Date: Tue, 06 Feb 2001 18:04:09 +0000
From: Red Racer <red-racer@iname.com>
Subject: Wide Open, M/M, celeb, anal

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