The wheel of your car makes an uncomfortable seat but it is the least of your worries if your expression is anything to go by. A scowl undeterred by the apologetic and reassuring glances from the odd mechanic or two busying himself with the all too routine clear up at the end of yet another slog of a race weekend. You couldn’t give a fuck about their half-hearted condolences though, could you? Far too self-absorbed in a childish sulk, because you know you’re the one who screwed it up today and you can’t blame anyone else this time.

How galling is it for you, to admit to your fallibility? Yet again, may I add. Those stupid and careless mistakes out on the track today were so unlike the calculated race you usually drive and don’t you know it. You messed up and I didn’t, as simple as that. I collect and you have the rest of the winter to think about it.

And the team all though you had grown out of the petulant little temper tantrums and silly juvenile mistakes that dogged your early career but you had to go and prove them wrong in the worse possible way.

Don’t bite the hand that feeds you or you’ll end up well and truly fucked.

And it’s all because of the unwelcome realisation that I’m not the pushover you expected or hoped for. I don’t think you can seriously convince me that this was just a bad day at the office, a one-off poor performance by the precocious blue-eyed one. So, what’s the reason then? Am I really winding you up so much, winning the battle you like to think you’ve already won?

They are wrong you know; I’m not the one with a lot to learn. Maybe a little bit of humility would go down well, if you could learn to be a little more gracious in defeat. But then where would the fun be in that for us, for our little agreement? We know the stakes and you’ve been very happy to collect up until now. For all your arrogant bravado, the more perfect-than-thou contempt, a part of you accepts this defeat less grudgingly and more compliantly than you would ever admit to me.

Unsurprisingly, you don’t give me the slightest hint of recognition as I cross the short distance of the garage to where you sit in your despondent musings, giving the wandering mechanics a smile and a nod at their congratulations for job well done which is more than you can deign to give them. I can’t say that I am surprised though when you fail to offer me a similar concession but judging by the way you are slouched forward, shoulders rounded and your chin resting in your hands, you are more than usually pissed off at losing to me, again. Neither does that come as much of a shock, you despise defeat, even more so when it’s by your own hands, when the responsibility lies within yourself. When you’re not as perfect as you like others to believe, including me. I’ve known that from the start, taking perverse pleasure in riling you up and waiting for you to either fight back or crumble.

Today you’ve taken the latter option, retreating into yourself to brood over what could have been and to what you relegated yourself.

Suit yourself, it doesn’t change anything for me, and particularly us.

Whether consciously ignoring me or too far gone in your thoughts to notice when I rest my hands on your shoulders, your eyes remain rooted in remarkable concentration to the scuffed flooring of the garage while the pitlane empties its hoards and leaves us in a relatively strange silence compared with the madness of the afternoon. Normally, you dislike this, such a public display of our relationship, though I don’t really relationship is even the right word. What is it we have? Contract seems more apt, a long term agreement, even a game in the loosest possible sense - played for high stakes which makes the winning all the more sweeter.

But whatever it is, you don’t stir at my presence and you consciously ignore the now the roaming hands working your tensed shoulders. Your muscles, hard and unyielding for now, are weighed heavy with tension, yet you fail to react against my invasion of your personal space as my fingers work considerately at knotted shoulders, trying to ease out the stress with rough caresses around the nape of your neck before working outwards. Then you surprise me, allowing your head to gently lean back against my chest and giving me a view of face -- features that belie an alluring blend of anxiety, desire and frustration, from the stunning innocence of those sapphire eyes to the wickedly pouting lips. A beautiful paradox, yet I know the truth. You are hardly the little innocent that those eyes and that smile suggest. And those lips, fuck, what those lips have done, what profanities they’ve muttered harshly or screamed in urgency when you have behaved anything but the naïve child you pretend to be.

You sigh softly and I take that as encouragement, caressing your shoulders harder and massaging your muscles into wonderful submission. Surprisingly, despite your mood you sigh again, moaning this time more loudly and alerting a few glances in our direction. But the scurrying mechanics simply turn away, consciously ignoring us as they’ve done every race weekend, every test and every promo. Do Frank and Patrick know? Probably, I don’t see how they can have failed to hear the mechanics gossip, or how Gerhard will have failed to mention walking in on our illicit tryst a few weeks back in the garage when his little blue-eyed angel couldn’t wait for the privacy of a hotel room to collect his winnings from me. Fuck, you were hot then, the adrenaline from the race victory coursing through you, tousled and damp with the glean of sweat you just pushed me against the sofa, told me not to make a sound and fucked me until you came with a triumphant yell and forcing me to stifle my own cries of pleasure for your own amusement. I think, if I remember rightly, you swore viciously at him at time, told him to piss off, to fucking leave us to it after you carelessly left the door ajar in your impatience to demand what you had won that afternoon. All I know is he’s never quite looked at us in the same light since, the realisation that his holy little cherub is a foul-mouthed screaming harlot.

You giggled when I called you that, that child-like laugh of yours which just hints of devilish promise wrapped up in the packaging of innocence. No, your innocence, your reputation is as dirty as the once white overalls that you now wear, filthy from the dust and sweat of the track. I know he wants you, he needs you in every way that I take you, and his pain is indisguiseable at seeing you sully that angelic quality that so enthrals him. You’ve completely taken him in with this act you play, and all he can do is mope miserably as you corrupt yourself so willingly with me.

As for the bosses, I doubt they could give a fuck what we do; so long as we keep delivering the results, we could be screwing in the middle of the pitlane for all they care. I’d bet you would like that, the surprising exhibitionist in you. The number of times we have almost been caught out by snooping cameras, by milling fans or other drivers, where I have had to stifle your groans for fear of exposure. You, on the other hand, have never been concerned, positively revelling in the constant threat of discovery. Which surprises me, as you have always been shy of physical contact when in the confines of the garage, in the presence of the team. Yet, inflame your arousal and you suddenly care not who may happen to see us.

Like now, I can see the beginnings of need grow in the depths of those baby blue eyes, and as I begin to place swift kisses down your neck, your whimperings remind me that you are the most vocal and unabashed lover I have had, no consideration for the poor mechanics might hear your groans with embarrassment.

And then, as my hand delves lower, I know you are mine with the groan of my name that leaves your lips breathlessly as I slowly caress the appearing bulge in your overalls. Your murmuring becomes more desperate as arousal takes its hold of you, suddenly forgetting our surroundings and guiding my hand under the overalls that are tied loosely around your waist. A part of me could give you this, just watch you, mesmerised, as you chase release, the flush of your cheeks and the parting of your lips adding to the most beautiful sight there is.

But I have other plans for those lips, yet I let you have a few precious more seconds in this spiral of pleasure for the delight it gives me to hear your voice groaning my name and begging me for more because you are never more beautiful than when you are vulnerable like this. All the more pronounced when I quickly draw my teasing hand from you and you positively whimper with dismay, those blue eyes floundering as your body is denied its release. For all our conflicts, our feuds and our demands, you become wholly mine when tortured in this exquisite manner.

“What the fuck-oh please, fuck just finish it, anything,” you growl, arching back against me with the demanding tone arousal always seems to give you. I hold all the aces this time though, my precious team-mate, and all I give you in consolation is a gentle raking of my fingertips through your blond hair, running down your cheeks to softly fondle your lips. Not the touch you were expecting nor craved, yet you find new uses for that mouth, reaching out to catch my errant fingers with experienced lips and seeking to persuade me with the teasing of your tongue to give you your pleasure.

If people criticise your on-track ability, this is certainly an area where your skill knows no limit; I let you suck my fingers in exchange for my own lips nuzzling against your neck and my free hand running provocatively over your nipples, hardening for me under the thin layer of clothing that protects your body from my gaze. Such a pretty little slut, wandering hands slip down your thighs in a bid to relieve yourself from the cruelty of my torment of you and I watch you for a few moments, feeling the tightened breath in your chest, that gasp of gratification as you indulge yourself in front of me before I decide to make my move and claim my reward, as due.

You cannot restrain a cry of surprise and frustration as my hands reach forward and grasp at your arms, pulling them roughly behind your back so I can watch the aroused body beneath me shake with urgency. Futile to resist, the way you arch back against me repeatedly in a bid to coax me from my restraint only serves to elicit more pleasure for me as you soon realise with the unmistakable swelling of my body pressed roughly against you, rubbing up for tension, for heat, any way to chase this pleasure. And then that giggle again, the one that positively undoes me with its tainted innocence as your head lolls back against my shoulder and you whisper with lascivious intent to ask me what I want.

What do I want? Let me show you what I demand as I push you from your seated position, sprawled out on the wheel whilst your body rests against mine, so that you sink to the floor. By the time you have twisted yourself around, I have taken your seat and now you kneel in front of me, that same salacious and twisted smile on your face as you rest your head on my knee.

“Why should I?” you purr, the hand that had started snaking up my leg finding its way to my groin to tease me with your caress now oblivious to possible audience and intent only on your satisfaction. Yet, I am not to be outdone by you today, you owe me this, our rules give me your surrender and even if they didn’t you would cede this for the gnawing urge in your unsatisfied body.

“Because you’re mine,” I hiss, my breath catching in my throat as you grasp me tighter, “and this is what I want now,” I add, tilting up your chin so I can taste those defiant lips and relish the smirk that remains.

Your teasing continues, leaning over and laying your head in my lap, nestling against my throbbing body, murmuring such promises that it hurts to breathe, my arousal being so strong, so drawn out. Oh, you will give in, but not without a fight, not without having the pleasure of seeing me crack first, of me having to give in and beg you for what you know I am owed.

For pleasure, I am willing to sacrifice that small loss as I urge you for more, unwrapping the overalls tied loosely around my waist and undoing them further. If anyone is watching, it’s the furthest thing on my mind, instead all I can concentrate on in the shock of blond hair bowed down on me and the abrupt jolt of pleasure accompanied with that first contact of your lips on now exposed skin, the first tantalising lick of your tongue sweeping up my erection.

Words fail me as you work your magic, my legs hugging you against my body as my fingers knot in your hair, pushing you further on to me as I lean forward groaning in delight for you to rest my forehead against your head. Your talent coupled with such blatant disregard for our surroundings gives me little time to savour a slow build-up to climax. Instead, it is a sudden rush, but time enough to grab your wrists when impatient hands begin to pleasure yourself. Not yet, you may overwhelm me like this, but I will not lose complete control over your body and when you shift uncomfortably at my denial of your own need, I simply tighten the grip that my legs have around you, taking pleasure in the way you seek for friction against the wheel against which you rest and I sit. But, it is not enough to satisfy and I murmur a taunting litany of how you arouse me, of each and every physical sensation flooding through my veins as I force that pretty little mouth to take me deeper until I come, your name on my lips in a breathless pant.

How anyone can think you’re an angel has obviously never seen you at work, never had you like this nor seen what those deceptively sweet lips can do. Only then does it hit me where we are, but when I finally lift my head after the beating of my heart finally calms to more acceptable levels, I pay little attention to whether we are still alone, more interested in the shivering body still restrained against mine, unmistakably horny. The blue eyes that pierce mine when I tilt your face upwards are screaming out with unsatisfied lust and a wicked idea to make you wait, to suffer the journey back to the hotel in this state, crosses my now satiated mind. However, as you motion roughly against the tyre my legs still hold you tight against, pleading with a quiver of your lower lip for me to give you release, an even more delicious torture crosses my mind and I maintain my hold upon your wrists.

“Who said anything about me having to pleasure you?”

Your eyes widen, frustration mingled with realisation that I am right and that you have, in the past, denied me in such a manner that you cannot complain about my actions now. Your turn now to beg, you pout in such a delightful manner at your predicament but too aroused, you can’t accept it, running kisses up my thighs as you groan for release, promising me anything tonight if I just show you this mercy against our rules. I pull you against the tyre again, watching you squirm with inconsistent sensations before leaning over to lick gently at your ear, whispering for you to continue. You hesitate, wanting more than I am offering; if you can’t have my lips on you then a hand would do, but just so long as you can have some part of me. Too aroused though, I can see it in the way you tremble and I know that you won’t resist this, needing release by any means. That beautiful mouth of yours may have its talents, but you cannot beat mine for words, and you fall easily under my murmured spell, punctuated by teasing nibbles and kisses on your ear which make your body all the more desperate for friction.

“Please touch me,” your voice is little more than a muted whine as you mimic your previous action, raising your eyes to stare into mine, pleading for something, anything from me. I merely watch, using legs that are still wrapped around your body to force you down, words to drive your need further until you are gasping for me, motioning more quickly against the rubber, your eyes now closed and your cheeks flushed with what could be faint embarrassment.

One mercy I give you, leaning down to kiss you, I let your hands break free so that they can loop frantically around my neck, my own sliding up your t-shirt to toy again with your nipples. Along with the friction against your erection from raw rubber masked only by the overalls you still wear, my words tip you over the edge and you sink into my arms with a groan as you climax, your arousal finally satisfied.

You know, I never appreciate how stunning you look like this, flushed, the spaced-out look in those sapphire eyes giving the impression of vulnerability in the aftermath of orgasm. You just sit there, now resting on my lap as your body comes to terms with the sensations that flooded you, with no regard to anything around you.

Beautiful really, I could fall in love with beauty like that.

It will never happen though, not with you and I am sure you would say the same if I ever felt the need to ask you. What we have is not love, it’s barely more than sex. Just lust, that’s all we feel, the search for pleasure as added spice to our working rivalry. Oh, it may sometimes seem like more in the heat of passion, just like emotions can distort reality beyond fact, but it is merely misled tenderness. Like now, as I idly run my fingers through your hair whilst you murmur in satisfaction, it’s nothing to do with sentimentality. Just an instinctive reaction, nothing more.

At least, that is what it used to be, at a time when after this, we would have immediately gone our separate ways with little more than a goodbye to acknowledge what we had done. Now, we sit together as I watch you rest and I cannot remember when this started, when we began to keep each other’s company. When it stops seeming just like a physical contract. That I am even thinking about this is cause enough for concern.

And, as you slowly uncurl and stretch with feline grace to look up at my thoughtful gaze, when did you start to smile at me like that?

I have no answers and I can’t afford to ask those questions, but when I instinctively smile back at you, I wonder if I even have a choice.

~The End.