100 Octane 09


By Katzmarek


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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.


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(Part 9)


100 Octane is racing fuel. In England it's still sometimes known as 'Benzine' from the days when Karl Benz made cars in his own garage and 'Mercedes' was the name of Gotlieb Daimler's niece. 


It has a unique smell, instantly recognisible from the exhausts of highly tuned racing engines. It never fails to illicit a tickling in the back of my neck when I catch a whiff in the air. My heart beats faster, my hands tingle and want to grip the bars of a racing motorcycle. For those who love the sport, no further discussion is needed. For those who've never been to a racetrack, there's still time.


Steve Kelly is living in an apartment near Silverstone. He's having to shoulder the responsibility of Rotol-Yamaha's preparation for the forthcoming GP season. He phones every day, but is unable to visit me in my cottage in Little Newtington, Essex.


I am, however, getting stronger every day and I'm itching to get back to the circuit. There's still an annoying stiffness in my leg and I'm  exercising it as much as I can. I regularly go down to Chelmsford for private Physiotherapy.


Simon called a while back and wanted to rush over, using the airline ticket I gave him last Christmas. It took some convincing, but I put him off.


"I'm fine," I told him, "save it for Italy and Monza. I'll maybe book us an apartment in Monaco for a while."


The promise of exotic nights among the rich and famous finally convinced him to stay at home.


It's getting more difficult juggling my men. I had this dream last night that Steve, Simon and Mohammed were slugging it out in my front room. Steve fought with his fists, Mohammed with his charm and, well Simon rode through the middle on his bloody great Moto-Guzzi. It was surreal and I wonder what Robert would have made of it all.


I go for long walks and I'm now becoming a regular down at the 'Duck and Bell'. The pub is known to the locals as the 'Duckbill' which shouldn't surprise me. They pronounce the little village's name as 'Little New-in'. Don't look for 'Big New-in' because there isn't any.


The local historian tells me that this was once a large parish and Little Newtington described the village as opposed to the surrounding pastoral area. He says that as far back as he can research it was called, 'Newthunoringatun' by the Saxons, or 'The thunder God's followers' new farming settlement'. I think 'Little New-in' will do just fine!


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Mohammed has invited me over to Northampton for the weekend. I'm looking forward to his enchanting company but the visit is bristling with sexual innuendo.


"On Sunday we might visit my father. Bring your bike, perhaps we can go for that ride round Silverstone?" he suggests.


"You're still game? You're not afraid I'll bump into another Jaguar?"


"I don't expect you'll make a habit of it," he replies, "you wouldn't want to be responsible for ending a brilliant career in medicine!"


"True, and I don't want to clank around like a Borg."


"Y'know, I still have my Meccano set from when I was a child? Ironic, isn't it?" he laughs.


"Is that what you use?"


"Oh no, no, no. A special alloy, most expensive. We can't have Ferrous Oxide leeching into your bloodstream or the plate buckling or snapping. Most unfortunate!"


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It takes me about an hour to get over to Northampton on the bike. His house is a modern semi in one of the nicer suburbs, white stucco and red brick. He has a double garage in which inhabits the Aston-Martin and an early fifties Armstrong-Siddeley Sapphire Six.


"It used to be my father's," he tells me, "a most interesting car. It's all leather inside with wood panels, you must take a look."


I inspect his vintage car. Highly polished, he keeps it immaculate. An internal access leads the way into the house. It's kept in the same condition as his car.


It is the home though, of an English bachelor. On the wall, a framed photograph of a group of traditionally dressed dancers is the only thing recognisibly Pakistani. Otherwise the wall art consists of colour photos of racing cars and bikes. I notice a picture that is instantly familiar.


"That's me!" I exclaim.


"Assen, last year, crossing the line. A good capture is it not?" he says, "I think you were doing about 160 miles per hour. Notice there's no blurring to the shot?"


"Yes, is it digital?"


"No," he shakes his head, "very fast film and shutter speed... through a telephoto... I took it myself. I used a motordrive to snap off 12 frames. Only one of which captured the moment. While you're here I must take a shot of you and put the two together. That would make a nice presentation don't you think?"


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Mohammed tactfully shows me to the spare room where I change from my leathers into something more comfortable. He suggests that I should find this room 'to my taste' but I doubt his intention's that I should spend the night in it. To be honest, I'm not sure it's my intention either.


I don't know how I feel about Mohammed but I find his attention flattering somehow. I'm learning to cope with the interest displayed towards me solely because of my fame. It's wise to keep people at arms length until I can be sure about them. I can't be sure yet whether Mohammed merely wants me as a trophy or is seeking some reflected publicity.

Being idolised is fine, but no-one can know the real me from magazines or a chat show. On the other hand, I don't see any reason why I can't enjoy myself with a handsome guy. Who knows how long it's all going to last?


Mohammed takes me out to lunch in the Aston-Martin. The sports car makes me feel as if I'm sitting on the road, it's so low. He changes gear with 'paddles' mounted on the steering wheel hub, just like a formula 1 car. Windows wound down, the Vee 12 sounds magnificent.


Lunch is a 'ploughman's plate' at a garden restaurant just out of town. Mohammed insists on paying, telling me it's 'unthinkable' for his guest to pay for their own lunch.


"Ok," I tell him reluctantly, "but next time I'll take you out."


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As we cruise around the countryside I'm still not sure how all this going to play out. Mohammed is 'correct' in every way, with apparently no expectations of me. I feel a tension that is exhilarating. I'm not sure whether I want to sleep with him but I'm willing to find out.


Simon is 12,500 miles away, Steve is closer, but I'm not convinced it'd be a good idea to begin a sexual relationship with him. Not while we're partners on the track at least.


I remember my experience with Giancarlo Patricio, my partner from last season. He made it obvious from the get-go that he wanted to sleep with me. He's a beautiful, slim, moody Italian with penetrating dark eyes. Perhaps a catch for any woman, but his intensity sent a warning to me early on. I kept him at arm's length until I could get a better understanding of his personality. That was wise, because the more I understood of him, the less I felt attracted. His first bout of bad temper convinced me my instincts were right.


Nothing was ever good enough for the great Giancarlo. The bike, the mechanics, pit crew and most of all, me. He treated my winning of the championship in typical bad grace, hurling abuse at everyone around him.


This season's going to be fascinating. At least two riders, Coburn and Patricio, have some sort of personal vendetta against me. One, riding for a top-notch Honda team on a reputedly very competitive machine. The other, riding for a factory-supported Suzuki team with, admittedly, a bike that's down on power and not having much success. Nevertheless, Giancarlo can make even a moped seem fast and I suspect he's actually a better rider. In this game, you need a certain amount of luck on your side and just maybe, the odds may fall in Patricio's favour.


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However, now we are returning to Mohammed's house and it's getting on towards dinner time. He doesn't have any plans and suggests we could either take-out, go to a restaurant or he could cook me up something 'special.' I opt for the 'special.'


It turns out to be a range of Pakistani dishes, all served in the middle with a huge bowl of steamed rice. We chat as he busies himself in the kitchen, working in the same efficient manner as he would reconstructing someone's shattered knee. He asks me how much spice I can handle and I reply as much as he can serve up. Oh, the double entendres are flying thick and fast.


"I put fenugreek and turmeric in my chapatis, do you mind?"


"Not at all."


"And saffron in the basmati rice?"


"Go ahead!"


"A little cucumber in the salad?"


"Oh yes please! And a sprig of mint in my lahksi."


"Anything the lady desires," he replies while bowing.


All this topped off with coy smiles in between.


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'So how is this all going to happen," I wonder as we dine. There's little in the way of lighting save a candle and a little discrete wall lamp. The glow is reflected in the amber of the frothy lagers and glints in the silverware. The table is large and round, the various delicacies are placed on a 'lazy susan' in the middle. We sit opposite each other, too far apart for a little foot play but close enough for Mohammed to engage me with his smile.


"Your eyes look like precious jewels, my dear," he tells me.


"Mohammed," I tell him laughing, "it just drips from you, doesn't it?"


"What drips?"


"The corny compliments."


"I'm sorry," he looks offended, "I didn't mean to..."


"No, don't be upset... I guess it's just your style. I find it nice... and flattering."

 
"Flattering?" he repeats, "I'm only speaking the truth as I see it. Y'know, 
you're a very beautiful woman. I'm not surprised you have this... ah... problem with admirers."


"Y'know," I tell him, "most of my life I've been one of the guys. I never really dated as a teenager, I was more interested in hanging out down the track. I used to live in jeans and T-shirts, or leather jackets and boots. I've never hung out with girls my own age. All that 'dressing up for the boys' stuff just left me cold. Now... it's just weird... suddenly I've got men chasing me and I'm not sure how to handle it. Simon wants me in some domestic bondage and although it was nice to live like that for a while, it was good to get away. I want to control my own life, not worry about, 'being there for him.' Do you know what I mean?"


"I think so. Do you love this Simon?" he asks.


"I don't know, see? Am I supposed to 'know?' Like some bomb going off in my chest? I feel comfortable with him, that's all I understand. He doesn't make demands and he's totally devoted. But I don't want to be responsible for his feelings. I don't want his life to revolve around me, does that make me selfish?"


"Do you feel selfish? Why ask me?"


"I don't know... it's just something I've been thinking about."


"You haven't made any promises to Simon, have you? You've always been honest?"


I nod.


"Then I'm afraid it's really his crossword puzzle to fill in. You can't be held responsible for his feelings any more than he for yours."


"I guess... I just don't want to hurt him, that's all."


"You'd prefer to live with him in misery, growing to hate him every day? Don't you think that would hurt him worse?"


"Yes... it would."


"Then your heart must guide you, always," he says.


"Doctor's advice?"


"Absolutely! Listen to your heart three times a day after meals... most important," he grins.


"You've missed your vocation. You should have been a priest, or an imam..."


"Oh goodness me no," he recoils in horror, "all that chastity and poverty, most unappealing!"


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We talk some more in the candlelight. Mohammed tells me he's heard Yamaha have a completely new bike for next season. To my question about his source, he taps his nose and gives me a wink.


"As I understand," I tell him, "we'll be using a bike developed from last season's."


"I believe they have shipped out some new bikes in the utmost secrecy. A new engine, frame, the works!"


"I haven't been told," I say.


"I understand it's a 900cc straight 4, 5 valves a cylinder, oval pistons, Marelli fuel injection, Ohlins forks and rear shock absorber, 16 and a half inch wheels on Michelin tyres. Power, I hear, will be around 230hp and with a 14 tooth rear sprocket should give you a top speed of 200mph or so."


I gape back at him as he adopts a look of smug satisfaction.


"How..." is all I manage to say.


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Later, I'm stacking dishes in the washer when I sense him moving behind me. He bends down, supporting himself by putting his hands on my waist.


"I usually put the skillet on the bottom tray," he explains.


He observes the arrangement of the dishes but doesn't move his hands away. As I stand up I back into him. 'So this is the start' I think to myself.


Mohammed mumbles an apology and steps back. In response, I find his hand and draw him back.


"Helene," he says, "you... ah... perhaps have some expectation that I'll..."


I turn to face him as he stumbles over the sentence. He seems to be collapsing into some sort of panic.


"Mohammed, what's wrong?" I ask him.


"Helene," he replies, "I know you probably think that... that... I'll... we will... go to bed... together I mean... but..."


"But what?"


"I can't... I mean... this is wrong."


"Wrong?" I ask in surprise, "your religion? Some ethical, doctor/patient thing?"


"No, no, no," he says, "I'm a very poor moslem... very bad example, no. And technically you've stopped being my patient. I don't think there's a professional issue either. I'm... just not sure this would be the best thing."


"For who?" I ask him, "I'm not exactly the virgin bride."


"For me!" he insists, "I think it would be disrespectful to you. I don't want you thinking I'm just after... y'know."


"I don't, and you're being old-fashioned. I get to have a say too," I tell him, "Aren't you attracted? Is that what you're really saying?"


"Most definitely that's not what I'm saying. As I've said before, I find you very attractive and desirable."


He pauses, deep in thought.


"I'm not sure at this stage whether it would be the best thing for me," he continues.


His hands move to my shoulders, he looks deeply into my eyes. I'm a bundle of nerves as I stare back. Desperately trying to understand where he's coming from.


"Helene," he says eventually, "I must be honest with you... For me, sex is not about one-night stands. It's special... an expression of love between two people. The person who I sleep with must be... the person who I'll want to spend my life with. I know you're not ready to make such a commitment so... for my own piece of mind I must... refuse your generous offer. Tempting as it is."


"Oh!" I reply, disappointed.


My imagined scenarios of the evening come crashing down. I've been slammed out of left field in a most unexpected way. To be honest, I've never been turned down by a guy, although sometimes I wish I had.


"I feel such an idiot," I tell him.


"No, no, you mustn't feel that way. I should have told you from the start... it was very cowardly of me... I'm sorry."


He pulls me against himself for a hug. I notice he keeps his crotch a good inch away so he's bent over a little. After a brief time he tries to pull away but I'm not going to let him get away so easily. I put my arm around his neck and keep him pinned.


I'm aroused and I want to play. I can feel he's torn between his sexual desire and his sense of propiety. I'm thinking that maybe with a little nudging I can change his mind. I'm on heat, I know I am. My own ethical compass is out of whack and, like your classic seductress, I'm searching for the key to the door.


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I drop my voice and say into his ear,


"You want me to believe with all your admirers out there, you've never played?"


He gives a nervous laugh, his body shakes.


"Never?" I tease.


"A honourable man never tells," he says.


I can sense him grinning, his hand lightly caresses my shoulder blades.


"See, I bet there's been some traffic through your bedroom," I tell him.


"I may have given in to temptation once or twice," he explains, "but one matures, Y'know?"


"And were they pretty?" I tease him some more.


He coughs in embarrassment, searching for a reply.


"A young English girl or two... um... very... er... enthusiastic, if you know what I mean," he says, "are you going to release me?"


"Why? Do you need to be somewhere?"


"A comfort stop, if you don't mind. I'm afraid beer goes right through me."


Momentarily defeated, I have to let him go.


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While he's gone I have a new idea. When he returns from the toilet I suggest that now would be a good idea to take that photo he wanted. He beams and scuttles away to get his camera gear.


He's certainly keen on his photography for he returns with a studio flash stand and an expensive looking camera mounted on a tripod. As he busies himself with the preparation I ask him about the camera.


"Leica, 35mm single-lens reflex. A bit of a classic now, actually. I do have a Mavex digital but I much prefer film, especially for portraits. I have my own darkroom and enlarger... through there..." 


He points to a door.


"And I frame them myself..."


"How do you want me?" I ask.


He coughs and directs me towards the window.


"I think we'll try one with the street lights behind you. Then maybe another couple with the curtains closed. The beige is quite a neutral colour for the background."


I stand as directed and smile as he reels off a few shots. He then closes the curtains behind me and returns to the camera. I try a few poses and expressions as he continues to snap away. I tousle my hair, pout, run my hands down my body, push my chest out. When I slip an index finger into my mouth I sense Mohammed shuffling behind the camera.


"Um... Helene," he says, chuckling, "you're a brazen woman."


"Would you like a little 'News of the World'?" I ask him, laughing.


"No... keep your clothes on, please!"


But I'm already unbuttoning my shirt halfway down my chest. Displaying some cleavage, I ask him is this is what he wants.


"Very pretty," he replies, clearly distracted.


"Do you like this?" I ask him, bending over towards the camera.


"Helene, I don't think you should..." he starts to say, still clicking off a roll of film.


"Shouldn't what?" I ask, jiggling my breasts.


Sighing, he replies,


"Expose yourself... you don't need to."


"But I'm enjoying myself!" I protest, "I'm not showing any more than that Vogue shoot you like so much."


"I guess not," he replies, in a resigned fashion.


I spread my legs wide and bend down low, supporting myself with one hand on the floor. Rather like a stretching exercise, but this time, Mohammed has an uninterrupted view right down my bra. I'm certain that if he looks hard enough, he can see the tops of my nipples nestled inside. 


"How's this?" I ask in a low voice, to a deafening silence.


The room has become charged with sexual tension. I can just hear Mohammed breathing and the click of the shutter. I'm certain he must have run out of film, but he's made no effort to reload the camera. Instead he just keeps pressing the button.


"Have you had enough... shots I mean?" I ask him, sexily.


I hear him shuffling behind the camera. As if suddenly realising he's out of film, he looks up from the viewfinder and watches me for a while. The room is zinging with electricity, I look up, discerning his face in the darkness.


"Mohammed?"


For a while he just stands there, as if trying to make up his mind. Eventually he suggests he get some more film and maybe we could go on a little longer. Only, of course, if I wanted to.


"Sure, why not!" I tell him.


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While he goes to get some more film, I take off my shirt completely. When he returns, I'm standing in my bra and 'trackies'. He gives a little start before returning to the camera, but makes no comment.


I know at that moment that I've hooked him. I don't feel a trace of guilt, maybe that might come later. But at the moment I'm too much in a playful mood. 'Besides, he could call a halt any time he chooses,' I reason to myself.


Now, when I did the original Vogue shoot, the photographer got me to do this little dance. He told me to imagine being at a club where I was the stripper. He puts on this stripping-type music and he told me to move around in time. Of course, I had to keep my clothes on and my breasts were taped. The Duck tape pulled and it was uncomfortable.


However he wanted to 'see how my body moved,' and my 'my formation from different angles.'


I suggest to Mohammed that he put on some music so I can do a little dance. He scrambles to the stereo and finds a Billie Holiday disk, slow, smoochie and bluesy.


"Good choice," I tell him.


I start to sway my hips, smoothing my hands down my sides. The camera clicks and the flash pulses it's glare in bursts of white light. I twirl around, hands in the air, arch back and then forward. I push out my bottom, sashaying in slow, sensual movement. When I complete the turn, and I'm facing the camera once more, I can't make out Mohammed behind it.


He's actually standing to one side, allowing the camera to click away automatically. His figure is indistinct.


"Come and join me?" I call to him.


"Oh, no, no," his voice thick with emotion, "I don't dance... at least not like that."


"C'mon, a double shot. Just you and me," I urge.


"I... I can't..."


"Yes you can," I say and advance on him across the room.


Grabbing his hand, I pull him into camera shot.


"I must reload!" he tells me.


He's trying to drag himself away. I look down and suddenly I realise what the problem is. The front of his trousers is bulging. Even his modestly placed hand cannot conceal the fact.


I feel a twitch between my legs, I shiver as a hot flush courses through my body. I hold his head and pull him down to my waiting mouth. He groans as, finally submitting, his lips touch mine and we kiss.


We remain locked like that for seemingly ages. Eventually his arms circle my waist, resting on the small of my back. His kissing grows in ferocity, hot and hard he pushes himself against me, searing the skin above the elastic of my trackies.


A hand pushes under the elastic and into my panties, cupping my bottom cheeks and pulling me still harder against his burning crotch. He kisses my face, bites and licks my ear lobes, my neck. I pull his shirt free from his trousers and push my hands up his back, relishing the feel of his bare skin.


I'm being nudged backwards. Holding my bottom he marches me until I feel the resistance of the big sofa. Pulling his hands from my pants he gently lowers me down. My breathing quickens as he works the trackies over my hips. I watch him fold them and carefully place them to the side.


My panties feel like they're transparent now, they're so damp. He stands there, shirt half pulled out, clothes in disarray, watching. He clicks his tongue.


"Is this all that you want?" he asks.


"Mohammed?" I ask, "is it so hard. You want me... I want you. Let's make love!"


I sit up and stroke the front of his trousers. Sensing no resistance I gently ease down his fly and pull free his hard penis.


"Do you want oral sex?" I ask him, but before he can answer, I have him in my mouth.


(C)Katzmarek




