The Race Substitute

Harold thrust into me. His cock was so enormous I almost doubted it belonged to a human being, splitting me open as it drove inside. My body stretched to its absolute limit, and I parted my lips at that tight, overwhelming sensation.

“Hwaah…”

Harold gazed down at me and began to move his hips back and forth. After disarming me completely, he took me exactly as he pleased. The sound of my buttocks slapping against his body rang out—thwack, thwack. Every time Harold buried his cock deep inside me, I, already burning as hot as I could get, felt extreme pleasure. A kind of pleasure I had never experienced before. No one had ever heated my body to this degree—and that was even before the sex itself.

When Harold’s cock slammed all the way into me, the stimulation raced straight up to my head until it felt as if my brain were melting. The fluids seeping from where our bodies joined soaked the pillow soft and wet, and I screamed. Like a machine roaring at full volume.

“Hwaak, ah, aaah, ah, aaaah…!”

And Harold raced, using me as his track.

Am I some kind of race substitute?

The next day I found myself seized by the thought that Harold might be enjoying me in place of Formula 1 racing.

Excitement surged even before we started, and once we were in the middle of it he felt endless pleasure and charged full throttle toward climax, didn’t he? Having been a driver myself, I knew it better than anyone. To F1 drivers, racing was pleasure itself—something not even drugs could deliver.

Since Harold couldn’t race right now, was he quenching his thirst through me before the season began? Like someone who had quit smoking and soothed the craving in his mouth with candy instead.

Then once the season starts it should ease up a little. The moment a driver climbs into the car, he forgets everything else.

Just as a smoker forgets the candy after lighting up again.

I expected that once the season began, his interest in sex would drop compared to now.

I hope it starts soon.

That thought made me wait for the pre-season testing a little over a month away.

It was a critically important period when each team unveiled the new car built for the coming season and verified its performance and stability through test runs—the period when drivers climbed back into their cars and tore around the circuit once more.

As pre-season testing drew near, Harold’s constructor team grew busy with the move. They had to transport the car and all sorts of expensive test equipment undamaged all the way to the test venue in Bahrain, so of course they were. There was little for me to do in all of that.

I simply grabbed a single suitcase’s worth of luggage and, a week before pre-season testing, boarded Harold’s private jet with him bound for Bahrain International Airport in Muharraq. The jet looked large enough to seat a good twenty people; aside from the cabin crew, the pilot, and the chef, I was the only private passenger.

Incredible.

I had known he was richer than I could imagine, but this was my first time on a private jet and I was quietly stunned. Inside Harold’s jet were stylish furniture and lighting, sofas, even a bedroom. There was even a shower facility with a bathtub, making it feel like a luxury hotel suite. I was careful not to look too astonished.

“Nice.”

“As you know, during the season we have to make a lot of long-haul flights. I’ll probably spend three hundred hours a year in here. I have houses in London, Zurich, and Monaco, but the place I spend the most time is right here.”

Harold said. Because F1 and F2 races were held on the same circuits, I too had once traveled the world. Those days of scrambling for the cheapest flights. Back then Harold must have been flying private as well, right?

It’s unfair.

I knew life was simply like that, yet a sigh slipped out of me before I could stop it.

About six hours later the private jet landed at Bahrain International Airport.

It had been a long time since I’d been in Bahrain. The moment we arrived at the international airport, old memories came rushing in like a desert sandstorm. I had to fight hard not to be overwhelmed by them.

From the airport Harold and I transferred to a helicopter and flew to a luxury resort near the Bahrain International Circuit. It was also my first time using a helicopter service. Inside the helicopter I looked down on Bahrain’s sea glittering like fish scales under the sunlight and the vast desert. The entire journey was comfortable, and we reached our destination quickly without wasting a single minute.

Had Harold lived a life where all of this was simply provided as a matter of course? Never experiencing the cramped seats of economy class, the body odor of the person next to him on a bus, or flight delays.

How shocked would he be if he ever had to live the way I did? He’d be badly shaken and crushed, wouldn’t he?

The helicopter landed on the helipad of the luxury resort in Sakhir. Stepping onto the helipad perched atop a building that resembled a white Islamic mosque, I looked down at the sea below. Even though I had visited Bahrain several times before, it felt as if I were finally seeing its beauty for the first time.

Harold’s suite had three guest rooms and a private infinity pool. Every room came with its own bathroom finished in gold and white. I was assigned one of the guest rooms. The contract stated that Harold would cover all lodging costs during the season. I had no reason to complain. The bathroom attached to my room seemed larger than the London flat I used to live in.

After arriving in Bahrain, Harold stopped the high-intensity training he had been doing and switched to light exercise and plenty of rest to keep himself in peak condition.

Mornings were spent in the resort’s fitness room doing cardio and reaction-speed drills; afternoons were free time. Once the morning schedule was over, Harold either swam in the pool or stretched out on a sunbed by the private pool, enjoying Bahrain’s pleasant weather and the gently warm sunlight.

What a life.

And at night he received the appropriate treatment from me. Honestly I didn’t care what Harold did, but even when he was resting he wanted me nearby.

“Hanna, you’re reading a book even here.”

So that he could speak to me whenever he got bored.

Apparently the job also implicitly included standing in as a friend; I did whatever Harold wanted without complaint. He was paying me that much money, after all.

“You’re not going out? You just stay inside the hotel.”

When I asked from the sunbed right next to him, Harold, lying there in swim trunks soaking up the sun, smiled with his eyes.

“I come here every time. What’s the point? If I get noticed by people it’s just a hassle. Accidents can happen too. In a week we’ll be so busy we won’t have time to breathe. When else am I going to rest if not now?”

Then he suddenly sat up from the sunbed and threw himself into the pool where sunlight shattered across the surface like broken glass. His muscular body cut through the water and immediately dove deep. He stayed underwater so long I almost wondered if he had drowned, then surfaced right in front of my sunbed. My book got soaked in the process; I stared at it blankly before closing it. Harold raked both hands through his wet blond hair and held a hand out to me.

“Come in. Don’t just sit there looking bored. Let’s be together.”

If that’s what you want, then fine.

I sighed and stepped in. Wearing the black bikini I had hurriedly bought at the resort because of Harold. The water was cool, and beyond the infinity pool the emerald sea stretched out.

And a week later I was at the Bahrain circuit—not as a racer, but as Harold’s staff, wearing his team uniform.

It was the first day of pre-season testing.

The bustling paddock, the pit crews busily testing this and that piece of equipment, the journalists roaming around to film and interview, and all the other staff. Amid them I gazed at the circuit and each team’s machines.

In that instant, truly like a madwoman, I wanted to drive those cars. I wanted to be one of the drivers again.

The situation of having to merely watch something I so desperately wanted, knowing I would never obtain it again for the rest of my life, was far more terrible pain than I had anticipated. Enough to bring tears to my eyes.

I’d rather die.

I was so, so, so jealous. That jealousy poured oil over my head and set my entire body ablaze. If I could have, I would have fled from this place.

You know perfectly well you can’t.

I forced myself to soothe my own heart and wiped the tears away with the back of my hand.

Knowing it would hurt this much, why on earth had I come back here? Why had I ended up sleeping with a man I didn’t even like?

Obviously, it was because of the money.