The bike tires hum against the pavement, a steady rhythm that matches the pulse between my thighs. The sun kisses my skin, warm and insistent, but it’s the breeze that really gets to me. It slips under the hem of my skin-tight leggings, sheer enough that the lace of my thong doesn’t just peek—it announces itself to anyone who dares to look. And I know they’re looking.

I catch glimpses of myself in storefront windows as I glide by. My dark hair flicks against my neck, damp with sweat, but it’s the curve of my ass that draws my eye. The fabric clings like a second skin, smooth and unapologetic, and the outline of my thong is unmistakable. It’s not just a hint; it’s a statement.

The street is alive with people—couples strolling, joggers panting, delivery men loading trucks. I wonder if they notice. Or if they’re too preoccupied with their own lives to care. But I care. I care enough to feel the heat rise in my cheeks, to feel the slickness between my legs as the bike seat presses against me with every rotation of the pedals.

I slow down at a red light, one foot resting on the curb. A man in a suit glances my way, his eyes darting down and then back up, his throat bobbing as he swallows. My lips curl into a smirk, and I lean forward just slightly, enough to emphasize the arch of my back. He looks away, adjusting his tie, but I see the slight flush on his neck.

The light changes, and I push off, the muscles in my legs flexing as I pick up speed. The sensation of the seat against me is almost too much now, the friction a constant reminder of how exposed I am. The fabric covering me feels almost non-existent, as if the wind could tear it away entirely. I imagine what it would feel like to ride like this in nothing but the lace, the breeze caressing every inch of me.

Passing a group of construction workers, openly watching me go by. I feel their eyes on me, tracing the curve of my ass. One of them whistles, low and appreciative, and I don’t look back. But my breath hitches, and I bite my lip, the warmth between my legs spreading, insistent.

Now I’m hyper-aware of every pair of eyes that land on me, every glance that lingers a little too long. It’s not just the thrill of being seen—it’s the power of it.

I turn onto a quieter street, the trees casting dappled shadows on the pavement. The rhythm of my pedaling slows, and I let my legs fall open a little wider, the fabric pulling taut against me. The sensation is intense, my body responding to every shift, every movement. My breath comes quicker now, short and shallow, as I imagine what it would feel like to let go, to give in to the ache that’s been building since I first climbed onto the bike.

I feel it before I see him—the weight of a gaze that lingers too long. My eyes flick to the side, catching the silhouette of another biker a few paces behind. He’s keeping pace, not closing the distance, but not falling back either. His eyes, fixed on me, or more accurately, on the way my body moved with every rotation of the pedals. My lips curl into a quick smile, one that’s more acknowledgment than invitation, and I turn my attention back to the road. But my heart races, my body humming with the awareness of his stare.

The saddle presses against me, the friction intentional now as I shift my weight slightly, grinding into it with each stroke. I imagine what he’s thinking. Does he see the way my thong clings, the way it digs into the curve of my ass? Is he picturing what’s underneath? My thighs tighten involuntarily, the sensation pooling low in my belly, a slow burn that’s impossible to ignore.

I pedal faster, the rhythmic motion amplifying the pressure between my legs. The wind whips around me, but it’s his gaze that makes me feel exposed and vulnerable in the most delicious way. My imagination runs wild, conjuring up the filthiest scenarios. Is he imagining me with bare skin glistening in the sunlight, his hands gripping my waist as he pulls me closer? My pulse quickens, the heat building with every thought.

The saddle becomes more than just a seat—it’s an extension of him, the firm pressure sending jolts of pleasure through me. My grip on the handlebars tightens, my knuckles white as I fight to keep control. But it’s a losing battle. The sensation is too much, too intense, and I feel myself slipping, teetering on the edge.

The city blurs around me, the sounds of traffic fading into the background as I focus on the rhythm, the pressure, the heat. And then it hits me—a wave of pleasure so intense it leaves me breathless. My body aches, my thighs clamping around the saddle as I come, my vision swimming with white-hot ecstasy. I barely manage to keep my grip on the handlebars, my breath coming in shallow gasps as I ride out the wave.

The world comes back into focus too slowly, and I realize I’m still moving. My legs feel like jelly, but I force myself to stay upright, to keep going. The traffic light ahead turns red, and I slam on the brakes, skidding to a stop just in time. My chest heaves, my face flushed, and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the man beside me.

He pulls up next to me, his bike barely making a sound as he stops. His eyes meet mine. The air between us crackles with unspoken tension, and I wonder if he knows if he can tell what just happened.

His voice breaks the silence, low and smooth.

“Hi.”