Chapter 350: I Was Losing a Drag Race to a Toilet

I kiss along the wing and her whole body rolls back against mine. Hips grinding down to meet my thrusts, wing trembling under my mouth, the vanilla and flower smell of her rising warm between us and filling my senses completely.

"I’m close," she gasps. "Matt, I’m so close..."

"Let go," I tell her. "I got you. Always got you."

She comes apart around me, crying out, body shaking hard, wings fluttering wildly behind her as she clenches down tight around both my cocks. The feeling pushes me right over the edge with her, and I groan low and deep, filling her up, my whole body curling tighter around hers as the pleasure rolls through me.

We stay like that for a long moment, both of us breathing hard, my coils wrapped protectively around her smaller frame.

She kissed me when dinner was finished, then told me to stop looking as if I intended to deliver an acceptance speech. I let her lead the quiet part of our evening, with the curtain drawn and no performance left for anyone outside it.

Later, her hand rested against my neck while I lay beside her, warm and pleasantly unwilling to move. No new bond appeared, no shop purchase happened, and Old Mate had the rare decency to leave the reward window closed.

[System: Take the harness out of the bedroom next time, cunt. It’s hanging off the chair like a seat belt waiting to testify against you.]

I had enjoyed the inspection before you became involved, and your professional opinion could stay outside with the map.

Bridget’s phone lit up only after we had settled again. The qualifier camera had sent all registered entrants a lane update, showing the inspection the organizer claimed would reassure us.

The recovery cage had moved since our visit. Its opening now faced the public viewing tunnel, and the lane barrier behind it had been locked into the narrowest position on the course.

I refused to start the race until the spectators were moved, which disappointed Old Mate until I explained that surviving witnesses were more likely to visit the milk counter afterward.

The organizer tried calling the cage a recovery precaution. Lyra showed him yesterday’s photograph beside the new camera feed, then asked why a precaution needed to face the crowd instead of the machinery it supposedly protected.

He ran out of useful words before she ran out of evidence.

Workers cleared the tunnel and locked the public entrance. The feed moved to the remote viewing room, leaving the actual course for participants and trained crew. I still intended to race, because having a sensible objection didn’t mean surrendering the chance to humiliate somebody.

Lyra joined Bridget at the service platform with the route plan. Cherry stayed at the club to watch with Lukas, who had instructions to rest whenever the screen bothered his head.

"If I won, I wanted the victory photograph taken before anyone noticed how much of it involved fear."

"Then stop practicing the expression and get into the machine," Lyra said, giving me a quick kiss before I went.

The sanitation rig beat me off the line so thoroughly that its rear warning light seemed personally rude.

[System: You’re being overtaken by a portable shithouse, mate. Put some effort in before the driver pulls over to let a bloke finish his bloody crossword.]

I was using the controls correctly, which cost time but generally improved the survival figures.

[System: Lovely commitment to education, champ, but the toilet’s graduating ahead of you.]

I followed the marked turn, feeling the weight carry through the machine after I moved the lever. Galaxy Brain helped me compare my practice run with the live angle. It did not make the tracks weightless or explain why the other driver’s idea of sport involved a vehicle designed around unpleasant emergencies.

The cab smelled of old rubber and the trainer’s strong opinion that I should avoid spilling lunch inside it. I kept my tail around the correct control and checked the turn marker again. Winning would be funny, but crashing here would leave Lyra telling the story while my uncle tried charging admission to my recovery. That unpleasant picture concentrated me more effectively than Old Mate’s entire coaching career.

The commentator announced Moist Tax Deduction with the exhausted delivery of a man reconsidering his profession. Somewhere beyond the glass, Lyra laughed loud enough that I could hear it through the open event channel.

That improved my mood without improving my position.

The first bend narrowed around a stack of approved obstacles. The toilet driver took it wide, leaving a brief opening I could reach if I stopped trying to win by force and started being myself.

An unattended marker trolley sat beside the inside line, small enough to move but too heavy to carry comfortably. I slowed until its center entered my three-meter range, opened the cab’s service flap, and kept my tail near a clear patch of ground.

Mine Now moved the trolley into that space, touching my tail while its wheels took the weight. I released it facing the side lane, where its arrow made the longer route look like the obvious continuation.

The toilet followed the arrow.

Its driver realized the mistake after entering the turning pocket, by which point reversing the bulky rig required several increasingly angry corrections.

[System: That’s it, mate. You’ve beaten sanitation with misleading signage, which is how half the country gets through a highway upgrade.]

The quest prohibited stealing his machine, and I had respected the exact wording with admirable precision.

The commentator accused me of moving the marker. I replied that he had excellent eyesight and should use it to keep announcing my sponsor.

I didn’t pretend the trick was honorable. I wanted to win a stupid race against people helping my uncle arrange a worse afternoon, and I had no intention of giving them a lecture about fair play afterward.

The second complication arrived at the recovery cage. Its winch began drawing it across the course before either machine reached the marked stop point.

Lyra shouted the warning over the channel. I braked before the hanging frame crossed my lane, remembering the empty turning bay from practice rather than inventing a route through a wall.

Bridget called the ordinary emergency stop to the nearest worker, who cut the cage movement. The delay cost us ground, but the toilet was still escaping its own little maze behind me.

I passed beneath the secured frame and finished first by a margin I intended to describe very differently in future retellings.

The ten-thousand-credit prize reached my private account under the posted terms. Old Mate waited for the result confirmation before adding six thousand EXP and thirty IP.

[System: Thirty-three thousand of a hundred thousand, three hundred eighty-five IP, and you’ve made a bloke explain to his mates why his toilet lost to a pink tax deduction. Put that on your bloody achievements page.]

I wanted you to remember your commentary when you later claimed the entire victory had been your idea.

Lyra met me at the return platform. She looked delighted, furious about the cage, and far too attractive for somebody holding a printed incident form.

"You cheated beautifully," she said. "Next time, tell me before you move the arrow so I can enjoy it without wondering what you’ve broken."

I promised, then asked whether she wanted to choose our next ridiculous activity herself. Her answer involved a future day somewhere quieter, which I accepted without trying to improve it into a competition.

The sanitation driver passed us on his way out and called me a cheat. I agreed cheerfully, which ruined the argument he had clearly prepared. Lyra waited until he left before laughing into the victory photograph.

The organizer arrived with the final-race invitation before we could leave. The qualifier result gave me a place, but the highest-paying entry had already reserved the service route beneath Udder the Sea’s district.

Its equipment sponsor was the same contractor behind the false bounty, and the attached route ended at the club’s utility gate rather than the finish line.