Page 13 of Dirty Air

Fritz is already fully hard and leaking by the time he wraps a hand around himself. He swipes at the tip with his thumb before pressing play.

“Do you honestly believe Friedrich Müller is the greatest driver in the world?”

“I think he could be. We won’t know until we get him a more competitive car. What I do know is that I’ll try my damndest to get him to the front of the grid this year.”

Fritz slams his phone face down onto the mattress next to him as he makes quick, dry-handed work of his cock.

Wouldn’t you be frustrated?

He tugs himself and whines at the friction.

The greatest driver in the world.

The slap of skin is loud in the silent room. Fritz pumps faster,wetteras he leaks precum over his fist.

The front of the grid.

The ghost touch of Henry’s hands grasp his waist, almost encircling him as the pressure builds higher and higher until?—

The GREATEST driver in the WORLD.

Fritz groans as he finally spills over—the noise pulled from deep,deepwithin his gut.

He's suspended in bliss,perfectbliss, for a few beautiful moments. When the post-nut clarity finally catches up, the hotel room crashes down around him.

Fritz jerked off to Henry.

Verdammt.

Germany might be Fritz’s home race, but it’s also Lucas’s, and only one of two drivers is a three-time world champion.

Fritz feels almost patriotic when he spots hundreds of German flags in and around the circuit. At the same time, it’s hard to ignore that all of the fans are wearing Red Boar gear.

It’s fine. One day Fritz will too.

So he signs their flags and hats when people yell “Freddy!” at him. With zero points to his name, he’s grateful to be stopped at all.

“Fritz!” A girl waves at him from over the barrier.

She’s not wearing Red Boar navy or VFIBR blue. Instead, she’s wrapped in a green jacket with a personal logo that Fritz vaguely remembers approving years ago. She’s also waving a giant cut out of his face.

Fritz can be late to a meeting.

“That is my face!” he says in excitable German, jogging over to her with a marker in hand.

She could hand him a check and he’d sign it, he’s so excited.

“Oh mygod,” she squeals. “I can’t believe—I love youso much!Can I get a picture with you?”

Fritz only falters for a second. “You are not German?”

“No, I’m from England. Bristol?” She’s very short and visibly shaking—like a small dog. “We flew here for the race. I can’t believe I’m talking to you right now.”

“Youcall me Fritz?” It’s a common enough nickname for Friedrich, but he’s never heard an English speaker guess it.

“Yeah? Do you not like it? I thought?—”

“No,no!I like—Thank you.” He belatedly notices a phone and smiles for a picture. “Would you like me to sign something?”