POST-RACE CREW
The race leaves him wrecked in the best way.
Everything still ringing. Engine in his ears. Heat in his chest. Legs tight, arms heavy, whole body buzzing like he’s still flying down the track. He lives for that. Speed, noise, danger. The win.
But the real thing comes after.
He sits on the car in his red pants, shirt gone, chest heaving, sweat running down in slow lines. The metal under him is still warm. The sun’s low and burning gold across his skin. He drinks from the bottle, water spilling a bit down his chin, over his neck.
The crew comes in.
Not loud. Not cheering. Just there. Close.
Big men. Solid. Same as him. Built from work and grind and long days around heat and engines.
“Good run,” one says.
He laughs, rough, breath still uneven. “Yeah. Felt it.”
Hands land on him like it’s routine.
On his shoulders first. Heavy. Firm. Working into the muscle like they’re checking for damage. Thumbs press in deep. He exhales hard through his nose, head dropping forward a bit.
“Still tight,” one mutters.
“Yeah?” he shoots back. “Fix it.”
They do.
Hands move. Slow. Not shy. Over his chest, dragging through the sweat. Across his ribs, his stomach. Palms flatten, grip, slide. It’s not just checking anymore. It’s something else. Always is.
He spreads his legs a bit without thinking.
One of them steps in closer between his knees. Not touching wrong. Not yet. Just there. Close enough to feel heat, breath, presence. The racer looks down at him, smirking.
“Getting impatient?” he says.
The guy just grins.
Another one moves behind him. Big chest to his back. Heat pressing in. A hand slides up his side, slow, dragging fingers over his skin, leaving streaks in the sweat.
He leans back into it.
Lets it happen.
That’s the part he doesn’t talk about. The part no one sees. How he needs this after. The way the adrenaline twists into something heavier. Dirtier. The way their hands keep it going.
One of them presses a hand low on his stomach. Holds it there. Not moving. Just pressure.
He exhales again. Longer this time.
“Yeah…” he mutters. “There it is.”
They don’t rush.
They never do.
It’s slow. Hands learning his body again after the race. Palms dragging, gripping, holding. Bodies closing in around him. Sweat mixing. Breathing getting thicker.
Someone grips his jaw lightly, turns his face. He doesn’t fight it.
“Still with us?” the guy asks.
He nods once.
“Good.”
Because he is.
He’s right there. In it. Letting them work him down from the high, not gentle, not soft. Just enough edge to keep him sharp.
The one between his knees leans in, breath hot against his crotch. Hands work the zipper of his racing pants down slowly. His cock springs free, already hard and leaking. A wet mouth closes over the head, tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge. He groans, hips bucking instinctively.
Behind him, another crew member slides rough hands down his back, fingers tracing the cleft of his ass before dipping lower. A finger circles his entrance, pressing just enough to make him gasp around the cock in his mouth.
"Easy," someone murmurs. "We've got time."
They take him together. Mouths and hands working in rhythm. Someone's stroking his shaft while another sucks his balls, rolling them gently. Fingers press deeper inside him, finding that spot that makes his vision go white.
"Fuck," he gasps. "Right there."
They work him relentlessly until he's shaking, thighs trembling. His orgasm builds like a storm gathering, muscles tensing, breath catching. When it hits, it's explosive. He cries out, cum shooting in thick ropes across his stomach and chest.
By the time they get him off the car, he’s loose in a different way. Legs heavy, chest still rising, mind gone quiet.
They guide him toward the trailer, hands still on him, still grounding him.
Door shuts.
The pit crew needs to do more work.
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