The Prize

So. This is piece I'm posting in the Literotica 750 Word Project 2021. It's sexual but not erotic, and it's about cycling. If that floats your boat? Read on. If it doesn't?

It's only 750 words. You can spare five minutes. Lol.

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He'd not heard his name announced for years, not since he was a boy winning little races on the roads near La Haye Sainte, but as he gritted his teeth and cranked toward Gourette he figured he just might win today.

"Just get to the top first," Jelle had urged him. "That's all we need you to do. It's the first climb of the day and nobody knows who the fuck you are. Just get away and get to the top first."

He'd blinked. He'd done nothing in his career but finish eighth at the Olympics that one time. "That's it? 'Just get to the top first?' It's the fucking Col d'Aubisque!"

"If we can get a guy over first," Jelle had explained, his voice hardening, "it keeps that French fucker from getting more points. Understand? In King of the Mountains?" Jelle tossed his hair back. "I'm telling you, nobody knows you. They'll let you go, and then? Hard tempo after Eaux-Bonnes, then just grit your teeth and persevere to the sommet. After that?" Jelle shrugged. "Slow down? Drop out? I don't care. It's what the team needs you to do today, right? So do it."

So he was doing it, unbelievably, spending everything as the road crept by with what seemed like a mockery of motion, with nothing in his mind but the pain and nothing in his ears but "Gasoline" by Airborne Toxic Event on continuous repeat, Jelle having declined to waste an earpiece on a rider so junior.

He'd done climbs like this before, always with other riders or way off the back, the spectators already calmed down and eating their lunch after the leaders had gone by; this time? He was it. He was the main event. He was the only target for their cheers, and if any of them were offended that a minor rider from EuroPetrol was coming up first, rather than the French Fuck in his bright polka-dots, they didn't let it show as they cheered him.

The cheers were nice, but he was pushing for a different prize.

He heard himself breathing in great gasps, each one heaving out of his lungs; the distant future, he was well aware, contained vomit, but hopefully only after the sommet. He blinked near the sign for the Valentin waterfall, the sweat flying down his face, at his own name painted across the road; that had never happened before, but then he knew who'd put it there.

Danielle.

She'd been bold last night at the team dinner, standing up at the table with the other soigneurs, announcing in her bad French, "I'll fuck the first man up the Aubisque!" She'd known the plan by then, the whole team knowing that he was supposed to be that man; then Jens was supposed to push to be the first up the Col d'Aspin and, hopefully, Kevin was supposed to top out on the Peyresourde. That would put him in polka dots instead of the French Fuck, and that would be a fine thing for the team, but not as fine as Danielle's pussy...

She'd been coy that morning, avoiding his eye, taking off early with the other support crew; their job on days like this was to hand out descent gear, then ride on to the hotel and get the massage tables set up. If she'd had a can of white spray paint hidden somewhere in those tight clothes over that sweet little body of hers, it hadn't been obvious... but who the fuck else would have painted his name on the road?

Who the fuck else even knew who he was?

The milestone flickered past: almost into Gourette. His mind searched through its hypoxic haze: what, three hundred vertical meters left? A bit more? It seemed so short, and as he entered the town and felt his legs surge at the baying of the crowd, packing both sides of the street, their breath all around, he picked up his pace and swung up out of the saddle, flying now.

But they kept screaming even after he was past, and he knew what that meant.

His lungs exploding, he crawled up the final slope, the inflatable arch bobbing ahead, loudspeakers wailing, and when he topped the rise with the French Fuck in pursuit, his eyes rolled sideways as he crossed the sommet.

Danielle stood there, applauding, nipples hard. She winked at him. Maybe they'd award him the red numbers for tomorrow, but his real reward would be tonight.