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Subject: {ASSM} 100 Octane (Part 7) By Katzmarek (Slow, MF, rom)
Date: Tue, 7 Oct 2003 08:10:08 -0400
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<1st attachment, "100 Octane07.txt" begin>
100 Octane 07
By Katzmarek
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Author's note.
This is a work of fiction. It may not be used for profit without the
author's express permission in writing.
If you're looking for wall to wall sex then I'd suggest you don't
bother reading this. I *can* promise you an interesting story with
the occasional spell of passion, however. The story is slow, but does
heat up in later chapters.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
(Part 07)
I put my head in the rest and close my eyes. Faintly, the speakers
on the wall play Kibuki-style music that is oddly relaxing. On the
edge of the bath are hand-size depressions. From a rack of porcelain
jars you can select the aromatic oil of your choice. You pour a
little into the depressions to soak your hands.
The bath itself is scented with rosewater. A fresh display of
flowers is placed at the end of the bath each day. They communicate,
'good thoughts' according to the bath attendant.
The water is kept at an even temperature by virtue of a pump and
heater. The outlet sends a steady stream of warmed water past my feet
and tingling up the inside of my legs. It intimately caresses me
before drifting lazily up and over my tummy.
On the wall is an intrusion of modern technology, a hands-free
phone. Some hotel guests apparently, can't stand being incommunicado
for even an hour.
On impulse I reach for the plastic-coated dialer and enter a long
string of numbers. It's an age before I hear a voice on the speaker
by my head.
"Simon?"
"Yeah, who izzit?" the sleep-fogged voice answers.
"Helene. What are you doing?"
"Helene!" Simon replies, his voice a little stronger, "It's...
5.o'clock in the morning... I'm in bed."
"Oops, sorry... um... you wouldn't believe where I am right now."
"In audience with the Japanese emperor? Say hi!"
"Jokes at 5am? That's impressive," I tell him, "actually I'm having
a Japanese bath, I was thinking of you... thinking how much you'd be
enjoying this."
"Hmm... yes. Will we see you at Christmas?"
"I hope so. I need to open up my cottage in England... I've got some
chat shows and media... and I'm doing a spread for Vogue. A bit of
fashion and cheesecake... isn't that a hoot?"
"They're not snapping you in the bath, I hope?"
"I don't do nude... although Playboy's been after my agent, some
pretty serious money too!"
"How serious?" he asks.
"About 300 grand US serious, can you believe that?"
"Jesus!" Simon's awestruck, " just to get your kit off?"
"Yep. My agent Ian said I should be careful with my image. He said
I'm a valuable commodity... keep away from paparazzi, he told me...
watch out for sunbathing topless in the back of the garden or I'll be
spread over the tabloids by morning."
"Shit! How do you put up with that sort of scrutiny?"
"Ignore it mostly, and concentrate on my job. I bet you didn't think
you were holding such an expensive pair of tits?"
"No, I'd have taken more care of them," he laughs.
"Oh you took very good care, Simon... very good care indeed!"
---------------------------------------------------------------------
I close my eyes and picture the 'bush bath' set behind the creeper
trellis. The sweet scent of jazmin, lilac and roses. The bouquet of
colour across a green clover carpet. The grey-weathered pine fence
half buried in overgrown foliage and the brillant white of Simon's
sun-bathed back veranda.
And I picture the bronze figure of Simon, head thrown back, eyes
closed against the sun's glare. His legs are folded up, the silver
rivulets searching for passage down the sparse forest of hair.
Simon sells scooters, trail and farm bikes, quads and ,occasionally,
overpriced road confection. He's on a small retainer plus commission
from whence his salesmanship provides him a comfortable lifestyle.
It's hard work and long hours, touching base with customers, probing
the market for potential buyers, the after-sales follow-ups. Hours
with an ear bent to his cellphone talking to farmers, 'sure Len, a
trade-up would be a good option. The new model has more power, blah,
blah, blah...'
Yet Simon's phone is turned off, potential commissions going begging
or travelling down the road to the Honda dealers. Nothing must
intrude into our garden of Eden. Nothing must disturb the playfully
wriggling toe caressing me like a finger... or a penis.
I reach down and stroke his foot as he plays with me. I treat his
toe like I would the bulb of his erection. It's now trying to emulate
it's more purpose-built appendage. I smile as I guide it into the
folds of my sex. He looks up when my hand seeks it's cousin between
his legs, now breaking the surface of the water.
But in the hotel bath it's my own fingers that are caressing me. My
breasts remain un-sucked and un-squeezed, bobbing in the water
waiting for Simon's hungry mouth. I push forward trying to catch the
last of Simon's thrusts only to meet the feathery warmth of the
stream of replenishing water.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Around mid-December I fly to the UK and straight to my cottage in
Essex. For the first three days I hold court, meeting with my agent,
a couple of journalists and a TV producer. On the fourth I go into
London in the Mercedes and tape a show, following on to dinner with
Rotol's executives. The next day I have an advertising shoot for
Yamaha so I spend the night at a hotel. That afternoon I have a
fitting for my racing suit for next season so it's quite late before
I'm able to escape back to the cottage.
By now, I notice a few photographers lurking outside the gate. When
I leave the cottage they run into the middle of the road, snapping
furiously with their motor drives. You can't stop them, you just have
to put up with it. Ian suggested I hire a girl to do my shopping and
run errands for me but I'm not going to be held prisoner.
I have a Yamaha R1 sports bike at the cottage, given to me by the
factory. Occasionally I'm able to take it out for a run through the
country lanes. I strike a deal with the paparazzi outside. I'll pose
for them, visor up and smiling, while sitting on the bike outside my
gate. In return they'll leave me alone while I'm out riding.
"Can you pull your zip down a little love?" one shouts while
snapping away.
"Have you got 200,000 pounds?" I reply, smiling.
"A piece of fish and some chips?" he suggests, proffering a box
containing his lunch.
I agree to the deal and lower the zip of my jacket to the waist. I
even undo a few buttons of my shirt, giving them a little bit of
cleavage, and push out my chest a little. After that, we're all
friends and they don't bother me during the remainder of my stay.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
"Have you seen 'The News of the World?" Ian asks excitedly down the
phone.
I admit I haven't.
"You're on the front page, under, 'Helene shows us her stuff, why
she's out in front.' It's got you showing a bit of flesh."
"Oh yes," I laugh, "I meant to tell you about that."
"The phone's been going since I got to the office this morning. You
wouldn't believe the offers."
"Really!"
"Yes, put it this way. You could make more money modelling at the
moment than two seasons of racing. I could double your income in one
week, right now!"
"You're kidding me! What about my 'image'?"
"To hell with that," he says, "this is something you really need to
take a serious look at. How far do you want to go? A calendar maybe?
A Playboy-type spread in all your glory? Think about it? What would
be the implications for your personal life? How would you handle a
million guys going blind?"
"I'm... I'm flabbergasted," I tell him, "I don't have that great a
body!"
"Well, from what I've seen in the paper..." Ian explains, "you've
got what it takes. In any case, they can put a few inches on your
boobs digitally and make any moles or tattoos disappear."
"I don't have any."
"There you go!"
"You want me to be a nude model?" I ask him.
"I'm just telling you there're some good offers, that's all. It's up
to you."
"Ok, I'll think about it," I say finally.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
'It's a crazy world,' I think after getting off the phone. I can
make more money stripping in front of a camera than risking my life
on a race track. I wonder what Simon would think, seeing me in all my
nakedness spread over some men's magazine. Is it something I want?
It's ironic that after spending my life breaking into a men's
exclusive club I then end up becoming precisely what I've railed
against, a stereotypical 'babe'. It's not that I consider myself a
radical feminist or anything. I just wanted the chance to do
something that I love.
I've still haven't made up my mind when I fly home for Christmas.
This time of the year has a special significance for me because the
traditional 'cemetary circuit' road race is run on Boxing day. That
was the race where my Robert was killed.
Three riders have been killed at that event since it's inception. 3
riders in thirty years is not bad and is a better record than, say,
Rugby football. Nevertheless Motorcycling NZ and the organising club
have a special memorial for its dead. This year I have been invited
to say something at the little ceremony to which I've consented.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
A camera crew is waiting at the airport when I arrive. They're from
a local station looking for sensation. A boney, impeccably-landscaped
'journalist' blocks my way to the baggage collection. I see Simon
hovering in the back of the reception hall and I don't want them
filming our reunion.
"A few questions, Helene, please!" Miss 'Broomstick' begs.
I manuevre them away from Simon and do my 'Miss Congeniality.'
"Just a couple," I tell her, "I have family waiting."
"What is your reaction to Kevin Coburn?"
"To what?"
"Have you read this morning's Post?"
"How could I? I've just stepped off a plane."
I'm beginning to get the feeling I'm being ambushed.
"Well," she explains to me, a smug look on her face. "He states that
you tried to seduce him after the Grand Prix... blah blah blah...
that you use sex to get what you want. That in his opinion you're
worse than a whore."
"WHAT?" I'm outraged.
The camera moves close in on my face. I need time to think so I opt
to stall them.
"I'm sorry," I tell her, "I need time to talk to my lawyers."
"So you're saying it's untrue?"
"Absolutely!" I confirm, "now if you'll excuse me?"
They try to follow me so I signal to a waiting security guard. I
confirm with him that we're on private property. He takes the hint
and escorts the TV crew out. I then take Simon's hand and pull him
towards baggage collection.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Later, at Simon's home.
"So what are you saying?" I demand of Ian over the phone.
"I'm saying that Coburn was very careful and he's not touchable, as
yet"
"But that was bullshit. I never seduced him ever. HE tried to get ME
to go into a toilet with him."
"Well, he's not saying that you did. All he states is that you let
him into your caravan and you were topless..."
"I was in the middle of changing!"
"Yes, but you didn't shut the door or order him out..."
"AW, shit Ian! Guys have been falling over me when I've been
dressing for years, for Christ's sake. They bloody don't have 'his
and hers' at a race track you know! So you walk into a woman's
bedroom when she's in the middle of changing and she's automatically
inviting you to have sex? What sort of twisted logic..."
"Yes, I know, calm down. All he said was that he THOUGHT you were
trying to seduce him, that's all! You can't sue him for thinking...
just tell the media your side of the story. I'll organise a press
statement. Oh and Helene?"
"Yes?"
"Tell me before you decide to take your clothes off again, ok?"
"Dirty bugger!"
He's laughing as he hangs up.
"That fucking Coburn!" I spit, hurtling the phone past Simon's ear.
"You can't sue him?" Simon asks.
I shake my head.
"He hasn't said anything libellous enough, apparently."
"But none of what he said was true, was it?"
"Of course not. But Coburn didn't claim it was. He only said he
BELIEVED it was true. Apparently advertisers have been playing on
that distinction for years."
"So," Simon intimates, "your tits are now worth 150 grand each?"
"Simon, be serious for a moment... Simon? ...Oh!"
---------------------------------------------------------------------
We're having a big dinner at Wolfie and Joan's this Christmas. It's
summer here, of course, and the tables are to be set outside in their
huge backyard. Simon and his parents have been invited as well as the
rest of our family. As yet there's no younger generation of Ritters.
It's seems strange to me having Christmas without kids.
Being of German descent, presents are handed out Christmas eve. To
our non-North European friends it's Christmas morning so there'll be
continuing traffic on either side of a boozey night.
Simon's apartment is only one-room, so his parents have elected to
drive down in the morning, Karlie having volunteered to put them up
for Christmas night.
Simon has offered to accompany me on boxing day to the cemetary
circuit. I'm not sure how emotional it'll be for me and I'm happy to
borrow his arm for the day.
Meanwhile, I renew my acquaintance with the 'bush bath.' It's
wonderful to stroll topless around Simon's backyard without worrying
about the paparazzi. If any were keen enough to follow me out here
the locals are sure to keep a wary eye on them.
Indeed it's such a bubble of tranquility. Even the tension within my
family is far less disturbing than the glasshouse of my life in
Europe.
The only calls I'll accept are from my agent, friends and family.
All others are routered to a media agency in the UK. 'Calls of
interest' are then relayed back to Ian's office who screen them for
me. It's about as tight we can get it. It's not the way I
particularly want to live, but Ian assures me the interest in my
personal life won't last.
"Just don't fuck Brad Pitt on top of the Sky City Tower while you're
down there, ok?"
"I'll pull the curtains," I tell him.
"Yeah, just remember the media militia is coming out of your pocket."
"Can I afford it?"
"Ask your accountant, but I'd say you have a bit of loose change
left over."
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Simon bought me a gold Ducati pendant inlaid with Nephrite Jade. He
had it made and must have cost him a month's salary. My present to
him was an open return airline ticket to Europe, and oral sex. The
latter, however was given to him in privacy later.
Everyone behaved themselves at Wolfie's, I think in deference to
Simon's parents. It was the first time I'd met them and I gather
they're a little protective of him. They kept on about how long I
spend out of the country and when I'd be settling down. I had to be
non-committal about that.
"Why with all your money, don't you buy a few hundred acres of
coastal land?" his dad suggested.
"I'd get bored with the same bit of sea after a while," I told him.
It wasn't the answer they wanted, unfortunately.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
It's like Simon and I are out riding one day when he runs out of
gas. He waits by the side of the road while I take the can and go on
to the next town. This time I rode back and refilled his tank. The
next time, will I find another rider at the gas station with a
handsome smile and a cheeky line? Will I ride on with him, leaving
Simon waiting somewhere back along this crazy highway of my life?
Right now, I can't promise I'll always return.
All this I tell Simon and he accepts it smiling. Is it just his
salesman's way, dismiss the negatives and moving on with a 'yes,
but'? I think he's hovering in sales limbo, waiting for the right
time to close the deal.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Supplied with leftovers and other goodies from Wolfie's table, we
scuttle back to Simon's apartment for supper out in the waning sun.
As night comes we lie together wrapped in rugs by the roses,
cuddling, sharing our childhoods and fantastic plans for the far-off
future. Our narratives are punctuated with, 'if we're still
together,' as if words of committment will see our little idyll fall
like dust around us.
Simon's straining to say 'I love you, and I never want to be apart.'
I'm still in, 'lets just enjoy the moment.' Under the rug I stroke
him to full attention and we roll together like some large struggling
animal caught in a trap. Desperately he wants to claim me for his
own, his fingers grapple me to his manhood, binding me to his body.
Emerging into the night air, the freshening breeze brushes our
sweaty bodies as, shivering we rush inside and under a hot shower. We
steam ourselves to a sense of wellbeing before crawling into Simon's
satin sheets. Thereunder he folds me to him, an arm under my head and
another along my body and down between my legs. His lips touch my
shoulder before he murmurs, 'I love you.'
For a while I listen to his steady breathing, feel the rythmic
movement of his chest until his hand falls unconsciously away from my
mound. It lingers, snagged by a pubic hair, before falling to my
thigh. I link my fingers in his, remaining there until the sky begins
to lighten.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
In the morning, Simon and I go out to the cemetary circuit on our
bikes, Karlie and Ernie follow in the Ford. Wolfie won't ride on road
circuits and stays at home. I think his back's giving him more
trouble. My other brothers come as spectators and just to hang out.
The old railway lines that used to present such a hazard, especially
in the wet, have been ripped up. Instead a hump of tar-seal bisects
the road, chopped and cracked by the movement of heavy trucks.
Potentially it could still send riders crabbing into the hay bails.
For a good section of the crowd, it's what it's all about. Like
watching a real life horror story, they lean forward as each rider
passes looking for that real 'spectacular' crash.
I oblige the local Yamaha people by performing an honourary lap on
Kieran Ridgeway's black Dunlop-Yamaha F03. Down the long home
straight I put the front wheel in the air to the delictation of the
crowd.
Later the Ritters and Simon are treated to seats in the guest's box
with ample supplies of a sponsor's beer.
I have too many friends here for the feeling of a visiting royal to
take hold. These are bike people and among us there's no heirarchies.
Even Simon, with his 'Motorad' T-shirt proclaims his membership to
the club. The carpet salesman turned bike loony. That evening, it's
late before we've all sobered up sufficiently for the journey home.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
All to soon it's time to head back to the UK. The connecting flight
leaves early and when I slip away, Simon's still sleeping. Dawn is
just breaking when the plane leaves the cluster of white buildings
that serve as the local aerodrome.
When I finally land in a dream at Heath Row, London, my old
companion from last season is there to meet me. Heedless of my jet-
lagged condition Wendy prattles on about the week's activities before
ushering me into a black-cab for the hotel.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
I have to do some 'call-backs' for the Vogue shoot the next day. It
takes two hours for the make-up before I even set foot in the studio.
And then there's my 'costume', an approximation of a GP racing suit.
The zip is pulled down to my waist for the shot, my breasts are held
concealed by some hidden sticky tape.
It's uncomfortable and the photographer seems to take an age before
he's satisfied with the shot. Apart from the propensity of the
cameraman to call me, 'love,' and, 'baby,' it's an interesting
exercise. I am developing immense respect for those who choose to do
this for a living, however. Everything in the shot is micro-adjusted
time and again. My face muscles ache from the myriad expressions I'm
called on to make and, 'hold it... just there... a little longer...
again baby... just one more, love...' and on and on.
When I receive the proofs some weeks later, the blank screen behind
me has become the winner's circle at Monza. The background has been
doctored to show Rotol and Yamaha hoardings in prominent positions,
no doubt some money exchanged hands. High art or soft-core? I know
what my dad would have said,
"Helene, you can't go racing like that, you'll catch cold!"
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Silverstone is a very busy racetrack these days. Most of the Formula
one cars are tested here. Jordan-Ford, McLaren-Mercedes, Williams-
BMW, BAR-Honda, Jaguar and Renault all have large facilities nearby.
It's also home base for the Rotol-Yamaha team.
Our garage is modest compared to the cars. There's no manufacturing
or fabrication, no teams of technicians, just electronic testing
equipment, a dyno-tune machine and storage. Major development of this
year's bike is done in Japan and shipped with much secrecy out to
Silverstone. With it comes a couple of factory mechanics and a
container load of spares.
We have to squeeze in our testing time around the needs of the cars.
Sometimes that's quite early in the morning when the dew has barely
lifted from the track surface. When I go out at 9 one morning,
patches of dampness still remain. There's also a Jaguar stopped
halfway round that track control neglected to tell us about.
The damp patches cling mostly to the edge of the track, so I try and
keep to the middle as much as possible. The danger areas are well
known and easy to avoid.
Rounding the curve the car seems to jump out at me, it's half on the
track and right on my line. As I try go around it, the back wheel
breaks away on some damp clipping the back wheel of the car and
sending me cartwheeling through the air.
It seems ages that I lie on my back looking up at the sky. It's like
a silent movie, an aeroplane crawls lazily across the blue trailing
dense columns of black smoke. I feel for the birds having to fly
through that muck. Dimly I become aware of voices and car engines,
the squealing of tyres. A face appears in front of me, unclips my
visor and breathes garlic into my mouth and nose.
"Are you alright... lay still... the ambulance is on it's way."
Another voice says.
"Is she ok? Who left that bloody car here?"
It's an English, home-counties accent, like Bertie Wooster... or
maybe Harry Potter. Carefully my helmet is lifted from my head,
apparently they're satisfied there's no neck injury. More screeching
of tyres as other vehicles arrive with the flickering of hazard
lights. Another figure appears above with a torch that he shines into
my eyes. Hands carefully manipulate my legs, feeling for breaks.
"Oh oh!" I hear a voice say, "tibia, lower left... get her boot
off... SPLINT JUSTIN!"
I'm still in a dream in the ambulance on the way to hospital. I'm
becoming aware of a throbbing pain in my leg, a dryness in my throat
and this incredible sleepiness. An oxygen mask is placed over my
mouth, I'm aware of the rocking of the vehicle as it speeds through
the town streets. The moving stops and the doors are flung open
quickly to reveal bright lights and a white-coated reception
committee.
Eased onto a bed, the nurses take some time stripping the racing
suit from my body. I'm lifted, turned over this way and that, hands
everywhere pulling, until at last I'm free. The pain in my leg begins
to intensify as a nurse does my vitals and enters the figures on a
clipboard. There's a flurry of activity around me followed by periods
of peace and calm, disrupted by the pain in my leg.
Eventually the concerned face of a young doctor bends over me.
"Helene," he says, "I'm afraid you've broken your leg. We're going
to take you to Xray soon to assess the damage... I hear you collected
a Jaguar?"
"Yes," I tell him weakly. My voice coming out in a croak.
"My dad would be disappointed if you damaged it... great Jaguar man,
my father... owns an XK140."
I try to smile at his attempt at levity, but my lips are cracked and
dry. The doctor puts a straw to my lips, cups my cheek and grins.
"Here," he says softly, "Y"know, I'm a great fan of yours... Doctor
Anwar... call me Mohammed."
"Thank you," I whisper, "Mohammed... will I be in here long?"
"What! You want to leave so soon? But I've just met you!"
He flashes me a handsome, boyish grin.
(C)Katzmarek.
<1st attachment end>
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