Pole Position

by Karen Botha

  He smiles, “I don’t have time for that, El. Quit it.” But he’s laughing as he removes his towel and that white patch suddenly leads to a whole new bounty of pleasure. The short bristly hair of his stomach gives way to a dark patch of trimmed pubes, surrounding...

  “What is that, mister I-don’t-have-time?” I bite down on my bottom lip, a quirk of a smile lightening my face.

  “That’s for you when you finish qualifying. Your prize.” He trails his tongue over his teeth.

  “Ooh, promises.” But I’m fast and I’ve grabbed him before he has the chance to complain. I tug him down onto the bed, his semi-hard cock now fully rigid beneath me as I flip him onto his back and straddle him, arms pinned as I lean down for a kiss.

  His hands clench into fists, and I press down harder, preventing him from moving. “I’m going to be late,” he growls into my mouth.

  “I don’t care. I want you. Now.” I slide my tongue down that wet trail left from the shower, into his shaven bristles and laugh into his shaft, as his toned abs further tighten in anticipation. His fresh-soap smell floats free as I collect him in my mouth and dive until his steely length bumps the back of my throat.

  This was meant just as a tease, something to stop both of us from focusing on the pressures of the day, but now that we’ve started, there’s no stopping. My hand creeps down to hold my burgeoning erection, and my body floods with warmth, as that one motion builds tension, and elicits relief.

  “I need to leave,” Kyle groans, making no attempt to move from under me.

  And so I’m quick. I work him the way I know he enjoys, sucking down on the hardness of his arousal, using my tongue to explore the full length of his shaft with rapid circular motions, until he swells and releases his sticky fluid down the back of my throat.

  His hot flood kicks the ache in my groin into another gear and as my hand works faster, the pounding of my balls pushes my own desire forward. I’m panting, catching my explosion of passion in my hand as my back arches.

  As soon as I’m done, Kyle is scrambling out from under me and dressing. “I’m so late now.” He’s not chastising me, though. His cheeks are glowing, softening his manly handsomeness as he looks up from under his long dark lashes while fastening his team shirt.

  “I’ll see you later on. Good luck today.”

  “And to you.” He leans in, presses his lips against mine, and is out the door. Not even a second later and he’s back, poking his head back in the room. “I love you. Go kill it today.”

  “You too, gorgeous.”

  Elliott

  The car looks amazing, all polished, just begging to be driven.

  “Thank you so much guys. I’m sorry I planted it.”

  “Just don’t do it again today,” Greg calls out from the other side of the garage. “We might not be able to fix it then. You did a great job on smashing her up.” A smile flickers at the edge of his mouth, but he’s being serious. We don’t have the parts that we had before, and I more than anyone should be aware of that.

  “Sorry!” I chime, and I am. I suit up and crawl into the cockpit, waiting for the clock to tick over. It’s only twenty-four hours since I last sat here; it may as well be a lifetime.

  And this is when it hits me, when I become acutely aware of everything that is riding on my shoulders today. This car isn’t the one that I’m used to driving and everyone is watching me, waiting to see whether my skill alone will be enough to lead it out front along with the likes of better, more finely tuned vehicles. And whether I’ll be able to quell the ongoing conversations about Chase and me, competing on every level to win.

  I watch as the clock ticks down, study the screens that provide the limited data we managed to obtain yesterday. It’s not good enough. I thought we had a beast here, but compared to everyone else out on the track, our engine sounds like a bag of nails.

  I don’t know if I can do this. I’m not good enough and then the humiliation of failing hangs over my head. Or worse still, crashing out again. What if I do myself some irreversible harm this time?

  Kyle speaks into my helmet, “You OK there, bud?”

  I switch to the private band. “I don’t think I can do this, Kyle.” My voice is weak. I’m not sure whether he’ll hear me properly. Nausea grips the muscles of my stomach. This is worse than anything I felt yesterday. My mouth waters as the irreversible char of bile rises to the back of my throat.

  “Of course you can do it. This is what you’re built for. Listen to me, Elliott. You have put everything you have on the line to be sitting where you are right now. This is your chance to feel alive again and to prove to yourself, not to anyone else, that you have what it takes.”

  Greg moves back, waves me forward, and I sit there.

  “Elliott, put that fucking car into gear and get the fuck on that track. People have worked all night so you can win races. Now, go and do it, for them.”

  My vehicle is as immobile as my body.

  “I can’t, Kyle. I’m sorry.” I unbuckle my safety belt and Greg, wondering what the delay is, comes dashing over.

  “Is everything OK with the car, El?” He pokes his head into the cockpit and jabs around the dash, looking for clues as to why I’m not budging. He doesn’t think to check for fear in my eyes.

  I shake my head, start to struggle to stand. Greg pushes me back down. “Don’t worry. Stay in the car. We’ll sort it.” He turns to see what the team has figured out from the data on their screens.

  They shake their heads at him, nothing.

  And then he gets it. He stares at me, seeing through me to the sob in my throat and shoves a firm hand down on my shoulder until I’m positioned back inside the car that everyone who surrounds me has committed their lives to. He grabs the safety harness, and he buckles it again, manhandling me with a force that is only necessary to alleviate his frustration.

  He lifts up the visor on my helmet, stares directly into my eyes and when he speaks his voice is ice cold. “Get this car on the track, now, you fucking loser.”

  Greg stalks off and checks the traffic, waving me out without losing any of the challenge set in his jaw. I press the buttons on my steering wheel and the car moves on to the pit lane. And as I do, I melt into her, molding into it until we become one.

  My body rattles from the fury of the car against the uneven track, and the air whistles into the gap between visor and helmet. I snap it shut, hit the end of the pit lane, and depress my boot.

  Kyle

  Kyle

  I do not speak about that moment to anyone. I know Greg saw it too, but we have our jobs to do, and if we don’t talk about it, then perhaps it never happened. I sit on that pit wall and I direct Elliott in and out of traffic, ensuring that he has a clear path ahead of him so that he’s not stalled by slower vehicles when he’s forcing that car to its limits. When he’s forcing himself to a limit.

  However, all the way through qualifying, the hair on my head crackles against my scalp. I’m waiting for Elliott to pull back into the pits. Without being told.

  I can see from the data that he’s getting to grips with the car. Each lap is an improvement on the last. He’s pushing in the areas where he was initially slower, learning how the car handles and working through its limitations.

  “How are we doing against Brad?” He asks.

  “You’re faster in section one. Section two is your slowest part. You need to improve there,” Luke says, giving him some alternative settings to try to shave off a hundredth of a second.

  “How are the tires? Are they overheating? They feel OK.” Elliott asks.

  “Your tires are fine. You can push,” Trevor says.

  Elliott is doing everything I expect of him. He’s communicating on the radio, asking for figures about which sectors he’s slower than the competition, and he’s using this to amend the settings he’s using to drive smarter and faster. What he isn’t doing is what he did yesterday, ramming his boot to the floor. He’s found his head again.

  Yesterday
was probably a combination of nerves and adrenaline at racing again, but he scared me. There are three sections to qualifying, and he needs to get through two heats before he’s in the final ten to compete for a top spot on the starting grid.

  The microphones are off. “Is he OK?” Luke checks with me, being the person on the pit wall who knows him least.

  “Sure, he’s fine. He just had a moment earlier, but it’s passed.” I smile, like our lead driver, the former world champion, pulls this kind of shit all the time.

  Trevor agrees, equally jovially. “Sure, Luke. Look at him. He’s flying. Just needed to find his feet again, that’s all.”

  To be up there in the top ten starting positions in our first race would be amazing and the way he’s performing, I should be fully expecting it. But, until he gets his name marked up on that final qualifying session board, regardless of how I smile through it when talking to the team, I can’t dare to believe it.

  This is hell. I can barely speak, such is the size of the ball of tension in my throat. We’re close to the end of the second heat, and Elliott has a chance of making it through. He’s currently sitting twelfth, but he’s on a flying lap and outperforming every one of his previous sector scores.

  “He’s on the right tires, he should do this.” Luke cheers, feeling none of the insecurity that rumbles around inside me, making me want to jump up from this bank of desks and run away.

  Even the mechanics are feeling it. They’re watching the timing screens in the garage with their hands wrapped around their helmets, as though clutching at their faces. I’m with them. If all the TV cameras weren’t positioned on me right now, I’d be sure to be watching this horror movie unfolding through slivers between my fingers. There is not a single person here not praying that he will hold it together in these final minutes.

  I check the screens again, my heart pounding so loud that he must be able to hear it on the other end of the radio. He’s silent, concentrating on placing the car exactly where he needs it to be, on feeling the nuances of its handling and using his intuition to shave the microseconds that count from his time.

  Elliott

  That felt like a sizzling lap, but I can’t bet on anything. I’m feeling the car now and we’re starting to move as one, but this all depends on how well everyone else does too. I may have put in the round of my life, but if other drivers did better, then it won’t count for shit. My heart is still hopping around inside my chest in anticipation that I may just have done it. I cross the start/finish line and glance at the board at the side of the track as I zoom past. But, there are still others to complete their laps, so until their times come in, it’s too soon to say. I hold my breath.

  We could be through; we at least have a chance.

  That lap could have been fast enough to push me so that I’m starting in the top ten, a vital positioning, because if you start there, you have a higher probability of finishing in the top ten and then you earn points. The teams with the most points at the end of the season turn those into funding.

  And that is vital.

  “How did we-” I start to ask when I can’t wait any longer to hear. I need to speak to Kyle, even if he doesn’t have an answer for me yet.

  “You did it. You’re through!” Kyle screams into my ear, the elation evident in the high pitch of his cries.

  A bubble of laughter rises in my throat before being caught by a sudden sob. It comes out like a yelp. Thank goodness because that will be on the TVs at home already. “Thank you so much, to the whole team here and also those who are supporting us back at the factory. I really couldn’t do this without you.” I feel good, as though I’ve won the championship already. I’m only through to the final round of qualifying in the first race. But, there’s no catching myself. And I don’t want to.

  Kyle and I started something here and despite everything that has been thrown at us, we’re delivering. We’re proving to our shareholders that their confidence in us was correct, and we know now that there is a chance that we can make this work.

  I glide around the rest of the course with my hand stretched out of the cockpit, waving like I’ve just won the race. I’m not gloating, but I am so darned excited that I can’t keep a lid on my delight. And I don’t think it’s a bad thing that the public gets to see how much this means to me.

  I’m supposed to stay in the car between the qualifying sessions. The team needs to put a new set of tires on which I’ll pretty much burn up, and then we’ll be off again. But, I have to see Greg, and Kyle, so I rush to get out as soon as I’m back.

  “I’m sorry, guys. I don’t know what happened, you know, earlier.” I’m sincere, but I still have a stupid, Cheshire Cat grin plastered over my face. It ruins how humble I’m trying to be.

  “Listen, don’t worry about it. These things happen. It’s a big day.” Greg slaps me on the back and gets back to his team.

  Kyle is a little more sober, and despite the sparkle still in his eyes, he checks, “You sure you’re up for this? I am not pushing you into anything.” He supports under my elbow as he eyeballs me. “I mean it, El.”

  Although I needed to apologize, that last round told that guy whose confidence was lacking where to shove his personal doubts. I nod. “I’m good,” leaning in to place my head against his, it being the closest I can get to kissing him while still wearing my helmet.

  Kyle

  I watch Elliott walk away from me, more of a man than I’ve ever seen him. When we first met, he was a winning driver who had already built his career, and other than losing the odd race here and there, he’d never known a setback. Over the past few years we’ve grown together, and I’ve watched him turn that final corner today, from someone who feared his abilities, to a person who now understands his weaknesses but who also will not allow them to restrain him.

  And that is a way more powerful figure than he’s ever been before.

  I’m in awe as I allow myself to succumb, mesmerized by that slow motion stride I first fell in love with. He bounces back over toward the car with that familiar spring to his step, and I’m acutely aware that our love has moved into yet another dimension.

  I admire this man.

  It’s not only because he’s a success. More that despite everything that has been thrown at him, he always strives to triumph. My eyes well, brimming with love, but blurring the figure of the man whom I want to run to and hold close, whom I want to be inside, not from desire, but from needing to be a part of him. The two of us physically connecting is the only way that I will find the peace to satiate that need.

  But first, he must get his final qualifying out of the way. And I know that, while I’m taking a second or two to appreciate the complete fucking awesomeness of the man I married, he will not be reciprocating my thoughts. His head will be wrapped up in how he’s going to take that pole position later.

  Neither of us considered even a spot starting tenth would be do-able today. Sure, we’d hoped. Some of us probably prayed, but we didn’t expect it would happen. And so, for certain, he’s already moved his target ten spots up the grid.

  Pole position won’t happen, not without a minor miracle. Our car isn’t good enough to compete with the top teams yet. It’s made worse by the late upgrades that will eventually improve our competitive edge, now being delayed from three races to five, due to a manufacturing shutdown. Or meltdown. One or the other.

  The clock has already ticked over, signaling the start of the final qualifying session, the one which will determine our starting position on the grid, and Greg backs out to signal. Elliott is safe to leave.

  There’s no messing about this time.

  Elliott fires out with such confidence that I sense the tension radiating from the rear of his car as he passes me to trundle down the pit lane. He’s holding back on the speed, but it’s no surprise when he reaches the end of his restrictions, that he floors the car. She shoots forward with a g-force that would have any normal person struggling to see straight.

  But, the
big difference this time around is that he’s in tune with the car. He feels rather than drives her, and while he’s running at full pelt, she’s not skittish and so he’s not struggling to hold her down. My husband may be racing, but my heart is also racing in my chest. Elliott has done it, he’s back in the racing seat and he’s competing with the best again. I love this man’s tenaciousness.

  I snap my attention back to the pit wall where we’ve also reached our own . We’ve warmed up to our place in this team, knowing what data Elliott needs and feeding it to him without needing to wait for him to request it. Luke is running through the system settings, and Trevor has turned the power of his car up to full force, confident now that it won’t take advantage of Elliott’s trusting nature and wipe him out.

  “This is it, El. Last lap. Hit it!” I say a little too loud down the earpiece. I can’t help myself. It’s not like he needs me to instruct him on how fast he can push this, but I’m caught up in the moment, finally happy that we’re both racing again and I’m not about to waste my opportunity to speak with him, even though it is unnecessary chatter.

  Elliott

  “P9, El.” Everyone is cheering in the background as Kyle announces to me that I’m in the ninth position on tomorrow’s starting grid.

  Ninth!

  Shit.

  I know we shouldn’t even be as high as we are, but I dared to hope. We were doing so well. Things were really stacking up in our favor for a change.

  I switch my sour mood off before I make my radio call because I have to be careful not to disillusion folks who have worked to their limits to get this car where it is. Not to appear grateful for that would be churlish and frankly uncalled for.