CYCLING SAVIOR
Our town has a hero. We call him Cycling Savior because he rides his bike all day and his power is sweat. No kidding—sweat is his battery.
Morning sun hits the plaza like a hot hand. He rolls in wearing a white kit that shines like new paint, the fabric clinging to every curve of his muscular body. I wave. “Early ride?”
He grins, his teeth flashing white against his sun-kissed skin, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Always. Gotta keep the sweat going.”
The shop lady lifts a bottle. “Water?”
“Later,” he says, his voice low and husky, dripping with unspoken promises. “If I drink too much, the power naps.”
He starts circling the fountain. His legs look carved; each lap darkens his jersey, clinging to his muscular frame, outlining the bulge in his shorts. The air smells like clean salt, like a beach day. People relax just seeing him move, their eyes lingering on the play of muscles under his taut skin, imagining the power and heat radiating from him.
Then trouble: a man snatches the donation box from the clinic table and runs. Metal rattles. Someone shouts, “Stop him!”
Savior brakes hard, swings off the bike, and plants himself in the runner’s path. “Hey,” he says, calm but loud, his voice commanding. “That money’s for the clinic.”
The guy freezes. He’s a grown man with a short beard and shaky eyes. “I just— I need cash.”
“We can help,” Savior says, stepping closer, his presence dominating. Sweat rolls off his jaw and hits the stones, glistening in the sun. “But not like this. Put it down.”
The man sets the box on the ground. “I’m sorry.”
Two officers hurry over. One asks, “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Savior says. “He’s giving it back. Let the clinic talk with him.”
Clapping breaks out. I run up with a towel. “You saved the day again.”
Savior laughs, a little breathless, his chest heaving. “And now I’m boiling. I need to cool down or the power gets weird.”
The barista from the café—the handsome guy with the soft beard—walks over holding ice water, his eyes roving over Savior’s body with undisguised hunger. “If you want,” he says, his voice soft and inviting, “I can help.”
Savior meets his eyes, a spark of something primal passing between them. He nods, a silent agreement.
We make space under a tree. Shade hangs like a curtain. Savior lifts his bike over his head for the crowd—he always does that—and sets it carefully by the bench. Up close, you can see the heat shimmering off him, his skin flushed and damp, his muscles coiled and ready.
The handsome guy touches his arm and winces. “Wow. You’re burning up.”
“That’s the idea,” Savior says, his voice a low rumble, his eyes dark with desire. “Cool me down?”
The handsome guy nods, his fingers brushing Savior’s shoulder, then trailing down his chest. He pats him with the towel—shoulders, chest, back—slow and careful, each touch lingering just a moment too long. Then he looks up, his eyes dark with something more than concern, something primal and hungry.
Savior nods, a silent invitation.
The handsome guy drops to his knees, his hands shaking slightly as he reaches for Savior’s shorts. He pulls them down slowly, revealing the bulge in Savior’s tight briefs. He looks up at Savior, seeking permission, and Savior nods again, his breath coming faster.
The handsome guy pulls down the briefs, revealing Savior’s cock, already hard and glistening with sweat. He takes it in his hand, his fingers wrapping around the shaft, and leans in, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt on the head. Savior groans, his hips bucking slightly.
The handsome guy takes him in his mouth, his head bobbing as he sucks and licks, his hands cupping Savior’s balls, rolling them gently. Savior’s hands tangle in the handsome guy’s hair, guiding him, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.
The crowd keeps a respectful distance, their eyes wide with a mix of shock and arousal. The officers talk with the thief by the clinic table, their voices low and murmured. The plaza feels charged, the air thick with tension and unspoken desires.
After a minute, the handsome guy pulls back, his lips damp, his eyes dark with lust. He looks up at Savior, a question in his eyes, and Savior nods, his chest heaving.
The handsome guy stands, his hands trembling as he reaches for Savior’s cock again, stroking it slowly, his thumb circling the head. Savior’s hips buck into his touch, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
The handsome guy leans in, his lips brushing against Savior’s ear. “How do you feel?”
“Like I could ride forever,” Savior says, his voice a low growl, his hands gripping the handsome guy’s hips, pulling him closer.
“Good,” the handsome guy murmurs, his lips trailing down Savior’s neck, his hands never stopping their slow, torturous stroke. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
Savior chuckles, a low, throaty sound. “Neither am I with you.”
The handsome guy steps back, his eyes roving over Savior’s body, a slow, appreciative look. “You’re incredible,” he says, his voice thick with awe and desire.
Savior grins, a cocky, confident smile. “And you’re about to find out just how incredible I can be.”
I yell, “Speech, Savior!”
He raises the bike high, his muscles flexing, his body glistening with sweat. “I sweat for this town,” he calls, his voice loud and clear, filled with pride and promise. “You keep being kind, I’ll keep pedaling.”
People cheer. He rolls into the sun, cutting smooth circles through the streets, building heat and hope again. And I think: maybe saving the world is simple—work hard, sweat honest, take what you want, and never stop riding.
The sun dips lower, casting a golden glow over the plaza. Savior’s silhouette grows smaller, but the memory of his presence lingers, a promise of more to come. The town breathes a little easier, knowing their savior is out there, his sweat a beacon of hope and desire, his lust a driving force that keeps him going, keeps them safe.
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