Leticia Alvarez Attends The MotoGP

On Holiday

Leticia Alvarez rolled over on her chaise lounge to make sure that her tan would come out even on both sides. Tanning was a kind of ritual for the raven-haired Latina, who was currently getting her rays by the pool at the Hotel & Spa du Castellet in Le Castellet on the Cote d'Azur in the south of France. Leticia had been to the resort a few times and this trip made three years in a row.

She liked the opulence of the exclusive seaside hotel. Leticia adored expensive things: expensive hotels, expensive clothes, expensive jewels, and expensive liquor. She could afford them. Leticia Alvarez was rich, and independently so. She did what she wanted, came and went as she pleased, beholden to no one, quite an achievement for a young woman who had begun her life thirty years ago in El Cerro de las Abejas, the poorest barrio in Tijuana.

Leticia was free to travel the world in search of adventure and pleasure, bouncing from Carnivale in Rio de Janeiro to Mardi Gras in New Orleans, to Pamplona, Spain for the Running of the Bulls, to shopping the most exclusive shops in Paris, New York, and London. This week she was in Le Castellet to attend the motorcycle French Gran Prix, which was held at the Paul Richard Circuit, home to the annual sporting event.

Although she didn't ride a motorcycle herself, the Latin beauty was fascinated by the sport. Leticia was drawn to both the excitement and the inherent danger of a sport where rugged young men raced around a road circuit Star Wars-style on two wheeled rocket ships, wrestling their 175-kilogram rides from one side to the other hundreds of times in each race and taking corners at speeds up to one-hundred-fifty Km/hour. Riders bent over at angles approaching sixty degrees, so close to the surface that they were compelled to wear protective patches on both their knees and their elbows.

Leticia loved everything about motorcycle racing.

She'd attended a number of four-wheeled Gran Prix races. After all, Monaco was only a hundred kilometers east of Le Castellet, but Leticia found F1 racing cars far less exciting than their two-wheeled cousins. She went anyway. After all, Monaco was Monaco.

As she rolled over to even her exposure, she considered the difference between a two-wheeled GP race and a four-wheeled GP race. It was simple, she thought. One was just 'better' racing.

Whereas Formula One cars were open-wheeled, inherently dangerous and sometimes resulting in horrific fiery fatal accidents, motorcycles were also open-wheeled. Passing in races like the Monaco GP was infrequent and often happened on parts of the track which could not be seen. Not so in motorcycle racing. There was action all over the track, genuine racing within pairs and small groups of riders who had only one goal- to pass the guy in front of them, an action which they did with frequency.

Passing rarely happened on the straightaways, where riders could run as fast as three hundred Km/hour as they hunched down behind short windshields to cut as smoothly as they could through the air. The passing action was in the turns, where braking, angles, throttles, skill, and just plain big brassy balls determined who would emerge in front. Every single change of position required steely nerves and heroism because, to Leticia at least, every pass was a death-defying act... and she was right.

As much as Leticia genuinely loved the actual races, she loved the riders themselves even more. These young men were incredibly fit, superbly skilled athletes who, though already trim to keep their weight low for obvious reasons, could lose up to ten pounds of sweat inside their stiflingly hot head-to-toe protective leather suits in a single forty-five-minute race.

Race day was a spectacle of sound, smell, and above all, beauty. The bikes themselves were sleek, powerfully phallic machines. The racers were universally young, and frequently scruffily handsome. Before the start of each race, each rider had a beautiful young "umbrella girl" assigned to keep the rays of the sun from baking them inside their leathers before they could even start the race and take advantage of the 250 km/hr 'air conditioning' of competition.

Formula one motorcycle racing was truly an international sport, wildly popular in Europe, indeed all over the world from the Far East to South Africa to Canada. The fans themselves like Leticia, hung around on the periphery of the action. Women like Leticia added exotic beauty to the atmosphere of the equally exotic sport.

Had she wanted, Leticia could easily have been one of the umbrella-toting, bikini-clad beauties. Not only was the young Latina rich, but she was also a remarkable example of feminine beauty. Leticia was naturally dark-skinned and her time sunning herself by the pool only deepened her naturally swarthy complexion. Leticia was on the short side, but she had long beautiful black hair which flowed down her back when it wasn't stacked on top of her head, fixed in place by expensive pearl-inlaid combs.

Sure, she was a "head-turner," but the track was filled with exotic international beauties. What made the Mexican beauty stand out in the crowd was her bosom. It was large, remarkably so, impossible to hide. Despite her uncommonly beautiful features, Leticia's chest had been her defining physical feature ever since puberty, which for her had come early, before she was a teenager.

Leticia's bosom was, and had always been, a mixed blessing. On one hand, it drew men to her like mosquitoes to a bug-zapper. On the other hand, it partially masked the presence of an attractive, intelligent, strong, and fiercely independent young woman who, had her proportions been less striking, would still have a deserved place in the upper echelons of femininity.

Rather than try to hide her true proportions from the men who unabashedly stared and even made catcalls, Leticia dressed in clothing which accentuated her bustline. Additionally, she frequently approached men that she found attractive, initiating contact and occasionally, bedding them. Nothing could shield the world from Leticia's self-assured independence for long. She radiated confidence.

Had beauty, self-assurance, and intelligence been Leticia's only positive attributes, she would have had no difficulty whatsoever finding lovers, but they weren't. The lovely raven-haired senorita also possessed a hidden power, a mesmerizing power she had had since she was a teenager.

Leticia could hypnotize literally anyone she met. All she had to do was make skin-to-skin contact with anyone, man or woman, to put them completely under her control. She was instantly privy to their innermost thoughts and could control their behavior with a simple vocal command. If Leticia told you to hop like a bunny, you hopped until she released you or you fell over exhausted. No one was immune to her control; no one could resist her commands; and no one could hide their thoughts if Leticia wanted to know what they were.

Trackside Attraction

Race day arrived, sunny and beautiful. After Lettie entered the track with her general admission ticket, she made her way to the pit entrance. In flawless French, Lettie asked the official in the small booth next to the gate if it were possible to get a pit pass. As she handed her money to the attendant, she made contact.

"Did I say 'pit pass'?" I meant 'all-access pass', said the smiling beauty. "You will give me an all-access pass made out to Leticia Alvarez," she commanded the aging ticket-taker.

"Certainment, Mademoiselle Alvarez," said the man behind the window, barely able to take his eyes off her chest.

As she strolled into the pits Leticia's credential hung from her neck resting nearly horizontally on top of her bosom. Her outfit for the day was casual, in keeping with the event. Normally, she wore heels, but today she was content to wear sneakers and athletic socks beneath her tight-fitting cut-off designer jeans. Her top had been chosen from a collection of racing team tee-shirts, all V-necks and all sized to accentuate that which needed no assistance in being noticed.

Today, Leticia's top was white with the words "Ducati Racing" above an image of their racing bike. As she strolled along pit row in front of the open garages, which were busy as mechanics put the finishing touches on their machines, she was aware of the fact that men all over the area were stopping to look at the astounding Latina. She didn't mind a bit. She wanted to cause a commotion.

Leticia wasn't looking for mechanics. She was looking for riders. Each team had two and, for the most part, they were standing around with their leathers unzipped to the waist while they waited for the signal to proceed to their place on the starting grid. Leticia strolled lackadaisically past the Honda, Ducati and Suzuki pits until she reached the Yamaha team's garage. Leaning against the opening holding a half-drained Coca Cola was the man she sought.

Ronnie Adams was young, in his early twenties, and he had just taken over the spot as Yamaha's number one rider. There were very few American riders in MotoGP; it was, after all, a world-wide sport and riders came from every continent. Eyeing the bit-titted Mexican beauty, he advanced to speak to her, Coke in hand.

"My, my," he said, "and who might we have here?" Wordlessly she held up her pass for the young rider to examine, forcing him to bend over until his face was less than a foot from her cleavage to read it. He took his time.

"Tell me, Leticia..."

"'Lettie' to my friends," she said.

"Are we going to be friends?" asked the racer.

"Best of friends, Ronnie," she said as she looked up into his boyish blue eyes. You're gonna like being friends with me."

"OK, tell me Lettie, why do you want to wear that Ducati shirt? You know that Yamaha's gonna win the race. Why don't you let me get you a Yamaha version?"

"Already have one," she said, never taking her eyes off the handsome athlete with the scruffy beard.

"Yeah, but you don't have one signed by me. Still don't wanna trade?"

"Well..." she said hesitantly, "I'll tell you what. If you win today and agree to take me to the after-party, I'll do the trade, but I'll only trade for the one you have on right now."

"You sure? It's going to be drenched in smelly sweat when I'm done."

"If you win and we go to the party tonight, by the time we're done, we'll both be covered in sweat. How about that?"

Ronnie's eyes went wide and Lettie just smiled and extended her hand to shake. "Do we have a deal?"

"Are you serious or are you just playing with me?"

"As serious as fishnet stockings and five-inch stilettos. You're not the only one who looks good in leather Ronnie. Believe me, when I start playing with you, you'll know it."

"What happens if I come in second?"

"Look, why don't you agree to take me to the party win or lose. If you win, then after the party we'll do the swap and then we'll do whatever you want. If you don't win, then after the party I get to call the shots. I doubt you're going to get a better offer before they start the race."

"Jesus Christ," said the young racer, "It's a deal."

Lettie reached for Ronnie's hand and leaned in to whisper in his ear. "Ronnie, the after party is at the Hotel & Spa du Castellet in Le Castellet. As luck would have it, I have a suite there. I'll be ready at eight. Ask for me at the front desk and I'll come down to meet you. Bring along some swimming trunks. We'll be spending some time in the pool. Besides, by the time we're done we're both going to need to cool off. You will tell nobody about our little date. Let's surprise everyone. Dress nice."

Lettie released his hand and gave him the tiniest peck on the cheek as she said "Good luck Ronnie. I'll be pulling for you." She continued her stroll down pit row and when she reached the end of the garages, she carefully climbed the stairs to the special area reserved for those with all-access passes. Once she'd reached the top of the stairs, she turned. Staring up at her were a half-dozen young men who just stood there watching her ass swing back and forth as she ascended. Two of them had their heads in their hands and just shook back and forth. She smiled and then chose a seat in the front row to watch the race.

Back at the Yamaha garage, Ronnie's team mate stood next to the obviously stunned Number One rider. "What the hell was that?"

"That," said Ronnie as he finished his drink, "that was the hottest woman I've ever met."

Just then the fifteen-minute warning sounded over the scratchy pit P.A. system. The two riders put their arms into their blue leathers, leaving the front unzipped, and made for the starting grid.

Lettie stayed for the whole race and watched as Ronnie made a last lap charge trying to pass the leading Honda, but falling just short, by less than a half-second, of taking the checkered flag. As soon as the race was over, she rose from her seat and left the grandstands by a set of stairs at the rear.

Ablutions and Preparations

In an hour she was back at her hotel room, stripping off her outfit and getting ready to shower. She opened the shower door and ran the water on the warm side of lukewarm. After gingerly stepping under the misty stream, she hesitated and then stepped out of the stall and tiptoed to her bed, opening a small drawer in the bedside table. Lettie retrieved a flesh-colored dildo and then re-entered the shower. The rubber phallus, a full ten-inches, came complete with a set of testicles and a kind of suction cup which she used to fasten it to the wet wall of the walk-in shower stall at crotch height. The seal was tight.

Lettie washed and rinsed her hair finishing the task with conditioner, which after a few minutes she rinsed into the drain. The warm slippery suds ran down the sides of her face and down through her cleavage to her dark black pubic triangle. She used a loofa sponge to suds-up her body, but didn't rinse immediately. Instead, the Mexican beauty aligned her body, back to the wall, and slowly backed up until she could feel the fire helmet shaped tip of the artificial shaft pressing against her labia.

She hesitated long enough to allow her hands to heft her bosom. Her tits were genuinely huge and heavy, her nipples protruding like fleshy thimbles above silver dollar sized dark brown rosettes which capped the underlying olive flesh of her breasts.

As she massaged her chest, pausing to pinch one nipple and then the other, Leticia backed up until she could feel the tip of the flesh-colored phallus push past the outer folds of her vagina. Again she paused, savoring the feel of the fake cock's oversized tip as it rested just inside her pussy. She continued pushing towards the set of rubber testicles which rested flush against the shower stall until the full ten inches of the dildo were covered.

Kneading her breasts, Lettie closed her eyes and started a slow pistoning motion as she imagined that the cock was attached to her handsome daredevil lover-to-be. Eventually, her hands left her breasts and went to her sensitive clitoral nub, flicking it with one finger and then another as she picked up her pace.

In her mind, she was fucking the motorcycle racer. Those were his fingers stroking her clitoris, not hers. That was his cock protruding from the shower stall wall, not an inanimate approximation.

Lettie's climax came in a rush. She extended her arms like hydraulic outriggers to steady herself as she all but lost her balance, her entire body reacting to simultaneous muscle contractions. Slowly she eased herself forward until she could feel the tip, still buried just inside her, spread her pussy lips and pop out.

It was time to decide on her outfit for the night.

Well, not really. Leticia was nothing, if not a planner. Her power forced her to look into the future, to always be aware of her surroundings, who was looking at or listening to her. Her public hypnotic commands were always whispered into the ear, never spoken out loud. Women as beautiful as Leticia never had difficulty getting close enough to be heard in a whisper, especially if she was whispering to a man.

Leticia followed MotoGP as closely as her schedule allowed and before she had even purchased her ticket to the race, she knew that she would be casting her spell over the up-and-coming racing star. Choosing the right outfit for the after-race party was just a part of her seduction plan.

Her prodigious bosom precluded her buying her outfits off the rack. Her figure, short and busty, was the antithesis of the bodies which walked the runways in Rome and Paris. They were all tall, slim, and flat-chested, anorexically so. If she wanted to wear an original, and she did, Lettie would have to convince the designer to either alter one of his existing designs, or design one from scratch to fit her unique dimensions.

She went to the closet and removed her evening wear, laying it carefully out on the bed. The gown, a genuine Azzedine Alaia, was slim, floor length, and specifically designed for the dark Mexican beauty by the Tunisian-born French designer. It featured a deep V-shaped silk bodice above a tightly cinched white leather corset and long, loose-fitting black silk sleeves.

Alaia was the number one dress designer in France, in great demand and known for his leather and silk gown collection. His popularity didn't matter a bit because once Lettie had shaken his hand at a reception and whispered a quiet command into his ear, her needs went to the head of the line. In ten days her gown was designed, measured to fit, and delivered as if it had been pret a porter.

Lettie sat on the side of her king-sized bed, lotioned herself, and began the assembly process. She reached for her bra, which was for her a very important undergarment. Normally, her bras were heavily constructed, multi-strapped structures, but tonight her gown required her bosom to be constrained by lacier, more feminine material. If she wanted to show her cleavage, she would need strong underpinnings. Leticia had just the thing for the occasion and before long both her bra and her garter belt were in place, followed by matching jet-black crotchless panties and black fishnet stockings.

Lettie put on the gown, cinched the corset, and then added an emerald necklace, scent, and heels. She stood in front of the mirror to assess her look. Leticia Alvarez was a head-turner and she knew it. She'd spent years and tens of thousands of miles, not to mention hundreds of thousands of dollars to create the image she saw in the mirror. Lettie smiled contentedly as she put the final cosmetic touches to her make-up.

At eight o'clock, precisely, the phone in her suite rang. Her date had arrived.

Show Stopper

The elevator doors opened on the ground floor and Leticia stepped from the cab into the lobby of the Hotel & Spa du Castellet. The place was alive with activity; beautiful people in beautiful clothes milling around in small groups, cocktails in hand and conversing in a dozen different languages.

Ronnie stood at the desk, waiting for his "date." Dressed in a full tuxedo, the up-and-coming star was handsome in a James Bond kind of way. Meanwhile, many of his fellow riders dressed in more modest fare circulated among the crowd looking for unattached potential companions for the evening. There were plenty of attractive women, alone and in small groups to choose from. It was a "target-rich environment."

Lettie turned the corner from the row of elevators and entered the foyer. Ronnie advanced to take her hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed it. Lettie leaned in to kiss him lightly on his cheek, but held his hand while she probed his mind.