No Turning Back
From the moment I first received Harold’s proposal, something had felt off.
The World Champion of Formula 1—one of the three greatest sporting events on the planet, right alongside the Olympics and the FIFA World Cup—was also a devastatingly handsome man from a family so rich the money practically rotted. So why the hell did he have no girlfriend? Why did he refuse even the casual convenience of a dating app?
Any woman he wanted would fall into his lap the second he crooked a finger…
He possessed every single quality that made women lose their minds. The reason he had given me when he made the offer had therefore struck me as crude and half-baked.
Traveling the world was simply part of the job for every F1 driver, wasn’t it? And yet F1 drivers were still wildly popular with women.
Only after I spent the night with him did I finally understand.
Crazy bastard. What woman could possibly endure this?
His inability to settle with one woman had nothing to do with the job. It was Harold himself.
There was a limit to how much stamina a man should have. An ordinary woman would never survive this arrangement.
I’d almost rather he was into something kinky—tying me up or being tied… Ah.
Usually the woman would collapse first, long before Harold was satisfied.
She had to be someone he liked, someone sturdy enough to take him, and someone he could reach whenever the urge struck. Conditions that exacting explained why he was willing to pay that kind of money for me. The physical therapy on top of it was just the sugar decoration on the cake.
“Ah—ngh, hhh, ah… ah…”
Even so, I wanted to demand why he hadn’t warned me beforehand that his idea of good sex was driving a person to the brink of death. But it was far too late for that.
Front, back, side… I took him again and again. I screamed until I no longer knew whether the sounds were cries or moans, until my voice was raw and I was completely spent, until the king-size sheets were a filthy wreck of the fluids that had come out of my own body.
Harold did not let me go even after the sun rose and morning light began to leak through the heavy curtains.
When I opened my eyes I was lying naked and face-down on the bed, a blanket draped over me. I simply blinked, and Harold’s voice reached me.
“You’re awake?”
I turned my head toward the sound. He was seated on the single armchair across from the bed, elegantly sipping tea.
He wore the same impeccable suit he had the first time we met, his blond hair neatly arranged so that a lock fell across one side of his forehead. Not a single trace of the night’s debauchery remained on him.
Once he confirmed I was conscious, Harold set the cup on its saucer, rose, and came to sit on the edge of the bed beside me.
“Want some water if you’re thirsty? No—take a shower first. I’ll order room service. How about an omelet? You must be starving, and the omelets here are excellent.”
I didn’t even have the strength to lift my head. One cheek still pressed to the sheet, I simply raised my eyes and watched him stroke my hair.
“If you don’t like that, I can bring you the menu. Even if it’s not listed, just say what you want and they’ll make it.”
“Harold.”
The hoarse sound scraped out of my parched mouth.
“Call me Harry.”
“Harry… then could you bring me a bathrobe? And if you could help me up and get me to the bathroom after that, even better. Breakfast—omelet and soup. Any soup is fine.”
I hated asking for anything, but my legs refused to move, exactly as if I had just finished a triathlon the day before.
Harold did exactly as I asked. I managed to shrug into the bathrobe he handed me and, leaning on him, made it into the marble bathroom. He smiled brightly.
“Want me to wash you?”
“Just order the room service.”
I sat in the tub and twisted the faucet all the way to cold. Ice-water slammed over my entire body; every muscle that had been screaming in protest seized up, and my mind snapped into sharp focus.
It was the dead of winter, yet I stayed under the freezing cascade for a long time.
Like an athlete after a brutal session.
I really slept with Harold.
The full-body agony was proof enough.
Right. There’s no turning back now.
Last night had not been a dream.
I roughly towel-dried my wet hair, cinched the bathrobe belt tight, and stepped out. The breakfast he had ordered was already waiting on the table.
I sat and started with the tea. Across from me Harold propped one elbow on the table, chin in hand, and lightly tapped the surface with the fingers of his other hand.
“How was last night?”
“……”
“I had an incredible time. You were perfect… I’ve never felt anything like that before.”
The way he asked, almost checking my reaction, sounded completely sincere.
“Glad to hear it.”
Was I twisting it too much if it felt like reading a product review on an online shopping site?
I deliberately ignored the sensation that I had become the call girl he had summoned last night and sliced into the omelet with knife and fork. Everything was still warm; the bacon was crisp, the omelet soft. The moment food hit my tongue, delayed hunger roared to life.
While I demolished the bread, soup, and omelet, Harold waited on me like a server—refilling my water glass, grinding pepper into the soup.
It was honestly starting to feel oppressive. As the plate emptied he spoke again.
“So—I’m not trying to rush you, but there’s a lawyer waiting in the lounge. Once you’re finished, shall we go draw up the contract?”
I stared at him.
“……”
“What?”
He tried to sound casual, but the impatience was written all over his face.
“Well.”
I finished eating, wiped my mouth with the napkin, and asked,
“Before we sign anything, aren’t you curious how good I actually am at physical therapy? Shouldn’t we check that first, before we go downstairs?”
“……”
“My therapy skills could be terrible. Unlike the sex. Isn’t that why you came up to the hotel room in the first place?”
Caught off guard, Harold answered,
“…You’re right. That was the plan.”
Liar. You only came here to fuck me.
I narrowed my eyes.
“Then let’s go to the bed. I’ve been curious about the state of your body too.”
I stood.
The bed we had wrecked the night before was honestly too disgusting to lie on again, so we moved to another room.
“Strip and lie face-down here, at the edge of the bed… No—no, keep the underwear on! I’m diagnosing you, so put those back on right now! Hurry.”
Harold’s massive cock sprang free the second the briefs came down; I nearly screamed.
Is this guy insane?
Who takes off their underwear for physical therapy?
“You told me to strip, so I thought that meant everything.”
He shrugged, pulled the briefs back on, and stretched out on the bed.
Once he was face-down I climbed up as well, kneeling near his head. I laid the four fingers of both hands against the back of his skull and began a slow, thorough massage of the entire scalp while my thumbs worked the pressure points.
“Relax. I’ll go slowly and feel everything out. Tell me if it hurts.”
Soon a low groan slipped from Harold’s mouth. For an F1 driver the head and the neck that had to support it under extreme G-forces were the most stressed, most compressed parts of the body.
I could find a driver’s trigger points with my eyes closed.
After giving his head the full attention it deserved, I straddled his back.
Then I wrapped both hands around his neck. My thumbs kneaded the knotted muscle free while I pressed steadily along the cervical spine from the hollow behind the ear toward the ear itself.
At some point the sounds coming out of him turned into soft, suffering moans.
Exactly the way I had sounded the night before.
“Does it hurt?”
“No. It’s heaven. It feels so good. Keep going—right there, please.”
Harold begged. Once I had carefully released every knot in his neck I moved on to his back. The muscles there rolled and shifted under my hands like a massive snake.
I mapped the beautifully developed musculature with my fingertips, checking every fiber with both hands.
Where it pulled, where it locked, where the pain lived. Skin condition, areas of reduced function, and what was causing them… Assessing movement and muscle status, I asked,
“Answer me while I work. There’s an especially unbalanced load on your neck and this point here. Anything happen that would explain the pain?”
“Probably the wall I hit because of a brake issue.”
“Which month?”
“September. Azerbaijan.”
“Sector 1 there is brutal on the brakes, yeah.”
While doing physical therapy I often thought the work was like assembling a thousand-piece puzzle. Interview the patient, gather the scattered pieces—past injuries, illnesses, medications, family history—and eventually the picture would click into place: when the symptoms had begun, which activities made them worse.