The light rain taps against my window roughly half an hour after the sun sets. It trickles down the panes of glass, leaving residual droplets in its wake. The potted plants I keep on my narrow balcony are no doubt relieved from the baking sun earlier that summer’s day. Inside my apartment, the air is humid due to the rain, but the temperature gradually cools off. Something I feel extremely pleased about.

I sit on my sofa, dressed as I usually am when lounging around the house, in just a pair of tight cycling shorts. The soft fabric clings to my hairless thighs, and the waist band is tied in a neat bow. As you might guess, I have a distinctly perverted fascination with lycra. It’s far from a niche interest within the fetish community and one that commonly pops up in my daily life. Whether it’s a hot guy weight-training at the gym in a perfectly fitting T or a well-trained cyclist zooming past me in the street, there’s a constant flow of eye-candy which I’m always eager to appreciate. Surely there’s no harm in that, I think to myself.

I have, on occasion, begun tests of my own courage wearing particular pieces in public. My guilty conscience and fear of judgment mean that these are pretty tame by most kinksters’ standards. A snug wrestling singlet with a sweater on top, while I browse the supermarket, or dressing in a cycling bib and shorts on my morning coffee run. At the very most, it bats a few eyelids, but nothing to be deemed out of the ordinary in context. I find it vitalising to publicly wear something which holds so much of my desire and interest. I’d openly admit I’m relatively confident in my body, but when I’m swarmed in lycra, this transforms that confidence into a new realm of perverse happiness.

This does mean that I have a hard time controlling my ‘joy’ when in public, dressed in the smooth fabric. As you might imagine, with skintight lycra, there isn’t much to hide my throbbing desire. My hard cock outlines the smooth material, creating a distinct and recognisable bulge. So I plan my kinky outings with a certain amount of consciousness to avoid being arrested on the spot for indecent exposure.

At least I’m safe within the confines of my own home, where I’m free to dress as I please in the many skintight outfits within my wardrobe. I live in a small apartment by myself, not far from the city centre. The building across from mine may catch a glimpse at my peculiar attire every now and then, but apart from that, I’m lucky to have this level of privacy and relish my own space. 

I stroke my engorged cock through the deep blue Nike cycling shorts, a damp patch of precum clearly visible in a darker shade of blue on the shorts. I do have particular tastes when it comes to lycra. First off, it must be skintight. You’ll find zero ill-fitting pieces in my collection. I’m also not the biggest fan of darker colours. Bright colours appeal to me much more, and the visual appeal is obviously a massive draw. I prefer it on the thinner side so that there’s a relative stretchiness to it, creating more pressure on my body squeezed into the garment. Then, of course, it goes without saying, but the most important thing is the feel. It has to be silky smooth as it glides effortlessly over your body. The perfect recipe for an item in a lycra pervert’s wardrobe.

I stretch out on my sofa, gazing at the sky, the shorts’ fabric cool against my skin after a long, humid day. The majority of the sky is dominated by slate-grey clouds, heavy and unmoving. But just above the horizon, there’s a narrow sliver of intense orange as it burns through the gloom. It catches on the edges of rooftops in the distance and transforms the otherwise mundane scene into something beautiful. I exhale slowly, sinking deeper into the cushions. My mind casts back to the foundation years that led to my discovery of my fetishes.

I must have been sixteen that summer. I always felt different from others. When schoolmates would speak about sex, I realised my general indifference towards porn was abnormal. At the time, I didn’t do much exploration to realise that I was gay, so I instead labelled myself as asexual. I experienced ‘funny’ feelings when watching TV as a kid featuring spandex-clad heroes. Their outfits so vibrant and colourful. My infatuation grew with each kinky scenario the characters found themselves in. Bound in place and gagged. I couldn’t put my finger on what I was feeling, but I knew it wasn’t something my friends experienced.

Then, one afternoon during that particularly boring summer, my journey through self-discovery would hit a milestone event.

It was the kind of summer I was apprehensive to see the end of. Days felt endless. I remember being bored more than anything else. School was finished, and my friends were all on vacation with their families. The town felt too small for the kind of energy I wanted to burn off. So I decided to ride aimlessly through the country roads. At first, it was to escape my house, but growing up in the countryside, I had a sandbox of fields, trails, riverwalks and abandoned cottages to discover. It was something to do, at least.  

My mother had been hounding me to buy a new bicycle helmet after my old one went missing. I hated wearing one. Safety isn’t a priority for any teenager. Reluctantly, I had little choice in the matter. I rode into town and locked my bike next to the local sports store. 

The air inside was stale. The smell of plastic and nylon within the hot interior was unpleasant. The small store was basically deserted as I climbed the stairs to the first level. I searched through the aisles until I arrived at a section for cyclists. The helmets on display were all terrible. I reluctantly plucked a black one from the shelves. 

Then it caught my eye.

It hung lifeless on a rack of cycling gear next to the helmets. The last of its kind, its colours were extremely alluring and immediately caught my attention. A team GB cycling suit with short sleeves and shorts. An all-encompassing skinsuit that stood out among the other drab items on the rack. The garment was royal blue on one side and crimson red on the other. A design loosely based on the Union Jack with logos from a telecomms company throughout.

Nervous apprehension. I reached out and felt the soft fabric brush against the back of my hand. I remember thinking I’d turn around and pay for the helmet, but once I danced my fingers in the loose, silky surface, I was transfixed. And then my manhood rose in my shorts, hard as a rock. I was in a sea of post-pubescent turmoil as I fought to tear away from the glorious skinsuit and leave the store.

A price tag poked out from the sleeve, priced at £49.99. It wasn’t exactly expensive, but to a teenager with limited income, it easily made a dent in my bank balance. 

I sighed and took a deep breath. 

I walked from the store that day with my new helmet and a lycra cycle suit stuffed way down in my backpack. I pedalled hard, desperate to get home, all the while picturing the feel of the skinsuit on my body. My erection didn’t subside the entire cycle out of town. I pedalled hard, my shirt clung to my skin as my hands gripped the handlebars. 

I arrived home to an empty house. Running upstairs, I barricaded myself in my room. It was just me, my hard cock and the freshly packaged cyclesuit. I stripped off with the kind of desperation exhibited by a feral animal. I wasn’t thinking about anything except the rushing thrill. And then I felt its satin-y caress up my legs as I pulled the suit on. My body was moving like on autopilot. My skin reacted to the sleek feeling, sending chills down my spine. My hips and waist were soon consumed in the lycra’s embrace. My arms were stuffed eagerly into the sleeve holes. And, of course, my throbbing mast was rigid, clearly outlined in blue. 

And I realised, quite suddenly, as the zipper slid home below my neck, that there was no going back from here. 

I remember laughing, probably in horny delirium, like I’d actually lost my mind. I stroked my cock through the fabric. By the time I reached my limit, my skin was soaked with sweat, and I was shivering. I was a different person. Not in some grand, dramatic way… enough to know that I had awoken something in myself. Something that would imprint so heavily in my mind and occupy so many of my thoughts for the rest of my life. 

My mind cast back to the present, where the orange hue slowly drains from the skyline. The darkness is now rolling in like a closing curtain. To this day, the suit in question remains in my possession. I store it neatly in my wardrobe alongside the rest of my devious collection. I cherish it dearly. Through meticulous care, it appears almost identical to how it did on the very day I purchased it. A few signs of wear in its folds, especially around the crotch. You can probably guess why.

I’m as bored now as I was on that sun-kissed summer’s afternoon. I try everything I usually do to drown it out: music, tv, scrolling endlessly through my socials, as if something might suddenly change. Nothing does. The rain continues its tapping against my window. Suddenly, it starts a heavier downpour. I gaze, once again, at my plants on the balcony, their soil now saturated in the torrent.

I fondle my stiffening cock through the shorts, once again. Then a thought surfaces in my head. Once it’s there, it won’t leave. A specifically dangerous and perverted thought. I picture myself cycling through the dark night, slick with rain, clad in the tightest lycra suit imaginable. Until now, I’ve not been brave enough to expose myself this much, but out of nowhere, a sense of horny risk rises within me. I want to challenge myself, I want the dark thrill. I want to replicate the feeling of cycling home that summer’s day when I was sixteen. 

It’s a terrible idea. 

I debate within myself, listing out all of the problems with my darkest desire. Common sense prevails, and I decide the simple fact of staying inside is easier. 

I look away from the window. 

For a moment, I think that’s it. Decision made. I’d play the sensible, safe option. I reach for my phone and try to anchor myself in something else. But my hard cock doesn’t subside. If anything, I’m hornier now, my shaft pressing against the smooth surface.

I sit there caught between the two mindsets. 

Then I’m standing.

“Just a short ride,” I mutter, though there’s no one to hear it. It sounds like an excuse even to me.

The apartment is quiet as I move through it. The only constant noise is the rain cascading down my windows. I head to my room and pull open my perverted wardrobe. If I’m going out, I’d select something perfect for the kinky occasion.

I reach for the most form-fitting item I have. I want something light, all-encompassing and generally accepted as a rider’s attire. A full-body cycle suit in a brilliant white stands out to me. I haven’t used it in months. Its surface smells of freshly cared for lycra. It’s flawless. I tug it on over my shorts, testing the tightness of the garment as it slides over my substantial leg muscles. Pulling it up past my hips, I let it rest just below my waist. I gaze down at my lower half covered in the white lycra, the colour of the shorts visible through the thin fabric. My boner is now more prominent, outlined in two layers. 

I sit on the edge of the bed to slide on some tight white Nike socks, pulling them into place around my ankle. Next, I pick up my cycling shoes, pulling them tighter than usual.

For a moment, I just sit there. Listening.

The rain hasn’t let up. If anything, it’s possibly heavier now, drumming on my bedroom window. It should mean it’ll be pretty quiet on the roads.

I push my well-defined arms through the holes of the cycle suit. My hands slip from the ends of the sleeves, which fit snugly around my wrists. Finally, the zip is carefully drawn into place. A slight pressure is exerted across my torso as I feel the suit almost fuse with my skin beneath. 

I stand, grab my gloves, thin and made from a plastic merged with rubber, and hesitate one last time as I snag my white plastic helmet from the back of the door. I can still cut my losses and jerk off at home. I could laugh this off tomorrow, call it a moment of madness or something.

But I already know I won’t.

I step into the hallway, pick up my lightweight road bike, and head for the door. When I finally open it, my heart skips a beat. I take a breath, step out into the corridor of my building, and pull the door closed behind me.

My heart is thumping in my chest as I wait for the elevator. Conscious that my generally athletic body is so clearly revealed to all passersby. I suddenly feel extremely self-conscious. Although generally acceptable, there’s no doubt that anyone I bump into would think my attire is strange. 

I enter the elevator and push the button for the ground floor, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I panic at the very obvious erection poking from the layers of lycra. I quickly drop my bike to best hide my straining manhood. I find myself peering at my reflection. I can’t help but feel turned on by the creature staring back at me. The suit’s relatively simple design cascaded across my body. Barely any skin on show apart from my face. 

There’s a ding as I arrive on the ground floor. I wheel my bike out, reaching the main door to the building. Still nobody in sight. I sigh in relief.

I finally open it, and the sound of the rain rushes in, louder than before. Cold air hits my face. I swing my leg over my bike and push off into the street.

At first, I’m a little stiff, the cold sharper now that I’m fully outside. The rain hits harder than it did while I was in the doorway, needling into my face, tapping against my helmet and coating my entire lycra-clad frame. The tyres hiss as they roll over the wet pavement, a thin, steady sound that follows me as I pick up speed. 

I can hear the hum of engines in the distance, but still can’t spot any cars on the road. I was right to predict the city would be generally empty in this weather. 

Streetlights stretch out in long, golden lines, their reflections broken and scattered across the slick road. Windows are dark, curtains drawn, the life inside them sealed away. Luckily for me, I feel like I’ve slipped into a version of the city that isn’t meant to be seen.

At first, I focus on taking it easy. Careful. I’m conscious that the roads shine with the rain, leaving plenty of potential areas to slip. The sensible part of me hasn’t disappeared, I think to myself. 

Suddenly, I turn a corner and on the pavement on the opposite side is a young guy. Maybe in his early thirties. He’s staring at his phone, tapping away on the screen, and doesn’t even look up as I cycle past. My heart once again skips a beat, but the speed at which I pass him means I go unnoticed. 

The cold fades into the background, replaced by the steady burn of my legs. My suit is now soaked. From a quick glance downwards, I can see the hue of my skin clearly visible through the white fabric. Water has seeped into the texture of the garment. I can feel it sopping along my back, in my arms and thighs. As a result, the fabric clings tighter to me and I feel my erection bob at the feel. The weight of it is far from unpleasant. The way the rain soaks me until I have no real barrier left. Completely exposed in the middle of the street on a dark night. I don’t slow down. If anything, I keep up my speed, formulating a general path to follow before returning home. 

The streets open up ahead of me. I can see this one has more cars and a few pedestrians littered about. There isn’t any way to avoid it. I cycle onwards without hesitation. I keep my head low, staring at the cobbled street, gazing as my tyre slices through shallow pools of water. The sound changes as the cobbles disappear, replaced with tarmac, and I know I’ve arrived at the busy road. Cars pass, and I can hear the chatter of pedestrians. I know for certain there are eyes on me as I ride harder than I should. 

Rain runs down my face now, indistinguishable from anything else. My hair is soaked under the helmet, my attire fully saturated, every movement feeling heavier now. The fabric of the lycra has long since given up, clinging to me like a second skin. 

I should feel miserable. Cold, wet, and embarrassed by my attire. There’s nothing about this that makes sense. 

But the feeling is there. 

My rock-hard cock is evidence enough. It builds with every turn of the pedal. The feeling of the drenched, compressed fabric on my skin. I catch eyes with a woman walking her dog. Her stare is full of curiosity. There’s also a trace of a smile in her expression. I ride past in silence. I hear the honking of a car horn in the distance, unsure if it’s aimed at me or just an angered driver. 

I come to a red traffic light and slow to a dead stop at the intersection. I’m breathing hard, using my handlebars as support for my tired body. A jeep pulls up beside me, but the driver seems more interested in talking on her phone than taking any notice of me. I feel a shiver tingle down my spine as I wait for the light to turn green. 

A couple halt directly in front of me. They look maybe in their forties. The guy speaks first, laughing as he does.

“A bit revealing that”

I can tell they’re both the harmless type. More intrigued and finding the humour in the moment. I smile back and reply with a simple;

“Yeah”

“She was eyeing you up from across the road. I should be jealous.”

They both laughed. Their overly friendly nature makes me feel more at ease. The woman waves a polite goodbye as the two continue on their way. I smile to myself. Well, I wasn’t expecting an encounter like that. 

The light turns green. 

I ride past rows of shuttered shops, past side-street after side-street, before turning a corner and coming off the busier road. I’m alone again on one of the emptier streets in my neighbourhood. There’s a tense pressure around my perineum as it grinds against the damp bike seat. I feel the suit wedging itself firmly between my cheeks, knowing there’s now an even greater outline of my ass in the damp fabric. I feel such an embarrassing rush, my forehead hot with the exertion on my bike and the humiliation of being such a sexual object. 

Yet throughout it all, my dick was hard as rock. I ground it into the leather seat, feeling a rush as I did. If I’m not careful, I might even cum out here in public. That I know isn’t a good idea. 

Time starts to slip, and I don’t know how long I’ve been out, maybe ten minutes. I don’t really care. Out here, soaked through, clad in revealing lycra and cycling through a relatively empty city, I realise something. 

It’s not just that I love wearing these outfits.

It’s that I love this…

This feeling of being so exposed, so embarrassed, of pushing myself beyond the point of anything being comfortable. Of taking the risk. 

As the rain keeps falling and the road stretches on, I lean forward slightly and grip the handlebars tighter. Once I’d looped round the next two streets, I’d head home. There’s no doubt that I’d have a long night ahead of me, jerking off in my soaked cycling suit. My mind recalling every detail I am now experiencing. Picturing myself as an innocent bystander seeing this vision in white pass by. 

A vision in tight lycra.