Formula One

"Princess, what to you know about Formula One?"

Sly loves 'gotcha' questions like this, where he damned well knows I don't know the answer. For him I'm an exemplar of the college-educated elite, and things like this let him feel superior. Unfortunately, he did get me on this one.

We were sitting in his apartment divvying up our profits after a client left. He always figures that that is the best time to spring something a little wonky on me. He knows I'm usually mellowed out after a good session, i.e., one that left the client happy and me pleased with my work (not to mention the money).

Oh yeah, my work. I'm what I like to call a part-time party girl. Okay, full disclosure, I sell sex. More precisely, Sly and I sell sex. He's my agent. I'm say part-time because I have a real job as a copy editor for a law firm in the city. That one pays my ordinary bills. The other is for fun and extra money (which is substantial). Sly's job is to find and vet clients for me. Just how and where he does this is a mystery to me, and frankly I like it that way. I don't mind dipping my toe into his world, but I feel safer keeping my distance from it. I don't know it, and frankly, it's a little scary to me.

I've been teamed up with Sly ever since (you're not going to believe this) he blackmailed me into servicing his "friends" for money to ransom some very incriminating material he had gotten from a one-off wild night in the Village. True story. Funny thing was, I discovered I had a hidden talent for the work, and the adventure appealed to me (so, to be honest, did the sex). Sly caught on to that, and after my 'debt' had been paid off, offered to continue the arrangement but on a more business-like basis. I agreed, and we've been doing quite well ever since.

What amazes me is how well we two get along. I'm a classic WASP, raised in an upper-class suburban family, and Sly is a tough product of the city streets. Somehow, we've found mutual respect, each for what we bring to the enterprise. He still calls me Princess though, but it is no longer a pejorative the way he says it now.

"Formula One?" I asked. "I dunno. I'd guess it's one of those things mothers feed their babies when they can't or don't want to breastfeed them."

"Hell, Princess, that's something you'll never have to worry about," he said while ogling my breasts, only lightly covered in my black nylon teddy (evening) working outfit.

"Ho, ho. So alright, smartass, what is Formula One and, more relevantly, what does it have to do with me? I assume you brought it up because you've got a job in mind."

"Formula One? Oh, it's nothing much. Just the biggest motor sport attraction in the world. Fastest cars, best drivers. They race all over the world, including Monaco. Worth billions. And you never heard of it?"

"Sly, you could take what I know about motor sports and shove it up a flea's ass and it would rattle around loose in there.

"So fine, you've made your point about how smart and worldly you are. But I'm still wondering what this has to do with me."

"Okay. There's a promotional display at the convention center of Formula One cars this week. I was contacted by a guy who's one of the sponsors of one of the teams. He's really big into cars and racing them. He remembers as a kid seeing these posters of gorgeous women spread out on racecars and motorcycles, looking very sexy. He wants to make that a reality."

"Why doesn't he just hire a model? Why contact you? Oh wait. Duh. He doesn't just want to look, does he."

"Jesus, Princess, nothing gets by you."

"Ha-ha. Okay. I get it. Sounds a little intriguing. So, what's it worth to us?"

"Well, Formula One is a very expensive sport. You don't sponsor a team unless you're worth big bucks. So this guy doesn't care about cost."

"Great. But we do. Like I said, what's it worth?"

Sly told me.

Wow.

Okay, the first thing to do for a role-playing job is research. That's what us professionals do. If I'm going to fulfil some guy's fantasy, I'd better know something about the fantasy. I checked into this Formula One stuff. Jesus, Sly was not kidding about it being expensive. The cars alone are each worth over a million dollars!! It sounded awfully elitist, but it turns out that there are over five hundred million fans, and it is currently the second most followed major sporting event on the planet. What rock have I been living under all this time??

Next, what to wear. I checked out Google for sexy girls and cars and wound up looking at a ton of pin-ups from the fifties of girls draped fetchingly over the hoods of a variety of cars. No surprise, the heavy emphasis was on long legs and ample bosoms and a lot of strategically exposed skin. Well, I could handle the anatomical aspect with no problem, but the draping part looked rather uncomfortable and often downright precarious.

The girls seemed to be of two main types: the barefoot country girl ingénue with blonde ponytail, dressed in very tight cutoffs and halter, or the sophisticated woman with heels and dark stockings and a loose short skirt casually pulled aside to show stocking tops and a glimpse of panties. I guessed that Formula One wasn't the sort of place for the simple country girl if they race mostly in Europe, including, for heaven's sake, on the streets of Monaco! I opted for a form-fitting black cocktail dress, very low cut, with a slightly loose short skirt, black stockings and three-inch heels.

I met the client around midnight at a service entrance to the exhibition center. He gave me a careful look over and then smiled.

"Vicki, you are truly gorgeous," he said. "Your agent doesn't do you justice." I smiled. He wasn't too bad himself. Maybe late fifties, casually but expensively dressed, well groomed. He looked rich. In my profession you learn to tell.

He took my hand. His grip was firm, which I liked. He was clearly used to being in charge. We walked down a corridor and out onto the display floor. The only lights were the security lights, so it was pretty dark and kind of spooky, with lots of shadows and echoing emptiness. I gripped the client's hand rather more tightly than I had intended and followed docilely, wishing the clicks of my heels wouldn't make so much noise.

What light there was was reflected off the highly polished finishes on the racing machines arrayed about the floor.

And what machines they were! As I told Sly, I don't know much (anything, really) about motor sports, but even I could tell those cars were expensive and meant to go fast. I mean, just sitting there they looked as if they were eager to fly down a track at two hundred miles an hour. Low-slung, almost touching the floor underneath, tires exposed, and cockpits that looked like only a contortionist could get into, a contortionist with no trace of claustrophobia. And yet I have to admit, they were beautiful machines.

He led me over to an area with two of the machines that had the same color scheme ("livery", I learned that they call that, just like for racehorses). He beamed with pride.

"This is my team," he said. He started to rattle off statistics, but I quickly tuned out. I was looking more carefully at the machines. I don't know if you've ever seen a Formula One racecar, but take my word for it, unlike the classic cars I had seen in the vintage pinup pics, they don't have a lot of horizontal surfaces on which to disport oneself in any kind of fetching pose. I was clearly going to have to be creative.

But I do love a challenge!

"Would you mind if I were to lean on one of your cars?" I asked demurely, as if I didn't know that that was the purpose of our visit. I like to let clients think they're in charge.

"Certainly. Be my guest. Do you mind if I take your picture? I promise I'll keep it private."

Well, I had to think about that one. It was, after all, pictures that got me into my current circumstances in the first place. But I figured that as long as I was careful in how I posed and what I revealed I could keep it innocent, should any pictures surface at a later date.

"I'd be flattered," I said.

I managed to find enough horizontal space on some side-bulging thing next to the cockpit. I perched my ass carefully onto it and leaned back against a kind of air scoop-looking thing. I crossed my right leg over my left and let my skirt rise up enough to clear my stocking tops. I raised my arms a bit to lift my breasts and emphasize my cleavage. It wasn't all that stable or comfortable a pose, but obviously, to judge from his expression, the client liked it. I smiled as alluringly as I could manage under the circumstances. He took a bunch of pictures from various angles with his cell phone.

Once he put the phone away, I got down to work. I raised my right leg to lift my skirt and 'coincidentally' gave him a good look at my panties. I extended my arms to him in an open invitation. My smile turned more serious.

He forgot about the phone.

He came over and knelt down in front of me. He caressed my legs, moving upward from my knees, dwelling on the exposed skin over my nylons. That felt very nice. He spread my legs some and began to kiss my sensitive inner thighs. Both his hands and his lips moved gradually closer and closer to my pussy as if he thought I might not notice where he was going with this.

Oh, I did, alright. I was beginning to breathe a little more deeply.

His fingers touched the nylon vee between my legs. I gave an audible gasp. I was sure he could feel the wetness. I sure could. I used my hand to gently encourage his head to move closer. I spread my legs more to give him unrestricted access.

His fingers pulled the nylon aside, and I felt his warm breath on my sensitive pussy lips. A second later I felt his warm wet tongue press itself between my labia and probe into me. I moaned and leaned back, my eyes closed.

"My God you taste wonderful," he said from deep between my legs.

"Shh. No talking. I have a better use for your tongue."

He went back to work.

Oh God, it felt good. His tongue probed deep into me. His hands groped my inner thighs. He grasped my clit with his lips, caressed it with his tongue, and gently sucked it. And the world went away.

Some time later I reluctantly returned to reality. I opened my eyes and saw him standing before me with a beatific grin, his lips and chin glistening in the dim light.

"I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did," he said. "I have to say, you certainly made the most interesting feminine noises."

"Did I? I was a bit distracted. And yes, I enjoyed it. You're quite good."

My eyes drifted down to his waist, drawn by a most attractive bulge there.

I let him see where I was looking, and, keeping my eyes still on his bulge I said "Did you know that there are numerous clinical studies that indicate that a man should not hoard his sperm? Not good for his health."

"Really?" he said.

"Oh definitely. Many studies. Clinical, too."

"Well," he said, "then perhaps I..."

"Good choice," I said. "Now, if you'll stand in front of the car, we can address the problem. I have a solution to propose."

He did. I peeled myself off the racecar and came around and knelt in front of him. I unbuckled his belt and undid his pants and let them fall. That lovely bulge was tenting his shorts, and there was a damp spot near its tip. I stroked it through the material of his shorts, listening to his breathing pick up. He moaned.

I pulled his shorts down and helped him step out of them and his pants. His cock was as lovely as I had gleaned from its outline. Beautifully shaped, and of a very respectable length and girth. Its tip glistened with a fresh drop of his pre-cum. From its mysterious depths my mind conjured up a jingle I once saw in an article about old-time ads. It went "So round, so firm, so fully packed." I suppose it was a sneaky subliminal double-entendre for some cigarette, but whatever, it was appropriate here. Oh, this was going to be fun!

I grasped his hips and guided him back so that he was leaning on one of the oversized front tires. His ass was just the right height for him to perch on it. Perfect. Whoever designed these cars knew what they were doing!

I unzipped the back of my dress and let the top fall. I loved the look in his eyes as my breasts became exposed. I gave him a few seconds to look, and then I unsnapped my bra and let it fall. His eyes widened. My nipples stiffened. I smiled up at him and then turned my attention to that delightful male rod jutting out toward me, so full of promise.

I took it in my hand and stroked it a bit. I ran my fingers from the tip to the base and back again, lingering around the head. I used a couple of fingers to spread the slit and watched a clear drop of pre-cum rise out of it. I used the pre-cum to lubricate my hand while I stroked him gently. I loved hearing his breathing get deeper. I squeezed his warm cock a few times, feeling it swell under my touch. He reached down to cup my breast. His hand was warm and gentle yet firm and felt very good. His fingers caressed my aroused nipple, making it hard and erect.

I leaned in and gently kissed the tip of his member. He gasped. I tasted his salty emission with my tongue. This was the critical time, when I knew that he wanted desperately to grab my head and ram his cock into my throat and cum there. But I also knew that I needed to maintain control, and that a gradual buildup to a final release would be much better for both of us. Hell, this wasn't my first cock. I am a professional, after all, and I enjoy doing my job right. Timing is everything.

I slid my lips down over the tip and embraced the warm pulsing shaft. I could feel the veins throbbing in time with his heartbeat. The head was heavy on my tongue, where I lifted it against the roof of my mouth. I sucked on him, gently at first, listening to his breathing and feeling the tension in his thighs with my hands. I felt his hands on my head, gently encouraging me, yet thankfully not demanding nor interfering with my movements. Clearly, he was satisfied to let me run the show.

I began rising and falling on him in a steady rhythm, sucking hard at the end of each outstroke, drawing a little pre-cum out of him each time. It tasted good. He was moaning loudly, now. I twirled my tongue in his slit. He gasped each time I did. His thighs were beginning to twitch, and his hips were moving to match the movements of my head, driving him deeper into my mouth.

He was ready.

I lifted until just the head of his cock was in my mouth and gave it several strong sucks. I leisurely slid down on him, nibbling him with my lips and caressing him with my tongue as I did until his cock passed down into my throat. Then I held still and let him control the thrusting of his hips to find what gave him the most pleasure. His strokes were sometimes fast, sometimes slow and deep. I could feel his fingers twitch against my scalp. Abruptly his breathing stopped. This was it. I grasped his hips and pulled him deep into me. He cried out something wordless and came into me.

His cock jumped. It swelled. I felt the big vein on the underside throb, followed by the warmth of his cum gushing into my throat. It felt great. Several quick ejaculations as if to establish beyond doubt his possession of my throat, then some long and very fruitful deliveries. I swallowed in time with his ejaculations, my throat muscles massaging his cock, milking it of his male juice. His rapidly accumulating load felt delightfully warm in my stomach. I enjoyed the feel of his cock pulsing in my mouth in synchrony with his accompanying groans of deep-felt animal pleasure.

Eventually he ran down, his deep reservoirs exhausted. I held onto him, keeping him in me, tasting his maleness, while his breathing slowed down, and his tense thigh muscles relaxed. Eventually he gave a heart-felt sigh, and his hands fell away from my head. Gradually, reluctantly, I moved off his cock while still grasping it firmly with my lips. When I got to the end I gave it a good suck, at the same time squeezing it with my hand, managing to get the last of his sperm onto my tongue, a parting gift.

"Oh my God, Vicki, that was simply marvelous. I've never cum like that in my life! How can I ever thank you."

"No need. I thoroughly enjoyed it. You have a very lovely cock, and I loved the taste of you." Okay, maybe I laid it on a bit, but I really did enjoy that, and I always feel good when a client compliments me on a job well done.

"May I ask one last favor?" he said.

"Sure, if I can do it."

"This is going to sound weird, but could you kiss the front of my car? I would love to have the impression of your kiss as a kind of emblem that I can think about as I watch my car race."

Well, it was a little weird, but at the same time kind of flattering.

"Sure. I'd be flattered."

I planted as frankly salacious a kiss as I could manage on the cold metal. I'd never kissed a car before (surprise), but hell, it wasn't all that bad. I found out later that sponsors spend thousands of dollars to get their logos printed on these cars. That made me feel pretty special.

I resolved to make it a point to watch his next race. After all, I now had a personal investment in it. When I did watch one, It actually was kind of interesting - the race that is, not to mention the dashing, handsome (and rich) young drivers who all seemed to live in Monaco or other exotic places around the world. Definitely food for future thought there!