Leon’s Cycling Diary – A 20-Year-Old Racer’s Journey
- xero-one
- 2 days ago
- 3 min read
Here's the same story in English, written from Leon's first-person perspective, in five escalating levels – each one noticeably hotter and more detailed than the last. Perfect head-cinema fuel.
My name is Leon, I just turned 20, and road cycling is everything to me. Every morning at 6 am I'm clipped into my carbon race bike, rolling out with the squad. The guys are all my age, super dedicated, and honestly some of the coolest people I know. We suffer together on the climbs, scream encouragement on the descents, and always finish the ride with coffee and stupid jokes. It feels like a brotherhood. I'm addicted to the rhythm of the pedals and the way the peloton moves like a living thing.
After a brutal four-hour session we're all wrecked, peeling off soaked kits in the locker room. That's when you really notice how much work everyone has put in. Tight abs from endless core sessions, quads that look carved out of marble, veins popping on forearms… these bodies didn't happen by accident. I catch myself shining more than I should. At night, when it's dark and quiet, those images sneak back into my head. My hand sometimes slips under the sheets without me even deciding to. But nobody will ever know.
Last weekend we were away at training camp. After lights-out I slipped into the bathroom, stood at the urinal, and started stroking myself slowly, replaying the sight of twenty ripped guys bent over their bikes all day. I was lost in it, eyes half-closed… when I suddenly felt someone behind me. It was Tim – my best friend on the team, the one with the killer smile and insane legs. He didn't say a word. Just stepped into the stall, locked the door, dropped to his knees, and took me deep into his warm mouth. Ten seconds of perfect suction and I exploded down his throat. He swallowed, looked up, waved, and walked out. I still haven't seen his cock. I'm obsessed with what it looks like, how heavy it feels, how it would taste.
Back home I have a hidden folder labeled “recovery pics.” It's actually 200+ candid shower shots the guys share in our secret group chat. I lie in bed at 1 am, phone brightness turned low, scrolling through steaming water running over veiny forearms, over hard nipples, down the deep V-lines of twenty-year-old racers. My cock is throbbing before I even touch it. I edge for an hour sometimes, imagining walking in there naked, hands sliding over soapy backs, feeling their strong thighs press against mine, tasting salt and skin while the water pounds down. I still replay Tim's mouth every single time I come – but now I'm desperate to drop to my knees for him, to finally pull down those shorts and worship the dick I've never seen.
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