Don't mine

But this wasn’t the usual crowd of journalists. No bright cameras, no microphones shoved in his face. Just one man sitting across from him, dressed sharply but unremarkably, his presence strangely calming. The room was dimmer than expected, the sound of the paddock muffled behind the door.

"Thank you for taking the time, Lance," the interviewer said smoothly, his voice almost too even, too measured. "I know it’s been a long day."

Lance nodded, rolling his shoulders as he leaned back. "Yeah… it’s been busy." His voice came out quieter than he intended.

The man smiled, folding his hands neatly on the table. "That’s what I thought. Long day, long season. Every weekend, the same routine. Pushing yourself, chasing the limit."

Lance shifted slightly. There was something about the way the man spoke—steady, rhythmic, almost… soothing.

"You must be exhausted," the man continued. "All that pressure. The constant fight. It wears on you, doesn’t it?"

Lance blinked. His muscles still felt tense from the track, but suddenly, he noticed the weight pressing down on him, the stiffness in his limbs, the quiet hum of fatigue settling in his bones.

"Yeah," he admitted. His own voice sounded distant.

"Then just take a moment," the man said, his words gliding through the air like silk. "You’re here now. No racing, no engineers, no pressure. Just relax… let yourself unwind."

Lance exhaled slowly. The cool air from the vent above brushed against his damp suit, a contrast to the warmth lingering on his skin. His shoulders loosened, his fingers unclenched.

"That’s right," the man murmured. "Just let go… just listen to my voice."

Lance barely noticed as his body started to sink deeper into the chair, his limbs growing heavier, the world around him softening.

He barely noticed the way his fingertips drifted over the fabric of his racing suit, tracing lazy patterns over his chest, down his thighs. His muscles felt warm, almost buzzing with that strange post-session fatigue, but now… now it was different. The dull ache was slipping away, replaced by something else—a soft, tingling sensation spreading through his limbs.

His breathing had slowed. The man’s voice, steady and smooth, wrapped around him like a gentle current, guiding him somewhere deeper.

"You’re doing well, Lance," the interviewer murmured. "Just stay with me. Feel how heavy your body is becoming… how warm… how good it feels to just let go."

Lance shivered slightly, though the air in the room was perfectly still. The tingling spread, a gentle hum beneath his skin. He barely registered how his hands continued moving, absently rubbing across his chest, his palms pressing lightly against the damp fabric of his suit. It was almost subconscious—his body reacting to the shifting sensations, the way his limbs felt both weightless and impossibly heavy all at once.

His fingers drifted lower, smoothing over his thighs. He exhaled, a soft, slow breath, his eyelids fluttering for a brief moment before settling half-closed.

"That’s it," the man coaxed, his voice barely more than a whisper now. "Just follow that feeling. Let it take over… Let yourself drift…"

Lance’s head dipped slightly, the pull of exhaustion—no, something deeper than exhaustion—dragging him further down. His movements slowed. His arms rested limply at his sides, his legs slack against the chair.

The warmth. The tingling. The heaviness.

He barely noticed as his hands stilled completely.

"Lance," the man murmured one last time.

A single tap against his forehead.

Lance’s breath hitched for just a moment—then, with a long, slow sigh, his body surrendered. His eyes fluttered, rolling upward, the last traces of awareness vanishing into the soft, empty haze consuming his mind. His lips parted slightly as his head tilted forward, his shoulders slumping completely.

And just like that, his body slumped. His mind slipped away.

The man watched in quiet satisfaction.

Lance was completely under now. His body sat loose and limp in the chair, his arms resting heavily at his sides, his legs spread slightly where they had fallen naturally. The tension from practice, from the race weekend, from everything—gone.

The man took a slow step closer. He reached out, gripping Lance by the arm, testing the way his body yielded to the slightest movement.

"Good," he murmured. "So deep now. So relaxed."

With a steady hand, he guided Lance forward, pulling him up from the chair. For a brief second, Lance’s legs tried to hold him, but it was no use—his knees buckled almost instantly, his body too loose, too heavy to support itself.

The man caught him effortlessly.

"That’s it," he whispered, feeling the warmth of Lance’s body slack against his own.

Lance let out another soft sigh, his head lolling forward against the man’s shoulder, utterly compliant. His body was warm, the lingering dampness of sweat still clinging to his suit, but he made no move to resist.

He was deep now.

The man smiled, his grip firm yet gentle as he held Lance against him. The weight of the driver’s body, warm and pliant, pressed into his chest, his slow, steady breaths the only movement left in him.

"That’s a good boy," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Such a good boy."

He cradled him closer, one hand sliding up to cup the back of Lance’s neck, fingers threading into the damp curls at his nape. The other ran soothingly along his back, feeling the way his muscles had melted into complete, blissful relaxation.

Lance let out a slow sigh, barely aware, barely conscious, completely his.

The man stroked his back again, savoring the moment, the quiet stillness of the room, the gentle rise and fall of the chest against his own.

He had him.

The man took a slow breath, steadying Lance in his arms. His fingers traced small, absent circles against the fabric of his suit, feeling the heat still lingering from the practice session. Lance was completely limp, his head resting against the man’s shoulder, his body warm and pliant.

"Such a good boy," he murmured again, letting the words sink deep. "And good boys listen. Good boys obey."

His hand slid up, brushing over the damp curls at the back of Lance’s head, then moving to cradle his jaw. He tilted Lance’s face slightly, studying him—the tousled brown hair, the soft stubble dusting his jawline, the peaceful, slack expression. His lips were slightly parted, his breath slow and even.

"You’re so deep now," the man continued, his voice smooth, deliberate. "So relaxed. So open."

Lance didn’t respond—not with words. He couldn’t. But the faintest sigh slipped from his lips, a quiet acknowledgment, a sign that his mind was still listening, still absorbing.

"That’s right. Just let my voice guide you."

The man stroked his thumb gently over Lance’s cheek before tilting his head further back, just enough for their eyes to meet.

"Whenever I tap your forehead," he said softly, "you’ll feel this again. The heaviness. The warmth. The need to let go."

He brushed his fingertips lightly against Lance’s temple, then let them trail down over the tight fabric of his suit, across his collarbone, down the center of his chest.

"All it takes is a tap," he murmured. "And you’ll fall. Deeper and deeper, every time."

Lance’s breath hitched ever so slightly, as if his subconscious was already responding. His body swayed in the man’s grip, loose and obedient.

The man steadied him, one hand firm on his waist, feeling the toned muscle beneath the snug fabric of the racing suit. His other hand smoothed over Lance’s shoulder, down his arm, relishing the way he remained utterly still, utterly compliant.

"Good," he whispered. "That’s a good boy."

Lance remained soft in his grasp, his body warm and unmoving.

The man’s fingers drifted lower, tracing the contours of Lance’s waist until they reached a subtle strain beneath the silky fabric of his suit. There, the unmistakable bulge of Lance's arousal testified to the deep, subconscious response his body had yielded to the hypnotic suggestions.

With a deliberate, teasing motion, the man’s fingers ghosted over the strained fabric, the gentle pressure and tender exploration sending a shiver through Lance’s core.

Lance’s thighs tensed as his breathing deepened into a higher, more desperate rhythm—each inhale a silent admission of his surrender.

"Some one is enjoying himself, huh?" The man teased softly, his tone thick with amused possessiveness as he watched Lance's needy, ragged breath.

Lance's eyes widened and fluttered in a mix of delight and vulnerability as his body shuddered under the man's relentless, teasing touch. His breathing grew heavier, each exhale a soft, desperate admission of the pleasure coursing through him.

The man's fingers, still lingering over the bulge in the strained fabric of Lance's suit, danced with an expert, deliberate grace. The teasing caresses sent waves of heat surging through Lance's core, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried, in vain, to stifle the moans that betrayed his pleasure.

"You sound like you’re enjoying every moment," the man murmured, his voice both mocking and adoring as he leaned in closer, his warm breath fanning across Lance's ear.

Lance's response was a barely audible, needy whimper—a raw, unfiltered sound that echoed his deep-seated desire.

"That’s it, my sweet boy," the man purred, his hand never ceasing its exploration. "Just let it all out. I know you want it. I know you crave it."

Lance squirmed, his breath hitching as he fought to ground himself, to grasp onto some sense of control. His fingers curled weakly against his thighs, his body trembling as the heat pulsed through him, relentless and inescapable. His mind screamed for stability, but his body—his traitorous, aching body—leaned into the man’s touch, craving more even as he tried to resist.

"Shhh," the man murmured, his fingers still ghosting over Lance’s suit, over the undeniable evidence of his arousal. "No need to fight it. Just feel."

Lance’s throat worked as he swallowed hard, his unfocused eyes flickering downward as if staring at the ground could anchor him, could pull him back from the overwhelming sensations coursing through him.

But the man saw through it.

He tilted Lance’s chin up gently, forcing their eyes to meet.

"You don’t need to run from this," he said, his voice smooth, assured. "Your body already knows what it wants."

Lance whimpered, his thighs clenching involuntarily as he tried to suppress another wave of pleasure. But it was useless. The sensations—the warmth, the teasing touches, the sheer loss of control—wrapped around him like a vice, refusing to let go.

The man's hand moved confidently over the slick fabric of Lance's suit, his fingers finding the unmistakable evidence of his arousal beneath. With deliberate, teasing strokes through the fabric, he began to play with Lance's cock, his touch firm yet tender as it elicited soft, muffled moans.

"Good boy, Lance," he murmured in a low, husky tone, his eyes locked on Lance's as he praised him. "Every touch, every stroke shows just how perfectly you surrender."

Lance squirmed against the man's firm grasp, his body betraying a mix of protest and undeniable arousal. A low, strangled sound escaped him—a pleading whisper of resistance—but the man only chuckled softly, a sound rich with amusement and possessive delight.

"Such a cute protest, my dear," the man teased, his tone light yet laced with an unyielding command. "You're so responsive."

The man s hand moved with deliberate precision as he gripped Lance’s cock through the tight fabric of his suit. Slowly, steadily, his rhythmic strokes began to build a charged momentum.

Lance’s thighs instinctively pressed together as he squirmed beneath the intensity of the sensations—a raw, trembling mixture of arousal and the desperate need to hold on, even as his body betrayed him.

The man’s low, husky commands filled the space between them. “That’s it, my sweet boy,” he murmured, his tone both approving and insistent. “Let it build. I want to see you come for me.” Each word was like a spark, fanning the flames of Lance’s desire until the tension in his body became almost unbearable.

Lance’s eyes, unfocused yet filled with longing and a hint of surrender, darted around as he tried to maintain some semblance of control.

Lance's body tensed as he teetered on the edge, every nerve in him alight with the promise of release. The man's skilled touch, unwavering and insistent, continued its teasing journey over the fabric of Lance's suit, coaxing every hidden sensation to the surface.

Lance's cock pulsed visibly through the thick material, throbbing in time with the rapid beat of his heart. His moans, low and strangled, grew more urgent as he felt the mounting pressure within him—a tide of desire that he could no longer hold back. The man's eyes shone with possessive delight as he sensed the climax building, the raw heat of passion intensifying with every careful stroke.

"That's it, Lance," the man murmured, his voice both tender and commanding. "Let it come."

Lance's body convulsed in response. His eyes fluttered shut as the tension reached its peak, and a deep, shuddering moan escaped him. The man's hand maintained its rhythm, pressing and coaxing until Lance's body surrendered entirely. In that explosive moment, Lance's cock spasmed with overwhelming release, the hot surge bursting forth and spreading through the now darkened fabric of his suit.

The intensity of the climax left Lance trembling, his moans fading into a ragged silence as every fiber of his being was bathed in raw, unfiltered ecstasy. The man pulled him close into a secure, possessive embrace, his own eyes glistening with satisfaction as he whispered, "You were magnificent, Lance."

The man’s arms held Lance firmly yet tenderly, a silent command in his embrace that left no room for hesitation. Lance’s body trembled in response, his breaths coming in shallow, lust-filled sighs. Through the dark, wet fabric of his suit, Lance’s cock throbbed insistently, each twitch a testament to the overwhelming pleasure that still coursed through him.

With a possessive intensity, the man let his hand wander deliberately, cupping Lance’s throbbing cock through the fabric. His touch was firm and sure, exploring every contour with a blend of authority and adoration. As he fondled him, he murmured in a low, husky tone, "Such a good boy." The words, both teasing and commanding, mingled with the soft sounds of their mingled breaths.

"You’re nothing but a good little toy for me," he continued, his tone both mocking and admiring.

Lance's eyes, unfocused and heavy with the haze of surrender, drifted downward as he took in the evidence of his release—each dark stain on his ruined suit a vivid testament to his raw vulnerability. He squirmed uncomfortably, the damp fabric clinging to him in a way that both humiliated and strangely exhilarated him.