Chapter Eight
Ifollow the signs toward the private lot with the laminated pass Hongjoong gave me hanging from a lanyard around my neck, feeling distinctly out of place as I weave between clusters of people who all seem to know exactly where they’re going.
The racetrack is massive, far bigger than I pictured when Hongjoong told me to come watch him race this weekend, and louder too, the roar of engines already audible from the parking area even though the race hasn’t started yet, a deep vibrating drone that I can feel in my teeth.
Crews in matching uniforms haul equipment between trailers on wheeled carts, shouting to each other over the noise, the air thick with the sharp bite of fuel and hot rubber mixing with the mild spring breeze.
I find Hongjoong’s trailer among the row of team vehicles, his name and number printed on the side in bold lettering alongside sponsor logos I vaguely recognize from the ads I’ve seen plastered on buses and billboards around the city.
I knock twice and the door swings open almost immediately, Hongjoong filling the narrow doorway with his racing suit pulled on only to the waist, the top half hanging loose and tied off at his hips, a fitted black undershirt clinging to his chest and shoulders, outlining every line of muscle underneath.
He grabs the front of my jacket and pulls me inside without a word of greeting, the door swinging shut behind me.
The trailer interior is cramped but well-organized, a narrow galley with a counter and mini fridge on one side, equipment bags and gear stacked neatly against the opposite wall, monitors showing camera feeds from the track mounted above a small desk.
Two seconds after I step in Hongjoong nods toward the back of the trailer where a fold-down bed is tucked into an alcove, a thin mattress covered in a dark fitted sheet, and says, “Go over there, pull your pants down, and spread.”
I eye him for a second, searching his face for context, but his expression is matter-of-fact, not particularly heated, more like he’s giving instructions than making a sexual demand.
I’m past the point of arguing about every command at this stage, and I figure maybe he needs a quick pre-race fuck to settle his nerves or burn off some of the restless energy that’s clearly buzzing through him, his fingers tapping against his thigh, his weight shifting from foot to foot.
So I walk to the bed without protest, undo my belt, push my pants and underwear down to my thighs, and bend forward, planting both hands flat on the thin mattress and spreading my legs as wide as the fabric bunched around my knees will allow, presenting my ass without ceremony.
It’s not the most dignified position in the world, but dignity stopped being a luxury I could afford a long time ago, and it’s routine enough by now that my body settles into it automatically, my back dipping, my hips tilting.
I wait for the familiar sound of Hongjoong undoing his own pants, for the press of his cock against my hole, but what I feel instead is something hard and smooth and decidedly not flesh nudging against my rim.
I look back over my shoulder and make a sharp sound of protest when I see the large silicone butt plug in Hongjoong’s hand, already glistening with a generous coat of lube, the bulbous end so thick that my stomach does an involuntary flip at the sight of it.
“What the hell is that for?” I ask, my tone pitched flat.
Hongjoong doesn’t look up from what he’s doing, just squeezes more lube onto the plug’s tapered tip.
“After a race I’ve got excess adrenaline to burn off,” he says in an infuriatingly reasonable tone.
“I don’t want to waste time on prep when I get back, so I need you open and ready for me the second I’m off the track. ”
“You’re a deranged pervert,” I tell him.
Hongjoong laughs, unbothered, then his free hand reaches between my legs from behind and squeezes my balls firmly enough that I yelp and jolt forward, my hips jerking away from his grip as a zing of sensation shoots up through my groin.
Before I can recover he presses the rounded tip of the plug against my hole and says, “Hold still.”
I grit my teeth and try to relax as the plug pushes against my rim, my body resisting the cold firm intrusion, the silicone unyielding in a way that flesh isn’t.
Hongjoong pushes steadily, not fast but not gentle either, and I grunt as the bulbous end starts to force my hole open, stretching me wider, the pressure building as my rim strains around the increasing girth.
I let out a small involuntary whimper as the widest part of the plug spreads me to the point of a sharp burn, my fingers curling into the mattress, and then the thickest section passes the ring of muscle and the whole thing glides in with a wet sound, my hole swallowing it greedily as the flared base settles snug against my rim.
The fullness is instant and overwhelming, a deep persistent pressure that spreads outward from my core and makes my cock twitch where it hangs between my thighs.
“There,” Hongjoong says with open satisfaction, and then the bastard pats the base of the plug with his open palm, a firm tap that reverberates through the silicone and makes me jump and swear, spinning around on the mattress and swinging at his head.
Hongjoong dances backward out of reach, grinning like the devil himself, watching as my face goes scarlet and I yank my pants up over the plug with shaking hands, shifting uncomfortably as the fullness settles inside me and every tiny movement makes the plug shift against my walls.
“Happy now?” I ask through gritted teeth, adjusting my belt with fingers that won’t cooperate.
Hongjoong nods, his eyes bright with a mischief that I want to slap off his face. “Oh, very much. I’m going to enjoy knowing that’s nestled inside your sweet ass, keeping you stretched and wet and ready for me while I go out there and school these wannabes.”
I cringe at the pressure of the plug shifting with every micro-movement as I straighten up, a dull maddening friction against my insides that sends little sparks up my spine whenever I move my hips. “Doesn’t that seem a little overconfident?” I manage, trying to keep my voice level.
“Not at all.” He’s pulling the top half of his racing suit up over his shoulders now, zipping it to his sternum. “There’s a reason they say I’m the best in the country.”
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “Whatever. Let’s just get out of here.”
Hongjoong leads the way out of the trailer and I follow, stepping carefully down the metal stairs and immediately regretting every life choice that brought me to this moment, because walking with this thing inside me is its own special kind of torture.
Every step makes the plug shift and press against my walls, rubbing against my prostate with a dull friction that sends sparks up my spine and pools heat low in my belly, and my body responds the way it always does to sustained stimulation, producing slick around the plug in a steady leak that I can feel gathering between my cheeks, warm and wet and mortifying.
I clench my jaw and pray to every god in existence that my dark pants are thick enough that nothing shows through.
We make it trackside where Hongjoong’s crew is assembled near the pit area, a dozen or so people in matching team jackets clustered around monitors and equipment.
Hongjoong slings an arm around my shoulder as he addresses them, casual and easy, and introduces me as his good friend who’ll be watching the race from the team area today.
I hunch slightly under his arm, not sure what to expect from these people, but the crew members just nod and smile, clearly accustomed to Hongjoong bringing guests around.
One of them, a young woman with a headset around her neck, shows me to a seat in the covered viewing section above the pit wall and brings me a bottle of water and a small tray of snacks without being asked, telling me to let her know if I need anything else.
I sit down and immediately regret it. The base of the plug presses harder against my rim when I’m sitting flat on the hard plastic seat, the angle driving the plug deeper so that the tip nudges firmly against my prostate.
I have to shift quickly to one hip, crossing my legs and leaning to the side, trying to find a position that doesn’t make me want to moan out loud in front of Hongjoong’s entire professional team.
I breathe through it with my jaw clenched, staring fixedly at the track in front of me, trying to think about literally anything other than the large unyielding shape inside me and the steady leak of slick that’s definitely soaking through my underwear at this point.
But then the race starts, and I’m successfully distracted.
The engines scream to life all at once, a sound so loud and so deep that it vibrates in my chest cavity, rattles through the metal railing I’m gripping, shakes the water bottle on the ledge beside me.
The cars launch forward from the starting grid in a blur of color and speed, tires shrieking against asphalt.
The wall of noise slams into me and very nearly pushes the air from my lungs.
I spot Hongjoong’s car immediately. I memorized the number and the red-and-black livery from the side of his trailer, and my eyes lock onto it and don’t leave.