Chinese Grand Prix #2
Thomas has been nursing his left tire. He won’t risk not finishing the race and losing his championship lead to his biggest rival. He’ll have no choice but to let Julien through.
Friedrich is long gone, so Julien is the only one with DRS. As soon as it lights, he activates the button, jolting forward and nipping at Thomas’s back tires. He pops off the line to cut around at turn fourteen, but Thomas covers him off at the very last second, pushing him wide.
When his wheel dips into the grass, Julien fights the car, barely keeping the damn thing on track. Jesus fuck, that was clo—
A jolt and Julien spins the opposite direction of his oversteer. His car swings all the way around, until he’s facing traffic.
What the fuck was that?!
Julien’s not hurt, so he’s pissed. Especially since the culprit is still facing forward.
Sam only stalls for a moment before he rejoins the race. He cuts back in right before a wave of traffic passes by.
Once the cars clear, Julien reverses, angling himself better for the sharp U-turn, and struggling for grip on the slippery grass. After he crawls back onto the road, he radios in.
“How bad is it?” Maybe Julien sucks at counting and he’s still in the top eight. Even one point is better than nothing.
Unfortunately, there’s a dragging noise that doesn’t sound too promising.
“Box this lap to retire the car.”
Julien curses and smacks the wheel a couple of times before activating the microphone. “Understood.”
He hobbles back into the pits as the dragging noise grows louder.
The mechanics who hike him up and wheel Julien into the garage don’t even look at him—they stare at the right side of his car. It must be bad.
As soon as he's parked, there’s a flurry of activity—a rush to diagnose the issues and fix them in the few hours before race Qualifying.
Julien sees himself out. He reattaches the wheel and bolts away from the wreckage before removing his helmet and gloves. The balaclava’s next, and the driver runs his fingers through his hair as soon as it’s free.
Fuck, that’s frustrating.
DNFs are a part of the game, but he was so close. So close to proving he’s just as good as—if not better than—Thomas.
What the fuck, Sam? Now Julien has beef with both Red Boar drivers.
“Sam sucks. Try not to take it personally.” Rafael is a welcome sight amongst the chaos of the busy garage. “You could probably hide in the driver’s room for a bit before facing the media.”
“Yeah, sounds good.” It doesn’t really, but Julien can already see a camera at the edge of the garage, pointing at them. “Could you grab a cup of water and meet me there?”
“A cup?” Rafael repeats. “Not a bottle? We only have those little paper cones.”
“That’s good enough. Fill it as full as you can? Thanks.”
Julien’s pissed. He’s pissed and there’s nothing he can do about it except stomp back into his driver’s room.
No amount of punishment for Sam will get Julien back on that track. There’s no reversing time, no changing tactics, no cut screen do-over. He just has to accept the reality for what it is—cruel fate.
But Julien won’t take it lying down. Fate has already told him how to fix it. It made its point loud and clear.
He stands behind his open door and closes it with a soft click as soon as Rafael steps inside.
“Here you go.”
He tries to hand the water over, but Julien points to the massage table. “Can you sit first?”
“What’s this about?” Rafael watches the water line kiss the lip of the cup as he carefully reaches one leg up, then the other. With one of his hands busy and the other strapped to his chest, it takes a bit of maneuvering. “You want this yet?”
“It’s not for me.” Julien steps between Rafael’s spread legs and kneels.
“What’s it for?”
“To keep your free hand busy.” Julien adjusts his race suit, tucking the sleeves under his knees for additional padding. If he has to be subjected to this, he may as well be comfortable. “I don’t want you to fuck up into my mouth. Try not to spill any of it.”
“Wait, what?”
Julien unbuttons Rafael’s fly and tugs at his zipper. “Guys love to pull my hair and fuck my mouth. Hate that. You still wanted me to suck you off, right? Or is the offer gone?”
He cups Rafael’s soft cock, massaging the flesh through his silky boxer briefs as he waits for a reply.
“Yeah, of course I do, but what’s going on?” Rafael groans at a particularly rough press. He shifts, but his hips struggle to buck into Julien’s palm without any leverage from his hands.
Perfect.
With nimble fingers, Julien works Rafael’s cock free from the confines of his last layer of fabric. “I have to do something about the incident.”
“You give blowjobs after DNFs?”
Julien sits up straight with a frustrated exhale. “Look, I said I wouldn’t blow you for P4 and I crashed. To me, that sounds like a sign from the universe to suck you off. Do you want it or not? I’m sure there’s a bunch of people out there who’d be more than willing—”
“N?o! No, you’re right—you’re so right. The universe definitely wants it to be me.”
Julien finally wraps his grip around Rafael’s bare cock and pumps. It’s not fully hard yet, but it stiffens with every stroke.
Why the fuck is it so big? So thick?
Rafael better not be expecting some deep-throating nonsense. With something so egregious, Julien can only put two inches of effort into it, tops.
A bead of precum gathers at Rafael’s slit and Julien leans forward, lapping it up. He’s not a cum expert, but it does taste better than he remembers. Less bitter, at least.
With one last glare at Rafael and the cup of water still in his hand, Julien ducks and slurps the tip, sucking the sensitive glans with abandon.
Rafael jolts and a splash of water escapes the cup, slapping against the massage table. His feet kick as they slide along the floor, but Julien remains focused on the salty taste of the cock in his mouth as he bobs his head.
Drool leaks down the length of the shaft. It helps the slide of his hands, and Julien slobbers more with every pull, wetting and twisting his fist until the entire cock is slippery with spit.
While his hands do the heavy lifting, Julien concentrates on Rafael’s sensitive head.
He points his tongue along the underside, sliding along the glans with defined attention before rocking forward and down with a broad flat stroke.
Julien makes out with the head, kissing it with plush lips, lapping up precum as it drools, and showering it with lavish affection to avoid having to suck any deeper.
Julien’s eyeline drifts upwards, hoping to spot some indication that the man will finish soon, but he pauses mid-stroke.
Rafael’s muscles strain, his torso shaking and his neck veins fully extended. Sweat drips from his hairline, and his face pulls up into a grimace as he grinds his teeth.
Julien quickly pops off his cock and asks, “What’s wrong? Does it hurt?”
“Fuck no!” Rafael nearly shouts. Quieter, he says, “No, Jesus, keep going! I’m so close.”
“Why is your face all—?” That’s not what his O-face looked like before, right? Julien would definitely remember if he looked so tortured.
“Because this is the best blowjob of my entire life, but we’re in a room with thin walls.” Rafael sucks in a sharp breath through his bared teeth. “Fuck, it’s so hard to keep quiet.”
“The best—? What, this?!” But Julien’s barely even trying. He’s specifically avoiding having to do the stuff that actually feels good. “This right now? This is the best—? You’re lying. You have to be.”
The bigger man shakes his head. “I’ve never had a man do it before. Chicks always try to deep throat the whole thing. It’s good, but it’s not—not whatever the fuck you’re doing down there.”
Rafael groans, and the sound rumbles down his throat, vibrating deep in his chest. “And between the cup and the brace, I can’t move. It’s just happening to me. Please keep going. I’m so close.”
Julien ducks back down with renewed vigor. If it’s the best blowjob Rafael’s ever had, he should do a job actually worthy of the title.
He hollows his cheeks as he sucks and bobs, taking more of Rafael and meeting his own fist with his lips. His other hand breaks away from the base, and wanders past Rafael’s tight waistband to cup his balls.
Julien massages them, and the older driver finally shouts in reply, the sound drowned out by screw guns screaming in the garage.
After a long, harsh pull, his tongue pressed flat against the thick vein on the underside of Rafael’s cock, a crinkle of the paper cup is the only warning Julien receives before Rafael spills into his mouth.
Though he hates the taste and texture, Julien dutifully swallows, sucking the bulbous head as it continues to spurt.
When Rafael is finally fully spent, he relaxes, falling back against the wall. “Fuck.” He gulps down a couple more breaths and blinks. “Fuck!”
“Drink the water,” Julien orders, scrambling to his feet. He pushes the waistbands of his race suit, long johns, and briefs down until he can free his own painfully hard cock.
Rafael obeys without question, gulping down whatever was left in the cup he smashed. The mattress has a large wet spot from the rest of it. “Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”
“Whatever, just point it here.” Julien tugs at his aching cock, pulling slow and rough. His spit-wet hands are drying, and he gathers what precum he can to keep stroking.
Still, it isn’t enough. Not when he’s used to lube.
“Spit.” Julien holds out his palm, and Rafael immediately complies. It’s better, but not by much.
“I knew you’d be good at sucking cock.” Rafael’s half-lidded eyes can’t seem to decide between watching Julien’s face or his dick. “I thought about that handjob all week. No one has ever done that—hasn’t ever understood me like you do. I can’t even— I mean, you really— I don’t even know how to—”