The submissive cyclist

It was almost eight in the evening when Manuel, sixty-six years old, left his bicycle in the garage and, without changing, went down to the corner bar for a draft beer. He was still wearing the black and yellow jersey stuck to his chest, the tight shorts marking everything on him, and those short yellow cycling socks, the kind that don’t go past the ankle, soaked after sixty kilometers of mountain pass. He smelled of effort, of mature man’s sweat, and he didn’t care.

At the bar there was a thirty-three-year-old guy, dark-haired, with a calm, confident look. He didn’t take his eyes off him. When Manuel ordered his second beer, the guy came over and spoke to him quietly, very close:

—That kit looks fucking great on you. And those socks… you can smell them from here.

Manuel turned red, but he didn’t pull away. The guy, who said his name was Álex, smiled slowly.

—You look like you need someone to order you around. Do you want me to be your owner tonight?

Manuel swallowed. He had dreamed of something like that for years and had never dared. He nodded without saying a word.

—Then let’s go. And don’t change. I want you like this.

They went up to Álex’s apartment, two streets up. As soon as he closed the door, the guy grabbed him by the back of the neck and took him to the bedroom. He took some soft ropes out of the drawer and laid him face up on the bed. He tied his wrists and ankles to the four corners, spread open in an X, with the jersey and shorts still on and his shoes off, leaving the yellow socks exposed.

Álex sat at the foot of the bed, leaned over one of his tied feet and brought his nose to the sole of the sock, still damp. He breathed in deeply, very slowly.

—Fuck, old man… how they smell. For miles, of sweat, of male.

He ran his nose over the toes, the heel, the short edge of the sock that barely covered his ankle, smelling every corner as if it were perfume. Then he nibbled the soaked fabric, sucked it, and Manuel felt a chill run up his legs to the back of his neck. No one had ever done something like that to him. Álex moved from one foot to the other, burying his face in the socks, while with his hand he caressed the bulge growing under the shorts.

—These stay on all night —he told him—. The socks are mine.

He undressed in front of him, without hurry, and climbed onto his knees up to his face. He brought his cock to his lips.

—Open. Eat.

Manuel obeyed. He put it in his mouth hungrily, sucking slowly and then deeper, while Álex held his head and set the rhythm. Tied as he was, he couldn’t do anything but serve, and that turned him on more than anything in the world.

After a while, Álex turned around without getting off the bed. He moved the shorts aside just enough, without taking them off, and pulled his hard cock out to one side. He leaned down and started eating him too, while still putting his own in hi...