Pole Position

by Karen Botha

  “Oh, Elliott...” he moans.

  I release him, trail my expert tongue between the defined muscles on his chest and linger around the bare skin of his waist.

  “Turn around. I want to taste you,” he whispers, pulling me from under my arms so that I’m in no doubt as to what he wants.

  I turn and straddle so he has free access to every intimate part of my body, and I lower to take him in my mouth. My chest floods with a rush of adrenaline as his tongue connects with my butt, coiling to tease my body into tiny vibrations. And then he takes that skillful tongue and he points it, and he spreads me wide and he tastes me, nestling his face deep into me.

  I suck down on him, hollowing my cheeks as he whips away my breath, repeating it again, then inserting one finger and then another inside me, pressing down on my sensitive spot and sending my blood pounding in my ears. My body thrums as my mouth matches the rhythm of his tongue delving down, but when he releases his pressure, my mouth does not. I sigh as his ramrod cock jams down my throat, but then his greedy fingers wrap around my own straining length and he works me, hard, while continuing his dirty fucking torture with his tongue.

  The ache consumes me, takes every ounce of thought I have and directs it toward the swirling building in my groin. My balls tighten and my back arcs. My brain finally freezes as time stands still, and my nerves turn to molten liquid.

  At the same time Kyle allows himself to lose control and with a groan he fills the back of my throat with the uncontrollable warmth of his desire.

  Elliott

  The atmosphere is charged. Both in our garage but also in the rest of the pits. The other teams know that there’s a new competitor on the blocks and that we’re now to be taken seriously. There are some tired faces around this morning. Mechanics and engineers must have been working through the night. I just hope that our decision to leave the set-up of the car well alone turns out to be the right one.

  I’ve already gotten through the first and second qualifying sessions, and we’ve done well. Although after our telling off from Luke about showing our strategy to the rest of the team in our excitement yesterday, we’ve turned the engine down today and have cruised through the first two sessions of qualifying.

  We’re already one minute into final qualifying and as yet, no one has left the pits. Everyone wants to see the lap times our competitors will put in before we show our hand. There are some nervous people on the grid, that’s for sure.

  I’m taking my mind off what’s going on by digesting the data on my times and those of my competitors until Luke decides it’s time for me to run. I can see an opportunity for me to improve my time going into turn three. If I just scrape the corner a little closer to the rumble strip that will mean I can-

  “You’re out,” Luke says in my ear.

  As soon as the words transmit, my screens are removed from the edge of the cockpit and the warming blankets disappear from the tires. Greg waves me clear and I pull out. We’re all a little too eager to be out on the track and to have the next ten minutes over and done with. I almost pitch into the side of another car who has to swerve out of my way.

  “Shit,” I mutter, but put the close shave behind me and lay down my veil of focus. All I can hear is my own breath inside my helmet. All I can feel are the vibration of the car, speaking to me, telling me how she needs me to handle her. And all I can focus on is how to get this pole position.

  This is my chance.

  The car doesn’t let me down. She handles like a dream; she powers in all the right places, responding as I ask and as the clock counts down to the end of the final qualifying session I look at the board. I pass the start/finish line to check my time.

  It’s a new track record. That’s a good start, but I don’t allow myself to be too excited. It still might not be enough. This all depends now on the lap times that everyone finishing behind me puts in. There is nothing more I can do.

  I coast around the cool down lap toward the pit lane, waiting for Kyle to tell me where I am.

  When my microphone clicks open, it’s the cheering I hear before his voice. But it could still be that everyone is happy that I finished higher than before. It doesn’t have to be that I made pole.

  “You did it, El. You are P1. Pole position! And Keegan is second. We’ve done it. Judd Racing has locked out the front of the grid.”

  I can’t believe it. “Thank you so much, everyone, for all your hard work, here and back at the factory. We drove the cars, but you made it happen. We’re back!”

  When I pull into the pits and park up outside the garage, the looks on the faces of the mechanics as they manually reverse me back into my spot is worth all the heartache of getting this company up and running.

  They believe, in this moment, that anything is possible and to be able to bring that joy to almost one thousand people is a gift.

  Kyle

  I haven’t left the pit wall when I hear, so thankfully I’m not captured on TV celebrating with Elliott only to endure the humiliation of having it snatched from our grasp.

  “I’m sorry, Kyle. He’s been penalized with a five place grid penalty for an unsafe release.”

  I’m not surprised. It was a basic error that we should never have made. And I’m going to have to be the one who needs to inform not only Elliott, but the rest of the team, who are in the garage cheering like we’ve already won tomorrow’s race, that Elliott will be knocked back from his first place on the starting grid to fifth.

  At least Keegan will start top for us, and if Elliott can manage to overtake in the way this car appears to be capable of, then he may still be in with a share of the top points.

  But this has not only made that a lot more difficult for us, but it will also damage the team’s morale. I avoid the reporters hounding for an interview, passing through them to meet Elliott.

  I throw him a look and he knows what’s happened.

  I wait in the back and he joins me not thirty seconds later. “Shit, the release?”

  “Yep.” I nod, resting my hand over his still-gloved one. “You’re starting fifth.”

  “I fucking knew it. Shit.” He shakes his head, rakes his fingers through his sweaty blond curls, and I swear he almost stamps his foot out of pure frustration.

  I hover, waiting for his anger to subside.

  He shakes his head with a sigh. “Are you going to tell Greg, or shall I? He’ll feel terrible.” He’s still sighing.

  “So he should. But he won’t do this again. We all have to make some mistakes, I guess. This is his first. It’s just a high-profile, gut-wrenching one.” I swallow back my complete and utter total fucking frustration in favor of being the better man.

  “It’s OK. This car is running like a dream. And looking at the line-up on that grid, if I get a good start, then I’ll be up at the front anyway. It will be egg on my face if I can’t overtake Keegan though. That’s going to be a hell of a battle for the cameras. The sponsors will love it.”

  I grin from wry amusement. “Spoken like a true owner. Elliott the driver would not have reacted like that.”

  “I guess I’ve turned a corner.” He leans in and kisses my cheek. “I’d better go and deal with the press. Where’s that son of mine?”

  He heads off out to the garage again, where Axel is waiting for him. Elliott puts an arm over his shoulder as they walk out to the press pen and I watch on as Axel softens. He’s not looking at Elliott, so he can’t see it, but when that arm drapes over Axel’s shoulders, his mouth twitches up at the corners. It’s unmistakable. Hopefully this terrible day is the start of them fixing their relationship.

  Elliott

  Race day is here! We’ve completed our warm-up lap, and I’m positioned on my starting line on the third row of the grid in fifth position. I’ve angled my car as much as I dare without being in trouble with the authorities for not being aligned in my grid space. This will get me off to a faster start. By stating my intention to move to the right, it should make the car next to me, which
will also be aiming for the same piece of tarmac, a little more careful about where he puts his wheels.

  I watch the overhead lights flick on one at a time, and I’m focused on the gap. My foot slams down as I ignore the commotion of other cars fighting for their position. I just drive. I drive my car like I’ve never been able to before. She responds exactly as I want her to, and while others battle around me, I’m through. Up to third place. My heart hammers flooding my nerves with steel.

  On the next corner, I try an overtake, but it doesn’t work. I bide my time until my increased power will put me in a stronger position. As we exit the bend, I floor it. I shoulders and biceps tense, wrestling with the steering wheel so I can put the car where I need. And I’m through. I’m into second position.

  But, I am not ready to celebrate yet. I’m behind Keegan.

  He’s my last obstacle to winning my first race back. I sit behind him, not wanting to do any damage to either of our cars by pushing too hard and colliding with him. The team will order Keegan to move over and let me pass at a suitable point. I just need to wait my turn and put on a show for the fans at home. And so, my heart rate calms.

  I draw up alongside him, but make a show of not making the move. I imagine Jon commentating on the race now. “Ooh, that was close. But no. Too risky.” I hear his voice as I laugh to myself, really enjoying being at the top of my game for the first time in years.

  However, when we only have ten laps remaining, and I’m still chugging along behind Keegan, I ask, “Any chance of getting those team orders in now, or are you waiting for a big show at the end?”

  There’s a pause before Trevor comes back on the radio, “No team orders, Elliott.”

  Huh? What does he mean? I’m the lead driver and the owner of the fucking company. I can’t scream that into the radio. My message could be broadcast on international TV. Instead I say, “Come on, get him to move over.”

  It’s Kyle’s voice I hear now. “Elliott, no team orders. You are both here to race.”

  Whoa, what the fuck? My red mist descends.

  If they want us to race, then I’ll race.

  But Keegan’s engineer must have warned him that I’m going to be on the fucking rampage now because he speeds up.

  This is all well and good, except that we’re in the same car. I didn’t see the point in us being in different cars. If we were buying one part, we could buy two. I always hated it when I was the second driver and I couldn’t compete because my car wasn’t as good. And as the lead driver, I never felt I won fair and square.

  It’s a different story here though. I could have been racing this entire time, and now I only have nine laps left to get past a car that is pushing just as hard as me and with the same equipment.

  I pull up behind him again. I need to be within a second to get an extra jolt of power to enable me to pass him safely. As we come out of the bend, I’m close enough, having taken my boot off the accelerator a fraction later than him and screaming around the bend with less brake. The power boosts and I’m through. He’s left standing as I cruise on by.

  I whoop into the radio. “Job done, Judd. You’re back.”

  Kyle

  I watched as Elliott overtook Keegan, pleased that they were finally racing. I don’t know why he assumed we’d give team orders. Our manifesto has always been to let our drivers race. Why I would change it when he was behind the wheel is beyond me, but I’m in no doubt that I’ll find out as soon as the race finishes.

  I’m also watching now, as one lap later, having learned from Elliott, Keegan pulls up alongside him and in the exact spot that Elliott overtook Keegan. Keegan reverses the tables and leverages the same power burst that pushed Elliott out in front.

  Elliott is a sitting duck, being overtaken by his teammate as though he’s not even there.

  I cringe at the thought of what is coming later. He will be fuming.

  The race continues like that. Every lap one of them overtakes the other. By the time we’re on the final lap, Elliott is in second position, and I am just hoping that the pattern continues as it has already and Elliott will take the lead again just in time for the finish line. If not for my husband’s sanity, then for my own.

  As they rattle up the hill, I’m hopeful. Until Keegan weaves.

  He moves his car across the track from one edge. And then to the other. As Elliott hasn’t tried to make an overtaking move, he’s allowed to do this. It’s only when Elliott commits to one side that Keegan has to stick to the side that he’s on.

  Elliott moves around to the outside, confident that his car is powerful enough to take the longer route around his opponent and still finish in front.

  Except that Keegan sees him and positions his car off center just enough so that Elliott can’t push past.

  And that’s how they sail over the finish line.

  Keegan first.

  Elliott second.

  “You are going to be in so much trouble,” Greg whistles into my earpiece.

  I ignore the jibe. Mainly because he’s right.

  This is not going to go well for me. I choose to arrive late at the podium to avoid catching Elliott before he enters the cool down room. I’m just in time to see Elliott come out of the cool down room ahead of Keegan who, this being his first ever race win, is not being shy about rubbing Elliott’s nose in his victory.

  Elliott’s face is set in his smile, the one he uses when he is not happy but can’t let the public see, and I smile back for the cameras like a true doting husband who has successfully separated my relationship from work. As long as I maintain that position when I speak with Jon in our interview later, it will play out better for us in the longer term. We’ll earn more respect, and Elliott will have more respect if spectators understand that he has to work for his wins, and they’re not just handed to him on a plate because he is Elliott Judd of Judd Racing.

  ‘Fuck, he’s going to kill me.’

  Kyle

  When I finish up after the race, I wait in our RV for Elliott. He’ll be along soon and with the race weekend over, we can relax, have a beer and talk this over. Perhaps we could even indulge in a little makeup sex. My chest races with the thought of all that anger let loose and channeled into lovemaking. I check the fridge to make sure we have enough cool beers.

  I decide to climb out of my uniform while I wait, have a quick shower and be fresh for him. Running the water over my naked body cleanses away all the stresses, and I stand there, just allowing myself to relax into the gentle massage of the water jets as they tease over my nerves.

  With no warning, and the stress eased, the length between my legs has ideas about how this shower could turn out. Rubbing my fist, lathered in soap around my burgeoning erection, pleasure pulses, begging to be released.

  I leave myself. I want to wait for Elliott, for us to enjoy everything that pent up aggression can bring between two red-blooded males, full of passion begging for an outlet. But the ache gnaws at my insides, pulling down on my balls, imploring me to take notice.

  I sigh, exit the shower quickly before I can’t control myself any longer and towel off with my penis bruised from the pressure. The rough fibers of the towel hook over my throbbing tool as I tease it dry, taking a little more time than is necessary to ensure he’s completely clean and ready for Elliott. I stroke the back of my fingers over the insatiable pounding, the contrast of the silky touch against the rough of the towel sending a thrill that has my brain spinning.

  Levering myself into my underwear, I take a moment to admire my body in the full-length mirror attached to the small wardrobe. My chest is tanned from the work we’ve been doing in the garden, getting it ready for the summer break when I’m hoping we’ll be able to celebrate our anniversary with a garden party. I haven’t spoken to Elliott about it yet because I don’t want us to be under pressure. If work suddenly fires up and it’s crazy busy, a party will be the last thing we want to worry about. But I have the idea at the back of my mind.

  Since I’v
e stopped spending so much time shifting car parts around, my body has noticed a difference. But that garden work has not only given me a lovely bronze tone, it’s also tightened up nicely what the gym has missed. I flex my pecs — just to see if I still can.

  Stroking my hand down the hollow between them, over my ripped abdomen, I’m pleased with the results. The V nestles nicely into the waistband of my low-slung boxers and the effect of them hugging around my tight butt and large thighs is impressive — if I do say so myself. Not bad! I’d managed to ignore the throb in my pants for a few minutes, but now my attention is drawn back as I see the size of my girth poking at an angle through the top of my waistband. Pressing my palm against my hungry bulge, I release the pressure as my mind wanders back to Elliott.

  Where is he? He should be here by now.

  I search under my discarded clothes for my watch. He would usually have been back here half an hour ago.

  My mind is now distracted from the nuisance in my pants, but nevertheless I dress and take a seat. He’ll be back any minute. His interviews will be going on longer than normal with all the drama over the last few laps. That will not improve his mood.

  Elliott

  I’m not ready to spend any time with Kyle yet. I don’t know what I’d say to him. So when he finds me with Trevor and our other engineers analyzing how the race went, it makes my heart run cold. My chiseled jaw clamps tight as my spine stiffens. Trevor and the team know us well enough to understand that I’m avoiding him, so when faced with the appearance of my husband within the confines of the tiny space, the strain is palpable.