It was the same story of how I came to these encounters. Really, what it was, was an equation that consisted of interchangeable variables. Remy plus woman equaled orgasms. What changed was who the woman was and how the orgasms were achieved. But the basic foundation remained the same.
And this afternoon’s enjoyement was being brought to me—quite enthusiasitcally, might I mention—by a model. I believe she walked the runway for some haute couture brand or designer under the name. To be honest, I had heard her talking, but I wasn’t listening.
I had been thinking about how fantastic her tits looked in the dress she had been wearing. It was a lunch date, or the obligatory pleasantries of pretending to get to know one another, when the end result was what we were both after anyhow.
I knew it and every woman I had ever slept with knew it.
It wasn’t crass. It wasn’t disrespectful.
It was a transaction, if you will.
A mutual benefit.
They got the bragging rights about sleeping with a prince—limited, given the non-disclosure agreement, but bragging rights all the same.
And I got off.
It was as simple as that.
Earlier, over a shared dish of black risotto and cuttlefish, it was quite evident that the conversation lacked, but I was hopeful that what she lacked in discourse, she’d make up for while she rode my cock.
Which she was doing quite nicely, currently.
For a model, she had fantastically full tits (obviously fake), round and plump, and they had a beautiful swaying motion as she bounced up and down, my cock hiting her nice and deep.
I focused on the motion, knowing that I would inevitably start counting down to the time when she would start saying things in the throes of passion. They all did. It always happened around the time that they hit their stride, so to speak, a passionate look would be made, a gaze held, and feelings would be spoken aloud.
Could I blame them? Not really. I supposed I understood what they were experiencing, and perhaps they always said that shit because they thought I expected it or even wanted to hear it.
But no promiscuous man wants to hear I love you or You’re the best I’ve had.
Black and white. Neat and tidy. That’s what I wanted. But the silver lining was that most of the women I ended up sleeping with had a thick enough accent or didn’t speak one of the five languages I was fluent in.
Three, two, one…
“Oh, j’adore…” Bingo. Unfortunately I spoke French, so I waited for the rest. “…votre bite!”
Well, that was a new one. I hadn’t expected her to say she loved my cock, but what the fuck? I’d take it.
I’d show her how much she loved it. I flipped her so she was on her hands and knees, and gripping her slender hips, I pistoned myself in and out at a grueling rate.
It wasn’t long before she came around me, and moments later I did the same.
“Qui était incroyable!” she praised, catching her breath.
It was quite nice, but not incredible as she described. “Oui,” I commented so I didn’t seem like a complete prick.
Leaving her, I padded to the en suite and closed the door to shower. The gesture said what I hadn’t verbalized, bringing the transaction to a close.
I had places to be, and as nice as it had been, I was looking forward to my afternoon of speed.
Luckily, my flat wasn’t far from the track, so after getting dressed, I found myself speeding through the streets of downtown Leógoza, and parking just under twenty minutes later.
I had scheduled a race time earlier in the week, so I was pleased to find Valeria waiting for me in the pit. Her custom metallic charcoal paint job sparkled in the afternoon sun, and with a brand new set of tires on her, I was eager to get her out on the track for a durability test.
Valeria was my newest edition in my car collection. She was a humble Lamborghini Huracán and boasted a V-10 engine, acceleration that pulled me to the back of my seat and accoustics that gave me instant chills.
I reluctantly put on my full-face helmet, (something my attorney insisted on making mandatory after I got a hairline fracture in my clavicle during a dicey sky diving fall last year), and I lowered the visor. You’re a prince, and being as such, you must take the necessary precautions, his words echoed in my mind.
Valeria purred to life, the deep rumble being felt all the way to my bones. That was what got me almost more than the speed: the noise and vibrations. There was nothing that rivaled the sounds that came from a machine so powerful, one that could take you from zero to sixty in three-point-four seconds.
I merged onto the track, a beautiful circuit that was just under seven kilometers in total length. It had several hairpin turns that were augmented with straight stretches, and the back half wound through a canaponied area where the acoustics echoed off the ancient sycamores.
The sun was bright and clear and with so few drivers, it held the promise of a straight forward drive. I was looking forward to opening her up and pushing her to her limits.
Keeping her in automatic to begin with, I wanted to stretch her legs, get the feel of the track before really testing her. After the first lap, I clicked out of automatic and switched to manual, allowing me the control to the shift point with the paddles.
It would be very easy for an unseasoned driver to blow the engine if they weren’t careful, but Valeria wasn’t my first rodeo.
It was a symbiotic relationship between myself and the vehicle; I could tell by sound alone when to shift, something that could be accomplished in 1/1000 of a second with the paddles, as opposed to a clutch.
I approached the straighaway and shifted like it was second nature. The infintismal audible drop that occurred from upshifting was something I enjoyed almost as much as the RPM’s that alerted me to shift in the first place. It was a combination of high, powerful revving accompanied by the occasional, almost soundless interruption.
I passed a motorist who seemed to be out for a Sunday drive. Hugging the outside corner of the approaching curve to compensate for the turn, I was about to gun it, but had to keep my speed in check due to a little Porsche that appeared in front of me out of nowhere.
As annoying as it was, I planned to simply pass him and get back to my intended driving. But as I quickly matched their speed before pulling in front, the driver sped up.
So, I did too.
No matter; I’d just have to speed up to get around and leave them in the dust.
The straightaway was quickly ending, as we made our way to the back portion that wound through the forest. It’d be trickier back there with a series of wicked curves. To locals, the area was called ‘the sidewinder’, and for good reason too.
With the little 911 in front still, I took the first curve recklessly in hopes to not only pass them, but to prove that I was annoyed.
Only, it must’ve translated as friendly competition because the driver swerved in front of me, effectively cutting me off.
The sound from our two vehicles reverberated off the trees, causing a heightened rumble as we made our way through the snake-like part of the circuit. On any given day, it would’ve given me a hard on, but right now I was pissed and determined to pass this asshole.
Five more turns proved that this driver was fucking with me. And I wasn’t having it. I was banking on the fact that I knew this course better than they did, so as we rapidly made our way out of the forest, we were headed to the second straight stretch.
A flick of my hand shifted me once more, and I knew that there was no way that damn Porsche could beat my Lamborghini. In a zero to sixty situation, yes, it would be able to accelerate faster, seeing as the car weighed less than mine, but Valeria’s 5.2 litre engine could smoke the 911’s 3.4 any day.
So, for what she was worth, I accelerated and made my move. We became parallel to one another, and as much as I wanted to look over and flip the driver off, I needed to pay attention to what I was doing.
Our bumpers were dangerously clo
se, the two of us vying for the lead. We were going against the track’s safety rules, but the penalites were the least of my worries at the moment.
One last turn was coming up. If I could pass at the last moment on the straight stretch, I could block them in the curve and cross the finish line victoriously.
What was I saying, if? Of course, I could. And I would.
The red and white striped edge of the turn became visible and I rode it tightly, ready to execute my manuever. It would be a piece of cake, seeing as the turn was the sharpest of all throughout the circuit; I had the upper hand with my experience of the track.
The Porsche was favoring the inside edge, where I had been hugging the outer. Shifting once more, I saw my opportunity and accelerated into the curve ready to pass them.
But at the last second, the Porsche veered to the left, narrowly missing the passenger side of my bumper, and cut me off. The action caused me to hit the brakes, my body jerking from the sudden motion.
Now I was seething. And completely stopped. I decided to put the zero to sixty in three-point-four seconds specs to the test.
Valeria didn’t disappoint and as I crossed the finish line, I aggressively pulled in behind the Porsche who had just shut the engine off, ready to exit the vehicle.
I unbuckled my belt, flinging it behind me, not giving a damn that the buckle hit the window. The driver had just stepped out as I began to approach him, feeling completely at ease given his short, slim build.
I pawed at the strap under my chin, needing desperatly to get my helmet off. If I didn’t remove it, the steam coming out of my ears was sure to blow it off any second.
Finally, I was able to breathe, the sun momentarily blinding me with the lack of a tinted visor in place.
“What the fuck do you think you were doing out there?” I demanded. “You could’ve clipped me and flipped either one of us,” I explained, sounding like my older sister, much to my annoyance.
He was still making an attempt to remove his helmet and I was getting more and more impatient. A small, low cloud temporarily blocked the sun, allowing me not to squint as hard.
“Well, are you going to fucking say anything?” I asked, the blinding dots at the corner of my vision beginning to lessen.
His helmet must’ve been giving him problems, because as I stepped closer to him, hoping to intimidate with my superior build, I said, “For fuck’s sake, man. Do you not know how to take off your own helmet?!”
And then, as if by a higher power, there was a break in the cloud, casting him in a shaft of sunlight. Only it wasn’t a him. I felt like I was in a movie: the driver removed their helmet as if in slow motion, shaking a head of long, silky blonde hair out before it settled in a cascade down her back.
She was stunning with her piercing blue eyes, golden hair and flushed cheeks. I don’t know how the fuck I misinterpreted her for a man. On closer inspection, now that my vision had returned fully to me, she had a petite little frame, and curves that were as dangerous as the sidewinder we had just driven.
“Well, howdy to you too,” she said in a strange accent, around her chewing gum. “You sure look like you’re fit to be tied. You’re not upset that I went a larkin’ on y’all, are ya?” she asked, blowing a big, pink bubble.
I opened my mouth to retort, but nothing came out. What the hell had she just said? Howdy? A larkin’? Y’all? I had never been more confused in my life. And I had a sinking feeling it wasn’t from her words…
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