"Take a ride," they said. "It'll be fun," they said.
But climbing in next to him in a car that's probably worth more than your house, you're terrified.
Of course, it doesn't help that he doesn't say a word to reassure you. And you know that he won't.
"You know what? I don't really think I need the full tour…" you start to say to your friends through the open window. They just laugh, talking over you. They're enjoying this too much to let you off the hook. You turn to look and find him staring at you, one hand on the gear shift. At least you assume he's staring at you, since his head's turned in your direction.
"This…it's perfectly safe, right?" You ask him, even though you don't expect an answer. He shrugs his shoulders and he doesn't need to take off the helmet for you to know that he's smiling. Your fear is, of course, amusing to him as well. He does this every day. He's a professional. He knows exactly what he's doing. That's what you're telling yourself as you buckle the seatbelt.
The others back away from the car and you would have taken a nervous swallow, but you find that your mouth has run dry. He glances out the windows, once at you, then you're suddenly pressed back against the seat as the tires squeal. You can't help the gasp of surprise.
"A little warning might have been nice," you tell him, half screaming because the roar of the engine is so loud. He doesn't react apart from slamming into another gear as you take the first curve, sliding a bit.
The world outside flies by in a blur and you realize you're excited, breathless, but not from the speed. It's how alone you are with him. The world outside can't touch you, can't catch you, even if it wanted to. And you realize that you're thrilled by the intimacy of that. Which is ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. You don't even know what he looks like. You've never met before today. Never heard him speak. He could be anybody.
The appropriate thing would be to watch the road, but you turn to watch him instead. That's the real show. How he jerks the wheel and slams the gear box.
How long is this course? How much time do you have left? Not enough.
It's wrong, you know it's wrong, but you find yourself reaching toward him. Your goal is his white clad thigh, but your hand never makes it. Just as you're reaching for his lap, he shifts and it knocks your arm away. You feel your face burn with embarrassment as he takes his eyes off the road for a split second to turn his head to look at you, obviously wondering what that was about. You wonder if, in this situation, he'll break the code of silence. Tell you off for distracting him, doing something so dangerous. You vaguely recall some safety instructions from the staff before you got in the car, but you weren't paying attention. Too nervous to.
A few seconds pass by as you take a series of tight curves. He's got his hands full with it.
But as soon as you hit a straight away, his gloved hand grabs yours. He glances quickly back and forth between you to the road, trying to gauge your reaction and also not get you both killed, as he pulls your hand into his lap. You nod slightly, letting him know he'd read your desire correctly, when he curls your fingers around his thigh, higher than you'd planned to, before letting go.
You run your hand up and down his leg a few times, squeeze slightly, and then, knowing your running out of time, reach father, between his legs. There's nothing going on yet, or is there? Just beginning, you think. His chest rises and falls sharply, but he doesn't react. In all fairness, he can't react as he's a little busy with the 100 mph obstacle course.
And then the car is slowing down and the world is coming back and it's over and you yank your hand away. As you come to a stop and the gaggle of people starts approaching, he keeps his head turned toward you. Watching you. You glance at him only briefly.
You both get out of the car and your friends descend, surrounding you with a million questions. But you're not listening. You're trying to see through their heads, to watch him. He stands a few feet away, sometime says something to him and he nods. You can't tell, can't be sure, but you feel like he's staring back at you. Tell me. Tell me where to go. You're silently begging him with your eyes. He inclines his head slightly to the right, where there's a row of trailers about 20 feet away, the kind you might find on a movie set. He turns and heads off in that direction.
"I…have to go the rest room," you loudly tell you friends and rush after him, walking a bit to the to the left of him, praying it's not obvious, that someone won't stop you and tell you can't go that way.
He disappears behind a trailer and you're not sure what do, but you keep going, walking more slowly now that the vehicles have blocked you from the view of the crowd behind you.
There's four or five trailers. Which one? You wonder as you wander through the rows. Suddenly someone grabs you from behind as you turn a corner. He pulls you up against him and you can feel he's gotten harder since getting out of the car. He lets you go after just a second, pulling you by the hand up the steps of a trailer, slamming the door behind you.
And now you're alone again. And this time your hearts pounding even harder. He just stands there for a moment staring at you and you lick your lips and reach for the helmet, but he stops you.
"But I…I won't…" You plead, but he just shakes his head. You're disappointed. How can you enjoy this if he keeps his head covered the whole time?
He's pulling off his gloves and then he pushes you up against a wall, pinning you there with his body. He wraps a hand around your throat, runs it up to your jaw. He brushes his thumb across your lips and you slip your tongue between them to lick it. He slips his thumb into your mouth and you suck on it. He groans. It's the first sound you've ever heard him make.
He reaches for the hem of your shirt, pulls it over your head and reaches behind for your bra strap, but he suddenly abandons it and instead shoves his hand down your waistband, underneath your panties. You're wearing tight shorts, and there's not a lot of extra space. His fingers brush your curls but he can't quite reach your heat. You hear him sigh as he rips his hand back out and attacks the button and zipper at your front.
"You're impatient," you gasp.
He doesn't respond other than to pull your shorts down and stick his hand back in your panties. Your cotton underwear has a lot of give and he has no trouble getting his fingers between your labia. You're wet of course, and he teases at your entrance for just a second before coming back up to rub your clit. Just like on the track, he's merciless, rubbing hard and fast and you think how lucky it is that that's just the way you like it.
He slides down a few times to stick a few fingers inside of you, but mostly he just keeps up that steady rhythm on your clit and you're shaking, gasping. He pulls away a cup of your bra to pinch your nipple and it pushes you over the edge.
"Ahh!" you cry as you come on his hand.
"What was that?" you gasp, chest heaving and he shrugs, wiping your juices carelessly on the front of his white jumpsuit. He turns you around and snaps open your bra, pulls your shorts and panties all the way down. You're naked now. There's a sofa in the room and he pulls you over to it. He sits down and then urges you into his lap, to straddle him.
He runs his hands all over your naked body, squeezes your breasts and bottom, thumbs your already hyper sensitive nipples. You just sit still, close your eyes, and enjoy the feeling of his hands running over your skin for a few seconds. But you can see the way the fabric is straining in his lap and you reach for the zipper on his jumpsuit. You pull it down while you kiss and nip at his neck under the helmet, he holds his head back as far as he can to give you better access. Underneath the jumpsuit he wears a plain, white, undershirt. Surprisingly normal.
You pull on his shoulders and he slides his arms out of the jumpsuit. The movement makes his biceps flex deliciously. You slip your fingers underneath the t-shirt and your hands glide over the ridges of his flat, toned stomach as you push the fabric up over his chest. You lean down to press a kiss to his chest, run your tongue over a nipple.
"How can I…?" you gesture to the t-shirt, obviously too small of an opening to come off over the helmet. He puts his hands on your hips and gently pushes you off, getting up to and going over to some drawers in the small kitchenette. He searches through them, haphazardly, impatiently, leaving a mess in his wake no doubt.
Finally he comes up with a small kitchen knife and he hands it to you. Your mouth drops open, stunned.
"You want me to cut it? Wouldn't it just be easier if you…I could turn around…" you suggest. As you talk he's kicking off his shoes and pushing down the jumpsuit to reveal lose black track shorts, tented steeply in front. I'll have no trouble getting those off, you think, already looking forward to slipping your hands under the waistband and pushing them down to slowly reveal his cock.
He returns to the couch and relaxes back, spreading his legs invitingly. You slip between them and pull the shirt out, to slice it with the knife. It's just slightly damp with his sweat and you wonder why you find that sexy.
You struggle with the shirt and knife for a while, unable to make a solid cut, afraid of pushing too hard or losing your grip and cutting him. You feel yourself flushing with embarrassment. Finally, he grabs your wrist, massaging the sensitive skin on the inside of it for a few seconds reassuringly, and takes the knife from you. He makes quick work of the shirt and tosses the knife aside. You climb into his lap and wrap your arms around him, sighing as you press your breasts against his chest. You wiggle around, sliding your bare skin against his and he slaps your ass in complaint over your teasing.
Finally, you slip back down to your knees on the carpet between his thighs and give the shorts a tug. You watch as his cock, now swelled to a full erection, pops out and you have to fight the urge to pop it in your mouth right then. No, you want him naked first, so you keep pulling and wait as he steps out of the shorts and they pool under your knees.
You run your palms up his thighs, looking up at him under your lashes. He bucks his hips up slightly and you laugh.
"I want to do this in that car while you're driving and I wouldn't care if it killed us both," you confess and then he groans as you quickly take him into your mouth. You move fast with a lot of pressure, figuring that's how he'd like it and you can hear the way he's panting underneath the helmet. You look up and appreciate the way the muscles in his torso contract as his chest rapidly rises and falls.
After a few minutes, he pushes you away and reaches for the iconic jumpsuit, now lying discarded on the floor. You're surprised when reaches into a pocket and draws out a condom. He tosses it to you and lies down on the sofa, waiting.
"I really hope you don't just keep this in there all the time…" you grumble as you rip the packet open. He laughs and shakes his head. You think he's probably lying and that it should bother you a lot more than it does, but you just can't seem to care.
You roll the condom down over him and take a second to fondle his balls, but grabs your arm and pulls you down and you fall on top of him, sighing at the feeling of the length of your body up against his.
You wince just a little as you take him inside of you. He immediately starts thrusting, jerky fast little movements underneath you. His head falls down at the same time you bounce up and your sweat damp breasts make an obscene noise as they slide against the helmet.
You think about laying down, but somehow riding him just feels more right. Maybe it has something to do with your fetish for gear sticks or maybe it's just the harried feeling of it all.
And then when it's over you get up quickly, barely giving yourself time to catch your breath after you cum. This is just a quick shag, a onetime thing; you don't want him to think you don't understand that.
He gives your waist a squeeze as he passes by on his way to the back of the trailer, no doubt to do something about the used condom now hanging off his flaccid cock. You dress as quickly as you can, rushing to be gone before he comes back. What is there left to do or say? Afterwards, it's just awkward and you'd rather avoid that.
You haven't seen him in a while. Months, for sure. Maybe a year. This guy you've always been so hung up on.
But he never showed signs of returning the feelings, so you kept your mouth shut.
And then you drifted apart.
His hug is warm. He moves you away from your friends.
"How've you been? How was your trip to the U.K.?" There is something just so cheeky about his smile as he asks that.
"Good. Great. We had a lot of fun. Got into all the tourist traps." You're trying to sound casual. You throw in an eye roll at the end for effect.
"Yeah? And what about that Top Gear thing? Did you do it…or did you chicken out? I bet you chickened out."
He's referring to the contest you won, that got you a free ride around the track with the Stig. The main reason you scrounged up the money to fly across the pond.
"As a matter of fact, I did do it," you say proudly.
"You did it, huh?"
That smirk.
"Yeah…what?" This was getting weird.
"Hey, I got a new car. Wanna go for a ride?"
"What is this, high school?" You ask, but you're following him outside anyway. And then getting in the car.
He starts driving. And keeps driving. Till you're out in the country, the middle of nowhere, on deserted roads. And he comes to a stop. And you don't have time to ask what's going on before you're knocked back in your seat.
"Have you lost your…?!" You cut off suddenly as he expertly drifts around a curve. He's in total control.
For a moment he glances in the back seat and your eyes follow his.
The shiny white helmet gleams back at you.
And you meet his eyes and there's no denying it. And you think about being mad. And you think about asking how.
But then, you just don't care.