Chapter 14: The Race and the Ride
The air tasted of burnt rubber and split gasoline. A haze of fine dust hung over the rally track, catching the low afternoon sun in a gauzy, apocalyptic glow. Evie stood at the barrier, her fingers cold around the metal rail, her knuckles white. The crowd around her was a living, shouting entity, a wall of noise that vibrated through her soles. But she heard none of it. Her entire world had narrowed to the last bend, to the distant, snarling approach of engines.
Two cars emerged from the dust cloud, side-by-side, paint striped with mud. Jay’s car, number 17, a flash of bloody red against the dun-colored landscape. He was on the outside, pushing, the car’s rear end sliding wide in a controlled drift. The other driver, in blue, tried to squeeze him into the berm. Inches separated them. Metal screamed as they touched, a spark-flying graze that made the crowd roar.
Evie stopped breathing.
Jay didn’t lift. He fed the car more power, the turbo screaming its metallic protest. He used the contact, letting the blue car bounce off him, stealing its line. As they shot onto the final straight, he was half a car length ahead. He held it. The finish line flags blurred past.
The official roar was swallowed by the engine’s final, defiant bellow. Number 17. First.
The dam of sound broke over her. Evie was moving before she knew it, pushing through bodies, a small, determined fish against the current. Her heart hammered a frantic, joyous rhythm against her ribs. He won. He won. My weekend. My hell. The thoughts were inseparable, a twin-beat of terror and exhilaration.
She found him in the chaos of the winner’s circle. He’d climbed out, helmet off, his dark hair plastered to his scalp with sweat. Grime and oil streaked his neck. He was accepting a handshake from an official, but his eyes were already scanning the crowd. They found her. His grin wasn’t one of polite victory. It was a predator’s smile, wide and full of teeth, acknowledging his prize.
He broke away, shouldering through a well-wisher. In three strides he was on her. His hands, still in their driving gloves, cradled her face. He smelled of heat, effort, and victory. He kissed her, hard and deep, his tongue claiming her mouth as the crowd cheered around them. She tasted salt, the faint plastic of his mouthguard, and pure, undiluted Jay.
“Told you,” he growled against her lips, the words lost to everyone but her. His eyes were blazing. “Get to the truck. Now.”
He kept one gloved hand locked around her wrist, pulling her through the throng. He moved with a focused aggression, a man on a mission. The back-slaps, the shouted congratulations, he acknowledged with a curt nod, but he didn’t stop. His grip on her was absolute.
His pickup was parked in the competitors’ area, a hulking black thing. He hit the fob, the locks clunking open. He yanked the passenger door open. “In.”
She climbed in. The interior held the familiar scent of him—oil, leather, the pine air freshener he never replaced. He slammed her door, rounded the hood, and got in the driver’s side. The engine roared to life. He didn’t pull out. He just sat there, the truck idling with a rough rumble, a contained beast. He stripped off his driving gloves, tossing them onto the dash. His hands were trembling, but not from fatigue. From adrenaline. From need.
He turned in his seat, his gaze dropping to her lap. “You watched. You saw me win.”
“Yes.”
“And you know what that means.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Show me,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Show me you know. Touch yourself. Get that pretty cunt wet for me. I want to see it.”
A jolt went through her, sharp and electric. They were in a parking lot. People walked past just feet away, their voices clear through the glass. But his order was a wall, shutting out the outside world. Her fingers felt clumsy as she pushed her skirt up her thighs. She wasn’t wearing tights. The cool air of the cab kissed her skin. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her plain cotton panties—the last mundane pair she’d own for days—and pushed them down to her knees.
She looked at him. His eyes were fixed on her, unblinking, his jaw tight. She spread her legs, letting the heel of one sneaker rest on the dashboard. The position was lewd, exposed. She could see the faint, dried remnants of his come from two nights ago on her inner thigh. A marker.
Her middle finger trailed through her folds. She was already slick, her arousal a thick, hot ache. A soft moan escaped her as she circled her clit, the touch almost too much after days of anticipation. She slid two fingers inside herself, her body welcoming the familiar penetration. It wasn’t enough. It was just a prelude. She fucked herself with her fingers, the wet, rhythmic sound filling the quiet cab. Her other hand drifted back, pressing against the tight pucker of her asshole, the memory of the plug a ghostly, full sensation.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice like gravel. “Work that needy little hole. Think about what’s coming. Think about my cock replacing those frail little fingers.”
She obeyed, her breaths coming in short pants, her hips rocking to meet her own hand. The orgasm built, a tight, sweet coil in her belly. The public shame, his watching eyes, the roar of the race still echoing in her ears—it all fused into a blinding heat. She was close. So close.
His hand shot out, slapping hers away from her cunt with a stinging crack.
“No,” he said, flat and final. “You don’t come until I say. You don’t own your orgasms this weekend. I do.”
A whimper of frustration died in her throat. Her cunt pulsed, empty and desperate. He unzipped his jeans, freeing his erection. It was thick, flushed, the head glistening. He gripped himself, gave a slow, punishing stroke. “Mouth. Now. Get it wet for what’s next.”
She leaned across the center console, the gear shift digging into her ribs. She took him into her mouth, her lips stretching around his girth. The taste of him, clean skin and salt, flooded her senses. She sucked, hollowing her cheeks, her tongue working the sensitive vein on the underside.
“Use your hand too,” he ordered, his hand fisting in her hair, not guiding, just holding. “Make a tight fucking sleeve for me.”
She wrapped her fingers around the base of his shaft, twisting her mouth and hand in unison. Spill dripped from her lips, down onto his balls, onto the denim of his jeans. The truck’s engine idled, a bass note to the wet, sucking sounds she made.
He drove with his other hand, pulling out of the lot onto the service road. His attention was split between the asphalt and her mouth. “Good girl,” he grunted, his hips lifting to meet her rhythm. “You suck cock like you were made for it. Maybe you were.”
He described her future as the landscape blurred past. His words were graphic, filthy, a blueprint for her degradation.
“First thing when we get inside, that cute little choker comes off. Goes in the trash. I’ve got a real one for you. Leather. With a D-ring. So I can lead you around the apartment by it.”
She moaned around his cock, the vibration making him hiss.
“I’m gonna tie you to my bed. Spread eagle. Use that big, fancy vibe I bought on that clit until you’re begging to come. And then I won’t let you. I’m gonna flip you over and eat that ass until you’re screaming into the mattress. Then I’m gonna fuck it. Slow at first. Then hard. Until you can’t remember your own name.”
His words painted the pictures in her mind, vivid and terrifying. Her cunt wept, a fresh trickle of arousal slicking her thighs. She bobbed her head faster, taking him deeper, wanting to please, to earn this promised brutality.
“You’ll wear a plug all weekend. A bigger one than before. You’ll feel it when you walk. When you try to sit. You’ll feel it and remember you’re just a set of holes I’m keeping open for my use.”
He was getting close. His grip on her hair tightened, his breathing ragged. “And your throat… this pretty, gagging throat… is mine whenever I want. Morning. Afternoon. Middle of the fucking night. I’ll wake you up with my dick down it.”
With a harsh groan, his hips stuttered. He pulled her head down onto him, holding her there as he came. The first hot, bitter pulse hit the back of her throat. She swallowed reflexively, again and again, taking every drop as he shuddered through his release.
When he finally let her up, she was gasping, spit and come glistening on her chin. He tucked himself away, zipped up. He looked at her, her flushed face, her ruined mouth, her bare, glistening pussy still on display. He reached over and dragged his thumb through the wetness between her legs, then smeared it across her bottom lip.
“Taste that?” he said softly. “That’s your weekend. That’s all you are now. My filthy, aching cunt.”
He put the truck in gear and drove properly, leaving the track behind. The ride to his apartment was silent, charged. Evie pulled her panties up, smoothed her skirt down. She felt hollowed out and simultaneously too full, a vessel waiting to be definitively filled. She stared out the window, watching the city lights begin to blink on in the twilight.
He parked in the underground garage of a modern, concrete building. The air was cool and smelled of damp. He came around, opened her door, and took her hand. His touch was different now. It wasn’t a guide. It was a claim. He led her to the elevator, swiped a key fob. The doors closed on the silent, sterile box.
He pushed her against the mirrored wall, his body pinning hers. He didn’t kiss her. He reached for her neck. His fingers found the thin, black leather choker—her armor, her secret, her shame. With a deft flick, he unbuckled it. It came away in his hand. He looked at it for a second, then dropped it. It landed on the polished elevator floor with a soft, final slap.
Her neck felt naked, vulnerable. The air kissed skin that hadn’t seen light in years.
From his jacket pocket, he pulled a new collar. It was wider, made of heavy black leather, polished and supple. A solid stainless steel D-ring was riveted to the front. It had weight. He held it up for her to see.
“This is you now. Say it.”
She looked from the collar to his eyes, her breath shallow. “This is me now, Sir.”
He fastened it around her throat. The buckle clicked, a definitive, mechanical sound. The leather was cool, then warm against her skin. It was tight, but not choking. A constant, inescapable pressure. He hooked a single finger through the D-ring and gave a gentle tug, testing the connection. A shiver ran through her, part fear, part utter, soul-deep rightness.
The elevator dinged, opening onto a stark, minimalist hallway. He led her by the collar to a door, unlocked it, and pushed it open.
He didn’t turn on the main lights. A single lamp in the living room cast long shadows across bare floors and sleek, uncomfortable-looking furniture. It smelled of clean linen, citrus cleaner, and him.
He turned her to face him inside the doorway. His eyes were dark pools in the semi-darkness. He traced the line of the new collar with his knuckle.
“The rules,” he said, his voice quiet but absolute. “You speak only to answer a direct question. You are naked at all times unless I dress you for a specific purpose. You ask permission for everything: water, to use the toilet, to shift position. You address me as ‘Sir’ or ‘Master’. You will sleep at the foot of my bed on the floor, unless I want you in it. This weekend, you are not Evelyn. You are my property. Do you understand?”
The reality of it, stated so coldly in this quiet, empty space, was a cold wave. It was one thing in the heat of the garage, the thrill of the race. It was another here, in the domestic silence. This was the contract. She looked at the discarded black choker on the elevator floor, now a million miles away. She looked at the man who held her leash.
She swallowed, the new leather pressing into her throat. “I understand, Master.”
A slow, satisfied smile touched his lips. It was the most beautiful and terrifying thing she’d ever seen.
“Good,” he said. He released the collar. “Then take your clothes off. All of them. Fold them neatly and place them by the door. You won’t be needing them.”
His words hung in the cool, dim air of the entryway, a silent command that seemed to vibrate against her skin. Evie’s fingers, cold and tingling, went to the hem of her sweater. She pulled it over her head, the static catching strands of her dark hair. The fabric, soft and worn, was the first layer of her old self to fall. It pooled silently on the polished concrete floor.
She unbuttoned her jeans, pushed them down her hips, and stepped out of them. Her socks and sneakers came next, then the plain cotton panties, still damp from her touch in the truck. She folded each item with mechanical precision, creating a neat, sad pile by the door—a memorial to Evelyn Cross. The air conditioning whispered over her bare skin, raising goosebumps. She felt the weight of the new collar, the empty ache between her legs, and the stark vulnerability of standing naked in his silent apartment.
“Hands behind your back,” he said, his voice calm, observational. He retrieved a dark velvet cushion from the sofa and placed it on the floor in the entryway. “Kneel here. Look straight ahead. You don’t move until I tell you.”
She lowered herself onto the cushion, the plush fabric unfamiliar against her knees. She laced her fingers behind her back, straightening her spine. The posture was one of surrender and readiness. She fixed her gaze on the sleek, blank television screen across the room, seeing only a reflection of the dim lamp and her own pale, naked form. She heard his footsteps recede into the apartment, the opening of a cabinet, the tap running.
He returned. He stood before her, blocking her view. In his hand was a simple glass of water, condensation beading on its sides. He held it to her lips. “Drink.”
She leaned forward, her mouth meeting the cool rim. She drank, the water shockingly clean and cold against her dry throat. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was. When she finished, he pulled the glass away. A drop traced a path from her chin down her neck, disappearing under the leather band.
“You speak only when I ask you a direct question,” he reminded her, his tone devoid of malice, simply factual. “The first rule. Remember it.”
He set the glass on a nearby console table with a soft click. Then his hand closed in her hair, near the scalp, gathering a firm fistful. He didn’t yank; he applied steady, inescapable pressure. “Up.”
She rose on unsteady legs, and he led her, by the hair, down a short hallway. The procession was silent, humiliating, profoundly intimate. Her nakedness was complete, her posture dictated by his grip. He pushed open a door to a spacious bedroom dominated by a large, low platform bed with simple black linens.
He released her hair only to guide her onto the mattress. She lay back on the cool cotton. From a drawer in the nightstand, he produced four sets of wide, soft cuffs made of grey nylon. He fastened them to her wrists and ankles with swift, practiced clicks of the buckles. Then he secured each cuff to a corresponding ring anchored to the bedframe with a short, sturdy strap.
She was spread open, a starfish against the dark sheets, utterly and completely displayed. The position was more exposing than anything in the garage. There were no shadows to hide in here.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, not to her, but to the image she made. He walked to the foot of the bed, observing his work. His eyes traced the lines of her body, the subtle tremble in her inner thighs, the dark thatch of hair between them, already glistening. He reached back into the nightstand.
The vibrator was larger than she expected, sleek and black, with a pronounced, bulbous head. It hummed to life with a low, powerful buzz that she felt in the air. He didn’t touch her with it yet. He let the sound fill the room, a promise of what was to come.
He started at her throat, tracing the vibrator along the line of her collarbone, down between her breasts. The plastic was cool, the vibration a strange, tickling torment. He circled her nipples, watching them pucker and tighten into aching points, but never staying long enough to grant real relief. He dragged it down her sternum, over the dip of her navel.
Evie bit her lip, her head turning against the pillow. Her hips gave an involuntary, tiny lift, seeking contact.
“Ah-ah,” he chided softly, pulling the device away. “You take what I give you. You don’t seek.”
He brought it to her inner thigh, letting it buzz against the sensitive skin there. The sound was maddening. She could feel her own wetness seeping onto the sheets beneath her. Finally, with deliberate slowness, he pressed the broad, humming head against her clit.
The sensation was immediate and devastating. A sharp, electric pleasure shot through her, making her back arch off the bed, a choked gasp ripping from her throat. He held it there, applying firm, consistent pressure, his eyes locked on her face. The orgasm built with terrifying speed, a supernova gathering in her core, fueled by hours of denial and days of anticipation.
Just as the first tremors began to seize her muscles, he pulled it away.
The absence was a physical pain. A sob burst from her. “Please…!”
“I didn’t ask you to speak,” he said, his voice still calm. He moved the vibrator to her entrance, rubbing the slick, buzzing head through her folds, coating it in her arousal. He pushed it inside her, just an inch, then withdrew. Again. And again. A shallow, teasing penetration that ignited every nerve ending without providing the deep, fulfilling stretch she craved.
He brought her to the edge three more times. Each peak was higher, more desperate than the last. He would watch her body tighten, her breaths become ragged screams, her cunt clutch at the empty air, and then he would remove the stimulus. She was drenched in sweat and her own fluids, weeping openly, her mind fragmenting into a singular need.
“Please, Master, please let me come,” she begged, the rules forgotten in the white-hot agony of denial. “I need it, I can’t… please, I’ll be good, just let me…”
He ignored her words. He turned off the vibrator. The sudden silence was louder than the buzz had been. He climbed onto the bed, kneeling between her splayed legs. He gripped her hips and, without ceremony, flipped her onto her stomach. The straps allowed just enough give for the maneuver. Her face was pressed into the pillow, her ass raised in the air, presented.
He didn’t use his mouth on her cunt. He bypassed it completely. He spread her cheeks with his hands, exposing the tight, pink furl of her asshole. He leaned down and licked a broad, wet stripe from her perineum up.
Evie jolted, a shocked cry muffled by the pillow. No one had ever— The sensation was intensely intimate, foreign, filthy. He did it again, his tongue flat and hot, lapping at her with focused attention. Then he zeroed in on the hole itself, circling it with the pointed tip of his tongue, applying pressure until the muscle, against all instinct, began to relax and open for him.
He ate her ass with a devouring hunger, licking and sucking at the rim, pushing his tongue inside in shallow breaches. The mix of shame and overwhelming, bizarre pleasure short-circuited her thoughts. She was babbling, pushing back against his face, her words dissolving into incoherent pleas.
“Yes, yes, fuck, please, Master, your tongue, it’s so good, oh god, please don’t stop, eat my ass, please, I’m your slut, your fucking ass-slut, please!”
He rewarded her obscene begging by pushing his tongue deeper, fucking her with it, the wet, sloppy sounds echoing her degradation. He worked her until she was mindless, until her whole world was the hot, relentless focus of his mouth on that most forbidden part of her.
He pulled away. She heard the rip of a foil packet, the slick sound of him sheathing himself. He positioned himself behind her, the broad, blunt head of his cock pressing not against her soaked cunt, but against the slick, loosened entrance he’d just prepared.
“This is what you won, my good little bet,” he whispered, his voice thick. He pushed forward, slowly, inexorably.
The stretch was immense, a burning, full feeling of invasion that stole her breath. It was deeper and more intense than the plug. He gave her an inch, then waited, letting her body adjust, the heat of him overwhelming. Then another inch. He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her sweat-slicked back, his mouth at her ear.
“You’ll take all of it,” he promised, his breath hot. “And tomorrow, you’ll take it again. And the next day. Until this hole is as used and open as your cunt. Until you can’t tell the difference.”
He began to move, withdrawing almost completely before sinking back in with that same slow, devastating depth. Each thrust punched a soft, choked sound from her lungs. The initial burn was subsiding, transforming into a deep, full ache that sparked strange, sharp licks of pleasure with every drag.
His thrusts grew harder, deeper, gaining force as her body accepted him. The bedframe began a soft, rhythmic knock against the wall. He fucked her ass with a purposeful, driving pace, his hips slapping against her upturned cheeks, his balls swinging against her wet, neglected pussy.
“The plug goes back in after I come,” he grunted, his control fraying. “You’ll wear it to sleep. You’ll wake up full of me. And when I wake up, I’m going to fuck your throat while that plug is still stretching this greedy little ass.”
His promises were a filthy mantra, painting the hours to come. She was helpless, bound, and utterly possessed, her body a tool for his use. The pain had fully morphed now, blossoming into a kind of piercing, transcendent pleasure that started in her violated depths and radiated outward, setting her entire nervous system alight. He was remaking her, one brutal, deep thrust at a time.
His pace became punishing, final. His fingers dug into her hips, surely leaving new bruises. He was driving towards his own end, using her body to claim it. The sounds of their bodies, his ragged breaths, her muffled cries, the relentless slap of skin, filled the dark room. This was the consummation of their deal. This was the first hour of her weekend.