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.