Wide Open, a story by Red Racer, M/M, celeb, anal
Author's Note: While reference is made to events which occurred in "Fucking the Champion", this story is a self-contained work. As before, this is fiction. No implication or allegation is made regarding the sexuality of the characters.
Comments welcome at red-racer@iname.com
Three laps left to run on the one and a half mile twisting street circuit that was Long Beach, the jewel in the crown of the CART circuit and the one they all wanted to win, feeling the car dance underneath him as it launched itself off the curbs, his hands a blur on the steering wheel as he corrected it, familiar now and adapting to the unnatural quarter-of-an-hour-counterclockwise position of the wheel as a result of a steering arm bent almost beyond functioning but fuck, he was still running, still in the hunt, challenging for the lead now, and Jesus he'd thought it was all over, thought his only chance now was to maybe set a fastest lap and get that Omega watch, one of which he had already for winning the championship the year before but hey - better than nothing, better than trailing in as an also-ran after going a lap down after a series of incidents that had seen him parked at the hairpin caught up in an incident he had nothing to do with, gesturing for the marshals to push-start him and get him the fuck out of this melee...
Three laps to go; Bryan in front, the radio dead long ago, not hearing what he could imagine Chip yelling at him but knowing, imagining the screamed imprecations to //push, go faster, you bastard//, tasting his own sweat, his exhaustion, that numb, unfeeling sensation of pushing and wringing everything he had out of muscles that screamed and protested with fatigue, every blink of his eye flicking drops of water onto the inside of his visor, the force of the Gs pulling, dragging the moisture to the corner of his eyes as he braked hard for the hairpin, so close to Bryan now, Dario in his mirrors, the green and white car of the third-place runner a continual reminder not to screw this up; wide open now, foot to the floor, 185 miles per hour on the start-finish straightaway and the car was part of him, responding to him, and for the first time he let the thought register: I can win this.
//Tell me to stop, Alex. Tell me to stop and I will.//
Jimmy... the thought was gone as soon as it had come. There was nothing else now, nothing but him and the car and his will to win, like an instinctive striving, a need inside him to not give up, to give everything, to reach inside himself and pull the last ounce of stamina and speed from the depths of his being like a fucking barbed wire strand through his entrails and there was a puff of smoke as Bryan locked up his right front tire going into the turn and he braked hard, going down four gears into second, trying to get alongside the black and white Shell car and feeling his own car get away from him, kicking against his control, pulling at the leash of the hold he had on it; a not-so-gentle reminder, bringing his focus, his concentration back to the here and now.
//Taking Jimmy's cock into his body, throwing his head back in that instant of hard, sweet pain; riding his team mate slowly, taking him in deep and slow, feeling the Californian's hands on his hips pulling him down, feeling that hot hardness fill him, stretch him, fire his nerve endings so that this ecstasy, this world of sensation was centered within him, and he heard himself give a sob of pain and sheer fucking rapture and he leaned forward with his palms on Jimmy's chest and looked down and their eyes locked and he saw the hungry, wolfish grin on his team mate's face as Jimmy shut his eyes and turned his head to the side, moaning; saw that look of rapture and sheer fucking disbelief that sex could ever be as good as this... //
The explosive boom of unburned fuel as he slammed up through the gears; first, second, third, up to fifth on the straight: the nose of his car almost touching Bryan's rear wheel as they both braked hard, down to second for the turn, going through nose-to-tail on the limits of adhesion, riding that fine line where over-ambition was a dancing- partner to defeat; where one ill-timed maneuver could mean the difference between ending up in the wall instead of on the podium, as they came out of the left-hander as if they were tied together by an invisible tow-rope and roared down the back straight on Seaside Way. The sweat streamed down his face and the vibrations of the turbo- charged V8 engine at his back were part of him, melded so inexorably into the rhythm of his own body, of the heart slamming in his chest, of the adrenaline fizzing through his veins that it felt like the car was part of him, an extension of his own flesh, an extension of his own desire to win this. Careful now... wait.
Wait.
Bide your time. Keep the pressure up. Let the guy in front know you're there, that you're not going away and if he makes a mistake you'll capitalize on it. He felt the material of his flame-proof gloves tear at the blisters on his palms, sticking to wet, raw flesh as he gripped the steering wheel like a drowning man clinging to a life-belt. As he pressed his foot to the floor the sound of the engine shrieked and echoed against the concrete walls on either side of him like a psychotic in the throes of full mental breakdown. His muscles screamed with cramp and as he took the turn every bump over the curbing went up through his spine like an electric jolt. The tiredness in his forearms made them feel like lead.
//Suck me. Suck my fucking cock.//
//No.//
With only two laps to go, Bryan, struggling on worn tires, slid wide going through Turn 3. The chance came and he took it. Punching the overtake button on the steering wheel, feeling the car surge underneath him as a burst of full-rich power from the engine hurtled him forward, he dived alongside the leader, was conscious of Bryan lifting off because this was a do-or-die, everything-or-nothing shot, and in his mirror he could see the nose of the black and white car fall behind and he was through. He was dimly aware of Bryan struggling to hold off the third place runner and failing but it didn't matter any more and he started to put distance between himself and the rest of the field, leaving them all behind, and he was on the last lap now, aware of a dim roar outside his helmet, a tide of sound washing over him as the crowd of over one hundred thousand spectators rose to their feet and as he crossed the start-finish line to take the checkered flag he punched the air.
The packed grandstands were a blur of exhaustion and triumphant delirium. He struggled with the belts, got them undone, and in between jabs of the throttle he raised himself out of the car, punching his fist in the air again and again as he took the victory lap and the crowds acknowledged him and gave him his due. He knew he'd just pulled off one of the greatest, against-all-the-odds wins in racing history. He knew, too, as the belts loosened their constricting, almost blood- stopping grip around his crotch, that his cock was hard, swollen with blood, straining against the seams of his race suit, making its presence felt, demanding attention. //Jimmy.// Memories of a Monterey hotel room, a breeze from an open window, flesh sliding against flesh, Jimmy's mouth on him //don't stop//, the hardness of the Californian's cock inside him //hurts//, his team mate's reassurances, that voice, those hands and the prick inside him urging him towards helpless, violent orgasm. And their subsequent couplings; moments caught here and there on the road, desire sometimes coming dangerously close to indiscretion, grinning like idiots at each other at the track even while fans snapped pictures of them from a distance; Jimmy resting his chin briefly on his shoulder as they looked at telemetry printouts during an uncharacteristically quiet moment in the transporter, pressing back against his team mate and feeling Jimmy move his hips gently against him in response, feeling the Californian smile against his neck as his own breathing quickened in response even as they heard voices approaching...
He steered the car into the pit lane and towards the winner's circle, and the all-hail-the-conquering-hero joyous reception of his crew, the podium celebration and Chip's congratulations passed like a blur, a fever dream that he was too wired to make sense of amidst the euphoria of winning and the crowds were beginning to disperse, reporters scuttling off to file their reports on how the great Zanardi had done it again and how this time not even a damaged car could stop him. He could hardly speak for tiredness and realization of a victory that was only now starting to sink in. And Jimmy - where had he finished? He wanted to ask Chip but the team owner was busy congratulating the crew, and rightly so. It had taken the crew chief half a dozen blows with a wrench and a great deal of brute strength to straighten the recalcitrant steering arm back into some semblance of workability during that second pit stop. But it was his team mate he wanted to see now.
"Jimmy - where'd he finish? Where is he?" //I can't celebrate this without him.//
A young mechanic, a new kid who'd only been with the team a month, offered shyly: "He finished eighth. Fourth gear started crapping out on him just before his last pit stop. He told me to tell you that he went back to the transporter." The mechanic, young, handsome, blazing blue eyes accompanied by a shock of blond hair, paused, and added reverently, "Man, that was an awesome job you did out there."
The expression of awe on the kid's face was unmistakable, and he felt gratified but a little awkward too as he said, "Thank you. Thank you very much. But I don't think I can take all the credit. Sometimes you need a little luck, too. And a good crew."
The kid beamed at him, and while he returned the smile his thoughts turned once more to his team mate, and urgency gripped him again.
"You said Jimmy has gone back to the transporter?"
"Yeah - just a few minutes ago."
"Thanks." As he took one of the scooters from behind the timing stand and roared off through the paddock, he could feel the kid's eyes still on him. He couldn't be sure, but besides the awe-struck admiration there was almost a knowing look in the young man's eyes as he'd delivered his message. He pushed the thought aside; right now it wasn't important.
The gleaming white transporter with the Target/Chip Ganassi Racing logo and the big red bull's-eye on the side looked deserted. No crew, no team personnel, no sign of anyone except for the lone motor scooter which sat parked under the awning beside a stack of tires: an unlikely and unusual oasis of calm in the bustle of a street circuit paddock.
He pulled up beside the other scooter. He could hear distant voices from the transporter on the other side - the one that carried the cars and spares for the #12 side of the team, Jimmy's side - but they sounded few, and there was no activity, nor any sound, coming from the truck as he stepped inside. It took a moment to adjust to the artificial strip lighting after the blazing sunlight outside; he breathed in the smells of oil, polish and assembly grease and squinted down the aisle, sensing movement at the far end beyond the conference area, beneath the upper deck where the cars were loaded.
His team mate stood with his back to him, race suit shucked off his shoulders and tied loosely round his waist, light brown hair disheveled and darkened at the tips with sweat, Nomex tee shirt creased and damp after the exertion of two hours strapped inside a race car. He watched as Jimmy, seemingly unaware of his approach, wadded up his Nomex balaclava and gloves into his helmet and put the helmet down deliberately and slowly on a nearby tool chest. He stood, watching the Californian, admiring the view for its own sake, the aesthetic attractiveness of the taut muscle and sinew apparent in the arm that laid the helmet aside, the twitch of pectorals under Nomex as his team mate moved, the look on his team mate's face that was at once a challenge and a come-on as Jimmy turned and saw him.
"Hey. The champ returns. That was some pretty sharp driving out there, Zanardi."
He remembered the electric heat that had flooded through him when he'd made his move on Bryan, the hardness of his cock against the tight restraints of the harness, that feeling of sheer fucking invincibility because he'd drop-kicked the rest of the field into oblivion and - how did that wonderfully expressive American phrase go? Oh yes, //ripped them a new one// - and he shut his eyes briefly for a moment as he heard the crowd again, roaring him home. They'd remember this one for a long time; another chapter in the story of the legend.
And he remembered again where his thoughts had been during those crucial last laps and he opened his eyes and Jimmy was walking towards him with that easy, assured swagger, and his team mate's arousal was obvious and unmistakable and the grin on Jimmy's face was feral and teasing, predatory and triumphant: he saw all these things in his team mate's eyes and he swore softly in Italian - "Bastardo..." and tangled his fist in the Californian's tee shirt and pulled him towards him and locked his mouth on Jimmy's, moaning as he forced his tongue inside. He put one arm around Jimmy and pulled him closer while his team mate's hands slid down his back and into his race suit to cup his ass; the tip of a finger brushed with possessive assuredness across his asshole and he groaned. After the exertion of winning the race he needed this release, needed proof of his team mate's desire for him, proof that was all too evident in the sizeable hard-on that pressed insistently against his own, separated by nothing but layers of fireproof clothing and the faint but nagging trepidation that someone could come in and see them.
He pushed Jimmy away, savoring the taste of his team mate as Jimmy's mouth crooked upwards in a smile of lust and wanton amusement and the Californian breathed: "Fucker. You think you're something, huh, Zanardi?"
"Better fucking believe it."
The predatory look in Jimmy's eyes was still there, but two could play at that game, and he hadn't claimed his prize yet, hadn't claimed what was rightfully his; oh yeah, he'd won the race, won the adulation of the crowd and the team, but the one thing that really mattered to him, the one person whose admiration and respect really mattered, was here, now, and they were alone, and the voices from the other transporter and all the sound and fury of a race weekend, the noise and the crowds, were far away, and there was a bead of sweat sliding slowly down his team mate's brow and he saw the heat in Jimmy's eyes and felt his own erection twitch as if in sympathy.
Jimmy nodded in acknowledgement. "I take it the kid gave you the message."
"Yes."
"I've been waiting."
"I know."
"So." The voice was taunting, almost antagonistic. "What the fuck are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?" He felt his team mate's fingertips brush lightly against his crotch, against the ridge of hard flesh that throbbed under the layers of Nomex, and he wrenched the Californian's hand away and with his hands on Jimmy's chest pushed him away from him, making his team mate stagger backwards. His words when he spoke sounded guttural and urgent.
"Turn around and put your hands on the wall."
"Fucking make me."
The grip he laid on Jimmy's arms was strong enough to bruise, and he saw a flicker of anger in Jimmy's eyes; the bruises would be there a week, and when they made love after their triumphant one-two result at Nazareth three weeks later he'd beg his team mate to inflict bruises of his own, because they shared everything, even pain inflicted in the midst of ecstasy.
"Alex." To hear Jimmy say his name, to hear it spoken like a curse, a prayer and a benediction, with reverence and insolence and love and antagonism all at once, to watch as the Californian slowly backed away from him and turned to face the wall of the transporter, resting his weight on his hands as he leaned against the polished metal, offering himself to him; to hear Jimmy's breathing become quick and shallow as he slid his hands around over Jimmy's chest and down to his waist, pushing his team mate's tee shirt up so he had access to the hot, damp skin underneath, sliding his palms over the light dusting of hair on Jimmy's chest and caressing nipples already hard and erect with arousal; no-one would come in, he knew, because this was their time, and he nipped the back of Jimmy's neck with his teeth, gnawing gently as he prepared to mount his team mate, savoring this opportunity to be the aggressor because what felt right to them was that Jimmy should take the initiative, that Jimmy should penetrate him, because the feel of the Californian's cock inside him was something he craved so much he'd thought he'd go crazy without his team mate sometimes, and he knew he craved not just his team mate's cock but his closeness, his companionship, his love.
He kicked Jimmy's feet apart, moving him roughly into position, and stepping back he dragged down the zip on his own race suit, shrugging out of it impatiently, letting the arms trail on the floor as he dug his hand down and felt the sticky, urgent hardness of his cock, rubbed his thumb over the swollen wetness of the head as a stream of precum soaked into his shorts and he groaned, "Oh, God..."
"Do you remember - " Jimmy's voice, cutting clearly through the fog of his almost frenzied arousal like a steady counterbalance to the impatient craving he felt now - "Do you remember, at Laguna Seca last year, when I told you how much I wanted you?"
"Yes." His voice came out in a low, strangled groan.
"I wanted to fuck you, right then, in the motorhome. But we didn't. I wanted to kiss you, but you told me no."
"Jimmy -"
"And when I got you to the hotel, when you spread your legs for me and let me put my cock inside you, when I shot my load inside you and you cried out and you told me you'd never let another man touch you, I swore then that if another man ever did touch you, I'd kill him, and then I'd kill you. And now you wanna fuck me. I don't think you can. I don't think you have the fucking balls. I don't think you really want this. I think you're too fucking used to taking it up the ass that now you've got me, you don't know what to do with me."
He laughed, and felt amusement and rage in equal measure. "I'm gonna make you feel this, Jimmy. I'm gonna fuck you so hard, you'll wish you'd never been born."
"Then do it. Slam it into me. Rape me. Put your mark on me. Claim what's yours."
It was what he'd been waiting to hear. He pushed himself up against Jimmy, gripping his team mate's hips so hard he could feel the bone through the layers of material, bone that lay beneath skin he'd caressed and loved and bone that he could break if he wanted to. "You don't know," he slurred. "You don't know what I could do to you. You think I give a fuck about you when I'm not with you? You mean nothing to me."
And he heard Jimmy's scorn-filled laughter, and his team mate say quietly: "You know how I feel about you."
Jimmy twisted his head around, and they kissed again, awkwardly.
"I won, today, Jimmy," he breathed, resting his head against the other's forehead for a moment. "Can you believe that? I won. After all that happened to me, to my car... I shouldn't even have finished the race at all, let alone on the top step of the podium..."
"So claim your prize."
"I love you, Jimmy," he groaned.
"I know."
He pushed Jimmy's race suit impatiently down over his hips, urged on by his team mate's voice - "Yeah, that's it, baby - " pushing his own race suit down far enough to free his own erection, feeling the cloying and sultry heat that surrounded them, the sweat that trickled like quicksilver down his ribs and down the channel of his spine and between his pectorals.
"Alex. Someone could come in. Doesn't that worry you?"
"No."
He slid his hand into the fly of Jimmy's shorts and closed his hand around his team mate's hard-on, squeezed his balls with a grip that threatened to hurt but didn't.
"No. Why should it worry me? All they'll see is the winner of today's race fucking his team mate, slamming his cock into his team mate's ass, giving him the fucking he deserves. What's so strange about that?"
He heard Jimmy's laughter as he roughly pushed his team mate's shorts down to gather in folds around his thighs, hawked spit into his hand and wrenched the Californian's cheeks apart to expose the darker, wrinkled flesh of his asshole, slathering his saliva, viscous and thick from the dehydration he'd suffered during the race, into Jimmy's cleft while he reached down to pull at his own cock and delay this moment of penetration, savoring this moment of dominance.
"Fuck me, you piece of shit."
He needed no encouragement. He slathered Jimmy's hole with a last mouthful of saliva, stood back and admired his team mate's semi- nakedness for a moment while he gripped his cock, feeling it jump under his fingers, feeling so close now; he peeled back his foreskin, groaning with the exquisite sense of pleasurable discomfort this produced, and a long, clear stream of precum drooled slowly from his slit, broke, and fell onto the polished floor of the Target/Chip Ganassi transporter.
"Come on, fucker. Show me what you've got."
His reply was terse. "Be quiet. Don't speak; don't make a sound."
He rubbed the head of his cock slowly up and down Jimmy's cleft and across his hole, teasing him, feeling Jimmy's asshole open and clench reflexively around him, trying to grab him inside; Jimmy pushed back against him, trying to take him in and he held back a little, torturing his team mate, making him wait for it, heightening the expectation. He laughed gently. This teasing was no less than Jimmy had done to him in the past; he had learned from a master and was repaying this now with interest.
Jimmy swore and reached back and gripped his thigh, sinking his nails into his skin, making him hiss with pain, and he grabbed the Californian's wrist and pushed his hand back up against the wall, linking his fingers through his team mate's to hold it there while with his other hand he took his cock and aimed it at Jimmy's hole and pushed, encountering resistance before feeling the muscle give and then open around him, allowing his cock to slide inside, and he threw his head back and let out a soundless cry as the Californian's sphincter contracted and drew him in further, sheathing his cock in hot, sliding flesh, gripping it, massaging it. "Oh god, you feel so good - so warm inside - " His words came out in a rush, an exclamation of disbelief that this was what Jimmy must feel every time he let the Californian inside him. Jimmy moved impatiently, trying to fuck back against him, and he gripped his team mate's hips again and held him still.
"Don't. Don't move. I'm very close."
He let his breath out slowly, trying to still the slamming of his heart, feeling Jimmy's heart beating under his hands while all around them they heard the muted sounds of a champ car paddock on race weekend: voices, shouting, laughing, the faint buzz of the crowd, the sudden, urgent rev of an engine, the clatter and whine of hydraulic lifts as race cars were loaded back onto their transporters for the long trip back home to Indianapolis. This was crazy, what they were doing. It was insanity; if someone should come in and see them joined like this, ass to crotch, sweating, half naked, then they'd be wide open to blackmail, humilation, god only knew what, and he almost pulled out of his team mate, thinking they could finish this later at a safer time and in a safer place, safe from interruption and an outside world that might condemn them if it knew. And then he felt Jimmy squeeze him again, and he flexed his cock once inside the Californian and heard Jimmy give a shallow groan in response as his team mate grew slowly more accustomed to the massive bulk inside him. Their pit crews would be back very soon. They didn't have much time.
He began to move, slowly, feeling the suck and pull of Vasser's insides; he withdrew all the way, slowly, deliberately, and then eased back inside his partner with such exquisite slowness that Jimmy groaned and clenched himself around him as if to make his entry tighter, to heighten the sensation for both of them, the sensation he was feeling now on every ridge of his cock, every vein, every last fucking nerve ending that screamed out for release, for the logical climax of an afternoon that had already brought him so much gratification. He stayed still inside Jimmy for another moment while he leaned his torso away far enough to be able to pull off his own Nomex tee shirt and as he dropped it to the floor and felt the sweat begin to evaporate on his body he looked down and saw the Californian's ass, tightly muscled and with skin paler than the rest of him, nestled snug against his crotch and Jesus this felt so fucking good, so absolutely right, and he put his arms around his team mate and murmured, "Take your shirt off", and Jimmy complied, allowing him to help him pull it over his head, and he pressed his chest against the hot skin of Jimmy's back, feeling the heat of their bodies meld them, and he moved slowly back and forth, brushing his already hard nipples against his team mate's skin, hearing Jimmy groan, "Oh, fuck - Zanardi - "
And his team mate spoke, and the words fired him, made him shudder, made his cock twitch once again inside his team mate, made him want to dominate and hurt and love in equal measures, made him want to revel in the role of alpha male now, because he knew that the next time he got naked with this man, like all the times before, he'd remember how it felt, Jimmy fucking him, and he'd cry out for Jimmy to put his cock inside him. But not now; not today. To the victor the spoils.
"Alessandro. I remember: the first time I fucked you, I hurt you. I didn't wanna hurt you, and I'm sorry. But when you ride my cock - oh Jesus, come on now, baby, move inside me, move that fucking cock - yeah, when you ride me, when you cry out when you come, it's just you and me then baby, just you and me, no-one else. And now I want you to hurt me. This is your payback. Fuck me. Use me."
He tangled his fist in Jimmy's hair and slammed his team mate's cheek up against the wall, and with his other hand he reached around and dug his hand down to squeeze Jimmy's balls so that his team mate gave a hoarse gasp of pain and moved back against him. "Like this?" he hissed. "Do you like this?" and without waiting for an answer he started fucking the Californian as if this was the last time he'd ever fuck anyone.
He bred his team mate like a stallion in rut, pushing Jimmy away from him on each out-stroke and pulling him back by the hips with a savagery that increased the friction ten-fold; he'd pull out until only the head of his prick was inside that hot slick channel and drive it home, trying hard not to cry out as the sensations being transmitted through his cock ignited with firecracker explosions at the base of his skull. Nothing he'd ever felt could ever come close to this; their bodies were custom-made for one another and when he'd first met his team mate he'd seen the look in Jimmy's eye that had told him he was wanted, desired, that a physical attraction existed between them. He'd known - and feared - that it would only be a matter of time before the bond they'd established between them grew beyond friendship; it had taken time, and sleepless nights, and a guilt-racked questioning of that part of him that responded to these feelings. It was only once he'd won the championship and the pressure was off him that he'd realized his team mate was hurting, losing hope, that Jimmy had felt ignored, rejected, that the Californian was beginning to feel desperation and resentment and that the tension between them was strained to breaking. Laguna Seca, the race in which he'd wrapped up the championship, had been the turning point for both of them. And while he knew that what they had meant more than sex, sex was at this moment all that was important now.
Drops of sweat flew from their hard-muscled, race-weary bodies; he felt every flex of Jimmy's frame, every movement of muscle and sinew and the force and power in the excitement that drove them until he felt that his team mate's body was an extension of his own, just as his car had become part of him in the last few laps before he took the checker. His race suit slithered down his thighs; his balls, loose and heavy in their sac, slapped against his team mate's ass on each deep, quick thrust. The breathing of both men was loud and hoarse in the stillness of the transporter. He hooked his chin over Jimmy's shoulder as they fucked, his cheek against his team mate's.
"C'mon, Zanardi. Is this the best you can do, you piece of shit? Move it deeper. Make me feel it."
He perversely and deliberately slowed his pile-driver thrusts, rotating his hips in unhurried, teasing circles, grinding his pelvis against Jimmy's ass, running his hands languidly over Jimmy's hot skin as the Californian uttered muffled curses and protests; he looked down again and watched his cock, big, thick-veined, slick and shiny from his team mate's juices, sliding in and out of Jimmy's ass, marveling at the way it looked, and he gloried in his own strength, his vigor, the oiled suppleness of his movements: he cast a glance over Jimmy's tousled head and saw himself in the polished metal of the transporter: 31 years old, in peak condition, his face in shadow, his hair a halo of sweat-peaked tufts, his forearms bulging with muscle as he wrapped his arms around his team mate. He ran his hands over Jimmy's chest again; the tensed steel of the pectorals, down to the bunched muscles of Vasser's stomach clenching hard against his palms as the movements of the thick invader inside his bowels convulsed the Californian with pleasure. Jimmy's eyes were closed, his mouth half open; the expression on his face was one of almost Dionysiac rapture.
He pulled out, heard Jimmy give a hoarse, angry snarl of loss, and he roughly shoved two fingers past the forgiving barrier of his team mate's sphincter and cried out at the slick warmth that surrounded them: to feel where his cock had been only an instant before, to know that some of this wetness, this lubrication had been caused by him, was enough to make him force his prick roughly back inside his team mate, and as he felt his orgasm building he put his forearm across Jimmy's throat and his other hand over Vasser's mouth to muffle his team mate's cries. Sometimes he hated this craving that gripped him, hated Jimmy even as he desired him, because no-one else had ever made him feel this way, and he was punishing his partner now, punishing him even as he made love to him, because they couldn't go on like this -
And he felt Jimmy squeeze him again from the inside, squeeze him with flesh hot and wet and slick and sucking, and he felt his balls draw up and a rapture of heat flood over him and he gasped, "Oh fuck Jimmy I'm gonna come - " and as he exploded inside his team mate he heard Jimmy give a fierce, triumphant exhalation - "Oh yeah, motherfucker - " and fuck back against him urgently, frantically, bracing himself with his hands against the wall, and he closed his fingers around Jimmy's cock and felt his team mate's semen spill over his fingers to drip in long strings onto the floor and down the front of the banked tool chests in thick, viscous ropes, and the hard, rhythmic clenching of Jimmy's asshole around his cock made him come again into that squeezing, sliding heat, and he threw his head back and rammed one last time as far up inside his team mate as Jimmy could take it and they were still, tensed against one another as the remnants of the Californian's cum dripped over his fingers and he pumped another load of his semen deep inside his team mate.
He stayed inside Jimmy for several long moments until his cock grew soft, and wordlessly, Jimmy reached over to pull his balaclava out of his helmet and passed it to him. He pulled out gently and held the Nomex material against Jimmy's cleft to catch the drips of his cum and he wiped himself off and then Jimmy and then passed the sodden material back to his team mate. As they both readjusted their underwear and race suits and Jimmy swept the balaclava over the front of the tool chest and wadded it up and dropped it on the tool chest lid he heard again the roar of the crowd, felt again the ecstasy of passing the leader in his inexorable, unstoppable run from last to first, the flood of adrenaline through his body and the rush of blood to his cock, and as Jimmy straightened up against him, his chest moving in and out, he put his arms back around the Californian and gave a deep, contented sigh. He ran his lips along Jimmy's neck, tasting his team mate's sweat and exhaustion. Jimmy turned and they kissed again, laughing a little in each other's mouths, both a little self-conscious now that the act was over and the first flood of elation had worn off. This part of their relationship was still relatively new to them after all, and they had not yet grown so comfortable with one another that they were able to totally switch off their desire for each other while at the track. The more time they spent together, the greater this desire grew; all he knew was that he was happier with Jimmy than when they were apart.
"You did it today, baby," Jimmy whispered softly, and he laughed quietly in response, basking still in the afterglow of having fucked his team mate.
"Well. Sometimes luck goes your way. I'm sorry to hear you had gearbox problems. I wish you could have been on the podium with me."
"Me too, buddy. I got fourth gear back after my last stop and with all that happened out there today I guess I'm just glad I finished that high."
He put his palm against Jimmy's cheek for a second, and their breaths mingled as he leaned towards his team mate again and they kissed once more, gently, not so urgently this time. "Did you hear the crowd for me, Jimmy? I could hear them inside my helmet. Like an ocean. I couldn't believe they were all cheering for me." Their eyes met in the dim electric light and both men laughed softly. He put his hand on Jimmy's shoulder and shook it, awkwardly, affectionately.
And he shut his eyes and laughed as he remembered those last laps again, felt himself buoyed by the triumph of pulling off the impossible and the joy of sharing his triumph with Jimmy, and then the roar of the crowd faded and dissipated to become one single sound, one voice that sounded for a moment far away and a voice that he did not at first recognize. And he felt Jimmy's head turn and his team mate's body go suddenly tense and trembling-wire taut against him, and recognition followed swiftly on the heels of the realization that they were not the only ones in the transporter and the adrenaline rush was gone to be replaced by an icy flood of fear and panic.
It was with a sick sense of inevitability and the awful knowledge that he had somehow participated in bringing this doom upon them that he turned his own head and saw the kid standing in a square of bright light from the open door of the transporter, the same kid who'd given him the message in the winner's circle, the same kid whose eyes had betrayed the awareness of something no-one else knew except for him and his team mate. Jesus, no, not this, not to be found out this way, not to have it all end like this -
Jimmy was the first to regain his composure, and he felt the tension relax a little from the Californian's body. "Tim." The tone in Jimmy's voice made it sound like a friendly salute, and he felt like screaming: //No, God, this isn't what it looks like, it's not... we didn't...//
The kid looked down at the floor, awkwardly, and when he raised his eyes again and spoke he saw that it was difficult for the young mechanic to keep his composure. And he looked down at the kid's groin and saw the reason why, saw the obvious bulge in his crotch, and he knew then why the tension in Jimmy's body has disappeared so quickly as he'd appraised the situation. Jesus, how long had the kid been standing there, watching them? Had he seen everything? He hadn't heard anyone come in, had been too engrossed in his team mate's body; his attention had been nowhere else. He turned his face away, letting his arms slip from Jimmy's waist as he took a step back, putting space between them. He felt the tears come. They would be barely friends after this, let alone what they had been to each other until now. He saw it all in his mind's eye: the frosty glances shot his way, the cold silences between them; the studied avoidance of the subject by the other team members while they were around them, the snide remarks, the sniggering laughter, the gossip swirling around other team's pit crews about how the two Ganassi hotshots had been caught screwing in the transporter, how they had become more than just team mates. And Daniela. His wife. The woman he'd chosen to spend his life with. Word would get back to her. No: he'd have to tell her before she heard it from someone else. He shut his eyes, his hands balled into fists, the anger and despair welling up inside him: it would be impossible now to keep both these parts of his life separate from each other. And to lose what he had with Jimmy... No. No.
"So, was there anything you wanted?" He heard the deliberate offhandedness in Jimmy's voice, heard too the barely concealed edge of fear-induced anger.
"Look, fuck, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I just - I just wanted to tell you that the rest of the guys are about fifteen minutes behind me, probably less. I tried to keep them all back as long as I could, but..."
He looked again past Jimmy at the kid and saw the blue eyes raised apologetically, saw his own embarrassment mirrored in them, and something else - arousal, understanding, sympathy.
"Thanks," Jimmy said softly.
"So, okay. I'll be outside while you... uh. Look - " The kid raised his eyes again. "I won't tell anyone. I'm not like that. I think it's cool that you guys... well - I mean, I didn't see that much - "
He felt a gradual uncoiling in his gut as he realized the kid was as uncomfortable as they were at being caught in this situation.
Jimmy nodded in the general direction of below the kid's waist. "Maybe you better give yourself some time to cool off too, before you go back out there."
"Yeah, I guess." The blond head turned away in embarrassment as the kid reached down to adjust himself. He turned and looked at them a last time before he left, and he returned the kid's gaze steadily, no longer afraid.
"I guess I've known for a while now. The way you spend so much time together. The way you are with each other. The other guys don't suspect anything. They just think you're real close - as friends. Which you are, I know that, but I guess I'm just on a different wavelength from most of them. And I'm sorry again that I surprised you like that. Jeez, no wonder you looked pissed. But you both looked kinda hot, too, when I came in and saw you... Congrats again on that awesome win, by the way. That was one of the coolest things I've ever seen." The kid nodded once to him, and then was gone, and they heard the click of the transporter's door as it closed behind him.
He felt Jimmy touch him. "Jesus fucking Christ. Are you okay?"
"Well, I can't say that being walked in on while in the middle of sex has ever been a great turn-on for me." He tried to form a smile and almost succeeded. In the stifling narrowness of the transporter's confines he could smell the sharp, mingled aromas of their sweat and cum.
"Alex, the kid isn't gonna say anything. Trust me."
Panic filled him. "How do you know? How could you possibly know that for sure? Jimmy - if he tells someone, we're both finished, you know that, don't you? No more sponsorship, no renewal of contract. And you are not married. You have nothing to lose in that respect. Oh, God - "
He felt Jimmy's hands tighten on his shoulders. "Alex, the kid isn't going to say anything because in the short time he's been on the team I've gotten to know him and he's a good kid. He's also gay, and he's not gonna run to the rest of the guys and tell them what he's seen because he knows how tough it is to be anything other than straight whitebread heterosexual in this business. There's a reason why I asked him to tell you where I was, and not someone else. So far as I know him, I trust him. Besides, I kinda think he has a massive crush on both of us. And he was virtually bowing before you as he went out the fucking door. If the great Zanardi wants to plow his team mate in the transporter as part of his victory celebration, well, who the hell is he to argue?"
"Please don't joke about it."
"I'm not, baby, I'm sorry. But we'll be okay. And Christ, now I've got you, do you think I'd let something like this change what we have, huh?" The twinkle in Jimmy's eye was back.
"No," he said, "but this was stupid. Stupid. We should have waited until later, until we were really alone..." Frantically contrite, he blurted out: "My God, Jimmy, this was my fault, I wanted to - "
"Don't. We both wanted this. And I'll tell you something." Jimmy leaned close to him and brushed his lips against the Italian's mouth and then along his cheek to his ear. "You may not believe this, but we're not the only ones."
"Oh?" he said, drawing back a little, his fear replaced by curiosity. "Who?"
"I'll tell you later. Right now I'm off to see a mechanic about a malfunctioning transmission. Catch you back at the hotel, stud."
"Jimmy - "
The Californian stopped and turned, and the reassurance in his voice relaxed him. "I know, buddy. I know. But we'll be fine. Things will be okay. And I know what you're wondering. No, I haven't fucked the kid. Since Laguna Seca, you've been the only one."
He nodded back; it was a question he hadn't particularly wanted to ask but was glad nonetheless to have it answered. Remembering something else, he cast a panicked glance at the empty work surface.
"Looking for this?" The Californian held up the helmet, with the wadded-up, stained balaclava inside it, just visible under the gloves stuffed on top of it, and smiled. The door closed behind Jimmy and he was alone, hearing his team mate greet approaching voices, replying to one: "Yeah, Zanardi's in there, but I'd leave him alone for a couple of minutes; I think he's sulking a bit because they didn't let him do donuts this time." There was a chorus of good-natured laughter in response.
He shut his eyes, feeling again the warmth of his team mate's insides around his cock, still shaking inside a little from the events that had followed. And then he remembered his win, remembered standing there on top of his race car, his cock still semi-erect with triumph, the crowd roaring its approval, and he felt his pride return and with it jubilation and defiance. They'd be okay. He remembered the kid's awkwardness and knew Jimmy was right. The kid wouldn't tell. And anyway, even if there was talk, well, people would believe what they wanted to anyway, one way or the other. And there, in the stillness of the team transporter, just for a moment he put himself in the kid's shoes, tried to picture himself and Jimmy fucking as the kid must have seen them, and the blood rushed to his groin once more as he imagined how they must have looked: this magnificent mating of two athletes in their prime, this bonding of warriors, this fucking of champions.
He took in another deep breath and waited until his desire subsided enough to face the world outside. Then, after casting a last glance around him and ascertaining that his surroundings were more or less the way they'd found them, he straightened his shoulders, quickly ran a hand through his sweat-mussed hair in preparation for the reporters and photographers, and exited the transporter into the bright sunshine of the paddock.
End