against a tree and... sweated it out.” I tried to pass it off with a sheepish laugh, hoping my nerdy grin would mask the chaos just beneath the surface.

“Want a cigarette?” he asked, holding out his pack.

I hesitated for half a second before taking one. “Yeah. Actually... I could use one.”

He lit it for me. As I brought it to my lips, I caught the way he looked at me—head tilted slightly, eyes tracing over me in one smooth line, top to bottom. It was subtle. Intentional.

“I didn’t know you lived around here,” he said, exhaling a slow cloud of smoke. “Thought I heard in the base you were commuting from Bern.”

The mention of Bern caught me off guard. I hadn’t expected him to remember that. I hadn’t expected him to ask.

“Would’ve been a bit much to drive back and forth every day after work,” I said, taking a drag. “So I asked around and found someone willing to rent me a room for two months.”

“Two months,” he repeated, nodding like he was trying to memorize the number.

“Yeah, seemed like the most practical option.”

“Yeah... I guess it is,” he said, eyes not leaving mine.

The moment he said that, I caught something new in his face—something unguarded. Vulnerability, maybe. His eyes were heavier than the night before, and already he had the faint beginnings of dark circles under them. One day into training, and it was showing.

“Tough first day?” I asked.

He exhaled, slow and tired. “Yeah. Definitely. I don’t think I’m really cut out for this army stuff.”

There was no irony in his voice. Just exhaustion.

I looked at him, tried to offer some kind of grounding—something to ease the weight he was carrying. “It’s not for most people,” I said, but I don’t think it landed the way I intended. He just nodded, eyes distant.

“You looking forward to going out tonight?” I asked, changing the subject.

His lips curled into the faintest smile. “Yeah, I think it’s nice that we already get a break on day two. I’ve got the feeling the next few weeks are going to be... rough.”

“What’ve you got planned?” I asked, trying to sound casual but probably failing.

He shrugged. “No clue, honestly. I think I’ll see what the guys are doing. Stick with the group. You know any spots around here worth checking out?”

I paused, thinking. “It’s a small village,” I said. “Not much nightlife, unless you’re into cowbells and church bells. But there’s a little bar by the river, just at the edge of town. End-of-summer kind of place—half alive, half closing down for the season. You might’ve seen it already.”

“Sounds like a vibe,” he said.

“You could swim there, too, if you’re into that,” I added, watching his expression closely.

He raised an eyebrow. “Skinny dipping at sunset with my military platoon? Sounds unforgettable.”

I laughed. “Depends on the company.”

He smirked. “What about you? Any big plans for tonight?”

“Honestly? No. I was thinking of staying in. Reading, maybe studying a bit.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly in that way people do when they’re about to test the waters. “Would you be... open to joining us?”

It hit me off guard—not the invitation itself, but the way he said it. Like he meant it. Like he actually wanted me there.

I hesitated. My gut screamed yes, but something pulled back. I wanted to see him, spend time with him. But the idea of being surrounded by his troop—of performing interest while keeping everything under wraps—made my skin prickle.

“I appreciate it,” I said, watching the tip of my cigarette burn down, “but I think I’ll pass. Tonight.”

He nodded, slowly. “Some other time, then?”

I looked up at him. “Yeah. Some other time.”

—

Believe it or not, that one sentence—*Some other time*—cost me half a lifetime. Or at least, that’s how it felt. The truth was, I wanted to spend time with him—badly. But I wasn’t ready to do it in a group of men I didn’t know. A bunch of recruits. His troop. The idea of navigating that kind of space—masculine, anonymous, tense—just made something in me freeze up.

So, I stayed in. Despite everything I felt, despite how much I wanted to go, I stayed in my room that night. Told myself there would be other chances. He was going to be around for a while, after all.

The interaction between us that day hadn’t been satisfying. It barely scratched the surface. But oddly, it gave me a sense of relief. A kind of pause I hadn’t realized I needed. I didn’t think about him obsessively the rest of the day. And after the intensity of that morning—after what I’d done in the trees—I needed distance. Perspective. I realized then that I couldn’t trust my impulses. Not when I was that turned on, that wound up. Not if I wanted any of this to unfold into something real.

But old habits die hard.

Later that night, lying shirtless in bed with the window cracked open to let the cool air in, I reached for my phone and opened Grindr again. I stared at the blank grid for a moment, then—fuck it—I gave in. Two new profiles had popped up nearby. No photos, no names. But both of them were within the age range Luca would fall into.

And yes, I know how pathetic that sounds.

You write so well!