[SS-1590] Heatwave Train

HEATWAVE TRAIN

Chud was already sweating through his polo shirt by the time he boarded the male-only train car. Skinny, glasses sliding down his nose, laptop bag clutched tight to his chest—he looked like every heatwave made him a little more transparent.

The air inside was thick and stagnant, the AC clearly losing the battle. Men shifted uncomfortably in their seats, shirts damp, brows furrowed.

Then he stepped in.

Chud felt it before he saw it—heads turning,. The man was massive. Broad shoulders, thick arms straining inside a perfectly fitted white shirt. The fabric hugged every contour of his body, soaked just enough to reveal the ridges beneath.

He looked pissed off. Probably from the heat. He sat across from Chud, jaw tight, and pulled a small handkerchief from his pocket. He began patting himself down—slow swipes across his neck, chest, arms.

Chud’s mouth went dry.

So did everyone else's.

“Man,” someone muttered, “you should just take your shirt off.”

The man paused, glanced around. Every set of eyes locked on him, some amused, some entranced.

Then he smirked with an exhibitionist flair and started unbuttoning.

The shirt peeled away, and the gasps were real. His torso was unreal: thick pecs glistening, abs like carved stone, every inch of him shimmering with sweat. He continued patting himself with the tiny cloth, which now seemed laughably inadequate.

The whole car was watching, mesmerized. Chud’s heart was pounding.

And then he moved with a thoughtless brazenness.

He slid next to the man, trying to act casual, his voice cracking slightly. “Uh… need help with that?”

The man raised an eyebrow. “You offering?”

Chud nodded, surprising himself.

The man leaned back, lifted his arm—an invitation.

Chud leaned in. His lips brushed the warm skin of the man’s armpit, and then his tongue followed. It was salty, musky, intoxicating. The man let out a low sound—half sigh, half moan.

“Careful,” he murmured. “That tickles.”

That was all it took. Another man knelt beside them, trailing his fingers along the man’s abs. A third kissed his shoulder. The fourth just stared, breathless, before joining with trembling reverence.

The man sat back, letting it happen. His muscles flexed under their hands and mouths, sweat rolling in rivers down his chest. His breath grew heavier. The front of his khakis swelled noticeably, but he did not touch himself. He did not need to.

The train blew past two stations.

And Chud? He missed his station—and so did the other men who got too busy with their mouths.

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