Grease Monkey Business Pt. 02

"More, need more," she breathed. "Fuck me. Roll us over, and fuck the shit out of me. I want that hot cum on my tits. Do it, please."

I didn't need a lot of convincing. She wasn't the only one excited by the thought of us living together. I was going to be waking up next to her beautiful face and spectacular body, on a regular basis. The word 'yahoo' comes to mind.

I rolled us over quickly, and got to work, fucking her pussy with long, deep strokes, that got faster and faster, until I was driving my hips into her at full speed. Her boobs wobbled wildly, dragging those stiff nipples against my chest. We both sang an aria from the opera of sex, harmonizing groans and moans of joy. I could feel the pressure building.

"Oh, F-U-U-U-U-U-C-C-C-K!" I grunted, pulling out just in time. My dick spurted semen all over her chest, before I grabbed it and aimed more carefully, successfully shooting a final blob right into her open mouth. Spent, I dropped to the mattress beside her.

"Thank you for the lovely present," she smiled, playing with her gooey tits. "Oh, and thanks for the frame, too. It's just as well it's not a surprise. It would have cost a fortune to wrap."

***

A month after Julie moved in, she woke me one Sunday morning, cuddling softly into my side.

"Honey, I have a question for you, and I want you to know, I'm not mad," she smiled.

"Mad? About what?" I asked, still waking up. She produced her phone again, and handed it to me.

"Is this a joke? Did you have anything to do with this?" she asked.

I finally succeeded in getting my eyes to focus, and read the email.

"Julie, I swear, I have nothing to do with this," I told her. "It looks legit. I suppose it could be a joke, but it's not me, I promise."

Her smile got very wide.

"Well, I suppose there's one way to find out," she breathed, and tapped the phone number embedded in the email text. She put the phone on speaker, and held it flat in the palm of her hand.

"Chip Ganassi Racing. How may I direct your call?" the voice answered.

Julie gasped, and hit the red button on screen, ending the call.

"What did you do that for?" I laughed.

"I'm not ready! My god, Red! That was Chip Ganassi Racing! It's real!" she bubbled. "I have no idea what to say!"

"You have no idea what they're calling for," I reminded her.

"Right," she nodded, catching her breath. "I don't know anything. But... what else could they be calling ME for? You think he's calling to schedule an oil change?" Her excitement retuned, full force. She was hyperventilating, and I held her to calm her down.

"It's okay, baby," I cooed, stroking her hair. "Call them again. We'll do it together."

It took a few minutes for her to get control of her emotions, which I found a little surprising. She could drive a car at speeds that would make most people shit themselves, without batting an eye, but this email had her flustered. Perhaps I didn't fully understand the situation. Maybe that was a good thing.

"Alright. Ready, now?" I asked, holding the phone for her. She nodded, and I pushed the redial key.

"Chip Ganassi Racing. How may I direct your call?" the receptionist asked, showing not a hint of having just been hung up on.

"Um, yes, I..." Julie replied, trying to stay cool. "I received an email, that asked me to call?"

"Yes? Did the email say with whom I should connect you?" the voice asked.

"Um, yeah, it says extension 001," Julie answered.

"Certainly. I'll connect you to Mr. Ganassi immediately," the woman said briskly. "Whom shall I say is calling?"

"Julie Stroud," Julie nodded, looking terrified. Music on hold came through the speaker. "Chip Ganassi, himself? I'm going to pee myself!"

"Hello, Julie?" a male voice picked up. "It's Chip Ganassi here. Thanks so much for getting back to me so fast."

"No problem," Julie said evenly. "Your message doesn't contain many details. What can I do for you?"

"Well, you can help me out of a bind," he laughed. "I need a driver... three, actually... for an upcoming event. Some of my guys found out the hard way that motorcycles can be dangerous, so they won't be able to drive. Just about everyone else is either spoken for, or under contract with someone else, so I had to widen my search. A friend of mine told me you kicked some ass in Portland."

"Well, I was part of a team effort," Julie said modestly. "Do I know your friend?"

"Not really, but you know of him. You've heard of Kasey Kahne?" Chip asked. "He was in the crowd in Portland, and his version of things is a little different. He says you singlehandedly won that race, with some very impressive wet weather driving. Says if you could have stayed in longer, and it had stayed wet, you might have taken first overall. That sounds like my kind of driver. Julie, would you come down, and turn some laps for us?"

"I, um, I..." she balked, but I was nodding my head. "Yes. Yes, I'll come down. Come down where?"

"Daytona," Chip answered. "We need you for our second car, in the GTLM class, for the Rolex 24. We're running Ford GT's. Julie? Did you hear me?

"She heard you," I answered, taking over for her. She had bolted from the room at the word 'Daytona', and was throwing up in the bathroom. "When do you want us there?"

Chip and I chatted. He seemed like a really nice guy. Very business-like, but nice. He completely understood how overwhelming this might be for her, and told me he was going to do everything possible to ease her transition.

Julie came back into the room. If Chip (we were on a first name basis now) could see his new driver now, he'd undoubtedly be wanting her to do more than turn a few laps. Even in this unique situation, I appreciated my ability to view her naked body. She was just so beautiful.

"Hi, Mr. Ganassi," she smiled sheepishly. "I'm back. Sorry about that."

"Nothing to apologize for, Julie," he said, soothing her fears. "I know this is a surprise. To be honest, I'd be more concerned if you weren't a little freaked out."

"Thank you, sir," she smiled, relaxing visibly. "Mr. Ganassi? From what I understand, GTLM is a pro category. My racing license isn't pro level."

"No problem. I'll pull a few strings from my end, and have the necessary officials at the track for your practice time. It will all be set by the time of the race itself. Julie, first, call me Chip, okay? I just want you to relax, drive the car, and give us your best. You can do that, right?"

"Yes, Chip," she nodded.

"Okay, then," he laughed. "I'll have my secretary put together a package for you, and send you all the details. We'll see you, in Charlotte, for a little track time in the car, in a couple of weeks. If all goes well, we'll all be in Daytona a week after that. Sound good?"

"Yes, Chip," she repeated.

"Awesome!" he exclaimed. "See you there!"

The phone went dead, and I put it on the bedside table.

Julie flopped on her back on the bed, and I watched her breasts wobble to a stop eventually. She was staring at the ceiling.

"I didn't imagine that, did I?" she asked softly. "That really was Chip Ganassi, and he really did just offer me a seat in his car, right?"

"Well, I don't know his voice, but I'd say, yes, it really happened," I nodded.

"Daytona?" she sighed.

"Yes. I heard that too. That's pretty big," I answered.

"Only one bigger," she smiled, and rolled on her side, leaning her head on her hand. "Holy. Shit."

I knew she was excited about the whole situation. I wanted to let her enjoy it, without making it about me, but... why did she have to be naked, and why did she have to be laying in this particular position? It just wasn't fair.

Have a woman with tits like Julie's lay on her side, and you'll see what I mean. God, I loved it when she did this, because it stacked her huge boobs atop each other, and made them look even bigger.

I tried not to look, but I failed, and when I managed to drag my eyes away from her beautiful chest, and get back to her eyes, she was smiling.

"Care to make love to a 24-hour endurance racer?" she growled, tickling my chest with her nails.

"I'm not sure I can do a whole 24 hours," I smiled, pushing her onto her back, and easing between her legs. Her pussy was drenched already, and easily accepted my cock as I slipped into her. "Would you settle for one really good one?"

"Hmmmm, I suppose," she sighed, wrapping her legs around my waist. "That's what practice is for."

She was right about that, and I was willing to practice as often as she wanted. I'd do it over and over again, until I got it right, just the way she liked it.

***

Walking out into pit lane at Charlotte Motor Speedway, I was torn.

I wasn't sure which was sexier; Julie, in her new driving suit, or the Ford GT racecar that sat gleaming in the sun, waiting for her to climb in and do her thing.

"Wow," I breathed.

"Thank you, baby," Julie giggled, running her hands over the fabric of her suit. New sponsorship patches adorned the front, including the bullseye logo of Target retail stores. I watched her for a second or two, then stepped over to adjust it for her.

"It might be more appropriate if there were two of those," I laughed, pointing to the concentric circles.

"Yes, yes... I thought you might mention that," she grinned, glancing down at her chest. "Can't call too much attention to the girls. It's a family sport, after all."

"Then don't stand in profile," I smiled. Glancing over at the car, I continued. "Speaking of profile... Will you look at that thing?"

Many, many years ago, Henry Ford Jr. grew tired of losing races to the Ferraris of Enzo Ferrari, and he tasked his engineers to design a car that would end the Italian company's dominance. The car that resulted was the legendary Ford GT40, in which the '40' actually stood for the height of the car's roofline. That's pretty low.

Low is normal for racecars, but in the absence of a tape measure to verify the thought, I'd say the updated Ford GT was every bit as sleek. Access to modern wind tunnel technology had sculpted it into a bullet that would pierce the wind like a hot scalpel through butter. It looked like it was going a hundred miles an hour, just sitting still in the pits. Inside, it didn't look much slower, with a single seat, a small, padded steering wheel, and central electronic display for the driver.

I helped Julie into the car, and got her all strapped in, with helmet and HANS in place. Her pretty eyes looked into mine through the open visor of her helmet, and she nodded her readiness. A crew member helped close and latch the door, handing me a pair of headphones so I could hear the conversation between Chip and Julie.

To hear the car rumble, you'd never think that under its carbon-fibre body, behind the driver's head, lurked not a monstrous V8, but a modest V6 with twin turbochargers. Lighter than the V8, and better on fuel, it marked a change in strategy for racing, and it was right up Julie's alley.

By the time I made it up onto the observation platform, Julie was cruising slowly through the infield section of the combination road-oval track. Chip was talking to her.

"Okay, Julie. Just get to know the car for about ten or fifteen laps," he said, waving me over. "No target times for now. Just feel out the car, and how it reacts in the corners and on the brakes. You set your own pace, okay?"

"Roger that," I heard her reply, about the time she exited the last infield corner, rocketing out onto the banking of turn one of the NASCAR track. This was the easy part, and her foot was likely on the floor, urging the car up to two-hundred miles per hour, all the way around to the front chute of the D-shaped circuit, before she turned back into the twisty bit. I heard her lift early, letting the car ease into the sharp left that began the road section. It was a similar story all through the nine turns of the infield; lift, coast, brake lightly, and get back on the gas, early and smooth.

The laps continued to click by, with her driving a little deeper into each corner, until she found the sweet spot. I could see how settled and stable the car looked, as though she was out for a Sunday drive... but it was Thursday, and she was going like a bat out of hell.

Through it all, Chip just watched silently, occasionally lifting his headphones to hear the other observer's words. That observer was here to test her for her license upgrade, but halfway through the session, he'd seen enough. He turned to Chip, shook his hand, and nodded, adding a thumbs-up to confirm that she was good to go.

One of Chip's tech guys, holding a stopwatch and a clipboard, walked over, smiling. He tilted the board, letting Chip read the numbers, and the smile spread from his face to Chip's. They both walked over to a data display, and pointed out some readings. Chip then turned and looked at me. He winked.

"Okay Julie, bring it in," he said, slapping me on the back. He took off his headphones, and waited for me to do the same. "I think we'll be seeing you both in Daytona," he smiled.

"I never doubted it," I laughed. "Is she fast?"

"Well, let's just say, for someone that just got in the car fifteen minutes ago?" he chuckled, arching his eyebrows. " Yeah. She's fast. Almost as fast as our main driver, and he's been in the car for months. Not only that, but she's so smooth. She'll be very easy on the equipment, and probably get a couple of extra laps on each fuel run. I think we're going to do very well together."

Smooth. Yes, that she is, but I'm sure my viewpoint is slightly different than his was.

I liked mine better.

***

One week is not a lot of time to make the arrangements to totally change a life. Since I was going, too, the changes were doubled, but mine were much easier to make. Getting time off was easier for me, as my tenure at my job had seen me rise to the top of the seniority list.

In Julie's case, she had to threaten to quit to get her boss's attention. He finally caved in, and gave her the time off.

I came home from work to find Julie's car in the driveway. Our garage door was open, and she was under the Chevelle again. It was her way to relax.

When the frame for the car had arrived... In the back of a transport truck, contained in a huge crate, no less... I had seen the problem. We needed to lift the car off the factory frame and suspension, in order to slip the new one under it. Julie solved the problem. She knew a guy who had a lift in his garage.

He looked very disappointed when Julie showed up at his door with a frame in a box, half a Chevelle without an engine, and me. I presume the disappointment was largely due to my presence, as he seemed to have eyes for my girl.

Fortunately, the process of swapping out the frames was made simpler by the previous planning of Julie, and the excellent engineering of Art Morrison. Old mounting bolts were unfastened, and the body was slowly raised using the hydraulic lift. The old components were rolled out, tires removed and installed on the new frame, before the modern suspension was rolled back underneath the body. New mounting bolts connected the old and new, and the whole assembly was lowered back to the floor. Just like that, early seventies style is grafted to cutting edge suspension technology.

So, the car she was under today was a quantum leap closer to completion. I walked into the garage, and laid on her spare creeper, sliding under the Chevelle beside her. I found her quietly looking at the beautifully crafted metal of the frame.

"Hi, baby," I smiled, craning over for a kiss in the constricted space. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Just admiring your present. It's even more beautiful in real life. This thing is going to handle like it's on rails," she replied. "Just look at the rear suspension."

"I can't," I laughed, "you're laying on the rear I want to look at, and I like handling you just the way you are."

"Oh, Red, you have a one-track mind," Julie giggled.

"Yes, I do. Care to turn a few laps?" I asked, arching my eyebrows like Groucho Marx.

"I just might," she laughed, arching hers back at me.

***

My first impression of Daytona International Speedway, as we came through the tunnel into the massive infield area, was one of awe. I had, of course, seen the track on TV many times, but seeing the high banked turns for the first time in person was overwhelming. They looked like five story buildings, and the paved surface the cars raced on seemed impossibly vertical.

Those turns are actually only banked at thirty-one degrees. Only. Only you'd have a hard time standing on them. Only a car that stopped on the banking would almost roll over at that angle. Only my darling Julie would be driving around at two-hundred miles an hour on them, and I would only be worried sick the whole time. That realization hit me with a rush as we stood looking up at the track, but I couldn't voice my concerns. This was her dream. I'd just have to clam up and sweat it out.

Chip had arranged a virtual fleet of accommodations for the drivers and crew; A series of motorhomes, packed side by side, with slide-out features nearly touching. Once we were in the infield, there was very little need to go anywhere else, because he wanted us focused on the job at hand. He even had plans for me, and so I was quickly brought up to speed on my new job, as temporary spotter relief. I would take over being the eye-in-the-sky when needed, which was likely only once every few hours.

Do you know what a spotter does? He is in contact, via radio, with the driver, acting as a guardian angel of sorts. Since the driver is concentrating on what's in front of him... or in Julie's case, her... the spotter warns of traffic approaching from behind, or the side, in the event of passing.

Do you know how they do this? They put him, or me, in this example, waaaaaay up high, on top of the grandstand, with a pair of binoculars and a radio headset. The track is two and a half miles around the main oval... just over three and a half including the inner loop... so, without binoculars, it was impossible to tell if the driver was about to complete that pass for position, or wreck horribly. It was certainly enough responsibility to focus my attention, even if I hadn't been emotionally attached to one of the drivers.

With only a couple of practice sessions available, Julie's time in the car was limited. The other two drivers, Kenny Motta and Nick Brandon, were up first, so Julie and I were relaxing in 'our' bus, waiting our turn. Julie was uncharacteristically quiet, so I knew she was feeling the pressure. I was looking at her when she looked up, and caught me. She nodded, reading my expression of concern correctly.

"Yes, I'm nervous," she said softly. She was dressed for action, with her driving suit on, but peeled down to her waist. It was a very sexy look, in my opinion. "Chip hasn't said so, in so many words, but I think this might be more than a one-shot deal, and I don't want to blow my chance."

"I got that impression, too," I confirmed. Chip did seem very interested in Julie as a driver, and given that he ran teams in NASCAR, IndyCar, and IMSA, that meant a world of possibilities were laying at her feet if she did well. I tried to ease her mind. "You know I'm with you, no matter what, right?"

"Yes, of course," she smiled, standing up and grabbing her helmet, gloves and bellaclava. "I appreciate that more than I can ever say, and I love you so much. I know it's mostly me putting the pressure on."

"So, shut up and drive the car," I laughed. "Drive that fucker fast, and let Chip figure the rest out."

"Right," she nodded, wriggling into her suit the rest of the way. "Shut up, and drive it the fucking car. I can do that." She stopped just inside the door, and I moved behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist in a hug of support. My hands moved up, cupping her breasts in a more intimate gesture. "Mmmmm, that's nice, but distracting. Shouldn't you be headed for the spotter stand?"