SWEAT QUENCHER
The lab was built for precision, but lately, it had become something else—humid, pulsing, alive with the scent of salt and heat. The air-conditioning could never keep up with him.
The subject sat under the blinding white lights, body gleaming with a sheen of sweat that looked more like temptation than data. His blue shirt clung to his chest, fabric tightening around his pecs every time he moved. He tilted a bottle of electrolyte solution to his lips and took a long drink. The muscles of his throat rippled. Droplets escaped, rolling down over his jaw, across his neck, and tracing the deep ridges of his abs.
The scientist tried to stay composed. Clipboard in hand. Glasses perched low. “Hydration levels stable,” he muttered to himself, though his voice cracked.
The subject smirked. “You like watching me drink, don’t you, doc?”
He said nothing, but his eyes betrayed him—tracking every motion, every twitch of a flexed muscle, every bead of sweat sliding down to the waistband of his soaked briefs.
“Do another set,” the scientist ordered, trying to sound clinical.
“Yes, sir.”
The subject peeled the shirt off. The room seemed to heat another degree as the scientist’s breath hitched. The man’s body looked engineered—shoulders broad, arms tight with veins, abs carved so deep they caught the light. Each push-up made his body quake slightly, and his sweat dripped onto the lab floor, forming small dark circles that gleamed like mercury.
The scientist noted the readings on his monitor, though he wasn’t reading anymore. His thoughts blurred with the pounding rhythm of the subject’s breath.
After the workout, the subject leaned back against the counter, chest rising and falling. “You said my sweat’s special, right?” he asked, grinning. “You should collect it properly.”
The scientist swallowed hard. “That’s… not part of the procedure.”
The man stepped closer. “Then maybe we change the procedure.”
His body radiated heat. The smell of exertion and salt filled the small space. The scientist tried to step back, but his hip hit the edge of the lab table. The subject caught his wrist, guided it to his chest, and pressed it flat against his skin. The scientist felt the slick warmth under his palm, the pulse beneath it—steady, powerful, alive.
“You feel that?” the man whispered. “That’s science too.”
The scientist’s composure shattered. His notes slipped from his hand, scattering across the floor. The subject pushed him gently back against the counter, their faces inches apart.
The first kiss was hesitant, then hungry—charged with all the restrained heat of the experiments before it. Their bodies collided, sweat mixing, breath syncing. The scientist gasped as the subject’s hands roamed lower, gripping his ass, teasing his cock through his pants until the sterile lab air filled with the sound of their heavy breathing and the taste of salt and desire.
The scientist’s hands found the subject’s sweat-slicked skin, tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the throb of his hard cock against his thigh. The subject’s fingers worked at the scientist’s belt, freeing his erection, and he moaned into the kiss as their cocks brushed together, slick with pre-cum and sweat.
The monitor still blinked beside them, recording heart rates far beyond human calm.
By the time the experiment ended, neither could remember what data they were collecting—only that the cure for exhaustion, for logic, for loneliness, came bottled in sweat and cum. The scientist’s hand was sticky with the subject’s release, and his own cock pulsed with satisfaction. They stayed like that for a moment, panting, before the scientist finally pulled away, a small smile playing on his lips.
“Maybe we should document this,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The subject grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I think that’s a great idea, doc.”
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