Australian Grand Prix #5
Newly recharged, Julien hops back onto the sidewalk and strides towards the parking lot. There aren’t a lot of cars left, but there’s still a row of black SUVs waiting for passengers. “Do we get in any of them? How can you tell them apart?”
“Eager, are you?” Rafael has to jog to catch up, but he pulls his phone out and types a message. Seconds later, one of the SUVs flashes its lights. “That one, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
Before they reach the vehicle, a driver jumps out and rounds the front, opening the door. “Buonasera, signor Dubois! I thought you would take Sal’s car with Thomas.”
“Call me Julien, please.” Julien waits until Rafael is settled into a seat before climbing in after him.
“I swear, you’re the spitting image of your brother.”
The driver shuts the door before Julien can come up with a reply. That’s probably for the best—he doesn’t have anything nice to say anyway.
“Nem fodendo, people are obsessed with bringing up Thomas around you.” Rafael struggles to buckle himself in with his left hand, but eventually, he manages it. “I thought I had it bad.”
“At least your collarbone will heal eventually.”
Thomas, on the other hand, is a life sentence.
“What? Oh, no, I mean my dad.”
“Your… dad?”
“Yeah. You can’t be serious.” Rafael stares blankly at Julien as their driver falls into the front seat and slams his door. “My father. The man who raced in Formation 1 for ten years. The guy who looks exactly like me and won two championships.”
“Oh.” Julien doesn’t know a lot about the history of motorsports. He’s more concerned about advancements and the future. “What’s his name?”
“Rafael Souza,” Rafael Souza replies. “Senior. Seriously? You’ve never heard of him? The Brazilian tiger?”
“Does Brazil have tigers?”
“It has one.” Rafael huffs and slinks back against the seat. “You’re so young.”
“No, I’m just bad at history.” There’s only a three year age gap between them—nothing to freak out over. “Thomas would probably know him. He loves shit like memorizing facts and history and whatever.”
“He did.”
“Did what?”
“He recognized my name immediately. Sounded like a fan boy the way he carried on about some of Dad’s most famous overtakes. You seriously don’t know him?”
Why does this comparison sting worse than anything else Julien heard today? “Sorry I can’t be Thomas.”
“Oh c’mon, don’t say that shit.” Rafael groans. “I got sidetracked. I just wanted to say I understand being compared to family, that’s all. It reminds me of my rookie season. It’ll pass.”
Since it seems to be a sensitive subject, Julien doesn’t mention that the reason people stopped comparing Rafael to his father probably has less to do with his own accomplishments, and more to do with people forgetting the older Souza exists.
Fat chance anyone will forget about Golden Boy Thomas while he’s still driving.
“They gave you an entire suite?” Julien’s cramped hotel room has a window the size of a piece of paper, but Rafael’s has sweeping views of the entire city. Glass spans from the floor to the ceiling of the second level. Second level. “What do you even do with this much space?”
“Fuck on every square inch.”
“Really?” It would take a lot of time to even attempt it—more time than a driver usually has in a race weekend.
Rafael fixes him with a blank stare. “I’m kidding. They usually send a photographer on Wednesday night and comp the rest of the weekend. The hotel sponsors the team.”
“Whoa.” A chandelier clinks as the air conditioning switches on. It doesn’t sound like plastic—it tinkles like real crystal. “So this is how a full-time driver lives.”
“I doubt Andes shells out for a room with a clawfoot tub, but yeah, I guess it’s about the norm. Want a drink? The room comes with a butler, so it won’t take long.”
“Nah, I’m good.” Despite his exhaustion, Julien promised to stream longer tonight to make up for skipping yesterday. Besides, he could use the practice. “I figured I’d give you a quick hand and be on my way. Easy.”
Rafael stops with one shoe off and looks up. “Not just your hand, right?”
“What else do you need for a handjob?”
“Well, I already have a working hand.” Rafael half-heartedly waves with it. “I thought you were offering something… well, more. Maybe your mouth?”
Unbelievable.
Of course he’d pull a fucking bait and switch. What a smarmy little—
“Do you honestly believe you deserve a blowjob for telling me to brake better? The pundits told me to brake better! None of them asked me for some stupid gratitude blowjob afterwards.”
Rafael clenches his jaw and juts his chin up. He’s no longer the boyish man batting his eyelashes under the shade of a tree, but the fierce competitor that stares down at Julien from posters that litter the city.
“It doesn’t feel as good.”
Julien scoffs. “Yeah, okay. That might work on your fangirls, but I’ve got a dick too. An orgasm is an orgasm—you can have my hand or figure it out yourself.”
To come or not to come. It’s a pretty easy choice, but Rafael just stands there and stews in his obvious frustration.
That’s decision enough. Julien isn’t so desperate to get his hand around a dick that he needs to beg for the opportunity. He turns to leave when Rafael clears his throat.
“What will it take for your mouth?”
What will it take? Julien’s never put a price tag on it before. He’s not a fan of giving blowjobs, but leverage is leverage and Julien needs a good result. “Fifth or higher in Qualifying.”
Rafael throws his free arm up. “I can’t control that!”
“You’re Rafael Souza. If you can’t help me, then what am I doing in your room?”
Rafael storms forward, forcing Julien’s face up higher. “Do you know how easy it’d be to find someone to drop to their knees for me?”
“Then do it. Get them.” With a butler on standby, he probably wouldn’t even need to leave the room. “You’re the one who asked me to be here. Don’t demand more than I’m willing to give.”
They stare at each other in silence. Julien is more than generous for even staying. Negotiations make for terrible foreplay.
“Hand today, mouth tomorrow?”
Julien almost wants to take back the offer altogether, but he nods. “Only if you actually help me. Enough to qualify fifth.”
Though Julien had difficulty all day, he’s still in the second-best car on the grid. Fifth is a reasonable enough request, especially if his race line is faster. A reserve driver qualifying fifth would be enough to make other teams take notice.
Rafael purses his lips as he considers. “Alright.”
“Alright?”
“Only because it’s Australia.” Instead of shaking on it, Rafael pops the button of his trousers with his working hand. “For personal reasons, it’d be funny if you won the whole fucking thing. After this weekend, though, you’re on your own.”
“Yeah, sure, deal.” Julien rubs his hands, warming them. He hasn’t had a jerk-off session in years, but he’s gotten pretty good at practicing. “Where’s your lube?”
“I don’t have lube.”
“You don’t have—?” Jesus Christ, this is a mess. “What? Do you spit?!”
That sounds absolutely horrifying. Rafael is a grown-ass man, he should have bottles of lube at the ready.
Does he only do blowjobs? Does he know there are other holes available? Is big, bad Rafael actually a vir—?
“Why the fuck would I make a lubey mess when showers are wet enough for my hand?” Beneath the tough-guy act, Rafael looks slightly embarrassed when he nods towards a door. “There’s lotion in the bathroom. It’ll work.”
Barely. Still, Julien is on a tight deadline, so he scampers over to the bathroom and sorts through the labels of various hotel-provided bottles.
When he returns, Rafael is still wearing his team shirt under his sling, but his trousers are pooled by his feet and his boxer briefs are mid-thigh.
He tugs at himself with his terribly dry hand, his cock already fiercely hard. The bulbous dark red tip emerges between the circle of his fingers on every down stroke, the head shiny and leaking.
At least negotiating worked for someone.
“You aren’t here just to watch.” A confident smile plays at Rafael’s lips, transforming his face into something beautiful again.
He knows he’s packing, and he knows just how good he looks stroking himself. Rafael rolls his hips into his left-handed grip, smacking his own fist against the base of his cock with a snap. It’s hypnotizing.
—But Julien isn’t here just to watch. He pops the cap of the lotion and pours a generous amount into his palm. “Drop it.”
Once his hand is slick with enough lotion, he slips the small bottle into his back pocket and steps forward.
Rafael, the insufferable brat, gives himself another couple of long tugs before finally letting go. His cock juts out from his center, fully hard, and bounces with the sudden release.
It curves up slightly, that’s lucky. It’s also notably thicker at the base, visible even through his overgrown bush. It’d be a perfect cock to ride, but a pain in the ass to suck.
Frustrating, but no takebacks now.
Under Julien’s scrutiny, the cock twitches and another drop of precum drips to the floor. The pearl wicks away into the thick rug, and Rafael shifts from socked foot to socked foot, his ankles still trapped by the trousers at his feet.
“Well?” Though his tone is gruff and biting, Rafael’s face is almost unsure as Julien studies him. Strange reaction for someone so often put on display, someone drawn to being the focus of attention.
“Just admiring.”
Julien steps forward, but Rafael rocks back until he leans against the wall between rooms. His head narrowly misses a painting with a thick golden frame.
Another step closer and Julien smirks. “You’re not nervous about a little handjob, are you?”
Rafael scoffs. “Of course not.”
“Good.” Julien finally grasps Rafael’s cock, squeezing as he transfers the lotion from base to tip. He prefers a heavier hand than most people, so he asks, “How do you like it?”
Rafael groans, but the sound tapers up at the end, like a whine. “This is good.”
“You sure?”