sal ganuth

When Simon arrived at the park for the WBNR there was a guy already stripped down and the centre of attention.
‘Damn, he’s cute,’ Simon thought. He watched as the marshals dispersed and saw that the guy didn’t even have a bag. ‘Bold! No way to cover up now,’ Simon chuckled, thinking he would never be that reckless himself. Simon hung round clothed as other riders arrived and the park filled up, checking his phone, other guys around him stripping down and chatting. Eventually Simon stripped and put his kit in a pannier.
Simon looked over at that original only-one-naked guy, a lycra-clad guy close by, taking photos, ‘OMG he’s boning up,’ sniggered Simon, but there was something about the way the guy just stood there, unable to hide, totally on show and erect. ‘Fuck that’s one impressive cock,’ Simon thought, then felt his own cock stirring, ‘Oh shit no, fuck no,’ but there was no denying it, his own cock was growing, pulsing.
He tried to hide it best he could, lifting his leg on his bike to hide his boner from the people and using his hand to stop his boner from pointing northwards. That worked while they were waiting for the ride to start, but then the marshals started blowing their whistles and shouting, getting people to bunch up nearer the gates and suddenly Simon was on show, his boner riding high above his thighs as he pedalled into position. And it wasn’t long before he was spotted, first by other riders and then by onlookers with their phones and cameras. The thought of being caught on camera, naked, boned in public brought blood to all the wrong places for Simon. His cock grew harder and pointed more obscenely northwards, his hood peeled back exposing his wet cockhead.
Simon made the mistake of looking down and heard, “Woah, dude, excited about the race, eh?”
It was martin, the naked news reporter, staring at Simon’s raging monster, the cameraman next to Martin jostling to get a good view.
“No, no, no,” stammered Simon.
“What made you come to the ride today?” Continued Martin, keen to get some last few interviews in before the race.
Simon could see that both Martin and the camera were staring at his cock rather than his face. ‘Well, maybe if that’s all thats being shown then no one at work will recognise me,’ Simon thinks and relaxes, starting to answer the dumb questions that Martin asks, unaware that the camera is panning up and down his body, catching face torso and junk.
But Simon didn’t have time to notice, or think about it, or tell the reporter to delete the interview because the marshals started whistling louder and shouting that the race had started.
There Simon was, naked, boned, leaking on his bike, cycling out of the park onto the road towards the city centre. ‘Can my day get any worse?’ Simon thought. If he had known, he would have turned back then…