It used to be that writers had principles. There were certain things that your pride and ethics would simply forbid you to write, no matter how lucrative the payout wa--
$1.34 million dollars PER WEEK???
Screw principle. There's money to be made.
And thus I present to you the first in what might be many, many installments of my new story. A story about an IndyCar fan, driven to ignore her intellect by the roiling, heady impulses that strain at her civility every day. One day, she meets a dark, mysterious IndyCar official who invites her on a journey... a journey of awakening.
I present to you... 50 Shades of Black and White.
He entered the room, clad in a sheer bodysuit of competence - sheer enough to reveal disquieting, half-hinted glimpses of what lay underneath and, she saw, easily removable.
His name was Hunque (hey, it's no sillier than "Beaux") and she knew with a delicious thrill in her nethers that he meant to challenge her every loyalty until she begged for mercy. Twin in-car radio antennae rose under her officially-licensed Hinchtown t-shirt as the night's possibilities sped through her turgid brain and received a pass-through penalty for speed limit violations.
By choice, she was pinned in the cockpit of a first-generation IRL Dallara. Even motionless, the tub emanated a sexy air of impending bodily harm. A quiet voice in her head whispered over and over, "No gearbox attenuator... no gearbox attenuator..."
Lost in her reverie, she did not hear Hunque slip up behind her until she heard his guttural mutter in her ear.
"So you want... aero kits," Hunque breathed throatily.
Oh GOD yes, she screamed silently, not daring to vocalize as her skin erupted in gooseflesh from the grease-soaked bristles of his cheesy goatee brushing her earlobe.
"Hmmm. Those would be sexy," he mused, pacing slowly behind her. The breeze carried his scent to her flaring nostrils; his musk was redolent of ethanol and flop sweat.
Suddenly he was in front of her, meaty hands clenched on her biceps, clear blue eyes boring into her own, mining her every fear and secret for use as his plaything. "YOU CANNOT HAVE THEM," he hissed. "You are not... worthy..."
Ripped asunder by his words, she nearly sobbed. How she wanted them! She felt the satiny petals of her heart flower yawning open for him. If only he would give me the aero kits, she thought wildly, I would buy every chintzy piece of crap collectible from the online store he asked me to! But she remained silent. She knew he preferred her quiet.
He stalked to the other side of the room and grabbed his whip. The handle was crafted of pure carbon fiber and the ends were frayed. The thought of the pain they would inflict on her fragile skin made her involuntarily strain against the cockpit edges. For a brief second she thought of removing the steering wheel and escaping... and yet... and yet...
"Maybe," Hunque mused, "I can make things easy on you." He stared at her with a wicked gleam in his eye. "Would you like a little less downforce?"
She felt a thrill light her nerve endings on fire - wait, scratch that, no fire. She, um, felt her inner motor revving. Yeah. That'll work. "If you please, sir..." she pleaded in a tiny voice, struggling to keep the raging furnace of her desire (crap, there I go with the fire again...) hidden as long as she could. She did not want to surrender herself yet - though the thought of it made her squirm.
Hunque nodded briefly. "So be it," he said grandly. But then... was she imagining it, or did she hear him cackle once under his breath?
And then he was in front of her again, wild-eyed and spittle-flecked. "BUT NOW I AM GOING TO TAKE AWAY YOUR BOOST AND HORSEPOWER TO ACCOMMODATE PUSH-TO-PASS!" he bellowed in her face. He grabbed her right hand and forcibly made her facepalm herself over and over.
Agony and ecstasy mingled incoherently. She could barely restrain herself from shouting out the safe word... but it was not time for "NASCAR" quite yet! No, she was strong, she could take it. Her hunger gave her power to resist, and at the same time she felt a perverse need for more, more, ever more!
She howled then, holding nothing back in an explosion of tormented yearning. "IT'S ALL ABOUT INDY!"
Hunque grinned maliciously. Now she was his to do with as he pleased.
TO BE CONTINUED (unless the first payment of $1.34 million does not arrive by next week)