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 besideme. 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.
He’s fast. I knew that factually, I’ve read the articles and seen the highlight clips that pop up on the news, but watching it in person is something else entirely. Hongjoong takes corners at angles that look suicidal from where I’m sitting, the car’s body tilting as it hugs the curve, tires squealing, and then he threads through a gap between two other cars that doesn’t look wide enough for a bicycle let alone a racing vehicle, slotting into the space with a confidence that makes my breath catch. On the straights he accelerates with recklessness that has my heart climbing into my throat, the car eating up the distance so fast the other vehicles seem to fall backward around him. The crew members around me are tense and focused, eyes on their monitors, calling out positions and lap times into their headsets, but I can’t look away from the track itself, from the small bright shape of Hongjoong’s car carving through the field.
The adrenaline of it is intoxicating even from the sidelines. My pulse races with the engines, my hands grip the railing until my knuckles ache. I forget entirely about the plug, about the slick, about everything except the next turn, the next overtake, the gap closing between Hongjoong’s car and the leader. When he makes his move on the final lap, pulling wide on a turn and then cutting inside with a burst of speed that slots him into first place, I’m on my feet without realizing it, both hands on the railing, leaning forward as the cars barrel toward the finish line.
Hongjoong crosses first and the crew around me erupts, people jumping up from their seats, shouting into headsets, clapping each other on the back, and I find myself grinning,caught up in the energy of it. Then the plug shifts brutally with my sudden movement and my lower back spasms, a sharp twinge that shoots down through my hip, and I sit down hard and awkwardly, gasping, my face contorting as I try to make it look like I’m just winded from the excitement and not dealing with a large piece of silicone rearranging my insides.
I grip the armrest of my seat and breathe through it, blinking the spots from my vision, and when I look up I can see Hongjoong in the distance stepping out of his car to the roar of the crowd, his helmet tucked under one arm, his hair sweat-damp and wild where it’s been flattened by the helmet, the top of his racing suit already unzipped to his chest. He raises a fist to the crowd and the cheering swells, cameras flashing, his crew rushing toward him. I bite my lip watching the image of it, thinking that for how utterly annoying Hongjoong is, he does look good out here. Like he was born for this. Radiating that same magnetic energy that always drew people to him, even back when we were teenagers and he was just a loud rich kid with a big laugh and a bigger ego. He hasn’t changed, not really. He just found a bigger stage.
The crew sweeps me along with them toward the winner’s circle like a current. I let myself be carried, falling into step beside the young woman with the headset who chatters excitedly about Hongjoong’s final lap time and how it shattered some kind of track record. I nod along and try to look like I understand the significance of the numbers she’s throwing at me while focusing most of my concentration on walking normally with the plug still seated firmly inside me, every step a fresh reminder of its existence that sends a dull pulse of friction through my core.
The winner’s circle is a raised platform at the end of the pit lane, surrounded by a crush of people, cameras, team officials in suits, sponsors holding branded banners, photographers jostling for position behind a rope line. I hang back at the peripherywhere the crew clusters, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning against a concrete barrier as Hongjoong climbs the podium steps. Someone hands him a trophy, a heavy-looking thing of polished metal and dark wood, and he hoists it with one hand, grinning as flashbulbs erupt in a staccato barrage that turns the air white for a split second. Sponsors crowd in on either side of him for photos, men in expensive suits shaking his hand, clapping his shoulder. Hongjoong works the crowd with the effortless magnetism he’s always had, laughing and nodding and saying the right things to the right people while cameras click and whir.
I watch from the sideline with my arms still folded, my hip cocked against the barrier, a warm feeling growing in my chest. Pride, though I have no right to it. He’s not mine. This isn’t my life. I’m here because he’s paying me to be available when he wants to fuck, and the suit fitting and the race invitation and the car are all just accessories to that arrangement, perks of the job. I know this. I repeat it to myself as I watch him up there under the lights, golden-haired and sharp-jawed and incandescent with the high of winning. I tell myself that the warm ache spreading behind my ribs is just residual adrenaline from the race and nothing more.
The ceremony wraps up and Hongjoong steps down from the podium, handing the trophy off to a crew member without looking, already scanning the crowd. His gaze sweeps past the photographers, past the sponsors still lingering with their business cards, past his own team members trying to flag him down, and lands on me with heat-seeking accuracy. Like he knew exactly where I was standing the entire time. Like he was looking for me before he even stepped off the platform.
He cuts through the crowd in a straight line, people parting around him or getting shouldered aside without ceremony, still in his racing suit with the top unzipped to his sternum and hisundershirt dark with sweat, his hair a mess of damp blonde strands falling across his forehead. He doesn’t slow down as he reaches me. His hand fists the front of my jacket and he yanks me forward off the barrier, and then his mouth is on mine, hard and urgent, tasting like salt and the metallic bite of adrenaline, his lips slightly chapped from the dry air inside the helmet. The kiss is brief but forceful enough that my back hits the concrete barrier and I grab his forearm to steady myself, my other hand coming up instinctively to grip the collar of his racing suit.
He pulls back just enough to speak, his eyes bright and wild with post-race energy that’s rolling off him in waves alongside his pheromones, which have spiked to a level that makes my knees feel unreliable. “Come with me,” he says, his voice is rough, hoarse and gravelly from shouting into his radio during the race, barely contained.
His hand closes around my upper arm and he’s pulling me away from the crowd, steering me across the paddock with long strides that I have to half-jog to match. My face is burning and I’m acutely aware that at least a dozen people just watched that kiss, crew members and photographers and god knows who else, but Hongjoong doesn’t seem to care in the slightest, his grip firm on my arm as he navigates between trailers and equipment carts toward the far end of the garage complex.
He stops at one of the auxiliary bays, a smaller garage unit set apart from the main pit area, and punches a code into the keypad beside the rolling metal door. It grinds upward and he ducks under it before it’s fully open, pulling me in after him. Inside, the space is lit by overhead fluorescents that hum faintly, painting everything in flat white light. A single car sits in the center of the concrete floor, a sleek racing model in the same red-and-black livery as the one Hongjoong just drove to victory, polished to a mirror shine, probably a backup or display vehicle. Hongjoong releases my arm long enough to grab the chain onthe inside of the door and haul it back down, the metal clanging against the concrete floor, then he flips the lock with a decisive click.
When he turns back to me his eyes have that look, pupils blown wide and dark, the sharp brown of his irises reduced to a thin ring, his jaw set with tension. He advances on me and I back up instinctively, one step, two, until my ass connects with the hood of the parked car and I have nowhere else to go. The metal is warm through my pants, residual heat from the garage lights or maybe just the ambient temperature of the space, and I brace my hands on it behind me, palms flat against the smooth painted surface.
I let out a breathless laugh because the absurdity of this situation isn’t lost on me. “Does winning always make you this horny?” I ask, tipping my chin up to meet his eyes.
Hongjoong plants both hands on the hood on either side of my hips, caging me in, and leans down until his mouth is close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips. “No,” he says in a low register that makes my stomach flip. “But knowing your sweet ass has been plugged and waiting for me for the last two hours does.”
My face heats and I open my mouth to tell him he’s disgusting but he’s already pulling my jacket off my shoulders, tugging it down my arms and tossing it onto the concrete floor. My shirt follows, Hongjoong’s fingers working the buttons with impatience that has him nearly ripping the last two free before he shoves the fabric off me. Then his hands go to my belt, undoing it with a sharp jerk, and he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my pants and underwear together and drags them down my legs in one motion, crouching to pull them over my shoes and off entirely. I’m left bare on the hood of the car, the warm metal pressing against my back and ass as Hongjoong straightens up and pushes me down flat with a hand on mychest, then grips the insides of my knees and spreads my legs wide.
The air hits my exposed skin and I shiver, my cock already half-hard and filling rapidly under Hongjoong’s gaze, which has dropped between my legs to where the dark base of the plug is visible between my cheeks. I can feel how wet I am, the hours of sustained stimulation having coaxed a steady flow of slick from my body that’s made a mess of everything down there, warm and slippery and humiliating in its abundance. Hongjoong runs a single fingertip around the rim of my hole where it’s stretched tight around the plug’s base, tracing the junction of silicone and skin, smoothing through the slick that’s leaked out and pooled in the crease of my ass. He circles slowly, pressing just enough to make my rim flutter against the plug, and my thighs start trembling, the sensation too much after hours of being on edge.
“Hongjoong,” I manage, my voice thin.
He doesn’t answer, just grips the base of the plug between his thumb and forefinger and pulls. My breath catches as the plug starts to slide out, the narrower neck passing through easily before the widest part reaches my rim and forces it to stretch open again, a slow burning expansion that makes me grunt and grip the edges of the hood with both hands. The thickest section drags through with agonizing slowness, Hongjoong clearly enjoying the show, then it clears my rim with a wet pop that echoes in the garage and my hole gapes open, clenching and unclenching around nothing, the sudden emptiness making me gasp. I can feel the cool air against my insides, my rim too swollen and loosened to close fully, the vulnerability of it sending a hot flush crawling up my neck and across my chest.
Hongjoong makes a sound low in his throat, hungry, staring at the flutter of my loosened hole with an intensity that makes my cock jump against my belly. He sets the plug aside on the hood with a wet click and then leans forward, and I expect him to lineup and push inside me but instead his mouth finds the underside of my cock, his tongue dragging a slow deliberate stripe from the base all the way to the tip. I jerk hard, my hips bucking off the metal, and then he opens his mouth and takes my entire length in one smooth descent, his lips sealing around the base, nose pressing against my pelvis, the wet heat of his throat engulfing me completely.
I let my head fall back against the hood with a dull thunk, panting up at the fluorescent lights as Hongjoong’s head starts to bob, his tongue working the sensitive underside of my cock with each upstroke, cheeks hollowing as he sucks. At the same time his hand slides between my spread thighs and his fingers find my open hole, three of them pushing inside with no resistance at all, the plug having done exactly what Hongjoong intended. My body accepts them easily, my walls slick and loose, and Hongjoong adds a fourth finger without pausing, spreading them wide inside me, stroking along my walls in slow deliberate drags that make my toes curl against the front bumper where my heels are braced.
The dual sensation is overwhelming, his mouth hot and tight around my cock while his fingers work me open from the inside. I can’t keep still, my hands scrambling uselessly across the smooth hood for something to grip, my hips caught between pushing up into his mouth and grinding down onto his fingers. Hongjoong seems to know exactly what he’s doing, building me with patient devastating focus, his fingers spreading and curling and pressing while his throat constricts around the head of my cock on every downstroke.
Then he presses all four fingers firmly against my prostate at the same moment he sinks all the way down, his nose flush against my skin, and his throat tightens around me in a deliberate swallow. My entire body locks up and I keen, a high broken sound that bounces off the concrete walls as I come,my cock pulsing in the tight channel of his throat, my hips jerking off the hood in stuttering thrusts that Hongjoong rides out without pulling off. He swallows around me, throat working steadily, taking everything, and doesn’t lift his head until the last aftershock has rolled through me and I’m lying spent and trembling on the warm metal, my chest heaving, my vision swimming with bright spots from the overhead lights.
I’m still floating, limbs heavy and tingling, when Hongjoong stands and I hear the rasp of a zipper. I lift my head with effort and watch through hazy eyes as he pulls the front of his racing suit open and frees his cock, flushed dark and hard and leaking from the tip, the sheer size of him still making my gut clench every single time I see it. He grips my hips with both hands and drags me down the hood until my ass is hanging off the edge, the metal scraping against my back, and then he lines the blunt head of his cock against my open hole and pushes inside in one long smooth thrust that buries him to the hilt.
I cry out, my back arching clean off the car, my hands flying up to grip his forearms where they’re braced on either side of me. The stretch is easier than usual after the plug and the fingering, my body accepting him without the usual burn, but the depth is still staggering, still punishing, the head of his cock pressing against that spot deep inside me that only he reaches, and my vision blurs at the edges as my body tries to process the sensation of being so completely full.
“Fuck,” Hongjoong breathes, his head dropping forward, his damp hair falling across his forehead as he holds himself still inside me for a beat, his cock twitching against my walls. Then he grips the backs of my thighs and folds me nearly in half, pushing my knees toward my chest, and starts to fuck me.
