Grease Monkey Business Pt. 03

"Oh, fuck, that feels good," I moaned, gushing down her throat. She gulped down everything I fed her, and sucked the dregs out of my balls. She released me, and we both collapsed on the bed.

"Mmmmmm, that hits the spot," she sighed, licking stray semen from her lips.

***

"Hmmmm. I think I like this," she smiled, as I helped her dress again, which was almost as much fun as undressing her. "I think I'll hire you as my personal valet, when I'm rich and famous. You wouldn't mind, would you? Fucking your boss?"

"Not at all, Ma'am," I smiled. "I'll just add it to my list of duties."

Helping her into her panties, I adjusted them for comfort and smoothness, giving the juicy gap between her labia a passing caress. This layer of underwear was clean, as was the sports bra I harnessed her into next, using both hands to squish her fabulous boobs into the cups that confined them in a decidedly unsexy way. I greatly preferred her in one of her cleavage enhancing bras, rather than this one which conspired to flatten and hide her most obvious assets. A t-shirt over the top would absorb some of the inevitable sweat the next few hours would cause.

The first layer of fire-resistant nomex underwear followed, then she stepped into her driving suit, zipping it up to her waist, with the sleeves tied across in front. Her driving shoes were next, and I tied them for her, then taped the laces down.

She was ready.

Outside, the darkness of night that enveloped us when she went to bed had given way to a beautiful, clear, Florida winter morning. The sun was doing its job, erasing the chill of the evening. The race was entering its most important phase.

Six hours to go. Six more torturous hours, testing mechanical systems and physical endurance to the breaking point.

Six more hours of glory.

Before we stepped out of our mobile home, Julie swished some mouthwash, to cover the smell of my cum, and checked her hair in the mirror. Only a minute out the door, some race fans recognized her, and we stopped for some autographs.

"I'm kind of liking this," she smiled as we left the happy fans behind, on our way to our pit box. "Would you like an autograph, too?"

"I think you already gave me one," I giggled, pointing to my butt, where her nails had dug into my skin during her orgasm.

She simply smiled, and hooked her arm in mine, and we walked in silence the rest of the way. On our approach, Chip looked up, and came over to talk to us.

"Change of plans," he told us, pausing for a moment to listen on his headset. "I want to put Nick back in for the next stint, instead of you..." he held up his hand, listening again.

Julie looked at me, clearly distressed at this change. It felt like they were taking away her part in the finish. I was confused, too, but Chip had more to say.

"Hold on. Kenny is coming in, right now," Chip said, as the crew leapt into action. "He cut a tire. Nick! You're in!"

This was not the time to argue, and Julie stayed attached to me, out of the fray, while Kenny brought the car to a stop, and jumped out. Nick was in and secure seconds later, letting the crew begin servicing the car. Four fresh tires and a full tank of fuel sent Nick back out onto the track, to do his best.

Chip was now talking to Kenny, who still had his helmet on. He glanced over at us, and shook his head, then pointed in our direction. Chip patted him on the shoulder, and headed toward us.

Julie's grip on my arm grew tighter. She steeled her expression, bracing for bad news.

"Sorry about that. Bad timing. I thought we had another fifteen minutes before our stop, but shit happens!" Chip laughed. "Anyway, as you can see, Nick is back in. Kenny is going to rest, and get back in..."

"So, I'm done?" Julie asked, cutting him off. "Did Kenny suggest this?"

Chip did his best 'father figure' impression, putting both hands on her shoulders, and looking her straight in the eye.

"Actually, yes, he did suggest it," he nodded, an incongruous smile on his face. "Julie, you're not done. You're my anchor."

Julie looked at Chip, then at me, then Chip.

"Anchor?" she asked, baffled. "Not Kenny?"

"Not Kenny," Chip confirmed. "You. Julie, Kenny is going to take a break, then get back in and put the hammer down. He's going to set you up to finish. You get the last three hours. We've been looking at the data, and running the numbers, and I think we can reach the podium. Between Kenny's aggressive style and your smooth one, I think we can do it. Julie, we need you. Kenny may be faster for a short stint, but you're the best we've got over a longer one."

"I, um, thank you," Julie nodded. Her expression was a mix of relief and terror.

"Red, take her by the hand, and make her relax. Feed her. Get her ready," Chip told me. "You've got about ninety minutes, then I need you back here for a chat."

When I took Julie's hand, it was shaking. She looked up at me, and bit her lip.

"Holy shit," she smiled. "They want me to finish? Jeez. No pressure, huh?"

I led her to the commissary, and put her at a table, leaving her to her thoughts while I got us some food. When I returned to the table with a tray, she looked up again.

"You don't think he's setting me up, do you?" she asked, her brow furrowed in concern. "Kenny doesn't like me much. I wouldn't put it past him to do that. Set me up to fail, so he can blame me for us not winning."

"Are you planning to lose?" I asked, putting the plate in front of her. "I got you a BLT. It seems to me that, if you're in the seat, it's your foot on the pedal. Even if it is a setup... and I'm not saying it is... It's your car while you're in it. His ass is in the pits."

"So, you think it's legit?" she arched her eyebrow, taking a bite of her sandwich. "I'm not sure if that's better, or worse."

"Why? Julie, you're fast. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise," I pointed out. "Chip didn't put you in the car because he was feeling charitable. He wants to win. He wants to win more than just the class. He thinks you can do it, and so do I."

"It's a lot of pressure. This could be a turning point in our life," she replied.

I smiled. I smiled so big, she had to react.

"Okay, smartass. What's so funny?" she glared, crossing her arms in anger.

"Not funny, just interesting," I laughed. "First, that you're worried, and second... you said 'our life'. I guess we're in this together, aren't we?"

Her anger faded away, and she grinned, uncrossing her arms and picking up her sandwich.

"It would appear that way, wouldn't it?" she giggled. "Suddenly, I feel a lot better."

"Glad I could help," I nodded. "Do I get my own spiffy driving suit, like yours, or do we have to share?"

"Maybe we could install a passenger seat in the car?" she smiled.

"I've driven with you, honey. If you remember, you nearly made me shit myself. Probably be best if you just go it alone in the car, and know I'm there for you when you're done," I said softly. "Win or lose, I want you to remember I'm so proud of you, and I love you more than ever."

"Thank you, honey," she smiled, moving around the table to sit on my lap. She kissed me gently, and held her wrist out. "So, how do you think I'd look with a big honking Rolex on here?" she asked.

"Not a ladies' watch?" I grinned.

"Hell no! If I win a Rolex, I want to make sure everyone knows it!" she laughed, her eyes sparkling again with the confidence and energy I loved about her. "Think it'll look good?"

"Why don't we go find out?" I suggested.

"Fucking right!" she winked.

***

We soon found ourselves back in the pits. Minutes later, Nick brought the car in, and Kenny jumped back behind the wheel. It was a fuel-only stop, and the car was quickly returned to competition.

After her talk with Chip, which let him know she was ready, Julie was in the back of the garage, watching the timing feed scroll across the screen of the computer monitor. I was at the wide entrance door to the garage, enjoying the sun and the visceral sounds of all that horsepower flashing past. I glanced back at Julie, and found her tapping the screen, a thoughtful look on her face. Suddenly, she stood upright and bolted out the door. Curiosity made me follow.

Her quarry was easy to find, as Chip was on top of the pit box. She climbed the ladder part way, to talk to him, putting her ass right at eye level for me. I resisted the urge to grope her, but did reach up to grip her waist, so she wouldn't slip. Chip found the conversation interesting enough to come down and follow her back to the monitor in the garage, and I tagged along.

Julie's finger pointed out the numbers she wanted Chip to see, and he nodded as she told him her plan. A smile grew wider on his face, and he handed the headset to Julie.

"Fill Kenny in on the strategy," he said, and patted my shoulder as he passed. "Like I said before, I'm glad she's on our side."

He gave a quick synopsis of her idea... but there's a lot more to it. I'll try to explain.

If you're a race fan, you might be familiar with the term 'drafting'. It's become a huge part of the sport, in almost every class. Only open wheeled cars on road circuits shun the strategy, as their downforce is disrupted to a greater extent than the speed gained is worth. But I digress.

Drafting is an aerodynamic advantage, born by accident, and it has led to the sleek designs that inhabit racetracks in the modern world. The simplest explanation is still pretty complicated, but I'll try.

Aerodynamic forces in the horizontal plane are basically Thrust, in the forward direction, and Drag, in the rearward. Thrust, in a car, equates to horsepower. When horsepower exceeds drag, acceleration is possible, but when drag equals horsepower, the car reaches maximum speed. We'll ignore mechanical sources of drag for this example.

Let's make the math really easy. If it takes 100 horsepower to push a given car through the air at 50 mph, and we wish to go faster, we can logically make one of two choices; either increase thrust, or decrease drag. That's logical, and true... up to a point.

You see, the laws of nature don't follow the logic of man. Light falls off in a reciprocal square rate. Increase the distance from the light by a factor of two, and you have not half as much illumination, but one quarter. Air follows a similar pattern, sort of.

Increasing speed also increases drag, but not at a logical rate. Double the speed... Four times the drag. Since maximum speed is where thrust equals drag, you can see that pushing our hypothetical car to 100 mph, will require not 200, but 400 horsepower. Want 200 mph? You'll need 1600 horses.

Since the internal combustion engine can only do so much under the rules of racing, you can see why race teams spend so much time in the wind tunnel, sculpting their cars to reduce drag and improve airflow to create downforce for traction. It's much easier to smooth and reshape the bodywork than apply brute force.

Now, a single car has to punch through the air, causing drag at the front end where the air has to move out of the way. As the air passes, it wants to rejoin its friends, but can't because there's a car in the way, so as soon as the car gets past, the air folds back in, causing a low pressure area of drag behind the car. Those two areas... in front and behind... are the total drag on the car. Got it?

Put another car behind, very close. Now, the front car still punches a hole, and the second car still has that low pressure bubble of disturbed air behind it, but in between, there's less turbulence, decreasing the drag on both cars, and allowing them to go faster together than either could alone.

So, now that you have a sense of how drafting works, you can understand Julie's idea. Find a faster car, and stick to the back bumper like glue.

I know... It's hardly a new idea. Drivers have been doing it for many years. The trick is finding just the right car to follow.

At Daytona, with four different classes of cars running at four different speeds, traffic was a constant factor. You were either passing, or being passed, nearly every lap. Obviously, we were looking for someone faster to follow, so it was going to be either a Prototype Challenge car, or a Daytona Prototype. But the PC cars are already behind us, and not fast enough to catch the three cars still ahead of us. We were in fourth overall, and the cars ahead were all DP's. It would seem to be unsolvable.

Racing was, at one time, simply a contest of speed and courage between drivers. While those elements are still a large part of it, the information age has changed things somewhat. Teams now employ specialists in strategy, that can run simulations based on the available data about their own car, and projections for the competition.

So, with a little less than four hours left to the finish, we could guess with reasonable certainty how many laps we'd run before the clock ran out. We knew how many more pit stops we would need to make, barring calamity. Best of all, we could make similar projections for the competition. Our fourth place finish, 1st in class, was relatively secure. The simulations put us only around fifteen seconds behind the third overall finisher. Maybe traffic would slow them, and bring that even closer.

And maybe Julie's idea would bring even the second position within reach.

The numbers Julie had noticed were the lap times of a DP car, well behind us in the standings. That car had spent almost an hour in the pits, repairing damage and mechanical problems that had plagued them. Now that those repairs were done, they were carving their way through the field. They were faster than us, and faster than everyone, except the leader, but not so fast that drafting them would be impossible. Just less than a second per lap faster than us, and half a second faster than the second place car, if we could hitch our wagon to him, we'd gain time rapidly.

It was certainly worth a try.

So, when Chip handed Julie the headset, she smiled.

"Explain it to him," he grinned, and stepped aside.

Julie nodded, putting the radio on.

"Kenny, it's Julie. How do you read?" she said evenly. "Good. Listen, there's a car coming up behind you, and we're going to use him for blocking and drafting help. Be ready. If we miss him, we'll have to settle for fourth. Yes, he's four seconds back right now, gaining about a second a lap. Yes, we'll keep you posted. The spotter is watching him. We're hoping he catches you just entering the infield section, so he doesn't just blow past and leave us behind. Right."

She handed the headset back to Chip and smiled.

"He's got it," she nodded. "All we can do now is wait and hope."

Julie took a seat in the garage, looking at the monitor, and listening to the chatter on our radio. I could tell by her bouncing foot that she was no longer nervous about her part in the outcome. That emotion had been replaced by excitement. I pulled up a chair next to her, and took her hand.

"Where is he?" Kenny's voice asked.

"About two seconds," our spotter replied. "Next lap."

"Roger, that," Kenny added. "Tell me when he's a second back."

"Will do," the spotter answered.

Julie glanced at me, and squeezed my hand.

"This is a lot less nerve-wracking from inside the car," she giggled.

"Not for me," I smiled, "but I get your point."

The radio crackled again.

"One second. He's hitting some traffic. Be ready."

"Ooooo, this might work just right," Julie grinned. "He should pass us just before the infield section. We're faster in there, so we can stay on his ass. Just hope we can stick to him on the high banking." She got up and walked out to watch, forcing me to follow.

"Fifteen car lengths..." the radio said. "Twelve... ten... He's past the traffic... eight... "

"Take it deep into number one, and make him pass on the inside, so his angle is shallower... " Chip coached.

"Four more..."

"Got him," Kenny said, as they flashed past us, side-by-side. By pinning the DP to the inside, he made the corner sharper, forcing him to slow down a little. Kenny dropped neatly in behind, mere feet from our new best friend.

"We got him!" the spotter chirped.

"Yes!" Julie exclaimed, pumping her fist in joy. "Ride that pony, buddy! Hold on to that draft!"

That was the real trick, wasn't it? The effect of the draft was like an invisible rubber band... if you didn't overstretch, and break it. Just stay close enough so that bubble of lower pressure could pull you forward a little faster than you go without it.

Kenny did a great job, hanging onto that rear wing like a dog with a bone. Our lap time following him was seven-tenths of a second faster on the first lap, and nine-tenths better the second. Kenny drove his ass off, leaving nothing in reserve, lap after lap, gaining time several tenths per lap, until he finally made a small mistake fifteen laps later. He lost the sweet spot, and two laps later we were once again all alone.

All alone, but twelve seconds closer to second place. That may not sound like much, but at these speeds, that's half a mile. Enough of a gain that the third-place car was once again in sight.

There's something about being able to see your target, that makes race drivers focus like nothing else. For the rest of his stint, Kenny did his best to shave that gap even more, managing to at least maintain our gains. At last, our quarry peeled off to the pits, temporarily moving us up to third. Kenny brought the car in a few laps later.

It was now Julie's race. I was so proud of her, as she calmly pulled her bellaclava on. I helped her tuck it in, and gave her chest a reassuring pat, which elicited a giggle.

"You wouldn't be trying to distract me, would you?" she asked, adjusting her helmet. Her eyes sparkled through the visor, and she flipped it up.

"I have a feeling it will take more than that to do it," I laughed. "Shall I whip it out?"

"I just put my helmet on," she snorted. "It makes sucking your cock difficult. Perhaps you can keep it in your pants until I'm done work, and we can celebrate then?"

"Well, if you're going to make me wait, you'd better make sure we really have something to celebrate," I smiled.

"It's a deal," she nodded, as the car stopped in our pit stall. As they had done so often in the last day, the team moved with choreographed precision, first swapping pilots before providing fresh rubber and fuel. When the refueling hose came out, the engine roared to life, and Julie put her foot down.

Of course, our pit stop put us back behind the third place Daytona Prototype again, but our gains relative to our real goal... second place... remained intact. It was the classic accordion effect, two steps forward, one step back, but we were moving in the right direction.

As long as we had enough time.

Julie was doing her part, slicing through the traffic smoothly, lap after lap. Whenever a faster car would catch her from behind, she would latch onto that invisible coattail and hang on as long as she could.

In the garage, the strategists had their feet up, watching the numbers scroll on the screen. There was little else to do. We already knew our plan. We knew that we had two more stops to make, and that if the cars ahead kept up this pace, they would have to make three. That fact alone should put us in third at the finish line, but within sight of the second-place car.

Back on the track, the third-place car pitted again. Julie wasn't due back in for at least fifteen laps, so this was our opportunity to leapfrog him.

"Please confirm," Julie asked over the radio. "Was that P3 I saw entering the pits?"

"Roger," Chip answered. "Time to put your foot down."

"It's been down since I took this seat," she laughed, "but I get the idea. Hammer time!"

That pitstop put P4, formerly P3, almost thirty seconds behind us. It also put him... fortunately for us... mired behind a block of traffic that we did not have to deal with. If Julie could pull out another half dozen seconds before her stop, we'd come out ahead of him, and the traffic as well.