There's a persistent pounding on the door that doesn't go away, no matter how much Andreas tries to ignore it. Who the hell could it be? Antti had finished his post-race physio routine quickly enough, and had left Andreas some time to himself before he had to go back out to endless interviews. Unless something had cropped up? He groans, rolling off the tiny bed in his room in the team motorhome. He swipes his glasses from the table and drags himself over to open the door. If not for the sponsor event he has to attend after the German Grand Prix, he'd already be in a hurry to return home after a race to forget.
'What the fuck was that all about.'
Chris. Oh fuck. Andreas shouldn't have opened the door without asking who it was. Yes, they had both gone through the debrief, shook hands on it even under the watchful eye of Dalton Graves, their team principal. Kissed and made up, so as to speak. To be honest, Andreas thought that it had gone fairly well. While there had been a couple of choice expletives used initially, their subsequent discussion had been civil enough. Yes, Andreas had gone and fucked up but to be fair, he had a shot at the win. He had the lead when Chris had gone in to pit, and his race engineer had told him to push push push, and so he did. It was his home race after all, and he might have been a little too overzealous in trying to maintain his lead, especially with the Ferrari closing in on him. In a valiant attempt to defend his position, he went late on the brakes, but instead he locked up and ended up in the wall. Out came the safety car, then everyone else and their mother dived in to pit and with that, Chris had lost the lead. To make things worse, debris missed by the marshalls remained on track, so Chris's car had picked up a puncture, and with that he had limped home to finish in eleventh place. No points picked up, potential 1-2 finish gone, all because of Andreas in front of his home crowd. Lovely.
'Chris,' Andreas says, eyeing his teammate warily.
Chris looks worse for wear, icy blue eyes narrowed underneath a pair of rimless spectacles, cheeks flushed, stubble growing on his skin. Did he look like this before the race? Andreas honestly cannot remember. His dark brown hair is slicked back, unlike how he wears his fringe usually, flopping into his eyes. It sounds crazy but it only serves to make Chris look even more handsome, as if he weren't attractive enough already. Wasn't that what they always called him, Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome? Looking at Chris like this... The mere thought of that makes Andreas's stomach do flip flops. But no, handsome isn't the right word. Chris leans in, too close for comfort, and Andreas can smell the alcohol on his breath. Like this, Chris seems more like a shark that everyone says he is on track. Dangerous. Menacing. Predatory.
Andreas tightens his grip on the door handle. 'The interviews aren't until thirty minutes later, if you're here to get me for that.'
Chris snorts. 'You heard what I said. What the fuck was that bullshit you pulled during the race about?'
Andreas looks at Chris, eyes assessing. 'We talked about this during debrief just now. It was an accident,' he says slowly. Then for good measure, he adds, 'I'm sorry. I didn't think it would end like this. But you already know that. I've already said everything there was to say.'
'Cut the crap,' Chris snarls. He grabs Andreas forward by his shirt, leaning so close that Andreas can feel his hot breath on his skin. 'You may have Dalton fooled and wrapped around your little finger, but I'm not an idiot like that old geezer who only knows how to think with his dick when it comes to pretty boys like you.'
'You went and had that little accident of yours, and now you've kept the championship lead, with a Ferrari conveniently slotted in between me and you. A little, innocent accident. Dalton's golden boy, handpicked from the young drivers programme and groomed to be team champion.' Chris releases Andreas, and Andreas staggers backwards, letting Chris barge his way into the room. 'And they call me a shark on the track. Look at you.' With that, Chris slams the door behind him.
What the fuck?
'What are you doing?' Andreas's mind is racing, and his heart pounds hard and fast against his chest. He's out of his depth here, what the hell could Chris possibly want? Is he here to beat him up? Threaten him? No, that cannot be the case, right?
After all, this is Chris. Christopher Thomas, four time Formula 1 World Champion, winning with two different teams. Yes, there was that one incident where things had gotten quite ugly between Chris and another driver, almost coming to blows even, but that had been in Chris's younger days as a hotheaded rookie. Firecracker Chris, that's what he had been called in his younger days for his sharp tongue and tendency to get riled up easily and his aggressive style of driving. And now… Granted, the car hasn't exactly been of championship winning standard, and in the past few years Chris has only been able to eke out a win or two. The press have constantly been harping on how Chris is getting older, the seat should go to a younger driver instead, is Christopher Thomas even motivated to win any more now that he's almost forty? This season so far has seen Chris prove them wrong though, what with how he has been a fierce competitor against Andreas. So what is this then?
Chris does not answer. He presses on, backing Andreas up against the wall. What the hell?
'Since the FIA wouldn't punish you and Dalton would rather die than lay a finger on you, I guess it's up to me to do the dirty job,' Chris sneers, eyes narrowed.
Andreas freezes, palms flat against the wall. Punish him? Chris? Christopher fucking Thomas? Is this some sort of joke? His eyes dart around the room, fervently hoping that their PR manager would pop out of well, under the bed, maybe, and exclaim that this is nothing but a hidden camera and this is a ridiculous PR stunt after the fiasco during the race. But no, there is no one, just Andreas, Chris, and the deafening sound of Andreas's heart beating loud and fast against his sternum like it's trying to escape the way Andreas is unable to, trapped by Chris against the wall.
'Not so chatty now, aren't we?' Chris murmurs, leaning in.
His breath is hot against Andreas's ear and he's so close, too fucking close. Andreas needs to get away, needs Chris to get away from him. Whatever Chris is planning it doesn't seem good and honestly, the faster Andreas is able to eject him from the room, the safer the both of them will be, given how emotions from the race are evidently still running high.
'Maybe that mouth of yours could be put to better use elsewhere.'
And before Andreas can react, Chris tugs at his hair, tilting his head up before claiming his lips in a kiss.
Andreas should go. He should run out of the room, get someone, anyone. Get Antti, probably. But what the hell is he going to say, Chris Thomas kissed me and so I'm running away? No one is going to believe him. And the worst part of it all is that he cannot even summon the energy to resist. He should push Chris away, bring a knee up to his groin, maybe. Anything to get out of this. But instead he's stock still as Chris shoves his tongue past his lips and down his throat, and his hand slips lower, lower lower...
Andreas squeezes his eyes shut, fists clenched so tight that his fingernails leave little red crescents all over his palm. Things shouldn't be like this, he shouldn't be reacting like this and Chris… What the fuck, Chris shouldn't even be doing this. He's a man for crying out loud. A teammate. How could Chris even possibly—
'Ahh!' Andreas cries out, eyes widening when Chris cups his cock through his jeans, already semi-erect. Chris presses down, applying pressure and all Andreas can do is to whine pitifully at the contact. God, he's pathetic.
'Look at you,' Chris says, breathless. 'If this is what Dalton gets in his bed all the time, it's no wonder why he's so smitten.' He licks his lips, eyes raking all over Andreas's body. His eyes linger over Andreas's hard nipples, visible beneath the thin white fabric of the team shirt, and then he grins, wide as he applies more pressure on Andreas's cock. 'You like this, don't you?'
'I—' Andreas begins, only to be cut off with a hand over his mouth. His eyes flash in panic, but he doesn't even attempt to struggle against Chris. It's as if he's become a statue. Petrified. Frozen solid to the ground, unable to move, unable to react. All he can do is just to stand still and let Chris touch him, toy with him, do whatever he wants with him. God, what the fuck is happening? What the fuck is going on? Is this even actually happening? Is this just a nightmare he cannot break out of?
'Think I like you better with your mouth shut for now. Be a dear and keep those lips shut until I can get them round my cock, won't you?'
Wait. What? Andreas blinks, hard, struggling to process what Chris has just said. Wasn't Chris only into women? All those reports, the multiple women gushing about his sexual prowess in bed. The string of ex-wives and girlfriends and broken hearts he inevitably left behind. What is this, then? Chris, however, has moved on to lifting up Andreas's shirt, revealing his nipples. Pink, slightly puffy on a smooth, hairless chest. Chris looks at him, a dirty grin splitting his face into two. Looking at him now, Andreas wonders how he could have ever thought of him as handsome. No, he isn't handsome, he's a goddamn devil. A handsome devil. What?
Chris flicks one of Andreas's nipples, causing him to cry out against his hand. He pinches hard, and then harder until Andreas is squirming against him and then admires his handiwork, looking at how swollen it has become. He repeats the cycle again with the other nipple, ignoring Andreas's discomfort. He leans in to lick, laves his tongue over the swollen flesh, then sucks and bites and Andreas all but howls against Chris's palm.
'Amazing,' he says. He looks at Andreas and there's light in his eyes, light that Andreas has never ever seen before, in his years of idolising Chris as a driver, in his years of shadowing Chris as a reserve driver in the team, and now his teammate. It's fervent. Frenzied. Like he's ascended to a higher plane that Andreas can never hope to understand.
'Here I am, punishing you, but you, god you fucking slut, you love this, don't you? You should see how you're thoroughly enjoying yourself,' Chris says, in between licking, sucking and biting at Andreas's nipples. 'Bet you let Dalton do this to you all the time, play with these fucking perfect nipples until they're all bruised and swollen and you wince every time they come into contact with your clothes. And you love it, don't you? Does he make you wear nipple clamps under your fireproof underwear during races so that they're ruby red, precious stones to play with during the debrief?'
Andreas wants to protest, he shakes his head to no avail. Chris is strong, holding his head in place, and fuck it's goddamn humiliating, hearing Chris speak like this about Dalton, Dalton Graves his mentor, the man who gave him a chance, a ticket to Formula 1 when nobody else would. And here Chris is, insulting Dalton, insulting Andreas, and there's nothing Andreas can do to defend him. Nothing except trying desperately to will his erection away, to no avail. Each moment spent in his tight jeans is torture, and the wet spot forming there merely serves to humiliate him further because fuck, there's no hiding how as much as he hates this, he doesn't want this, his treacherous body is so fucking turned on it's pathetic. He's like this already and all Chris has done is to torture his nipples incessantly and spew dirty talk that he never even wanted to hear. God, what sort of fucked up bastard is he?
'So wet already, hmm,' Chris murmurs, admiring Andreas's clothed erection, restrained by his jeans. 'Such a waste that a beautiful young thing like you is warming the bed of an old bastard like Dalton Graves. Does he make your cock twitch like this, like I do? Does he get you so wet like this that I could use your wetness to slick you open and fuck you without lube?'
'I'm not sleeping with Dalton, that's disgusting.' The words are out of Andreas's mouth before he can even control himself, now that Chris has removed his hand. 'He's my mentor, how could you even—' Andreas's sentence is cut short as Chris pushes him down to his knees. Oh god. He's level with Chris's cock, and looking at the shape through his sweatpants?
'I've got just the thing to keep your mouth shut, my dear Andreas,' Chris says, tugging his sweatpants down to mid-thigh. His cock springs free and hits Andreas across the cheek and Andreas winces. It smells, and Chris laughs, peeling his foreskin back before pressing the tip of his cock to Andreas's lips. 'Open wide,' he says, pulling hard at Andreas's hair, pushing his cock in.
Andreas gags around Chris's cock, tears rushing to his eyes as he sputters and tries to keep down the unbearable urge to throw up. He squeezes his eyes shut. His knees hurt from being forced down so quickly and he wants to push Chris away, wants to make him leave, wants to curl into a ball and cry on his own on the bed but instead he's stuck here on the floor choking on Chris's fat cock. His jaw aches, and the slap he receives for using too much teeth stings. The only thing he can take consolation in is how Chris has stopped talking, fucking Andreas's mouth like it's nothing more than a hole just built for him to take pleasure from.
When Chris finally pulls his cock away from Andreas's mouth, there's a string of saliva that connects the tip of his cock to Andreas's lips, and Chris grins as he catches sight of it. 'Looks like your mouth can be put to good use after all,' he sneers.
'Please go,' Andreas says. He repeats himself, mustering as much resolve as he can to keep his voice from shaking. 'Please go. Now. Before you do anything you'll regret.'
Chris snorts, bringing a foot to step lightly on Andreas's cock. 'The only regretting being done would be you regretting ever sleeping with Dalton Graves,' he says, voice rough.
Andreas gasps, instinctively keeling over in pain, but Chris keeps his foot there, firmly, applying more pressure.
'Besides, your cock doesn't want me to go,' Chris says, leaning in. He fists a hand in Andreas's shirt, hauling him to his feet. 'You're enjoying this so much thst you even got my shoe wet. It wouldn't do you any good to lie, Andreas,' he admonishes.
He fiddles with Andreas's jeans, tugging them down to reveal Andreas's erection straining against his grey jockstrap. He glances up at Andreas, letting out a low whistle. Andreas's cheeks are flushed, and he's looking away, determined not to meet Chris's gaze as Chris reaches behind him, fondling his bare ass.
'Slut,' Chris says, breathless. 'Did Dalton tell you to do this? Or did you choose this on your own so that it'll be easy for him to fuck you at any time, just pull down your trousers and bend you over and stick his cock into your slutty hole?'
'I told you, I'm not sleeping with Dalton.' Andreas can’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth.
Chris's only reply is to pull Andreas's jeans off him, pushing him down on the tiny bed. He spreads Andreas's thighs effortlessly, hands gripping tight on the back of Andreas's knees before going further down to spread Andreas's asscheeks. There isn't any hair there, and Andreas lets out a muffled shout when Chris presses a finger to his asshole.
'You've kept yourself clean,' Chris marvels, pushing the tip of his finger in without any lube, watching Andreas squirm beneath him from the burn. 'Bet Dalton wouldn't appreciate eating hairy ass, even if you're this beautiful.' He looks up at Andreas, who has one hand clapped over his mouth, trying desperately not to make a sound. 'Very smart. The walls have ears here, in this motorhome.'
'Someone will find out about you,' Andreas says, voice shaky. 'Your career will be over—
'And how will they know?' Chris asks, voice serene. He's looking around the room, and then he catches sight of the selfie stick lying on the table. He grins, picking it up, and he presses the handle to Andreas's lips. 'Are you going to tell them? What will you say, I was so hard when Christopher Thomas played with my nipples that I wet my jeans with pre-come? You'll be the paddock slut then, or was that your goal from the very beginning?'
When Andreas opens his mouth to protest, Chris pushes the handle of the selfie stick into his mouth, causing Andreas to struggle against him.
'Get it nice and wet. Suck it like how you sucked my cock just now. You're going to fuck yourself with it first. Give me a lovely little show before you take my cock the way you take Dalton's. That's what you do every race, hmm? To make sure that your car's in tip top condition, whereas something's always bound to fail in mine?'
You're crazy is what Andreas wants to say, but there's nothing he can do, not like this. God, retorting hadn't gotten him anywhere, and it's fucking ridiculous how he's completely unable to push Chris away. Run from the room. Fuck, how can he run from the room now that he's in this state, in his team t-shirt and a fucking jockstrap?
Chris presses the selfie stick into Andreas's hand. 'Go on, show me how you fuck yourself. Pretend that little handle is Dalton's wee prick. Show me,' he urges, voice rough.
Andreas spits once, twice, for good measure, on the handle. Fuck, he cannot believe that he's doing this. The selfie stick doesn't even belong to him, it's the team's for filming PR videos, and here he is, using it to fuck himself. He swallows hard, squeezes his eyes shut as he bends, pressing the tip of the handle to his asshole. Wills himself to breathe as he tries to push it in. Fuck, he hasn't even played with his ass in a long time, hasn't even had anal sex since... Since... When has he last been with another man? He's had a few girls, back in F2, fooled around once or twice with other drivers but it hadn't been much and then... Fuck, he's panting hard when he's gotten part of the handle in. It burns, the stretch cannot amount to more than what, two fingers? Three? He opens his eyes, tries to catch his breath and oh fuck.
Chris is filming him. Christopher fucking Thomas is filming him.
'Andreas Schmidt. Rookie Formula 1 driver, fucking his asshole with a selfie stick. Or should I say rookie porn star instead?'
'Fuck you.' The words are out of Andreas's mouth before he can control himself again. Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. What has he done?!
Chris grins, putting the phone aside. He places his palm on Andreas's hand, and Andreas's cheeks burn, they're so fucking hot they could probably cook an egg. The warmth of Chris's palm on his hand is unbearable, and Chris is controlling how Andreas fucks himself with the goddamn selfie stick, pushing in, pulling out, pushing in again.
(Andreas's thoughts drift, unbidden, to a memory of when he was fifteen, in his room, jerking off. He cannot even remember what the hell he was thinking of, but what he does remember, however, is coming all over the fucking poster of Christopher Thomas in his bedroom wall. That was the day he had taken down the poster of his boyhood idol, removed it and thrown it away. It was then that he had realised that all along, when he had been furiously masturbating in his room, it had been as if Chris had been watching without even really being there. As if he had been putting on a show for him, jerking off to him unintentionally.)
Andreas bites down hard on his knuckles when Chris replaces the selfie stick with his cock. Chris is holding his legs apart, all is quiet in the room save for Chris's heavy breathing, and the sound of Chris's balls slapping against Andreas's ass as he fucks him. The jockstrap is left on, and it's an act of mercy, Andreas thinks. He would probably die of shame if Chris looked at his cock, looked at how fucking aroused he is, pre-come leaking endlessly from the tip. It's fucked up, isn't it? He doesn't want this, he wants Chris to stop, to take his cock out of his ass and ahhh!
Andreas's eyes widen as he gasps, hand falling away from his mouth. What the fuck was thaAHHHH!
'That's it,' Chris says, picking up speed. He's pushing in deeper, pulling out until only the tip of his cock is inside Andreas before pushing back in again, forcefully. Andreas is grasping at the sheets wildly, fuck he's never experienced anything like this before and, and—
There’s a knock at the door.
'Andreas? Hey Andreas, are you there?'
Oh fuck. Fuck. It's Samuel, the team's PR manager. Andreas props himself up with his elbows, fuck the door isn't locked, if Samuel opens the goddamn door of his own accord like he always does then fuck. Andreas panics, trying to get up and push Chris away, but instead Chris catches him, hauling him over to the door.
'What are you—' Andreas begins, but his words are cut off when Chris spreads his asscheeks, pressing his cock to Andreas's asshole, lining up and pushing right in again. Andreas bites down hard on his lower lip, trying not to make any sound.
'Answer the door,' Chris hisses.
'While you're still,' Andreas chokes out, unable to continue his sentence. Fucking me. No, raping me.
'Or you can let Samuel know that I'm fucking you,' Chris continues. 'Imagine the headache you would cause him just because you're such a slut you bend over for any hard dick willing to fuck you open.'
'Andreas? I know you're there, I'm going to—'
'Sam!' Andreas opens the door, careful just to poke his head out. He's aware of how he looks, golden hair a mess, pale cheeks flushed a deep red, and he hopes that Samuel doesn't notice.
'Andreas,' Samuel says slowly. His eyes narrow. 'You're due to handle the instagram live we're hosting on the team account. You haven't forgotten, right? Have you rehearsed what to say?'
'Y-yes,' Andreas groans, feeling Chris thrust into him. 'I've rehearsed,' he can barely get out the words as Chris toys with a nipple under his shirt, pinching hard. 'I've got this.'
'Do you need me to be with you? I can totally stick around.'
'It's fine,' Andreas says, snatching the phone from Samuel's outstretched hand. 'Leave it to me.' With that, he shuts the door on Samuel's face, making sure to lock it this time.
Chris chuckles. He doesn't move, cock still buried deep in Andreas's ass.
'Please. I've got an instagram live to do.' Andreas says, voice soft. He's shaking now, against the door. Samuel hadn't even suspected anything. He hadn't even known that on the other side of the door was Christopher fucking Thomas, balls deep in Andreas's ass, raping him. He's not going to cry.
'Perfect,' Chris says.
This is how Andreas ends up doing the team's post German GP instagram live while riding Chris's cock, against his will. With each sentence, Chris bucks his hips forward, fucking Andreas. Andreas's hands are shaking as he holds the selfie stick, he's got to be careful not to film himself being raped by his teammate. Got to be careful not to show that he's got his teammate's cock stretching his asshole out, filling him. Got to be careful not to show how fucking aroused he is by everything even though he doesn't want any of it. His voice is shaky, he can barely answer any questions. Can barely think straight. And there are comments, lewd comments on the instagram live that say hello andreas's nipples!, doesn't it look like andreas is having sex as he does this?, ANDREAS SCHMIDT YOU UTTER SLUT SHOW US WHO YOU'RE FUCKING YOU COWARD or maybe there aren't, maybe it's just his imagination, his eyes keep flickering towards to clock on the top of the screen and it's four minutes, just one more minute to go and then he can switch this goddamn thing of and—
Chris smirks, watching Andreas's reaction as he struggles not to drop the selfie stick. It was exactly as he had intended, having Samuel drop by, and the instagram live scheduled by the team. So that Andreas could broadcast himself trying to hide what a little slut he is to all the fans. The perfect punishment for him so that he would learn his place, as Dalton's slut. That's all he's good for in the team. Not as a number one driver. Never as a number one driver. After all, that was what Dalton had promised him in the first place. Chris as number one, when he had poached him away from McLaren. Whoever his teammate would be would definitely be his number two. And yet Dalton, that horny old bastard went back on his word the moment he got a rookie willing to drop to his knees at any moment just to warm his dick. Fucking pathetic. And watching Andreas cry out and try to recover as Chris frees his aching cock from his jockstrap? The sight is amazing, watching his cock smack against his stomach. He wouldn't be surprised if some of the pre-come had landed on his face. Even better if it did, because the jockstrap is fucking disgusting, all sopping wet. Andreas is spewing some nonsense about an exciting team video coming up, he's babbling and that's Chris cue to lean forward and smack Andreas's cock lightly with the back of his hand.
That's all it takes, really. Andreas is going to come soon, just from this, and Andreas is scrambling so fucking hard to shut down the instagram live, throwing the phone and the selfie stick on the ground. The stimulation is too much for him to bear, and fuck if Chris is going to let Andreas come before him. Chris reaches for Andreas's cock, gripping hard below the head and Andreas whines, fucking whines and tries to pry Chris's hand away from his cock. Chris snorts, releasing Andreas's cock and reversing their positions, and Andreas's head narrowly misses the wall as he lands hard on the bed.
'You don't get to come until I do,' Chris grits out.
He's thrusting quickly into Andreas now, fuck it's unbelievable how hot and tight Andreas still is even after regular use by Dalton. Just a bit more, a bit more and fuck, Chris is coming inside Andreas, pumping his load into his teammate's ass. And then he reaches for Andreas's cock again, giving it a few quick strokes and deliberately aiming it upwards so that Andreas comes all over himself, all over his shirt and his face.
Andreas does not cry. He doesn't cry when Chris pulls out, doesn't cry when Chris slaps his ass and calls him a good fuck, but then the tears start to blur his vision when Chris tells him that he's got to be a good slut and keep his load inside him so Dalton can have his sloppy seconds. He wants to push Chris away as Chris peels off his jockstrap, scoots further and further back on the bed until his back is pressed against the wall and he's trying to shut his legs but no, he's unable to escape Chris.
'Or maybe I should use the team phone instead, now that you've probably spoilt it.' Chris says, eyes glittering dangerously beneath his glasses. 'Put that inside you to plug your slutty hole. Leave it on vibrate and then I'll keep calling you, again and again, and watch you struggle to keep it in. Watch you struggle again not to come because of me. You'd like that, wouldn't you?'
'Please,' Andreas whispers, voice broken. He doesn't even know what he's begging for. He just wants this nightmare to be over. Just wants to go back to fighting Chris on track again, and not off it, in bed. That's all he wants.
Chris grins. He pushes the jockstrap into Andreas's asshole, leaving just a tiny bit hanging out. Andreas's hole struggles to clench around it. Of course, he's been fucked open by Chris's cock, and Chris is proud to say that he's pretty well-endowed. Andreas has probably never taken something of his size in a while, and his asshole is still gaping a little. Perfect.
There's the sound of a camera shutter clicking. Yet another photo to commemorate the occasion.
'You know what to do, don't you?' Chris says. He hums as he cleans his cock in Andreas's hair, before righting his clothing again. 'You're loyal to the team, hmm? Loyal to good old Dalton. You won't screw your Formula 1 career up, hmm?'
Andreas doesn't reply, and Chris grins.
Perfect. Just the answer he was looking for.