BICYCLE PARKING
“Fuck, is this the right place?” Wav muttered under his breath as he wheeled his bike into the dimly lit parking structure. It was just past 1am. The air was thick with silence, broken only by the occasional creak of a bike stand settling.
Rumor had it this lot was more than just a place to stash bikes. It was a meeting ground—for men like him. Closeted. Built. Hungry. But only the bold showed up in the uniform: barely anything at all.
He stopped by a concrete pillar, heart pounding, and stripped down to his tight white boxers. The cool air licked his skin, sending goosebumps across the hard planes of his body. He shoved the rest of his clothes into his sleek black backpack and slung it over his broad shoulders. His body glistened faintly under the weak overhead light—each muscle sculpted, tense, waiting.
He moved deeper into the lot, weaving between rows of bicycles. There were so many, but no sign of anyone. His eyes scanned for shadows, hints of motion—anything.
“This is a waste of time,” he whispered.
Then he heard the slow crunch of tires on pavement. Three figures emerged from the darkness muscular silhouettes, each radiating presence and power. They weren’t wearing anything at all. Their dicks all hard and dripping.
The one in front smirked. “Fresh meat.”
“Come with us,” another said, voice low, commanding.
Wav hesitated, pulse quickening, then followed. Their bikes rolled beside them as they walked, every stride confident, their bodies flawless. He couldn’t help but watch the way their backs flexed, the strength in their thighs, the curve of their glutes catching the glimmer of the occasional overhead light.
They led him to a tucked-away corner near a trash bin, where a metal door stood ajar. A janitor, wordless, gestured them inside—a narrow stockroom, lined with cleaning supplies and industrial shadows.
Wav stepped in last. One of them turned and faced him, eyes heavy with intent. He reached for the waistband of Wav’s boxers. He let his last piece of clothing be removed. His cock was engorged and pulsating in anticipation.
“You sure you’re ready?” he asked, voice like gravel over silk.
Wav nodded, his breath shallow. That were his last words because the boxers were stuffed in his mouth.
They touched him. Hands on his shoulders. A warm mouth brushing his neck. The sound of breath against breath. The scent of sweat, steel, and arousal.
Wav happily rode their dicks. He came three times.
When he emerged from the stockroom, it was nearly 3 a.m. His legs trembled. His boxers were back on, barely. His muscles ached.
He gripped the handlebars of his bike and winced as he mounted, a smirk tugging at his lips.
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