I try to write at least every two weeks, but I am a busy woman, so we'll see! Also, lmk in the comments the drivers you'd like to see! Additionally, at the end, you'll find fun facts about me if you're curious about the woman behind the stories.
max verstappen
maybe we're both ok with it ch1, ch2 ch3
george russell
a baby?
oscar piastri
dress
carlos sainz
sweet potato casserole
Ollie bearmen
Late night thoughts1
Random
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lee's fun facts!
my fav color is purple, my fav drivers are ka12, mv3, dr3, op81, cs55, gr63. I am a teacher (I love my job more than anything). I am married!! I have 3 tattoos, think that's it, if you want to know more or have any drivers you want to read more about, lmk.
hey! i also lost a fanfic, it was from last year i think, Lando and Oscar had made a bet, the one who loses the championship gets to sleep with the other’s girlfriend in front of him, so they were on a private jet and then Oscar goes with reader while Lando just watches… idk if anyone knows which it is
LOST FANFIC!! (PT.2) lol
please help me find this for this user!!! (it lowkey sounds good lmao)
requested by this ask! i hope you enjoy how this turned out. ♡
matching c.ai bot.
— pairings: lando norris x oscar piastri x redbull rookie driver! reader
— warnings: this work contains extremely dark, explicit, and potentially triggering material including graphic non-consensual and dubiously consensual sexual content, severe age regression and ddlg dynamics involving a traumatized adult in a “little” headspace, anal and vaginal virginity loss, rough sexual violence, breeding and impregnation fetishisation, sexual use of comfort objects as leverage, public humiliation, psychological and emotional manipulation, overstimulation, panic attacks, crying and tantrums, and the use of sex toys in professional settings, all wrapped in a deeply imbalanced power dynamic between a petite, mentally fragile female rookie and two significantly older, muscular, obsessively possessive male drivers who exploit her childhood trauma and innocence for sexual control; this is a work of dark fiction intended for adult audiences and does not depict safe, sane, or consensual bdsm.
— summary: set against the glittering, violent backdrop of the 2026 melbourne grand prix, the story follows traumatised redbull rookie, a petite, regressive virgin who clings to her stuffed bunny floppy, as she suffers a catastrophic panic attack during thursday media day and is intercepted by towering, obsessive mclaren drivers lando norris and oscar piastri, who exploit her childhood trauma and desperate need for guidance to trap her in their luxury motorhome where they claim her anal and oral virginity, force her into a ddlg “little rookie” dynamic, and systematically break her psyche with pain, pleasure, and possessive cruelty; over the following days they escalate their hold by locking her in a collar, controlling her comfort object, and forcing her to wear a vibrating obsidian plug during qualifying and the race itself, manipulating her into winning pole and the grand prix while her teammate max verstappen grows increasingly aware of the abuse but is powerless to stop her complete regression, culminating in lando and oscar breeding her unprotected womb on the night of her victory as max finally breaks down the door armed and ready to wage war for her soul.
— notes: hi angels, it’s me. i know this is dark. i know it’s twisted. but this is what happens when i let my trauma and my kinks share a keyboard. i am her, and she is me: small, scared, clutching floppy, and weirdly obsessed with the idea of being completely owned by men who are way too big and way too cruel. every part of this was written to make you feel sick and hot at the same time. max is coming. but is he the hero, or is he just another man who wants to possess her? i might be too far gone myself. kisses,
— lila. (your favourite crybaby, 5'1" and falling)
feedback, thoughts, and chaotic screaming in the tags are always welcome ♡
The Albert Park circuit had never felt colder.
Melbourne’s late summer should have bled warmth into the asphalt, but Thursday’s media day arrived under a sky the colour of bruised slate, wind slicing off the harbour and through the paddock like something resentful. Everything here was polished to a violence—chrome motorhomes, blacked-out glass, the smell of burnt rubber and money. The 2026 season opener had drawn the circus back to life, and the grid glistened with the kind of luxury that only power could afford: tailored race suits with sponsor logos stitched in gold thread, espresso machines humming inside lounges lined with Italian leather, and drivers who moved with the casual entitlement of men who knew they owned the world.
She did not own anything.
She was barely five-foot-one, a wisp of a thing swallowed by her oversized Red Bull team jacket, the sleeves pulled down so far that only her small, pale fingers poked through. She was an adult, though she looked younger—much younger—especially now, with her blue eyes wide and glassy under the paddock lights, her soft brunette hair caught in a messy, unstyled wave around her face. She had that kind of delicate beauty that seemed unfinished, as though she had been sketched in pastels rather than ink: a small, trembling mouth, a thin frame that her pastel pink sundress did nothing to conceal, and an expression of permanent, unguarded vulnerability. She clutched her leather tote bag against her chest as she walked, her thin arms wrapped around it like a shield, and inside that bag, hidden beneath her phone and a crumpled pack of tissues, was Floppy.
No one knew about Floppy.
He was a cream-colored stuffed bunny, his ears frayed from two decades of being twisted in anxious fingers, one eye missing a button, his stuffing worn soft in the centre from where she pressed her face against him when the world became too loud. He had been with her through the instability of her childhood, through the foster homes and the therapy and the nights she woke up screaming because she was still, always, a child trapped in a body that kept insisting on growing older. She had been born into chaos. Her earliest memories were of shouting doors and sudden absences, of being small and forgotten, of learning that love was something that arrived without warning and left just as fast. It had carved a particular kind of innocence into her—not the innocence of ignorance, but the innocence of damage. She had never built walls. She had never learned to. Instead, she had regressed, folding inward when the stress became too much, reverting to a state where she could cry, kick, and wail like a child, where she needed something soft and constant to hold. Floppy was the only constant.
And now she was an F1 driver.
Somehow, impossibly, Red Bull had seen the raw, feral talent beneath the fragility, and they had placed her beside Max Verstappen for the 2026 season. Max, the reigning titan, the cold-blooded Dutchman who destroyed rivals on track and barely spoke to them off it. But with her, he was different. From the moment she had been announced, he had shifted into the role of an older brother, something territorial and protective flaring behind his usual blank stare. He walked her to the car. He checked her helmet. He read her anxiety before she could name it and would step in front of cameras if he saw her lower lip start to tremble. He didn’t know about Floppy, but he knew enough—that she was a virgin, that she cried easily, that she was a creature of pure, breakable naivety who had no business surviving in a sport this ruthless. He thought he could keep her safe.
He was wrong.
She had been paired with the McLaren drivers for the Thursday media round-robin. It was a cruel scheduling joke, or perhaps something more deliberate, because the moment she stepped into the interview suite, she felt it—the shift in the air, the way the room suddenly felt smaller. Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri were already waiting.
They were monstrously tall. Lando, at twenty-six, had filled out over the winter, his shoulders broad and muscular beneath his black McLaren polo, his dark hair cropped and messy, his eyes a sharp, assessing brown that missed nothing. He wore a vintage Rolex and a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. Beside him, Oscar, twenty-five, was quieter but somehow more devastating—blond hair swept back, a jawline that could cut glass, and a body that spoke of brutal discipline in the gym, his race suit unzipped just enough to show the corded muscle of his throat and collarbone. Both men were over six feet, and both were watching her with an intensity that made her stomach clench in a way she didn’t understand. She was used to being looked at. Fans looked at her. Engineers looked at her with pity or frustration. But this was different. This was predatory.
“Little rookie,” Lando said, his voice low and smooth, rolling over the nickname like he was tasting it. “Come here. You’re shivering.”
She wasn’t, not really, but the command in his voice made her move anyway. She was instinctively yielding. She deferred. She always had. She crossed the room on unsteady legs, her kitten heels clicking against the polished concrete, and when she reached the couch, they had commandeered, she sat where they pointed, her bag clutched in her lap.
The interview began.
It was supposed to be light. Season predictions, thoughts on the new regs, the usual theatre. But the journalist from Sky Sports had a cruel edge, and when he turned to her, his voice sharpened. “You’re the first woman on the grid in a top-tier seat, but there’s been a lot of talk about your mental health. Red Bull’s taken a huge risk. Do you think you’re stable enough to handle the pressure when it really counts?”
The lights were too bright.
There were too many people. The camera lenses were black, hungry eyes. She felt the blood drain from her face, her fingers tightening around her bag until her knuckles went white. Her breath hitched, shallow and uneven, and she could hear the static buzz of the microphones like wasps in her ears. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her eyes filled, lashes trembling, and the first tear escaped before she could stop it, sliding down her cheek in a hot, silent line.
“Hey—” Max started, rising from the chair in the corner where he’d been waiting.
But Lando moved faster.
He was suddenly in front of her, his broad frame blocking the cameras, his hand wrapping around her jaw with a grip that was gentle but absolute. He tilted her face up, forcing her to look at him, away from the lights. “Eyes on me, little rookie,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the tear from her cheek. “You don’t answer that. You don’t answer anything unless we say so.”
Oscar stood, and his presence was a wall of cold muscle behind Lando. He didn’t speak. He simply stared at the journalist until the man looked down at his notes, cowed. But his gaze, when it fell back to her, was burning. “She’s done,” Oscar said flatly. “Pack it up.”
What happened next was a blur of dark suits and expensive aftershave. Lando’s hand found the small of her back, his fingers splayed possessively against her spine, guiding her out of the room with a pressure that said she had no choice but to follow. Oscar took her bag—her bag, with Floppy inside—and when she made a small, panicked sound, a noise that was pure childlike distress, he looked down at her with eyes that saw too much. “We’ll keep him safe,” he said quietly. “Won’t we? We keep everything safe.”
She didn’t understand. Her mind was shutting down, regressing into that soft, unprotected space where language became too hard and the world became too big. By the time they reached the McLaren motorhome, she was crying in earnest, her breath coming in wet, hiccupping gasps, her body shaking. She wasn’t a Formula One driver anymore. She was a child who had lost her toy and her bearings, and the men leading her into the dim, leather-scented interior of the most luxurious motorhome on the grid knew it.
The interior was obscene. Dark wood panelling, recessed lighting that glowed like amber, a couch that probably cost more than her karting career. There was a bar stocked with crystal decanters, and the air smelled of sandalwood and power. Lando locked the door behind them. Oscar set her bag on the table.
And then she broke.
It was a tantrum, pure and unfiltered. She didn’t have the tools to cope. She dropped to her knees on the plush carpet, her small fists pressing against her eyes, her body curling inward. She was sobbing, kicking her legs weakly, her dress riding up her thin thighs, her voice dissolving into a pitch that was barely human—high, broken, needy. “Want Floppy,” she whimpered, regressing completely, her words slurred with tears. “Want my bunny. Give him. Please. It’s too loud. It’s too loud, Daddy.”
The word slipped out unbidden. It was what she called any man who took control, who offered the structure she craved, who made the world small and safe. She didn’t know these men. But they had taken her bag, and her mind had collapsed back to a place where she needed a daddy to fix it.
Lando and Oscar went very still.
Something dark and satisfied coiled in the air between them. Lando’s gaze dropped to her where she knelt, her body wracked with sobs, her innocence laid bare like an offering. He looked at Oscar. A silent communication passed between them—months of watching her, of obsessing over her, of studying her race data and her Instagram and her interviews with a fixation that had become something pathological. They had wanted her since the first test session in Abu Dhabi. They had wanted her fragility, her wide blue eyes, the way she deferred and yielded and cried. They had planned this. The pairing for media day had been no accident. And now she was on her knees in their private space, calling them Daddy, and she didn’t even know what she was asking for.
Oscar walked to the table. He opened her bag. His hand emerged with Floppy, the cream bunny with the missing button eye. He held it by one ear, examining it, and then he crouched down in front of her, his massive frame dwarfing her completely. “Is this what you need, little rookie?” he asked, his voice a velvet threat.
She looked up at him through a curtain of tears. Her face was swollen, her nose pink, her lips parted. She reached for the bunny with both hands.
Oscar pulled it back. Just out of reach.
“No,” Lando said from behind her, his voice dropping an octave. He lowered himself to the couch, spreading his thighs, his muscular frame dominating the space. “No, baby. You don’t get Floppy until you calm down. Until you let us take care of you properly. Isn’t that what you want? You want Daddy to make it better?”
She froze. Her mind was a fog of overstimulation and grief, but her body responded to the authority in his voice with a shiver that went straight between her legs. She didn’t understand the heat building there. She was a virgin. She had never been touched. She had never even kissed anyone properly, too overwhelmed by the proximity of others, too prone to shutting down. But now, surrounded by the scent of these men, by their size and their cold, obsessive focus, she felt something unlock. She nodded, a small, trembling movement. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, Daddy.”
Lando’s eyes darkened.
Oscar moved first. He scooped her up as though she weighed nothing, his muscular arms sliding under her knees and back, and he placed her in Lando’s lap. She was so small there, a doll of a girl, her blue eyes wide and glassy. Lando’s arms wrapped around her, one hand splaying across her lower stomach, pulling her back against the hard wall of his chest. His other hand went to her throat, not choking, but claiming, his thumb tracing her pulse. “You’ve been walking around this paddock,” Lando murmured against her ear, his breath hot, “looking like this. Like a little girl who needs to be owned. And we’ve been watching. Every race. Every press conference. Every time you cried. We’ve been hard for you. Do you understand that?”
She shook her head, but she wasn’t pulling away. She was going limp, her regression making her soft and pliant, her body instinctively yielding to the strength surrounding her. Oscar knelt in front of the couch. His hands went to her knees, pushing her thin legs apart with a force that was gentle but absolute. Her sundress bunched around her waist. She was wearing white cotton panties, childish and plain, and they were already damp. Oscar made a low, guttural sound.
“Look at that,” he said. “Our little rookie is wet. She doesn’t even know what she’s begging for, does she, Lando? She’s so fucking innocent she doesn’t know why her cunt is aching.”
“Please,” she whimpered, though she didn’t know what she was pleading for. She just needed the static in her head to stop. She needed the overstimulation to end. She needed them to make the world small.
Lando’s hand slid down from her throat to her chest, cupping her small breast over the fabric of her dress. His thumb found her nipple, already hard, and he pinched. Hard. She cried out, a sharp, childlike yelp, and her body arched, pressing into him. “Daddy’s going to teach you,” Lando growled against her neck. He bit her, hard enough to bruise, his teeth sinking into the delicate skin of her shoulder. “We’re going to teach you what this body is for. You’re not a driver here. You’re not Red Bull’s little project. You’re our little rookie. Our virgin. Our crybaby. And we’re going to break you in until you can’t remember your own name without saying ours after it.”
Oscar ripped her panties.
The cotton tore like paper in his large hands, and then he was looking at her bare cunt, her virgin pussy, pink and untouched and glistening with a wetness that made his jaw flex. “Christ,” he muttered. “Look at her. She’s never been touched. Never been fucked. Never had a cock inside this tight little hole.” He looked up at Lando. “I want to taste her first. Before we ruin her. Before we make her ours.”
“Do it,” Lando commanded.
Oscar dove.
He was not gentle. He was starving. His mouth closed over her cunt with a savage hunger, his tongue dragging up her slit from bottom to top, circling her clit with a precision that made her scream. her back bowed against Lando’s chest, her hands flying up to grip Lando’s forearms, her nails digging in. It was too much. The sensation was overwhelming, a violent contrast to the softness of her regression. She tried to kick, tried to close her legs, but Oscar held her thighs open with his massive hands, spreading her obscenely wide, his tongue pushing inside her virgin hole, fucking her with it, tasting her innocence.
“No—no, it’s too much, Daddy, please—” she sobbed, tears streaming down her face again, her body convulsing.
Lando’s hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her cries. “Hush now,” he ordered, his voice like a whip. “You take it. You take what Daddy gives you. This is your purpose, little rookie. This is why you’re so fucking useless on track unless someone tells you what to do. You need to be controlled. You need to be owned. And we’re going to own every hole. Every tear. Every tantrum.”
His other hand slid down between her legs, two of his thick fingers pressing against her clit alongside Oscar’s tongue, working her in tight, cruel circles. The overstimulation that had terrified her in the interview was nothing compared to this. Her mind went white. She was crying, drooling against Lando’s palm, her small body thrashing uselessly in their grip. Oscar’s tongue pushed deeper, and then he sucked her clit into his mouth, his teeth grazing the sensitive bud.
She came.
It was not a gentle orgasm. It was a violent, wrenching thing that tore through her with the force of a seizure, her virgin cunt clamping down on nothing, gushing onto Oscar’s chin, her scream muffled by Lando’s hand. She went limp immediately after, her eyes rolling back, her body slumping into Lando’s hold like a discarded doll. She was still crying, the tears endless, her breath hitching in that soft, broken way that made her seem even smaller.
Oscar rose, his face glistening with her arousal, his eyes black with lust. He unzipped his race suit, and his cock sprang free—thick, heavy, monstrously hard, a vein running along the underside. He fisted it, staring down at her collapsed form. “She’s ready,” he said. “Look at her. She’s not even here anymore. She’s gone soft. She’s ours.”
Lando lifted her easily, arranging her on the couch on her back, her legs hanging over the edge, her dress pushed up to expose her completely. He spread her thighs wider, looking down at the mess Oscar had made of her virgin pussy, her clit swollen and red, her entrance fluttering. He unzipped his own suit, freeing his cock, and it was even larger than Oscar’s, a weapon of a thing that promised pain.
She blinked up at them through her tears, her mind floating in that soft, regressed space, her body humming with the aftershocks of her orgasm. She looked at Lando’s cock, then at Oscar’s, and she began to tremble again, her lower lip wobbling. “Too big,” she whispered, her voice tiny and afraid. “Daddy, it’s too big. You’ll hurt me.”
Lando smiled, and it was a cold, beautiful thing. He leaned down, caging her head with his arms, his cock pressing against her untouched entrance, hot and relentless. “That’s the point, little rookie,” he murmured, and then he thrust.
The pain was blinding.
Her scream tore through the motorhome, high and keening, her back arching off the leather, her hands flying to Lando’s chest to push him away. But he was inside her, tearing through her virginity in one brutal stroke, his thick cock stretching her tiny, untouched cunt to a degree that felt impossible. She was so tight he had to force himself deeper, inch by inch, his jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving her face. He wanted to see every moment of pain. He wanted to watch her innocence bleed out onto his shaft.
“Christ, she’s fucking tight,” Lando groaned, his voice guttural. He pulled back and thrust again, deeper this time, seating himself fully inside her until she was completely impaled on his cock. Her eyes were streaming, her mouth open in a silent wail, her body shuddering. She was so small beneath him that he could see the outline of himself pressing against her stomach from the inside.
Oscar moved to her head. He knelt on the couch beside her, tangling his fingers in her hair, pulling her face toward his own engorged cock. “Open,” he commanded. “You take Daddy in both ends now. You’re our little rookie. Our fucking property. And you’re going to learn how to serve us.”
She opened her mouth, sobbing, and Oscar pushed inside.
She was choked between them, stuffed full in a way that was obscene and absolute. Lando set a brutal pace, fucking her ruined virgin cunt with long, punishing strokes that made her body slide against the leather. Every time he bottomed out, she gagged around Oscar’s cock, her throat tightening around him, her tears soaking her face. Oscar held her head still, fucking her mouth with shallow, cruel thrusts, his eyes burning down at her. “Look at you,” he taunted. “Look at our little girl. Can’t drive a car without crying, can’t take an interview without regressing, but you can take two Daddy cocks like a good little slut, can’t you?”
She couldn’t answer. She could only cry, her body convulsing, the overstimulation of her nerves making her thrash weakly. But beneath the pain, beneath the terror of her own helplessness, something dark and traitorous was blooming. Her body was responding. Her hips were lifting, just slightly, meeting Lando’s thrusts. Her tongue was fluttering against the underside of Oscar’s cock. She was yielding. She was always yielding. It was her nature.
Lando felt it. He snarled, his hands gripping her waist so hard he knew he was leaving bruises—bruises that would last for days, that she would see in the mirror of her hotel suite and remember who she belonged to. “That’s it,” he rasped. “Take it. Take your Daddy’s cum, little rookie. You’re not on the grid anymore. You’re in our bed. You’re our fucking baby.”
He came with a roar, burying himself to the hilt, his cock jerking inside her as he pumped her virgin cunt full of hot, thick seed. The feeling of it—warm, filthy, claiming—sent her over the edge again. She came around his cock, her inner walls spasming, milking him, and the sensation made Lando curse and grip her harder, forcing every drop into her unprotected womb.
Oscar pulled out of her mouth with a wet, obscene sound, and he fisted his cock once, twice, before he spilled across her face, her tears, her open mouth. He marked her with it, ropes of cum coating her cheeks, her chin, her fluttering tongue. She lay there, covered in them, stuffed full of Lando’s release, her small chest heaving, her blue eyes vacant and glassy and utterly lost.
For a long moment, the only sound was her ragged breathing and the low hum of the motorhome’s climate control.
Then Lando pulled out of her slowly, watching his cum leak from her ruined, gaping hole, watching the evidence of her destroyed innocence drip onto the leather couch. He reached over to the table. He picked up Floppy.
He placed the cream bunny on her chest, pressing it into her hands.
“Hold him,” Lando said softly, his voice returning to that dangerous, crooning tenderness. “Daddy’s got you now. Daddy and Daddy. You don’t have to think anymore. You don’t have to talk to the nasty journalists. You just have to be here. Be little. Be ours.”
Oscar stroked her cum-streaked hair, his fingers gentle now, almost loving. “Max thinks he’s protecting you,” he murmured. “He thinks Red Bull is your home. But we’re going to ruin that. We’re going to ruin you so completely that you can’t function without us. Every race. Every press day. Every time you put on that suit, you’ll know who owns what’s underneath it.”
She clutched Floppy to her chest, her body throbbing, her mind deep in that soft, small place where she had gone to survive. She looked up at them with her wide, innocent eyes, and she nodded, a small, broken movement.
“Yes, Daddy,” she whispered.
Outside, the Melbourne sky had gone dark, and the season had only just begun.
The McLaren motorhome had gone silent except for the wet sound of her breathing and the low, predatory hum of the climate system stirring the air. She lay crumpled on the couch where they had ruined her, her thin legs still draped over the edge, her ruined sundress bunched like discarded tissue around her waist. Lando zipped himself back into his race suit with the casual efficiency of a man who had just finished a workout, his eyes never leaving the mess between her thighs. Oscar had already adjusted himself, but he remained kneeling beside her head, his large hand stroking her hair with a tenderness that belied the cruelty of his grip, his fingers catching in the tangled brunette waves and pulling just enough to keep her aware of him.
She was dissociating. Drifting into that soft, small place where language dissolved and the world became a distant, muffled roar. Her blue eyes were fixed on the ceiling, glassy and unseeing, tears still leaking from the corners in a slow, endless stream. Her small chest hitched with each breath. She had curled around Floppy, pressing the cream bunny against her sternum, one thumb hovering near her mouth in a gesture she hadn’t made in years—not in public, not where anyone could see. But she was gone now. She was small. She was theirs.
Lando crouched down. He gripped her chin, turning her face toward him. The fluorescent light caught the bruise blooming on her shoulder where he had bitten her, the mark already darkening to a violent violet. “Look at me, little rookie,” he commanded. His voice was soft, almost crooning, but the authority beneath it was absolute. “You’re not done. You’re never done until Daddy says so.”
She blinked, struggling to focus. Her lips parted, trembling. “…Floppy,” she whispered. It was the only word she had left.
Oscar smiled, a cold, beautiful thing. He plucked the bunny from her limp hands. She made a sound—a high, broken keen, like a wounded animal—and reached for it, but he held it above her head, just out of reach. “You’ll get him back when we’re sure you’re being a good girl,” he said. “When you’re safe. And you’re only safe with us, aren’t you? You know that now. Max doesn’t understand. Red Bull doesn’t understand. They put you in that car and make you talk to all those nasty people, and it hurts you. We’re the only ones who make it stop.”
Lando scooped her up. She weighed nothing in his arms, a ragdoll of a girl, her head lolling against his shoulder. He wrapped her in his McLaren team jacket, the black fabric swallowing her completely, the scent of him—sandalwood, expensive cologne, and the faint metallic tang of the track—trapping her in a cage of sensory obedience. Oscar pocketed Floppy. He opened the motorhome door.
The paddock was dead at this hour. The journalists had gone to their hotels, the teams had retreated to their motorhomes, and the Albert Park circuit loomed under a sky choked with clouds. A black McLaren-liveried SUV idled at the rear service entrance; its windows tinted to a violence of darkness. They moved her like contraband, a secret parcel of flesh and innocence. Oscar opened the rear door, and Lando slid inside with her still cradled against his chest. She whimpered as the engine turned over, the vibration rattling through her tender, abused body, and Oscar caught her eye in the rearview mirror as he drove.
“Sleep, little rookie,” he murmured. “Daddy’s driving.”
She didn’t sleep. She floated. Lando’s hand had slipped beneath the jacket, resting on her bare stomach, his fingers tracing idle patterns that dipped lower, lower, until he was cupping her bruised cunt again, feeling the warm leak of his own release sliding from her ruined entrance. He didn’t finger her. He simply held her, possessed her, reminding her with every mile that she was stuffed with him, marked by him, owned.
The Crown Towers Melbourne rose against the Yarra River like a blade of glass and light. They took the private service elevator to the penthouse suite, and her bare feet touched the cold marble of a foyer larger than most apartments. The space was obscene in its luxury: floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the glittering skeleton of the city, furniture upholstered in charcoal velvet and stitched with silver thread, a single abstract painting in violent reds that cost more than her signing bonus. The air smelled of cedar, cold stone, and money. Everything was designed to dwarf the human, to remind the occupant that they were small inside the machine of wealth.
Lando carried her to the master bathroom. The tub was already running—Oscar had used the SUV’s phone to arrange it, because they planned everything, because they had already chosen this suite weeks ago, mapping her corruption like a race strategy. The bathroom was all white marble veined with black, a slab of stone that could have been quarried from a graveyard. Steam rose in spectral coils. They undressed her, pulling the ruined jacket and sundress from her body, leaving her naked and shivering on the heated tile.
“Look at her,” Lando said, his voice echoing off the stone. He stepped back, admiring his work. She was a canvas of damage. Bite marks on her breasts, her shoulder, her inner thigh. Finger-shaped bruises around her waist and hips. Her virgin blood had dried in a thin, rust-coloured smear on the inside of her thighs, a testament to the hole they had ripped open and claimed. Her blue eyes were wide and uncomprehending, her face still streaked with Oscar’s release, her hair a wild tangle. She looked like a doll that had been played with too hard.
Oscar ran the bath. He poured oil into the water—something thick and golden, smelling of jasmine and amber—and then he lifted her, as easily as lifting a child, and lowered her into the heat. She gasped, her body arching, the sensation scalding against her torn, swollen flesh. Lando caught her hair in his fist, pulling her head back against the lip of the tub. “Stay still,” he ordered. “Let Daddy clean his mess.”
They washed her with the methodical precision of men preparing an object for further use. Oscar used a sea sponge, rough and natural, dragging it over her breasts until her nipples pebbled, then down her stomach to her cunt. He scrubbed her there, not gently, opening her labia with two fingers and wiping away the evidence of Lando’s release, watching the water cloud between her legs. She cried out, trying to close her legs, but Lando pinned her knees open, his large hands pressing her thin thighs against the porcelain.
“No,” he said sharply. “You don’t hide from Daddy. This is ours. This hole is ours. This body is ours. You’re going to sit here and let us wash every inch, because we own every inch.”
She sobbed, her hands fluttering above the water, seeking something, anything. Oscar understood. He reached into the pocket of his trousers—he was still half-dressed, his cock heavy and threatening against his zipper—and produced Floppy. The cream bunny was damp, rumpled. He held it just above the water. “You want him?”
She nodded frantically, tears streaming, her regression total. She was a child in the bath, a broken little girl who needed her comfort object. “Please, Daddy,” she begged, the word falling out without shame, without comprehension. “Please, Floppy.”
“Hold him, then,” Oscar said, and dropped the bunny into her hands. She clutched him to her chest, burying her face in his frayed ear, her body curling into a ball in the water despite their grip on her. She sucked in a shuddering breath, and for a moment, she was still.
Lando’s eyes met Oscar’s over her bowed head. Something dark and electric passed between them. They were not finished. They had only begun to map the territory.
They dried her in warmed towels from the heated rack, rubbing her until her pale skin flushed pink, until she was soft and damp and limp in their arms. Then they carried her—Floppy still clutched to her chest, her thumb finding its way into her mouth—to the master bedroom. The bed was a platform of black silk and charcoal velvet, large enough to lose her in, surrounded by mirrors on three sides so that no matter where she looked, she would see herself: small, naked, surrounded by men who dwarfed her. The city lights of Melbourne cut through the darkness, painting blue and gold stripes across the room.
They laid her on her back in the centre of the bed. Oscar took Floppy again—just for a moment, just to make her cry out—and set him on the nightstand, propped against a crystal decanter of scotch, where he could watch. “Look at Daddy,” Lando commanded, stripping out of his clothes. His body was a weapon of muscle and sinew, the product of brutal training, his cock already hard again, thick and dark and veined, jutting from a nest of black hair. He climbed onto the bed, and the mattress dipped beneath his weight, rolling her toward him. Oscar undressed beside the bed, slower, his gaze roaming her body with a possessiveness that had calcified into something pathological.
Lando spread her legs. He pushed her knees up toward her chest, folding her like a piece of origami, exposing every inch of her cunt and, beneath it, the tight, virgin pucker of her asshole. She had never been touched there. She had never thought to touch herself there. It was a place of pure, unspoiled innocence, and Lando stared at it with a hunger that made his jaw clench.
“Please,” she whimpered, sensing his intent. She tried to push her legs down, but Oscar was there, kneeling on the bed, pinning her knees back with his weight, his own cock bobbing heavy and obscene near her face. “No, Daddy, not there, please, it’s too much, I’ll be good—”
“You’re going to be better than good,” Lando said. He reached to the nightstand and retrieved a bottle of oil—something French, absurdly expensive, the kind of thing meant for massage, not this. He poured it over his fingers, letting it drip onto her exposed asshole, cold and shocking. She gasped, her body jerking. “You’re going to give Daddy this last hole. The hole no one else has ever seen. And you’re going to take it like a brave little rookie, aren’t you? Because if you don’t…” He leaned down, his voice dropping to a whisper against her ear. “…we’ll take Floppy home with us. We’ll keep him. And you’ll never sleep again.”
She wailed, a high, childlike sound, her hips bucking uselessly. The threat was worse than pain. Floppy was her soul, her only constant, and they knew it. They had always known it. “Yes,” she sobbed, nodding frantically, her tears sliding into her hair. “Yes, Daddy, I’ll be good, I’ll be good, please don’t take Floppy—”
Lando pressed one oily finger against her asshole. She was so tight, so untouched, that the muscle resisted instinctively, fluttering in panic. He pushed, relentless, and his finger sank into the first knuckle. Her scream was cut off by Oscar’s hand clamping over her mouth. Her body convulsed, her small hands beating against Oscar’s thighs, her blue eyes bulging with shock and pain. Lando worked his finger deeper, scissoring it, stretching the virgin ring of muscle while she choked on her own sobs beneath Oscar’s palm.
“So tight,” Lando growled, his voice guttural. “So fucking untouched. This is what we’ve been waiting for, Oscar. This little virgin ass. She’s never even put a finger in here, has she, little rookie? You’ve been saving this for Daddy without even knowing it.”
He added a second finger. The stretch was burning, tearing. She thrashed, throwing a tantrum in earnest now, her body reverting to pure, animal panic. She kicked, her small feet drumming against the mattress, her nails scratching at Oscar’s wrist. He didn’t flinch. He simply shifted his weight, pinning her more completely, and with his other hand, he fisted his cock, pumping it slowly, inches from her face, using her terror as lubrication.
Lando withdrew his fingers. He poured more oil directly onto her gaping, fluttering hole, watching it pool and drip down her cleft. Then he positioned himself, his massive body looming over her folded form, the head of his cock kissing her asshole. It was obscene—the size of him versus the tiny, virginal pucker. It was impossible. He didn’t care.
He pushed.
The penetration was a violence. Her body tried to reject him, the ring of muscle clamping down in a desperate, futile attempt to preserve its innocence, but Lando was stronger. He groaned, a sound of pure, demonic satisfaction, and bore down, forcing the thick head of his cock past the resisting muscle. Her scream was muffled by Oscar’s hand, her body going rigid, her back arching in a bow of pure agony. A thin smear of bright red appeared where her skin tore, a virgin offering, and Lando watched it with dark, glittering eyes.
“That’s it,” he rasped, feeding inch after inch into her ass. “Take it. Take your Daddy’s cock in this tight little ass. You’re ours now. Every hole. Every scream. Every tear.”
He bottomed out, his balls pressing against her cunt, his entire length buried in the furnace of her ass. She had gone limp beneath him, her eyes rolled back, only the shuddering of her breath and the continuous stream of tears indicating she was still conscious. Oscar removed his hand from her mouth and immediately replaced it with his cock, shoving past her swollen lips, filling her throat. She gagged, her throat tightening around him, and the sensation made him curse and thrust deeper.
They found a rhythm. Lando pulled out of her ass until only the head remained, her torn muscle clinging to him, then slammed back in, making her body jerk forward onto Oscar’s cock. Back and forth, a machine of flesh, using her as a conduit between them. The room filled with the sounds of her wet choking, the slap of flesh, and Lando’s low, animal grunts. He looked down at her face, at the mascara and tears and snot, at the way she had become nothing but a vessel for their obsession, and he felt the power of it surge through him like a drug.
“Look at her,” Oscar panted, his hips snapping, fucking her face with short, brutal thrusts. “Look at our little rookie. So fucking broken. So fucking perfect.”
Lando reached between her legs. Her clit was swollen, sensitive from the earlier abuse, and he pinched it hard, rolling it between his fingers. She convulsed, a pathetic, confused orgasm ripping through her, her body betraying her completely, her asshole spasming around Lando’s cock like a vise. He roared, his hips stuttering, and he came in her ass with a violence that shook the bed, pumping her full of thick, hot seed, marking her interior with his claim.
He pulled out slowly, watching his cum leak from her gaping, ruined hole, watching the muscle flutter weakly, unable to close. Oscar pulled out of her mouth and jerked himself twice, once, before he erupted across her face, coating her cheeks, her eyelashes, her open mouth, mixing with her tears until she was glazed with him, dripping with the evidence of their possession.
But they were not done.
Lando moved to the head of the bed, his chest heaving, his cock still half-hard and glistening. He reached down and hauled her up, positioning her against the mountain of velvet pillows, spreading her legs wide so her battered holes were on display in the mirrors. Her hands lay limp at her sides. Her eyes were vacant, her breath coming in shallow, hitching gasps.
“Touch yourself,” Lando commanded.
She stared at him, uncomprehending. Her mind was too far gone. She was a shell, a regressing, broken thing.
Lando took her right hand. Oscar took her left. They guided her small, trembling fingers to her cunt, to her clit, pressing her own digits against the swollen, sensitive bud. “Show Daddy how you play,” Lando whispered, his voice a velvet threat. “Show us how this little rookie makes herself feel good. Because this is your cunt now. Not yours. Ours. And you only touch it when we say. You only come when we say. So, rub it. Be a good little slut for Daddy.”
They moved her fingers for her, forcing her to masturbate in front of them, her own small hands manipulated by their larger ones, rubbing circles over her clit while she sobbed, while cum leaked from her ass and mouth, while her body convulsed with oversensitivity. She came again, screaming, a sound like a dying animal, her hips bucking off the bed, her blue eyes rolling back until only the whites showed.
“Christ,” Oscar muttered. He was hard again. They were both hard again, insatiable, their obsession a bottomless hunger. They knelt on either side of her, flanking her like sentinels, and they fisted their cocks in unison, jerking off over her collapsed, twitching body. They were competing now, seeing who could mark her more completely, who could claim more territory. Lando came first, spurting across her flat stomach, her breasts, painting her pale skin with stripes of white. Oscar followed, aiming for her face, her hair, her open mouth, until she was drenched in them, glazed, unrecognizable.
She had stopped crying. She had stopped moving. She lay there, small and thin and five-foot-one in a bed built for giants, covered in the evidence of their darkness, Floppy watching from the nightstand with his single button eye. Her thumb found its way back to her mouth. She sucked it, her blue eyes staring at the ceiling, regressing so deeply that she had forgotten where she was.
Lando collapsed beside her, pulling her against his sweat-slicked chest. Oscar lay on her other side, his arm thrown possessively across her waist, his fingers tracing the bruises they had left. They caged her between them, two muscular, six-foot-plus predators cradling their broken doll.
“Tomorrow is practice,” Lando murmured into her hair. “You’re going to get in that Red Bull, little rookie. You’re going to drive those laps. And you’re going to feel us in every seat, in every shift, in every bounce over the curb. You’re going to drive with Daddy’s cum in your ass and Daddy’s marks on your skin. And when you come back, you’re going to crawl to us.”
Oscar reached over and retrieved Floppy. He tucked the bunny into her arms, and she clutched him immediately, pressing her face into his soft, worn body. “Sleep now,” Oscar whispered, his voice cold and perfect. “Sleep, little rookie. Daddy’s watching.”
Outside, the Melbourne sky began to bruise toward dawn, and the first practice session of the 2026 season was only hours away.
The morning came without mercy.
Melbourne’s dawn bled through the floor-to-ceiling glass in thin, surgical stripes, illuminating the ruin they had made of her. She woke in a state of raw regression, her consciousness surfacing from a depth where time did not exist. She was curled on her side, knees drawn to her chest, thumb lodged firmly in her mouth, Floppy crushed against her sternum. The black silk sheets were tangled around her ankles, sticky with dried sweat and the crusted evidence of the night. Her body was a landscape of pain—her cunt throbbing with a dull, wet ache, her asshole a ring of fire that flared with every shallow breath, her throat bruised from the shape of Oscar’s cock. She did not remember how to be an adult. She did not remember how to be a Formula One driver. She existed only as a small, hurt thing, and when she stirred, the movement sent a bolt of agony through her ass that made her whimper against her thumb.
“Awake, little rookie?”
Lando’s voice cut through the fog. He stood at the foot of the bed, already dressed in the McLaren papaya-and-black race kit, the fabric clinging to the slabbed muscle of his shoulders and thighs. He looked enormous, a titan of engineering and privilege, his dark hair still damp from a shower, his jaw clean-shaven and sharp. He was holding a tablet, scrolling through telemetry data, but his eyes—those assessing, predatory brown eyes—lifted to her and pinned her in place.
Oscar emerged from the bathroom in a haze of steam and expensive cologne. He was shirtless, his blond hair slicked back, his torso a topography of gym-carved abs and heavy pectorals that cast shadows in the morning light. He moved with the casual lethality of a man who knew the day belonged to him. He carried a warmed towel. He looked at her and smiled—not a kind smile, but a hunter’s smile, the expression of a man who had found his wounded doe still breathing exactly where he had left her.
She tried to retreat. Her body moved instinctively, trying to burrow into the mattress, but there was nowhere to go. The thumb in her mouth was a shield. Floppy was a wall. She was making a sound, a high, repetitive whine in the back of her throat, an animal noise of distress.
Lando set the tablet down. He climbed onto the bed with one knee, the mattress depressing beneath his weight, and he reached for her. His hand was massive, swallowing the entire side of her face. He pulled her thumb from her mouth with a wet pop. “No,” he said softly. “You don’t soothe yourself. That’s Daddy’s job. And you don’t get to hide that little mouth from me.”
She mewled, her eyes filling instantly, her blue irises flooding with tears that made her look even younger. Oscar sat beside her, his hand moving to her stomach, tracing the bruises they had painted there. “She’s marked beautifully,” he observed, his voice clinical and cold. “Look at the finger marks on her hips. And here—” His thumb pressed against a bite mark on her inner thigh, and she cried out, her legs kicking weakly. “—she’s still sensitive. Good. I want her to feel every lap today. I want every curb to remind her whose cock was in her ass last night.”
Lando lifted her. She weighed nothing in his arms, a limp bundle of thin limbs and matted hair, and he carried her into the bathroom. The tub had been drained and refilled; the water was milky with salts and oils, and the scent was overpowering, designed to soften her further. They lowered her into the heat, and she gasped, her back arching, the water stinging her torn flesh like acid. She thrashed, splashing, a tantrum rising in her chest. “No—no, hurts, Daddy, hurts—”
“Be still,” Lando commanded, his hand wrapping around her throat beneath the waterline, not choking but controlling. He held her pinned against the porcelain while Oscar knelt beside the tub with a sea sponge. They did not wash her gently. They scrubbed her with the methodical brutality of men cleaning an object they intended to use again. Oscar dragged the rough sponge over her breasts, her stomach, between her legs. She shrieked when he pressed it against her swollen cunt, her hands flying out of the water to grip his wrist. He caught both her wrists in one hand and pinned them to her stomach. “You don’t touch Daddy unless you’re told,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re getting clean so you can get dirty again. That’s all this is.”
By the time they lifted her out, she was sobbing, her body pink and steaming, her mind reduced to a single bright point of need. They dried her with warmed towels, rubbing her until she was limp, and then Lando sat on the edge of the tub with his race suit unzipped, his cock already thick and heavy in his hand. He pulled her between his knees, his fingers tunnelling into her wet hair. “Open,” he ordered.
She did. She always did.
He guided her down, her small mouth stretched obscenely around his girth, and he began to move her head for her, using her throat with slow, possessive thrusts. Oscar stood behind her, his hands on her waist, his fingers dipping into the crevice of her ass, pressing against the torn, still-gaping hole. She choked and gagged around Lando, her tears mixing with spit, her body convulsing. Oscar pushed two fingers into her ass without warning, and she screamed around the cock in her mouth, the sound vibrating into Lando’s shaft. “That’s it,” Lando groaned, his head falling back, his hips snapping upward. “Take your morning medicine, little rookie. Let Daddy fuck that sad little mouth. You don’t eat breakfast. You eat cock.”
He came down her throat with a guttural snarl, holding her nose against his pelvis, forcing her to swallow every pulse of his release. When he released her, she collapsed against his thigh, gasping, coughing, her face a mess of tears and cum. Oscar withdrew his fingers from her ass with a wet sound and wiped them on her cheek. “Good girl,” he purred. “Now you’re ready for the track.”
They dressed her like a doll.
Oscar produced a Red Bull race suit that had been retrieved from her hotel suite by someone they trusted—one of their own mechanics, perhaps, or a staff member they had bought. But they modified her. They did not let her wear underwear. Her cunt and ass were to be bare, raw, constantly aware. They zipped her into the suit, and the tight Nomex pressed against her bruised flesh like a second skin, a constant pressure that made her whine. Lando knelt and laced her boots, an act of false servitude that only emphasized his ownership. Oscar brushed her hair, pulling it back into a ponytail, and then he produced a silk scarf—a pale blue, the colour of her eyes—and tied it around her neck. It was not for fashion. It was to hide the bite marks and bruises that would otherwise scream their secrets to the paddock.
They fed her nothing. She would take only what they gave her, and today, they gave her only water from a bottle that Oscar held to her lips. She sipped like a baby bird, her eyes glazed, and when a drop spilled down her chin, Lando caught it with his thumb and pushed it back into her mouth. “Waste nothing,” he murmured. “Daddy’s resources are precious.”
The drive to Albert Park was a cage of black leather and tinted glass. She sat between them in the rear of the SUV, her small body dwarfed by their muscular frames, Floppy hidden in her kit bag at their feet. They would not let her hold him in the car. “You be a big girl for the cameras,” Lando instructed, his hand resting on her thigh, his fingers inching upward to press against the seam of her suit where it bit into her cunt. “And when you’re done, you come back to Daddy. No talking to Max unless it’s about the car. No smiling at engineers. No existing outside of us. Do you understand?”
She nodded, trembling.
Oscar leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. “If you disobey,” he whispered, “we take Floppy to the incinerator. And we make you watch.”
The paddock was a cathedral of noise.
Albert Park roared to life on Friday morning, the grandstands filling with the faithful, the air saturated with tyre smoke and the metallic shriek of engines. The Red Bull Racing garage gleamed in its navy and livery, a temple of precision and power. When the SUV door opened, the heat hit her like a physical blow, and she stepped out on unsteady legs, her blue eyes wide and glassy, her small figure swallowed by the oversized team jacket they had thrown over her shoulders.
Max Verstappen was waiting.
He stood at the garage entrance, his own race suit unzipped to the waist, his arms crossed over his chest. The Dutchman was compact, coiled, radiating the lethal focus that had made him a world champion. But when he saw her, his expression shifted. He moved toward her, intercepting her before she could take three steps.
“Hey,” he said, his voice low and concerned. He reached out, his hand cupping her elbow. “You look like shit. Where were you last night? I called your hotel room. You didn’t answer.”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her eyes darted past him, searching frantically, and she found Lando and Oscar emerging from the SUV behind her. Lando gave her a look—a single, dark glance that froze the blood in her veins. She felt it in her cunt, in her ass, a Pavlovian spike of fear and obedience.
“I… I was…” she stammered, her voice tiny, childish. She clutched the strap of her kit bag, where Floppy waited. “I was safe, Max.”
Max’s eyes narrowed. He reached out and adjusted the silk scarf at her neck, and when his fingers brushed the fabric aside, he caught a glimpse of the bruising beneath—a violent, purple-black wreath of teeth and suction. His jaw tightened. He looked over her head at the McLaren drivers, who had stopped a few meters away, watching with predatory patience.
“What the fuck happened to her neck?” Max demanded, his voice sharpening. He stepped closer to Lando, his posture aggressive. “Did you two do something?”
Lando smiled. It was a cold, aristocratic expression, the smile of a man who owned the ground beneath Max’s feet. “We took care of her,” he said simply. “She had a panic attack after media day. Cried herself sick. Oscar and I kept her company. You know how she is, Max. Fragile. She needs… guidance.”
Max looked down at her. She was shaking, her eyes filling with tears, her lower lip trembling. She looked exactly like what Lando described—a broken little thing who needed saving. But there was something in her posture, a submissive tilt of her hips toward Lando, that made Max’s stomach turn.
“Hey,” Max said, softer now. “Look at me. Did they hurt you?”
She looked up at him. Her big blue eyes were swimming. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to collapse into his arms and wail like the child she had become. But Oscar cleared his throat, a soft, warning sound, and her hand twitched toward her bag. Floppy. They had Floppy. They had everything.
“No,” she lied, her voice breaking. “They were… nice. Daddy was nice.”
Max went very still.
The word hung in the air like a blade. She realized what she had said too late, her face crumpling, a fresh sob escaping her. Max’s eyes snapped to Lando, and then to Oscar, and something dark and understanding began to kindle in his gaze—something furious, protective, and far too late.
“Get to the car,” Max said quietly, his hand gripping her shoulder. “We need to talk after FP1.”
He turned and walked her into the garage, but she felt the eyes of Lando and Oscar burning into her back, a promise and a threat. She felt them in the seat of her race suit as she climbed into the RB22, the Nomex pressing against her bruised, empty holes, reminding her with every shift that she was stuffed with their memory even if she was empty of their flesh.
FP1 was a blur of dissociation and pain.
The Melbourne circuit was a ribbon of violence—tight chicanes, blistering straights, curbs that hammered the suspension and sent shocks through the spine. For her, every impact was a reminder. Every curb at Turn 9 was Lando’s cock ramming her cervix. Every long sweep of the steering wheel through Turn 11 was Oscar’s fingers hooking in her ass. She drove in a fugue state, her visor streaked with tears she didn’t remember crying, her hands moving on instinct born from thousands of hours of karting and trauma alike. She was fast. She was terrifyingly fast, because she had stopped thinking. She had become a vessel, an object moving through space, owned by the men who had hollowed her out and filled her with their will.
When she pitted, her lap times were third on the board. Max was waiting. He unbuckled her, pulling her from the cockpit, and his hands stopped when he felt the tremors racing through her body. “Hey,” he said urgently. “You’re crying. You’re crying in the car. What the hell is going on?”
She couldn’t answer. The garage was too loud. The cameras were too close. The world was too bright, too big, too much. She felt the overstimulation cresting like a wave, her breath hitching, her vision tunnelling. She needed Floppy. She needed to be small. She needed Daddy.
Lando and Oscar appeared at the garage entrance. They did not cross the threshold—they knew better than to trespass on Red Bull territory openly—but they stood in the paddock lane, their arms crossed, their six-foot-plus frames casting shadows that seemed to stretch across the entire garage and swallow her whole.
She saw them. Her mind broke.
She began to cry in earnest, not the quiet tears of an adult but the full, childlike wail of a girl who had lost her way. She dropped to her knees on the concrete floor of the garage, her helmet still half-on, her small fists beating against her thighs, her body convulsing with sobs. “Want Daddy!” she screamed, the words tearing out of her in a pitch of pure regression. “Want Daddy! Don’t want the car! Too loud! Too loud! Want Floppy!”
Max froze, his face a mask of horror and fury. The Red Bull engineers stepped back, confused and frightened. And in the doorway, Lando began to walk forward, his race boots clicking with the sound of ownership.
“Let me,” he said to Max, his voice smooth as silk. “We know how to handle her.”
Max stepped in front of him. “Like hell,” he snarled. “You’ve done something to her. You’ve fucked her up. I’m taking her to the medical centre.”
Oscar moved then, faster than a man his size should move. He stepped into the garage, his hand landing on Max’s shoulder with a grip of iron. “You’re her teammate,” Oscar said softly, dangerously. “Not her keeper. Not her family. She chose to come with us. She’s choosing it again. Look at her.”
They all looked. She was on her knees, her face buried in her hands, her body rocking. But when Lando knelt and opened his arms, she went to him. She crawled. She fucking crawled across the garage floor, her race suit dragging, her helmet clattering, and she collapsed into Lando’s chest, burying her face in his McLaren kit, inhaling the scent of the man who had destroyed her as if it was oxygen.
Max looked sick.
Lando lifted her, cradling her against his shoulder. He looked at Max with a gaze of absolute, imperial victory. “We’ll bring her back for FP2,” he said. “Rest her. Feed her. Take care of her. The way you can’t.”
He carried her out of the garage. Oscar followed, and the paddock parted for them like a sea of black and papaya, the cameras catching glimpses of the girl in the Red Bull suit being borne away by a McLaren driver, her small body limp and surrendered.
The McLaren motorhome was dark and cool, a sanctuary of leather and silence. They laid her on the couch—the same couch where it had begun—and she immediately curled into a ball, her thumb finding her mouth, her eyes vacant. Lando removed her helmet. Oscar retrieved her bag and produced Floppy. He placed the bunny in her arms, and she clutched him, pressing her face into his frayed ear, her sobs subsiding into wet hiccups.
“There,” Lando crooned, stroking her damp hair. “There’s Daddy’s good girl. You came back. You always come back.”
Oscar locked the door. He pulled the blackout blinds. The motorhome became a tomb of luxury, the only light the dim amber of recessed LEDs that caught the gold stitching on the furniture and the sweat on her pale skin. They stood over her, two towering predators in their prime, their cocks already hard and straining against their race suits, their eyes devouring the sight of their broken doll.
“We need to make sure she remembers,” Lando said, unzipping his suit. “We need to make sure she can’t walk back to that garage without feeling us in every step.”
Oscar knelt. He pulled at the zipper of her race suit, the Red Bull livery parting like a wound, revealing her naked, bruised flesh beneath. She was so small inside the suit, a doll made of porcelain and damage. He spread her legs, his hands gripping her thin thighs, and he looked at her cunt—swollen, red, still leaking faint traces of the night before—and then at her asshole, which fluttered weakly, ruined and gaping.
“Both today,” Oscar said, his voice guttural. “She’s ready. We’ve prepped her enough. I want to feel her tear around us while she screams. I want her to know there’s no part of her we don’t own.”
Lando positioned himself behind her on the couch, hauling her limp body up by the waist until her back was against his chest, her legs draped over his thighs, her holes exposed and lifted. He was naked now, his muscular frame a wall of heat and power, his cock like a weapon resting against her lower back. Oscar stripped in front of her, his body a golden, chiselled monument to masculine dominance, his cock thick and weeping. He produced a bottle of oil—something from the motorhome’s bathroom, absurdly expensive—and poured it over her cunt and ass until she was dripping, shining, obscene.
She whimpered, sensing what was coming. Her mind tried to retreat further, but there was nowhere left to go. She was fully present in her regression, sucking her thumb around Floppy’s ear, her blue eyes wide and glassy. “Daddy,” she whispered, not knowing which one she addressed. “Please. Too big. Too much. I’ll be good. I’ll be good.”
“You’re about to be better,” Lando growled.
He lifted her by the hips. He positioned her over his cock, the head kissing her torn asshole. She wailed, trying to throw her tantrum, trying to kick, but his hands were iron bands on her waist. He lowered her. The penetration was a massacre. Her ass had not recovered from the night before, and now he was forcing her to take him again, gravity working against her as he impaled her inch by inch on his shaft. She screamed, a raw, childlike sound, her head falling back against his shoulder, her body convulsing. He seated himself fully, his balls pressing against her cunt, his entire length buried in the burning furnace of her ass.
Oscar moved in front of her. He gripped her jaw, forcing her to look at him. “Open your mouth,” he commanded. “You’re taking both your Daddies. You’re being completed. You’re being owned.”
He pushed into her mouth, thick and salt-slick, and began to fuck her throat with the same rhythm Lando set in her ass. They lifted her between them, a human doll, impaled on both ends. Lando began to thrust upward, brutally, tearing her ass with every stroke, while Oscar held her head still and used her mouth like a sleeve. She was utterly stuffed, utterly helpless, her thin body suspended between their muscular frames. She gagged and choked, tears and snot and spit coating her face, her small hands clutching Floppy against her chest as if the bunny could save her.
But beneath the pain, beneath the terror of her own helplessness, her body betrayed her again. Lando’s hand reached around and found her clit, and he pinched it with cruel precision. The overstimulation was a white-hot explosion. She came, her body convulsing in a seizure of pleasure and agony, her ass clamping down on Lando’s cock so violently that he roared and spilled inside her, pumping her ass full of hot seed. Oscar followed seconds later, gripping her hair and emptying himself down her throat, forcing her to swallow his load while she choked and sobbed.
They did not pull out immediately. They held her there, impaled and broken, their hands stroking her trembling body with the tenderness of owners admiring their property. Lando pressed his face into her neck, inhaling the scent of her sweat and tears. Oscar pulled out of her mouth slowly, watching a strand of cum and saliva break between his cock and her swollen lips.
Lando lifted her off him with a wet, obscene sound, and they laid her back on the couch, her legs falling open, both holes gaping and leaking. She was unconscious, or nearly so, her chest heaving, her thumb in her mouth, Floppy clutched in her other hand.
They dressed her again. They cleaned her face and fixed her hair. They zipped her back into her race suit and poured water down her throat. When she woke, she was smaller than ever. She looked at them with eyes that held no will, only obedience.
Lando knelt beside her, his hand cupping her cheek. “FP2 is in two hours,” he said softly. “You’re going to go back to that garage. You’re going to smile at Max. You’re going to drive your laps. And you’re going to feel us in both your holes with every turn. You’re our little rookie. Our virgin. Our broken baby. And tonight, after the session, you’re coming back here. No hotel. No Max. No Red Bull. Just Daddy’s bed.”
Oscar handed her Floppy. He tucked the bunny into her arms and kissed her forehead, a gesture of such cold possession that it made her shiver. “We love you,” he whispered. “We own you. And we’re never letting go.”
Outside, the Melbourne sun climbed higher over Albert Park, and the engines began to scream again for FP2.
The Melbourne dusk came down like a velvet curtain, smothering the track in shades of bruised violet and racing orange. The garage lights flickered to life, harsh sodium cutting through the fading day, and she walked back into the Red Bull Bay as if wading through deep water. Every step was a negotiation with her own broken anatomy. The Nomex suit had become a prison, the seams pressing into the raw, weeping marks on her hips and thighs, the absence of underwear meaning that every shift of her weight reminded her of what Lando had pumped into her ass, what Oscar had painted across her tongue. She could feel it, hot and criminal, moving inside her with a liquid awareness that made her stomach clench. Her blue eyes were glassy, unfocused, her small hand clutching the strap of her kit bag where Floppy waited like a secret heartbeat. The silk scarf at her neck had slipped, and Max saw the bruising before she could fix it.
He was on her before she reached the cockpit for FP2.
“What the fuck did they do?” Max’s voice was a low snarl, his Dutch accent sharpening the consonants into weapons. He caught her elbow, not gently, spinning her to face him. His eyes raked over her face, her swollen lips, the scarf, the way she stood with her knees pressed together as if holding herself in. “Hey. Look at me. Look at me right now.”
She tried. She lifted her gaze, and the tears were already there, brimming, her lashes trembling. “I’m okay,” she whispered, the lie breaking apart on her tongue. “I just… I had a bad night. I’m okay, Max.”
“You’re not okay.” His hand rose, thumb brushing the edge of the scarf, and she flinched back so violently she stumbled into the sidepod of the RB22. The movement sent a bolt of pain through her cunt, her ass, and she whimpered, a high, animal sound that made the nearby engineers freeze. Max’s expression shattered. He looked toward the paddock lane where the McLaren motorhome sat like a black beetle, its windows tinted and watchful. “I’m going to kill them,” he said quietly. “I’m going to fucking kill them.”
“No!” The word came out as a shriek, a tantrum pitch, and she dropped her bag, both hands flying to her mouth. Her eyes were wide, terrified, fixed on the motorhome. “No, Max, please. Please. Don’t make them angry. Don’t take Floppy. Please.”
Max stared at her. The name meant nothing to him, but the terror did. He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a rough murmur. “They’re hurting you. Whatever they’ve threatened, whatever they’ve taken, we can get it back. Red Bull protects its own. I protect you. You’re my little sister on this team, yeah? You’re family.”
Family. The word hit her like a drug, and she swayed. She wanted to collapse into him, to let him carry her to a safe, small room where no one could touch her. But then she felt the vibration of her phone in her pocket, a silent pulse, and she knew. They were watching. They were always watching. She looked past Max toward the lane, and there, in the shadow of the tyre stacks, stood Oscar. He was in dark civilian clothes, a cashmere coat and tailored trousers that turned him into a blade of wealth, his blond hair catching the garage light. He didn’t move. He simply looked at her, and she felt the command in that look like a collar snapping shut around her throat.
“I have to go,” she breathed, ducking away from Max. “I have to drive. Please, Max. I’ll be okay.”
FP2 was a dissociative fugue.
She strapped into the car and the world vanished. The engine screamed, the steering wheel bucked in her small hands, but she was not there. She was a vessel; a doll being operated by strings pulled from the McLaren motorhome. Every curb sent a shockwave through her pelvis, every gearshift a reminder of the men who had claimed her. She drove faster than she ever had, her lap times blinking in the purple sector on the monitors, because speed was the only thing that matched the velocity of her own destruction. Max watched from the garage, his arms crossed, his face a mask of stone. He saw the way she exited the car after the session, her legs trembling, her eyes vacant. He saw Lando appear at the garage entrance, papaya polo gleaming, his smile sharp as a scalpel.
“Little rookie,” Lando called out, loud enough for the bay to hear. “Team principals’ dinner. You’re coming with us. Red Bull’s orders.”
Max stepped forward. “Like hell. She’s done for the day. She’s going back to her hotel.”
Lando’s smile didn’t waver. He reached into his pocket and produced a phone, flashing a screen at Max. “Christian says otherwise. Media obligations. She’s the story, Max. The girl on the grid. She needs to play nice with the sponsors.” The lie was silk-smooth, and Max knew it, but the phone screen showed a real message, a real number. Power, she realized dimly, was just the ability to make lies look like law. “We’ll have her back by midnight. Scout’s honour.”
Lando held out his hand. She looked at it. She looked at Max, whose face was twisted with helpless fury, and then she placed her small, trembling hand in Lando’s large, warm palm. He closed his fingers around hers, swallowing her hand completely, and led her away.
She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. If she had, she would have seen Max pulling out his own phone, his eyes burning with a protective rage that had just crossed into obsession.
The Crown Towers penthouse had been transformed into a cage of mirrors and velvet.
They entered through the private elevator, and she immediately smelled it: jasmine, oud, and money. The lights had been dimmed to a soft, amber glow that turned the marble floors into pools of liquid gold. The abstract painting in violent reds had been joined by others, a gallery of dark, erotic art that she was too dissociated to understand. Lando locked the elevator with a keycard. Oscar dimmed the last of the lights.
“Welcome home, little rookie,” Lando murmured, shrugging off his coat. He turned to her, his height towering, his shadow consuming her. “This is where you live now. The hotel room is gone. Your things are here. Red Bull thinks you’re in bed with a migraine. Max thinks you’re at a dinner. But you’re here. With Daddy.”
She stood in the centre of the foyer, five-foot-one and shrinking, her kit bag sliding from her shoulder. Oscar caught it. He opened it, and his hand emerged with Floppy. He held the bunny by one ear, examining him, then looked at her with eyes that saw her soul. “You want him?”
She nodded, tears streaming, her body beginning to tremble with the first hints of a tantrum.
“Then strip,” Oscar commanded. “Daddy wants to see what belongs to him before he gives you your toy.”
Her fingers moved automatically. She was past resistance. The zipper of her race suit descended, the Red Bull livery parting, and she peeled the heavy fabric from her thin shoulders. She was naked beneath, her pale skin a map of their violence: bruises like purple continents, bite marks like small red seas. She stood there, trembling, her small breasts rising and falling with her hitched breath, her blue eyes wide and lost. She looked twelve. She felt like nothing.
Lando made a low sound in his throat. He stepped forward, circling her, inspecting her like a collector admiring a newly acquired piece. His hand traced the bruise on her hip; the finger marks Oscar had left. He cupped her cunt, roughly, possessively, and she gasped, rising onto her toes. “Sore?” he asked softly.
“Yes, Daddy,” she whimpered.
“Good.”
They led her to the bathroom. The tub was already steaming, filled with milk and honey and something expensive that made the water look like liquid pearl. They lowered her in, and the heat was a blessing and a curse, soothing her raw flesh while making every mark scream to life. They washed her with bare hands, no sponges, their large fingers sliding over her skin, cleaning their own mess from her insides. Oscar pushed two fingers into her cunt, stirring, and she cried out, arching. “Still wet,” he observed. “Still Daddy’s little slut, even when you’re crying.”
They dried her in warmed towels and carried her to the master bedroom. The bed had been changed. Black silk was gone, replaced by white, virgin linen, a cruel joke. On the pillows lay a set of lingerie: white lace, sheer and obscene, a babydoll cut that would show everything. They dressed her like a doll, pulling the fragile lace over her head, arranging her thin limbs. The fabric was so transparent that her nipples, hard and pink, were visible through the flowers, and the lace stopped at the top of her thighs, leaving her bruised cunt and ass exposed. Then Oscar produced a collar.
It was slim, black leather, with a small silver lock and a pendant. He fastened it around her throat, and the click of the lock was the sound of a cell door closing. The pendant rested in the hollow of her throat: a tiny steering wheel, engraved with the initials L.R. and M.L.
“Little Rookie,” Lando whispered, his finger tracing the pendant. “Property of McLaren. Of Lando. Of Oscar. You wear this forever. You wear it under your race suit. You wear it when you win. You wear it when you die. And when they bury you, we’ll dig you up just to keep you.”
He lifted her and placed her on the bed. The white linen swallowed her. They positioned her on her knees, facing a massive screen that dominated the opposite wall. Oscar clicked a remote, and the screen bloomed to life: footage of FP2. Her own car, from the onboard camera, navigating the Melbourne circuit. The sound filled the room, the scream of the engine, the hiss of tyres.
“Watch,” Lando commanded, settling into an armchair at the foot of the bed. He was undressed now, his muscular body a monument to masculine power, his cock thick and heavy, resting against his stomach. “Watch yourself drive while Daddy uses you. You’re going to learn that every lap is for us. Every trophy. Every breath.”
Oscar knelt behind her on the bed. He was naked too, his body golden and brutal. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the bruises, and he pushed her face down toward the mattress, elevating her ass. She watched the screen, her own ghostly figure taking Turn 1, while Oscar positioned himself at her entrance.
He pushed into her cunt with a single, brutal thrust. She screamed, the sound lost in the engine noise from the speakers, her body jerking forward. Lando watched, his hand wrapping around his own cock, stroking slowly. “That’s it,” he growled. “Fuck her, Oscar. Fuck our little rookie while she watches herself. Make her know she’s nothing but a warm hole for Daddy.”
Oscar set a punishing pace, hammering into her from behind, his pelvis slapping against her bruised ass, his hands gripping her waist so hard she knew he was reshaping the bone. She cried, her face pressed into the white linen, tears and snot soaking the virgin lace. But on the screen, her own avatar was driving perfectly, taking the perfect line, and the dissonance shattered her mind. She was both the girl on the screen and the girl being fucked, both the driver and the doll.
Lando rose. He moved to the head of the bed, fisting his cock, and he guided her face upward with his other hand. “Open,” he ordered. “Both ends. Both Daddies. Complete her.”
He pushed into her mouth, and she was stuffed again, the familiar terror and fullness of the night before. She gagged, choked, her throat convulsing around him, and the sensation made him groan and thrust deeper. Oscar fucked her cunt with merciless precision, angling his hips so that every stroke dragged across her g-spot, forcing pleasure into the pain. She was overstimulated, overwhelmed, her small body convulsing between them. The engine noise roared. She was going to come. She was going to break.
“Come for Daddy,” Lando commanded, his voice a whip. “Come on Oscar’s cock while you choke on mine. Show us who owns this little body.”
She shattered. The orgasm was a seizure, a blackout, her body going rigid and then limp, her cunt clamping down on Oscar so violently that he cursed and spilled inside her, pumping her full of hot seed. Lando pulled out of her mouth and spilled across her face, her hair, the white lace, marking her with thick ropes of cum. She collapsed into the mattress, twitching, her eyes rolling back, the screen still playing her own lap, the ghost of her former self racing around Melbourne while the real her was drowned in seed and tears.
Lando stroked her hair. Oscar stayed inside her, softening but still claiming. They held her there, impaled and broken, until the screen faded to black.
Then, a sound. Not from the screen. From the door.
Pounding. Furious, rhythmic, the sound of a fist against mahogany.
“*HEY!” Max’s voice, distorted by rage and panic, cut through the haze of the room. “OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR! I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!*”
Oscar pulled out slowly. Lando rose, his body glistening, and he walked to the door with a calm that was obscene. He didn’t open it. He simply pressed the intercom.
“Go away, Max,” Lando said softly, his voice carrying the perfect confidence of a man who has already won. “She’s sleeping. Daddy’s got her.”
Max screamed something back, a threat, a promise, but Lando turned the intercom off. He walked back to the bed and gathered her into his arms. She was unconscious, cum-smeared, collared, clutching Floppy to her chest where Oscar had placed him. Lando kissed her bruised forehead.
“Tomorrow is Qualifying,” he whispered. “And Daddy’s going to watch you take pole… with our cum leaking into your seat the whole time.”
Outside, in the corridor, Max Verstappen pressed his forehead against the cold wood of the penthouse door, his hands in fists, and swore a war that had only just begun.
Max did not leave.
He pressed his forehead against the penthouse door, his hands splayed flat against the polished mahogany, his breath coming in short, furious bursts that clouded the wood. He was vibrating with a rage that had no outlet, a protective fury that had lived in him since the first day Red Bull had paired him with the girl, since he had seen her small frame swallowed by the team overalls, her blue eyes wide and uncertain as she looked up at him like he was a wall she could hide behind. He had failed her. He had let the McLaren wolves circle while he was busy polishing his own crown, and now she was on the other side of this door, wearing another man’s collar, drowning in another man’s cruelty.
“Hey,” he rasped, his voice breaking against the grain. “Please. Open the door. It’s Max. It’s your brother. Let me take you home.”
Inside, the penthouse was a cathedral of amber silence. Lando stood naked at the door, his muscular frame casting a shadow that stretched across the marble foyer, his cock still half-hard and glistening from her throat. He pressed the intercom with a single, elegant finger, his expression bored, aristocratic.
“She’s already home, Max,” Lando purred, his voice carrying the clipped, upper-class cadence of a man who had never been denied anything. “This is where she belongs. Where she’s always belonged. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Max slammed his fist against the door. The sound was a gunshot in the corridor. “I’m going to fucking kill you, Norris. I’ll bury you. I’ll bury both of you.”
Lando smiled. He looked over his shoulder at the bedroom, where Oscar was arranging her on the white linen, positioning her like a centrepiece. She was still in the cum-stained lace babydoll, the black leather collar gleaming at her throat, her blue eyes glassy and unfocused. Her thumb was lodged in her mouth. Floppy was pressed against her cheek. She had not reacted to Max’s voice. She had regressed past the point of language, past the point of rescue.
Lando reached for the door handle. He turned it slowly, deliberately, and opened the gap just six inches. The security chain caught, glinting like a blade. Through the sliver of space, the amber light of the penthouse spilled into the corridor, and Max looked.
He saw her.
She was on her knees on the bed, facing the door because Oscar had turned her. The lace was transparent, showing every bruise, every bite, the smear of seed across her inner thighs. The collar was locked. Her small breasts were rising and falling with shallow, hitched breaths. She looked up, and for a moment, her eyes found Max. There was no recognition. Only a void of childlike confusion. Then Lando stepped into the frame, blocking the view, and she did something that broke Max’s heart with a clean, surgical snap.
She whimpered. She reached past Lando, her small hand trembling, and she gripped the back of Lando’s thigh. She pressed her face against his hip, nuzzling him like a kitten seeking warmth, and she made a sound—a high, needy, possessive whine. “Daddy,” she mumbled around her thumb. “Don’t let him take me. Please. Want to stay with Daddy.”
Max went still.
Lando looked down at her with a smile that was almost tender. He stroked her hair, his fingers tunnelling through the matted brunette waves, and he looked back at Max through the gap. “You see?” he said softly. “She’s home. She’s safe. She’s exactly where she wants to be.”
Max’s face crumpled. He reached through the gap, his hand grasping at air, at her, at anything. “Baby, please—”
Oscar appeared behind Lando. He was naked, his body a brutal architecture of muscle and sinew, his blond hair catching the light like a halo over a devil. He held a phone in his hand. On the screen, a video was playing: Max’s own voice from the corridor, screaming threats. “I’ll bury you.” The words were clear, violent, recorded.
“Go away, Max,” Oscar said quietly, his voice colder than the marble beneath their feet. “Or we’ll release this. We’ll show the world that Max Verstappen is a violent, unhinged brute who threatens rival drivers over a consensual relationship. We’ll show them the medical records. The instability. The childhood trauma. We’ll show them that she is a fragile, damaged little girl who needs protection—from you.”
Max’s hand dropped. He staggered back, his face pale. He understood, then, the depth of the trap. They had not just taken her body. They had built a cage of evidence, a fortress of lies so perfectly constructed that any attempt to save her would bury her alive. He looked at her one last time, and she was hiding her face in Lando’s hip, her body curled away from the door, her small form shaking with silent sobs that were not for him, but for the fear that her Daddy might hand her over.
“Please,” Max whispered, the word dissolving into nothing.
Oscar closed the door. The lock clicked.
She screamed.
It was not a scream of pain, but of release—a tantrum, a child’s wail of terror and relief, her body convulsing as the overstimulation of the confrontation finally shattered what was left of her adult mind. She threw herself back onto the mattress, her small fists beating the linen, her legs kicking in useless, weak arcs, her face screwing up into a mask of pure, regressed anguish. “Don’t let him take Floppy!” she shrieked, the pitch piercing, inhuman. “Don’t let him take me! I’m Daddy’s! I’m Daddy’s little rookie!”
Lando moved with the speed of a man who had been waiting for this. He was on the bed in an instant, gathering her thrashing body into his arms, pinning her wrists behind her back with one hand while the other gripped her jaw. He forced her to look at him, his face filling her entire vision, his brown eyes burning with a dark, obsessive fire. “Hush,” he commanded, his voice a whip wrapped in velvet. “No one is taking you. No one is taking Floppy. You’re Daddy’s. Say it again.”
“I’m Daddy’s!” she sobbed, her body going limp in his grip, the fight draining out of her as quickly as it had come. “I’m Daddy’s little rookie. Please, Daddy. Please don’t let him in.”
Oscar climbed onto the bed behind her. He was still naked, his cock thick and heavy, already weeping with arousal at the sight of her tantrum. He loved the tantrums. He loved the way she broke, the way she reverted, the way she became a thing that could only be soothed by the very men who caused the pain. He reached for a bottle on the nightstand—something in crystal, filled with golden oil—and he poured it over his fingers. “She’s too tense,” he murmured, his voice clinical and cruel. “She needs to be prepared for tomorrow. She needs to wear Daddy inside her when she takes pole.”
Lando flipped her effortlessly. He arranged her on her stomach, her face pressed into the white linen, her small ass elevated by a pillow he shoved beneath her hips. The lace babydoll was rucked up around her waist, exposing her completely. Her cunt was still gaping, still leaking the remnants of their earlier use, a pink, ruined flower. But above it, her asshole was the target. It was red, swollen, torn from the night before, fluttering weakly.
Oscar poured oil directly onto the broken hole. It was cold, and she gasped, her hands flying back to push him away. Lando caught them. He pinned her wrists to the small of her back, leaning his weight over her so that his cock, hard and hot, pressed against her bruised thigh. “No,” he said into her ear. “You don’t push Daddy away. You take it. You take everything Daddy gives you, because Daddy knows what his little rookie needs.”
Oscar pushed one finger in. She screamed into the mattress, her body bucking, but he was relentless. He worked the finger deep, twisting, scissoring, stretching the torn muscle while Lando held her down and whispered filth into her ear. “Tomorrow you’re going to sit in that Red Bull car, and you’re going to feel Daddy’s cum in this tight little ass. You’re going to take every curb, every g-force, and it’s going to feel like Daddy is fucking you all over again. You’re going to win pole for us. Because you’re ours. Because without us, you’re nothing but a scared little girl who can’t even talk to a journalist.”
He added a second finger. She sobbed, her face soaked, her body trembling. Then he added a third, and she was stretched wide, her asshole burning, the skin white and shiny around his knuckles. He fucked her with his fingers, a brutal, rhythmic preparation, until she was loose and gaping and weeping continuously.
Then he withdrew, and he produced the plug.
It was a work of obscene luxury. Black obsidian, polished to a mirror sheen, set in a platinum base that held a single, blood-red ruby. It was the size of a large fist, thick and tapered, and it caught the light like a weapon. Oscar poured more oil over it, letting it drip between his fingers, and he pressed the cold, hard tip against her ruined entrance.
“Breathe,” Lando commanded. “Push out. Let Daddy in.”
She pushed. She was too broken to disobey. Oscar bore down, and the plug began to enter her, spreading her wider than she had ever been spread, the obsidian unforgiving and slick. She howled, a long, rising wail that sounded like a child being torn apart, her hands clawing at the sheets, her back arching. Lando held her down, his face pressed against her neck, inhaling the scent of her terror. “Good girl,” he growled. “Take it. Take Daddy’s jewel. You’re going to wear this to bed. You’re going to wear it to the track. You’re going to wear it until Daddy says you can stop.”
The plug seated with a wet, obscene pop. The ruby base settled against her skin, a brand of wealth and ownership, visible between her bruised cheeks. She collapsed, panting, her body twitching, her mind completely gone. Lando turned her over, and she looked up at them with eyes that held no person, only obedience.
“Sleep now,” Lando whispered, curling around her from behind.
Oscar curled around her front, pressing his hard cock against her stomach, his arm throwing over her waist. They caged her between their muscular, six-foot-plus frames, two walls of heat and power, and they placed Floppy in her arms. She clutched him, sucking her thumb, her body vibrating with the foreign pressure of the plug in her ass. They fell asleep like that, their property, their little rookie, locked in a cage of flesh and silk.
The morning of Qualifying came wrapped in a sky of iron grey.
Albert Park was a different beast on a Saturday. The grandstands were swollen, the air electric with the anticipation of speed, the paddock a labyrinth of chrome and carbon fibre and corporate power. But she did not enter through the public gates. She arrived in the black McLaren SUV, seated between Lando and Oscar in the rear, her small body swallowed by an oversized McLaren team jacket that they had put on her. Beneath it, she wore nothing except the collar and the plug.
She was dissociated, floating in a warm, small bubble where the world was just the scent of Lando’s cologne and the vibration of the obsidian plug shifting with every pothole. She had her thumb in her mouth. Floppy was in her lap. Oscar stroked her hair while Lando reviewed telemetry on his tablet, his other hand resting possessively on her inner thigh, his fingers inches from the heat of her unprotected cunt.
“Today you take pole,” Lando said, not looking at her. “And when you do, Daddy is going to reward you. You’re going to come to the motorhome, and we’re going to fuck you on the trophy. Do you understand?”
She nodded, her thumb muffling her voice. “Yes, Daddy.”
The garage was a cathedral of controlled chaos. Red Bull mechanics swarmed the RB22, and Max was there, his face a mask of sleepless fury. He had not shaved. His eyes were red-rimmed. When she stepped out of the SUV, flanked by the McLaren drivers, he moved toward her with the speed of a man possessed.
“Hey,” Max said, his voice rough. He reached for her elbow.
She flinched. She recoiled so violently she stumbled into Lando’s chest, and a high, keening sound escaped her throat—a tantrum pitch, the sound of a regressed child terrified of a stranger. Her hands flew to the zipper of the McLaren jacket, pulling it higher, hiding the collar. Her eyes were huge, swimming with tears, her lower lip trembling. “Don’t,” she whimpered. “Don’t touch. Daddy. Daddy!”
Max froze.
The garage went silent. Mechanics looked up. A photographer near the pit wall turned, lens swinging.
Lando smiled. He wrapped his arm around her waist, his hand splaying across her lower back, his fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of her jeans—because they had allowed her to wear jeans, but nothing beneath them, the plug shifting with every step. “She’s having a difficult morning, Max,” Lando said, his voice smooth and loud enough to carry. “Panic attack. You know how she is. Fragile. We’re taking care of her.”
Max looked at her face. He saw the collar, the black leather just visible above the zipper line. He saw the bruise on her jaw, the shadow of a thumbprint. He saw the way she was leaning into Lando, not away, her body language screaming submission, her blue eyes fixed on the ground with a vacancy that was worse than any bruise. He understood, in that moment, that she was no longer the girl he had sworn to protect. She was a doll with its strings cut, and the men holding the strings were standing right in front of him, smiling.
“Let’s go, little rookie,” Oscar murmured, taking her other hand.
They walked her toward the McLaren motorhome, not the Red Bull garage, and she went with them without a backward glance. Max stood in the centre of the garage, his fists clenched, his heart hammering a rhythm of war.
Qualifying was a sacrament of pain.
They did not let her remove the plug. They had modified it, or so they claimed, with a remote mechanism that could send a vibration through the obsidian with the press of a button. Lando held the remote in his pocket as he sat on the pit wall with Oscar, watching the monitors. She was strapped into the RB22, her small body compressed by the harness, her helmet visor down. She should have been focused on the track. But every time she exited the pits, every time she built speed down the main straight, Lando pressed the button.
The plug vibrated.
It was a low, rumbling pulse that resonated through her pelvic bone, shaking the plug in her torn asshole, pressing against the walls of her rectum, sending shockwaves into her cunt. She screamed inside her helmet, a sound lost in the engine’s shriek, her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Through Turn 1, the lateral g-force pressed her into the seat, and the plug shifted, the ruby base grinding against her bruised flesh. Lando pressed the button again. She took the curb at Turn 9 too hard, her body bouncing, and the plug rammed deeper, a bolt of lightning that made her vision blur. She was crying in the helmet, her tears pooling in the padding, her breath hitching in the microphone that broadcast to the engineers.
“Hey, you’re breathing heavy,” Max’s voice crackled in her ear. “Are you okay? Come in if you need to.”
She couldn’t answer. Lando pressed the button again, and she took the final sector with a howl of pain and ecstasy that no one heard. She crossed the line, and the monitors blazed purple.
P1. 1:15.847.
She had taken pole position.
By the time she pitted, she was sobbing. Her body was convulsing, overstimulated beyond endurance, the plug still vibrating with a low, merciless hum. The mechanics unbuckled her, and she fell into the cockpit, her small hands beating weakly against the steering wheel. Max was there, pulling her helmet off, and he saw her face—red, swollen, tears streaming, her mouth open in a silent, endless wail.
“Hey!” Max gripped her shoulders. “What is it? What did they do to you?”
She looked at him, and she looked through him. Her hand reached out, not to him, but to the figure standing behind him. Lando.
“Daddy,” she sobbed, her voice carrying across the garage. “Daddy, please. It hurts. Take it out. Please. I was good. I won for Daddy. I won…”
Max’s face drained of blood.
Lando stepped forward, gently but firmly moving Max aside. “Panic attack,” he repeated, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “Poor thing. She gets confused. We’ll take her to rest. Come, little rookie. Daddy’s got you.”
He lifted her out of the car. Lando carried her out of the garage, her body limp, her face buried in his neck, her breath hitching “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy” like a broken prayer.
Max stood in the garage, the pole position time glowing on the screen behind him, and he felt the world tilt on its axis.
They took her to the McLaren motorhome.
The interior was dim, the blackout blinds drawn, the air thick with sandalwood and the scent of victory. They laid her on the same leather couch where it had begun, and she lay there, twitching, her jeans peeled down to her knees, the obsidian plug winking between her cheeks like a bloody eye. Lando undressed slowly, methodically, his race suit stripped away to reveal the body of a god who had conquered. Oscar produced a bottle of champagne—something that cost more than a season’s worth of engines—and he popped the cork with a sound like a gunshot.
“Pole position,” Lando said, his voice soft and terrible. He knelt between her legs, his fingers tracing the ruby base of the plug. “Our little rookie is the fastest girl in the world. And now Daddy gets his reward.”
He pulled the plug.
She screamed, her asshole gaping, red and ruined, and Lando did not hesitate. He mounted her, his cock slick and massive, and he drove into her ass with a single, brutal stroke. She was loose from the plug, but he was larger, and the stretch still burned, still tore. Oscar climbed over her chest, pinning her shoulders, and he poured champagne over her breasts, the cold liquid making her nipples scream to life, before he leaned down and sucked it from her skin, biting, bruising. He fisted his cock and dragged it across her face, painting her lips with pre-cum.
“Open,” he commanded. “Daddy wants a champagne toast.”
He pushed into her mouth as Lando began to pound her ass, the two of them finding a rhythm that shook the motorhome, that made the crystal decanters rattle in their cabinets. She was limp, a ragdoll, her eyes rolled back, her throat working automatically around Oscar’s cock, her ass convulsing around Lando’s shaft. She was their trophy. Their pole-sitter. Their little rookie, broken and rebuilt in their image.
Lando came first, roaring, emptying himself into her ass for the third time in twenty-four hours. Oscar followed, pulling out to spill across her face, her closed eyes, her open mouth, mixing his seed with the champagne and the tears until she was glazed, unrecognizable, a monument to their ownership.
They collapsed beside her, one on each side, their muscular arms throwing over her tiny, trembling frame. Lando reached for Floppy and tucked him into her limp hands. Oscar wiped the cum from her eyes with a silk handkerchief.
“Tomorrow,” Lando whispered into her hair, “is the race. And when you win, little rookie, Daddy is going to breed you. We’re going to fill this virgin cunt with our seed until you swell with it. Until everyone knows you belong to us. Until Max Verstappen looks at you and sees a McLaren princess, carrying Daddy’s child.”
She whimpered, clutching Floppy, her body throbbing, her mind gone. She was theirs. Pole position. Collared. Filled. Owned.
Outside, the Melbourne sun set on the eve of the Grand Prix, and Max Verstappen stood in the shadow of the Red Bull garage, looking at the McLaren motorhome with eyes that had gone cold enough to burn. He had seen the collar. He had heard the word. And he knew, with a certainty that settled in his bones like frost, that the war for her soul had only just begun.
The night before the race was not a night at all. It was an eternity of amber half-light and liquid cruelty, a deliberate erasure of time inside the Crown Towers penthouse. Lando had ordered the blackout blinds sealed with electrical tape, and the recessed LEDs were dialled to a colour temperature that mimicked perpetual dusk, so that she could not know whether it was midnight or dawn. She existed in a state of suspended regression, a broken clockwork doll wound and unwound by their hands. They did not let her sleep. Not truly. They allowed her to collapse into blackness for twenty minutes, forty, just long enough for her body to crave the escape, and then Oscar would wake her with his fingers in her ass, or Lando would rouse her by pressing his cock against her lips, feeding her his salt-thick taste as if it were medicine. “Daddy’s checking on his little rookie,” Lando would whisper, his voice a silk noose. “Making sure all her holes are still ready for the race.”
By the time the artificial morning arrived, she was no longer a person. She was a nerve ending wrapped in pale skin. Her blue eyes had lost the ability to focus on anything farther than Lando’s chest. Her voice had dissolved into a repertoire of three sounds: a whimper, a sob, and the word Daddy, slurred around her thumb or their cocks. They had bathed her again at some point in the false night, lowering her into water so hot it turned her thin legs pink, and while she floated, Oscar had shaved her cunt completely. He had used a straight razor, the kind of heirloom instrument that belonged in a barber’s shop for billionaires, and he had worked with a slow, terrifying precision. Lando held her knees open, pinned back against her chest, so that she was utterly displayed while the cold steel kissed her mound. She was too afraid to move. One tear had escaped, rolling down her temple into the bathwater, and Oscar had caught it on his fingertip and sucked it clean. “Smooth,” he had observed, his thumb dragging over the bare, swollen lips of her pussy. “This is how Daddy likes his little rookie. Bare and marked. No hair to hide anything. No dignity to hide behind.”
They had used her ass twice more in the night, but her cunt remained a sealed, denied temple. Lando had fingered her there, plunging two thick digits into her wet, virgin-tight heat, but every time she arched toward orgasm, every time her body begged for completion, he had stopped. He had slapped her clit, sharp and cruel, making her shriek and curl into a ball. “Not yet,” he had growled. “That hole is for tomorrow. That hole is for your victory prize. You win the race, and Daddy floods you. You earn your breeding, little rookie. You don’t get it for free.”
Now it was Sunday. Race day.
The Albert Park circuit had been transformed into a colosseum of noise, a hundred thousand voices rising into a sky the colour of bruised plums. The heat was oppressive, wet and tropical, turning the asphalt into a skillet that shimmered with mirages. The paddock was a riot of colour and power: the Ferrari motorhome gleaming like a blood-red sarcophagus, the Mercedes lounge a cathedral of silver and glass, and at the centre of it all, the McLaren compound, black and papaya, radiating a dark gravity that seemed to pull her toward it by the marrow.
She arrived in the SUV wearing a McLaren team polo that swam on her, the hem falling to mid-thigh, and beneath it, nothing. Absolutely nothing. The obsidian plug had been removed at dawn, but only so that Lando could re-enter her with his own cock one final time, a brutal, claiming stroke that left her ass full of his spend as they dressed her. She was to drive with him inside her. She was to feel the leakage of his seed with every shift of her weight, every lateral g-force. Her cunt was bare, swollen, and denied, aching with a need she could not name. The collar remained, hidden beneath a silk scarf that Oscar had tied with a knot she could not reach. And in her small hands, clutched against her chest, was Floppy. They had allowed it. They knew she would not function without the bunny, and today, function was essential.
Max was waiting at the Red Bull garage entrance. He looked like a man who had not slept, his face shadowed with stubble, his eyes burning with a fury that had calcified into something surgical and cold. He wore his race suit unzipped, his gloves in his hands, and when she stepped from the SUV on legs that trembled visibly, he moved toward her with the single-minded focus of a missile.
“Hey,” he said, his voice rough. He reached for her elbow. “Look at me. Just look at me. We’re going to get through the race, and then I’m taking you out of here. I’ve made calls. I have proof. I—”
She flinched. Her entire body convulsed away from him, a recoil so violent that she stumbled backward into Lando’s chest. Lando’s hands came up to steady her, but they did not steady—they claimed. His large palms splayed across her stomach, pulling her back against his groin, his fingers dipping beneath the hem of the polo to stroke the bare, swollen lips of her denied cunt. She gasped, a high, broken sound, and her eyes filled with tears that spilled over instantly. “No,” she whimpered, her voice tiny and cracked. “No. Don’t touch. Daddy. Daddy!”
The garage went silent. Mechanics froze. A group of FIA officials passing by turned their heads.
Max’s face shattered. He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a lethal whisper. “He’s got his fingers on you,” Max snarled. “Right now, in front of everyone, he’s touching you. And you’re thanking him. Baby, please—”
Lando smiled, his chin resting on top of her head, his height swallowing her completely. “She’s overstimulated, Max,” he said, his voice carrying with a practiced, patronizing sympathy. “You know the history. The trauma. The regression. She needs familiarity. She needs safety. And you’re crowding her.” His fingers pressed harder against her cunt, parting her lips, stroking her clit with a subtle, possessive motion that made her knees buckle. She moaned, a wet, pathetic sound, and pressed her ass back into Lando’s groin, grinding against him like a trained animal seeking approval. “See?” Lando purred. “She’s calming down. Daddy’s got her.”
Oscar stepped forward, blocking Max’s view with his broad, suited frame. He reached out and adjusted the silk scarf at her neck, his fingers brushing the leather collar beneath, ensuring the lock was hidden. “You should worry about your own race, Max,” Oscar said softly. “Your little sister is in good hands. The best hands. She’s going to win today. And then she’s going to get everything she deserves.”
Max’s fists clenched. He looked at her face, searching for the girl he had sworn to protect, but she was not there. In her place was a hollow-eyed doll, her blue irises flooded with tears, her lower lip trembling, her body subtly humping against Lando’s hand while she clutched her stuffed bunny to her chest like a shield. She looked twelve. She looked broken. She looked like she belonged to them.
“Grid walk in twenty minutes,” Max said quietly, the words barely escaping his locked jaw. “I’ll see you out there. Remember who you are.”
He turned and walked into the garage. She watched him go, and a sob escaped her, because some part of her, buried deep beneath the layers of trauma and conditioning, recognized that she was watching her last hope walk away. But then Lando pinched her clit, hard, and the thought evaporated into a scream of pain and obedience.
They took her to the McLaren motorhome first.
The interior was dark, cool, a sanctuary of black leather and gold-threaded velvet. The mirrors had been covered with sheets, so she could not see herself, could not witness the regression that had stolen her face. They laid her on the couch and peeled the polo from her body. She was naked, trembling, her thin legs falling open automatically because she had learned that resistance only brought more pain. Lando knelt between her thighs. He was already hard, his cock thick and dark, straining against his tailored trousers. He freed himself, and the sight of it made her whimper, her hands flying to cover her face. Oscar caught her wrists and pinned them above her head with one hand.
“No,” Lando commanded. “You watch. You watch Daddy prepare you for the race. You watch what you’re driving for.”
He entered her ass in one stroke. She was loose from the night’s abuse, but the sudden fullness still made her shriek, her back arching off the leather. He fucked her with short, brutal thrusts, his pelvis slapping against her bruised cheeks, his hands gripping her waist so hard she knew he was leaving fresh marks to complement the old. He was not seeking pleasure. He was seeking depth. He was planting himself in her ass so that she would carry him onto the track, so that every lap would be a memorial to his cock inside her. He came with a roar, grinding into her, his seed flooding her torn passage in thick, hot pulses. When he pulled out, the cum leaked immediately, a white, obscene trail sliding down her perineum to pool on the leather beneath her.
“Keep it in,” Lando ordered, wiping himself on her inner thigh. “You hold Daddy inside you until the checkered flag. You clench that little ass, and you keep me there. If you leak too much, if you lose Daddy on the track…” He leaned down, his face filling her vision. “…I’ll burn Floppy in front of you. I’ll make you watch him melt.”
She nodded frantically, her face a mask of terror and devotion. “Yes, Daddy. I’ll keep it. I’ll be tight. I’ll be good.”
Oscar produced the plug. It was the obsidian one, but modified. He poured oil over it, the golden liquid dripping onto the black stone, and he pressed it against her gaping, cum-slicked hole. “This stays in during the race,” he said. “Not all the time. Just when you need reminding. When you start to think you’re a driver instead of a doll. Daddy will press the button…” He held up a remote, sleek and silver, matching the one Lando had used in qualifying. “…and you’ll feel it. You’ll feel us. And you’ll remember who owns the girl in the Red Bull car.”
He pushed the plug in. She screamed, but the sound was muffled by Lando’s hand over her mouth. The plug seated with a wet, final pop, the ruby base nestling between her cheeks. They dressed her in her race suit, the Red Bull livery a cruel irony, zipping her up over the hidden collar and the stuffed plug. They put her boots on her feet. They placed her helmet in her hands, and then Oscar knelt and tucked Floppy into a small, hidden pocket inside the suit, over her heart.
“Race time, little rookie,” Lando whispered, stroking her cheek. “Win for Daddy. Win for your breeding.”
The grid was a furnace of noise and light.
She stood beside her car, five-foot-one in a world of giants, her helmet under her arm, her blue eyes staring blankly at the asphalt. The plug was a stone of fire in her ass, shifting with every microscopic movement, pressing against the walls of her rectum where Lando’s seed already pooled. She could feel it, hot and criminal, a liquid shame that made her stomach clench. Around her, the photographers buzzed, the crowd roared, and the other drivers prepared for war. She saw Max a few meters away, standing by his own car, his eyes fixed on her with a burning intensity that she could not process. He looked like a guardian angel who had arrived too late, his face etched with a grief that had turned to steel.
The national anthem played. She stood at attention, but she was not present. She was in the motorhome, on her knees, being filled. She was in the penthouse, being bathed and shaved and owned. When the anthem ended, she did not move until an engineer touched her shoulder, and she flinched so hard her helmet nearly dropped.
They strapped her in. The harness compressed her chest, the straps digging into her small breasts, and the sensation made her whimper inside her helmet. The engine screamed to life, a vibration that rattled through the plug and made her gasp. She led the field away on the formation lap, the RB22 responding to her inputs with the lethal precision of a machine that did not know its driver was a broken doll.
The lights went out.
The race was a dissociative blur of violence and speed. She launched off the line, the g-forces slamming her back into the seat, and the plug rammed deeper, a bolt of lightning that made her cry out inside her helmet. The sound was lost in the engine’s shriek. She took the lead into Turn 1, her driving automatic, instinctual, the muscle memory of a thousand karting laps guiding her while her mind floated in a warm, small place. She was vaguely aware of Max behind her, his car filling her mirrors, his presence a nagging thorn of reality that she could not afford to acknowledge.
On lap 12, Lando pressed the button.
The plug came alive inside her, a low, brutal vibration that resonated through her pelvic bone, shaking the seed in her ass, pressing against her g-spot through the thin wall of flesh. She screamed, a long, soundless wail inside her helmet, her hands white-knuckled on the wheel. She took the curb at Turn 9 too hard, the car bouncing, and the plug shifted, grinding against her prostate, her anus, her soul. She was crying, her vision blurred, her breath coming in hitching, desperate sobs that fogged her visor.
Max’s voice crackled in her ear. “You’re driving erratically. Come in. Box, box. Let us check the car.”
She couldn’t. Lando’s finger was on the button, and the vibration intensified, a demand that transcended language. She drove faster, harder, taking risks that were suicidal, because speed was the only way to outrun the sensation, and speed was the only thing that pleased them. She lapped cars with a ferocity that terrified the midfield. She took the checkered flag by eight seconds.
She had won the Australian Grand Prix.
The podium was a nightmare of exposure.
She stood on the top step, the trophy heavy in her small hands, her race suit damp with sweat and the secret leakage of Lando’s spend. The national anthem played, and she trembled so violently that the trophy rattled against its base. Max stood on the second step, his eyes never leaving her, his face a mask of stone and fury. When the champagne sprayed, she flinched as if struck, her body curling inward, a tantrum brewing in her chest. She did not spray her bottle. She clutched it to her chest like a second Floppy, her knuckles white, her eyes fixed on the middle distance where she knew Lando and Oscar were standing behind the barriers, watching, controlling.
The press conference was a blur of questions she could not answer. Max sat beside her, his knee pressing against hers under the table, a silent, desperate message. But Lando had told her not to speak unless it was about the car. And so, she mumbled one-word answers, her voice tiny and childish, until an FIA media manager stepped in and ended the session early, citing exhaustion.
She never made it back to the Red Bull garage.
Oscar intercepted her in the cooldown room, his hand wrapping around her upper arm with a grip that brooked no argument. Lando was waiting at the service entrance, the black SUV idling. They bundled her inside, and she collapsed against the leather, the trophy discarded on the floor like trash, her small body convulsing with the delayed tantrum of a race spent in agony. She was crying, kicking weakly, her helmet still on, and Oscar had to remove it for her, revealing a face that was swollen, red, and utterly vacant.
“Good girl,” Lando murmured from the front seat, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror. “Daddy’s good girl. You won. You earned your prize.”
The McLaren motorhome was prepared.
The mirrors were uncovered. The bed was stripped to white linen, spotless and blinding. They carried her inside and laid her in the centre, and they began to peel the race suit from her body like they were unwrapping a gift. Beneath the suit, her skin was a topography of damage: bruises like inkblots, bites like crimson constellations. The plug was removed with a wet, obscene pop, and Lando’s seed spilled out onto the white sheets, a pearly, filthy pool that marked her immediately.
She was naked. She was open. She was theirs.
Lando climbed onto the bed. He was naked, his body a monument to power, his cock thick and heavy and already weeping. He positioned himself between her legs, his hands gripping her knees and spreading them so wide it hurt her hips. He looked down at her cunt, bare and swollen and virgin-tight despite the abuse, and he smiled. “This,” he said, his voice guttural, “is the hole we’ve been saving. This is the hole that wins the trophy. This is where Daddy breeds his little rookie.”
Oscar knelt beside her head, his own cock bobbing against her cheek. He fisted her hair, turning her face toward him. “You’re going to take both of us,” he commanded. “Lando is going to fill this cunt until you overflow. And then I’m going to fill it again. And again. Until you’re dripping. Until you’re carrying. Until every engineer in that paddock looks at you in a month and sees a swollen belly and knows you belong to McLaren.”
Lando positioned himself. He dragged the head of his cock through her folds, gathering her wetness—her fear, her arousal, her degradation—and he pressed against her entrance. She was so tight, so untouched there despite everything, that he had to force himself in. She screamed, a raw, tearing sound, her back arching off the bed, her hands beating against his chest. He ignored her. He pushed deeper, inch by inch, claiming the last virgin territory of her body, tearing through the resistance of her muscles until he was seated fully, his balls pressed against her ass, his entire length buried in the furnace of her unprotected womb.
“Look at me,” Lando snarled, gripping her jaw. “Look at Daddy while he breeds you.”
He began to fuck her. Not with the brutal speed of the previous nights, but with a slow, deliberate, possessive rhythm, each thrust designed to maximize the depth of his deposit. He was fucking her to impregnate her. He was using her body for its biological purpose, reducing her from a driver to a vessel, from a person to a womb. She sobbed beneath him, her blue eyes wide and glassy, her legs trembling around his waist. Oscar held her head still and pushed his cock into her mouth, silencing her screams, filling her throat with the taste of his dominance.
They found a rhythm. Lando would thrust deep into her cunt, grinding against her cervix, and Oscar would fuck her mouth in counterpoint, using her throat as a sleeve. The room filled with the sounds of her wet choking, the slap of Lando’s pelvis against her bruised thighs, and the low, animal grunts of two men claiming their permanent prize. She was limp between them, a human conduit, her body convulsing with overstimulation, her mind regressing so deeply that she was no longer an adult, no longer a Grand Prix winner. She was a baby. A doll. A cunt and a throat and a womb, and nothing more.
Lando came first. He roared, his head falling back, his muscular frame seizing as he pumped wave after wave of hot, thick seed directly into her unprotected womb. It was a deluge, a flooding, and he stayed inside her, grinding, ensuring every drop found its mark. When he pulled out, a gush of white followed, spilling down her perineum, pooling in the sheets, marking her as bred.
Oscar did not give her a moment to breathe. He pulled out of her mouth, flipped her onto her stomach with a brutal efficiency, and dragged her hips up until her ass was elevated, her face pressed into the cum-soaked linen. He entered her cunt from behind, his cock sliding through Lando’s spend, pushing it deeper, adding his own claim to the mixture. She shrieked into the mattress, her small fists clawing at the sheets, but he was relentless. He fucked her with the brutal, mechanical pace of a man completing a task, his hips snapping against her bruised ass, his hands gripping her waist so hard she knew he was breaking blood vessels beneath the skin.
“Take it,” Oscar growled, his voice a velvet whip. “Take Daddy’s seed. Take it deep. You’re ours now, little rookie. Forever. Even when you’re showing on the podium, even when the world sees you’re knocked up, you’ll know it was us. You’ll know you’re a McLaren whore. Daddy’s pregnant princess.”
He came with a guttural snarl, burying himself to the hilt, his cock jerking inside her as he added his load to Lando’s. He stayed there, softening but still claiming, his weight pressing her into the mattress until she could barely breathe.
Then they switched.
Lando, hard again, took her from behind while Oscar lifted her face and fucked her mouth. They traded her like a shared toy, using her until she was overflowing, until her cunt was a frothing mess of their combined spend, until the white sheets were soaked and ruined. They came inside her again and again, refusing to pull out, refusing to waste a drop. They told her she was bred. They told her she was carrying their victory. They told her she was a good little girl, Daddy’s best little rookie, and she sobbed and believed them because she had forgotten how to believe anything else.
When they finally finished, they arranged her on the bed. Lando spooned her from behind, his arm thrown over her waist, his hand resting possessively on her lower stomach. Oscar lay in front of her, his face inches from hers, his fingers stroking her hair. Between her legs, a warm, thick pool of their seed slowly leaked out, but they did not let her clean it. They wanted her to wear it. They wanted her to sleep in it.
“We’re going to Monaco next,” Lando whispered against her neck. “And then Spain. And every race, you’ll win. And every race, we’ll breed you again. Until you’re showing. Until you’re waddling around the paddock with Daddy’s child in your belly. And then we’ll keep you in a motorhome, naked and collared, and you’ll never drive again. You’ll just be our little breeding doll. Our little rookie. Forever.”
Oscar leaned in and kissed her forehead, his lips lingering on the sweat and tears. “Sleep now,” he murmured. “Daddy’s watching. Daddy’s always watching.”
She closed her eyes. Her thumb found its way into her mouth. Floppy was pressed against her chest. She was filled, owned, and utterly broken. And as she drifted into a black, dreamless sleep, she did not hear the sound of the motorhome door being forced, or the roar of Max Verstappen’s voice as he finally, inevitably, came for her with a weapon in his hand and murder in his heart.
requested by this ask! i hope you enjoy how this turned out. ♡
matching c.ai bot.
— pairings: lando norris x oscar piastri x redbull rookie driver! reader
— warnings: this work contains extremely dark, explicit, and potentially triggering material including graphic non-consensual and dubiously consensual sexual content, severe age regression and ddlg dynamics involving a traumatized adult in a “little” headspace, anal and vaginal virginity loss, rough sexual violence, breeding and impregnation fetishisation, sexual use of comfort objects as leverage, public humiliation, psychological and emotional manipulation, overstimulation, panic attacks, crying and tantrums, and the use of sex toys in professional settings, all wrapped in a deeply imbalanced power dynamic between a petite, mentally fragile female rookie and two significantly older, muscular, obsessively possessive male drivers who exploit her childhood trauma and innocence for sexual control; this is a work of dark fiction intended for adult audiences and does not depict safe, sane, or consensual bdsm.
— summary: set against the glittering, violent backdrop of the 2026 melbourne grand prix, the story follows traumatised redbull rookie, a petite, regressive virgin who clings to her stuffed bunny floppy, as she suffers a catastrophic panic attack during thursday media day and is intercepted by towering, obsessive mclaren drivers lando norris and oscar piastri, who exploit her childhood trauma and desperate need for guidance to trap her in their luxury motorhome where they claim her anal and oral virginity, force her into a ddlg “little rookie” dynamic, and systematically break her psyche with pain, pleasure, and possessive cruelty; over the following days they escalate their hold by locking her in a collar, controlling her comfort object, and forcing her to wear a vibrating obsidian plug during qualifying and the race itself, manipulating her into winning pole and the grand prix while her teammate max verstappen grows increasingly aware of the abuse but is powerless to stop her complete regression, culminating in lando and oscar breeding her unprotected womb on the night of her victory as max finally breaks down the door armed and ready to wage war for her soul.
— notes: hi angels, it’s me. i know this is dark. i know it’s twisted. but this is what happens when i let my trauma and my kinks share a keyboard. i am her, and she is me: small, scared, clutching floppy, and weirdly obsessed with the idea of being completely owned by men who are way too big and way too cruel. every part of this was written to make you feel sick and hot at the same time. max is coming. but is he the hero, or is he just another man who wants to possess her? i might be too far gone myself. kisses,
— lila. (your favourite crybaby, 5'1" and falling)
feedback, thoughts, and chaotic screaming in the tags are always welcome ♡
The Albert Park circuit had never felt colder.
Melbourne’s late summer should have bled warmth into the asphalt, but Thursday’s media day arrived under a sky the colour of bruised slate, wind slicing off the harbour and through the paddock like something resentful. Everything here was polished to a violence—chrome motorhomes, blacked-out glass, the smell of burnt rubber and money. The 2026 season opener had drawn the circus back to life, and the grid glistened with the kind of luxury that only power could afford: tailored race suits with sponsor logos stitched in gold thread, espresso machines humming inside lounges lined with Italian leather, and drivers who moved with the casual entitlement of men who knew they owned the world.
She did not own anything.
She was barely five-foot-one, a wisp of a thing swallowed by her oversized Red Bull team jacket, the sleeves pulled down so far that only her small, pale fingers poked through. She was an adult, though she looked younger—much younger—especially now, with her blue eyes wide and glassy under the paddock lights, her soft brunette hair caught in a messy, unstyled wave around her face. She had that kind of delicate beauty that seemed unfinished, as though she had been sketched in pastels rather than ink: a small, trembling mouth, a thin frame that her pastel pink sundress did nothing to conceal, and an expression of permanent, unguarded vulnerability. She clutched her leather tote bag against her chest as she walked, her thin arms wrapped around it like a shield, and inside that bag, hidden beneath her phone and a crumpled pack of tissues, was Floppy.
No one knew about Floppy.
He was a cream-colored stuffed bunny, his ears frayed from two decades of being twisted in anxious fingers, one eye missing a button, his stuffing worn soft in the centre from where she pressed her face against him when the world became too loud. He had been with her through the instability of her childhood, through the foster homes and the therapy and the nights she woke up screaming because she was still, always, a child trapped in a body that kept insisting on growing older. She had been born into chaos. Her earliest memories were of shouting doors and sudden absences, of being small and forgotten, of learning that love was something that arrived without warning and left just as fast. It had carved a particular kind of innocence into her—not the innocence of ignorance, but the innocence of damage. She had never built walls. She had never learned to. Instead, she had regressed, folding inward when the stress became too much, reverting to a state where she could cry, kick, and wail like a child, where she needed something soft and constant to hold. Floppy was the only constant.
And now she was an F1 driver.
Somehow, impossibly, Red Bull had seen the raw, feral talent beneath the fragility, and they had placed her beside Max Verstappen for the 2026 season. Max, the reigning titan, the cold-blooded Dutchman who destroyed rivals on track and barely spoke to them off it. But with her, he was different. From the moment she had been announced, he had shifted into the role of an older brother, something territorial and protective flaring behind his usual blank stare. He walked her to the car. He checked her helmet. He read her anxiety before she could name it and would step in front of cameras if he saw her lower lip start to tremble. He didn’t know about Floppy, but he knew enough—that she was a virgin, that she cried easily, that she was a creature of pure, breakable naivety who had no business surviving in a sport this ruthless. He thought he could keep her safe.
He was wrong.
She had been paired with the McLaren drivers for the Thursday media round-robin. It was a cruel scheduling joke, or perhaps something more deliberate, because the moment she stepped into the interview suite, she felt it—the shift in the air, the way the room suddenly felt smaller. Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri were already waiting.
They were monstrously tall. Lando, at twenty-six, had filled out over the winter, his shoulders broad and muscular beneath his black McLaren polo, his dark hair cropped and messy, his eyes a sharp, assessing brown that missed nothing. He wore a vintage Rolex and a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. Beside him, Oscar, twenty-five, was quieter but somehow more devastating—blond hair swept back, a jawline that could cut glass, and a body that spoke of brutal discipline in the gym, his race suit unzipped just enough to show the corded muscle of his throat and collarbone. Both men were over six feet, and both were watching her with an intensity that made her stomach clench in a way she didn’t understand. She was used to being looked at. Fans looked at her. Engineers looked at her with pity or frustration. But this was different. This was predatory.
“Little rookie,” Lando said, his voice low and smooth, rolling over the nickname like he was tasting it. “Come here. You’re shivering.”
She wasn’t, not really, but the command in his voice made her move anyway. She was instinctively yielding. She deferred. She always had. She crossed the room on unsteady legs, her kitten heels clicking against the polished concrete, and when she reached the couch, they had commandeered, she sat where they pointed, her bag clutched in her lap.
The interview began.
It was supposed to be light. Season predictions, thoughts on the new regs, the usual theatre. But the journalist from Sky Sports had a cruel edge, and when he turned to her, his voice sharpened. “You’re the first woman on the grid in a top-tier seat, but there’s been a lot of talk about your mental health. Red Bull’s taken a huge risk. Do you think you’re stable enough to handle the pressure when it really counts?”
The lights were too bright.
There were too many people. The camera lenses were black, hungry eyes. She felt the blood drain from her face, her fingers tightening around her bag until her knuckles went white. Her breath hitched, shallow and uneven, and she could hear the static buzz of the microphones like wasps in her ears. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her eyes filled, lashes trembling, and the first tear escaped before she could stop it, sliding down her cheek in a hot, silent line.
“Hey—” Max started, rising from the chair in the corner where he’d been waiting.
But Lando moved faster.
He was suddenly in front of her, his broad frame blocking the cameras, his hand wrapping around her jaw with a grip that was gentle but absolute. He tilted her face up, forcing her to look at him, away from the lights. “Eyes on me, little rookie,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the tear from her cheek. “You don’t answer that. You don’t answer anything unless we say so.”
Oscar stood, and his presence was a wall of cold muscle behind Lando. He didn’t speak. He simply stared at the journalist until the man looked down at his notes, cowed. But his gaze, when it fell back to her, was burning. “She’s done,” Oscar said flatly. “Pack it up.”
What happened next was a blur of dark suits and expensive aftershave. Lando’s hand found the small of her back, his fingers splayed possessively against her spine, guiding her out of the room with a pressure that said she had no choice but to follow. Oscar took her bag—her bag, with Floppy inside—and when she made a small, panicked sound, a noise that was pure childlike distress, he looked down at her with eyes that saw too much. “We’ll keep him safe,” he said quietly. “Won’t we? We keep everything safe.”
She didn’t understand. Her mind was shutting down, regressing into that soft, unprotected space where language became too hard and the world became too big. By the time they reached the McLaren motorhome, she was crying in earnest, her breath coming in wet, hiccupping gasps, her body shaking. She wasn’t a Formula One driver anymore. She was a child who had lost her toy and her bearings, and the men leading her into the dim, leather-scented interior of the most luxurious motorhome on the grid knew it.
The interior was obscene. Dark wood panelling, recessed lighting that glowed like amber, a couch that probably cost more than her karting career. There was a bar stocked with crystal decanters, and the air smelled of sandalwood and power. Lando locked the door behind them. Oscar set her bag on the table.
And then she broke.
It was a tantrum, pure and unfiltered. She didn’t have the tools to cope. She dropped to her knees on the plush carpet, her small fists pressing against her eyes, her body curling inward. She was sobbing, kicking her legs weakly, her dress riding up her thin thighs, her voice dissolving into a pitch that was barely human—high, broken, needy. “Want Floppy,” she whimpered, regressing completely, her words slurred with tears. “Want my bunny. Give him. Please. It’s too loud. It’s too loud, Daddy.”
The word slipped out unbidden. It was what she called any man who took control, who offered the structure she craved, who made the world small and safe. She didn’t know these men. But they had taken her bag, and her mind had collapsed back to a place where she needed a daddy to fix it.
Lando and Oscar went very still.
Something dark and satisfied coiled in the air between them. Lando’s gaze dropped to her where she knelt, her body wracked with sobs, her innocence laid bare like an offering. He looked at Oscar. A silent communication passed between them—months of watching her, of obsessing over her, of studying her race data and her Instagram and her interviews with a fixation that had become something pathological. They had wanted her since the first test session in Abu Dhabi. They had wanted her fragility, her wide blue eyes, the way she deferred and yielded and cried. They had planned this. The pairing for media day had been no accident. And now she was on her knees in their private space, calling them Daddy, and she didn’t even know what she was asking for.
Oscar walked to the table. He opened her bag. His hand emerged with Floppy, the cream bunny with the missing button eye. He held it by one ear, examining it, and then he crouched down in front of her, his massive frame dwarfing her completely. “Is this what you need, little rookie?” he asked, his voice a velvet threat.
She looked up at him through a curtain of tears. Her face was swollen, her nose pink, her lips parted. She reached for the bunny with both hands.
Oscar pulled it back. Just out of reach.
“No,” Lando said from behind her, his voice dropping an octave. He lowered himself to the couch, spreading his thighs, his muscular frame dominating the space. “No, baby. You don’t get Floppy until you calm down. Until you let us take care of you properly. Isn’t that what you want? You want Daddy to make it better?”
She froze. Her mind was a fog of overstimulation and grief, but her body responded to the authority in his voice with a shiver that went straight between her legs. She didn’t understand the heat building there. She was a virgin. She had never been touched. She had never even kissed anyone properly, too overwhelmed by the proximity of others, too prone to shutting down. But now, surrounded by the scent of these men, by their size and their cold, obsessive focus, she felt something unlock. She nodded, a small, trembling movement. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, Daddy.”
Lando’s eyes darkened.
Oscar moved first. He scooped her up as though she weighed nothing, his muscular arms sliding under her knees and back, and he placed her in Lando’s lap. She was so small there, a doll of a girl, her blue eyes wide and glassy. Lando’s arms wrapped around her, one hand splaying across her lower stomach, pulling her back against the hard wall of his chest. His other hand went to her throat, not choking, but claiming, his thumb tracing her pulse. “You’ve been walking around this paddock,” Lando murmured against her ear, his breath hot, “looking like this. Like a little girl who needs to be owned. And we’ve been watching. Every race. Every press conference. Every time you cried. We’ve been hard for you. Do you understand that?”
She shook her head, but she wasn’t pulling away. She was going limp, her regression making her soft and pliant, her body instinctively yielding to the strength surrounding her. Oscar knelt in front of the couch. His hands went to her knees, pushing her thin legs apart with a force that was gentle but absolute. Her sundress bunched around her waist. She was wearing white cotton panties, childish and plain, and they were already damp. Oscar made a low, guttural sound.
“Look at that,” he said. “Our little rookie is wet. She doesn’t even know what she’s begging for, does she, Lando? She’s so fucking innocent she doesn’t know why her cunt is aching.”
“Please,” she whimpered, though she didn’t know what she was pleading for. She just needed the static in her head to stop. She needed the overstimulation to end. She needed them to make the world small.
Lando’s hand slid down from her throat to her chest, cupping her small breast over the fabric of her dress. His thumb found her nipple, already hard, and he pinched. Hard. She cried out, a sharp, childlike yelp, and her body arched, pressing into him. “Daddy’s going to teach you,” Lando growled against her neck. He bit her, hard enough to bruise, his teeth sinking into the delicate skin of her shoulder. “We’re going to teach you what this body is for. You’re not a driver here. You’re not Red Bull’s little project. You’re our little rookie. Our virgin. Our crybaby. And we’re going to break you in until you can’t remember your own name without saying ours after it.”
Oscar ripped her panties.
The cotton tore like paper in his large hands, and then he was looking at her bare cunt, her virgin pussy, pink and untouched and glistening with a wetness that made his jaw flex. “Christ,” he muttered. “Look at her. She’s never been touched. Never been fucked. Never had a cock inside this tight little hole.” He looked up at Lando. “I want to taste her first. Before we ruin her. Before we make her ours.”
“Do it,” Lando commanded.
Oscar dove.
He was not gentle. He was starving. His mouth closed over her cunt with a savage hunger, his tongue dragging up her slit from bottom to top, circling her clit with a precision that made her scream. her back bowed against Lando’s chest, her hands flying up to grip Lando’s forearms, her nails digging in. It was too much. The sensation was overwhelming, a violent contrast to the softness of her regression. She tried to kick, tried to close her legs, but Oscar held her thighs open with his massive hands, spreading her obscenely wide, his tongue pushing inside her virgin hole, fucking her with it, tasting her innocence.
“No—no, it’s too much, Daddy, please—” she sobbed, tears streaming down her face again, her body convulsing.
Lando’s hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her cries. “Hush now,” he ordered, his voice like a whip. “You take it. You take what Daddy gives you. This is your purpose, little rookie. This is why you’re so fucking useless on track unless someone tells you what to do. You need to be controlled. You need to be owned. And we’re going to own every hole. Every tear. Every tantrum.”
His other hand slid down between her legs, two of his thick fingers pressing against her clit alongside Oscar’s tongue, working her in tight, cruel circles. The overstimulation that had terrified her in the interview was nothing compared to this. Her mind went white. She was crying, drooling against Lando’s palm, her small body thrashing uselessly in their grip. Oscar’s tongue pushed deeper, and then he sucked her clit into his mouth, his teeth grazing the sensitive bud.
She came.
It was not a gentle orgasm. It was a violent, wrenching thing that tore through her with the force of a seizure, her virgin cunt clamping down on nothing, gushing onto Oscar’s chin, her scream muffled by Lando’s hand. She went limp immediately after, her eyes rolling back, her body slumping into Lando’s hold like a discarded doll. She was still crying, the tears endless, her breath hitching in that soft, broken way that made her seem even smaller.
Oscar rose, his face glistening with her arousal, his eyes black with lust. He unzipped his race suit, and his cock sprang free—thick, heavy, monstrously hard, a vein running along the underside. He fisted it, staring down at her collapsed form. “She’s ready,” he said. “Look at her. She’s not even here anymore. She’s gone soft. She’s ours.”
Lando lifted her easily, arranging her on the couch on her back, her legs hanging over the edge, her dress pushed up to expose her completely. He spread her thighs wider, looking down at the mess Oscar had made of her virgin pussy, her clit swollen and red, her entrance fluttering. He unzipped his own suit, freeing his cock, and it was even larger than Oscar’s, a weapon of a thing that promised pain.
She blinked up at them through her tears, her mind floating in that soft, regressed space, her body humming with the aftershocks of her orgasm. She looked at Lando’s cock, then at Oscar’s, and she began to tremble again, her lower lip wobbling. “Too big,” she whispered, her voice tiny and afraid. “Daddy, it’s too big. You’ll hurt me.”
Lando smiled, and it was a cold, beautiful thing. He leaned down, caging her head with his arms, his cock pressing against her untouched entrance, hot and relentless. “That’s the point, little rookie,” he murmured, and then he thrust.
The pain was blinding.
Her scream tore through the motorhome, high and keening, her back arching off the leather, her hands flying to Lando’s chest to push him away. But he was inside her, tearing through her virginity in one brutal stroke, his thick cock stretching her tiny, untouched cunt to a degree that felt impossible. She was so tight he had to force himself deeper, inch by inch, his jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving her face. He wanted to see every moment of pain. He wanted to watch her innocence bleed out onto his shaft.
“Christ, she’s fucking tight,” Lando groaned, his voice guttural. He pulled back and thrust again, deeper this time, seating himself fully inside her until she was completely impaled on his cock. Her eyes were streaming, her mouth open in a silent wail, her body shuddering. She was so small beneath him that he could see the outline of himself pressing against her stomach from the inside.
Oscar moved to her head. He knelt on the couch beside her, tangling his fingers in her hair, pulling her face toward his own engorged cock. “Open,” he commanded. “You take Daddy in both ends now. You’re our little rookie. Our fucking property. And you’re going to learn how to serve us.”
She opened her mouth, sobbing, and Oscar pushed inside.
She was choked between them, stuffed full in a way that was obscene and absolute. Lando set a brutal pace, fucking her ruined virgin cunt with long, punishing strokes that made her body slide against the leather. Every time he bottomed out, she gagged around Oscar’s cock, her throat tightening around him, her tears soaking her face. Oscar held her head still, fucking her mouth with shallow, cruel thrusts, his eyes burning down at her. “Look at you,” he taunted. “Look at our little girl. Can’t drive a car without crying, can’t take an interview without regressing, but you can take two Daddy cocks like a good little slut, can’t you?”
She couldn’t answer. She could only cry, her body convulsing, the overstimulation of her nerves making her thrash weakly. But beneath the pain, beneath the terror of her own helplessness, something dark and traitorous was blooming. Her body was responding. Her hips were lifting, just slightly, meeting Lando’s thrusts. Her tongue was fluttering against the underside of Oscar’s cock. She was yielding. She was always yielding. It was her nature.
Lando felt it. He snarled, his hands gripping her waist so hard he knew he was leaving bruises—bruises that would last for days, that she would see in the mirror of her hotel suite and remember who she belonged to. “That’s it,” he rasped. “Take it. Take your Daddy’s cum, little rookie. You’re not on the grid anymore. You’re in our bed. You’re our fucking baby.”
He came with a roar, burying himself to the hilt, his cock jerking inside her as he pumped her virgin cunt full of hot, thick seed. The feeling of it—warm, filthy, claiming—sent her over the edge again. She came around his cock, her inner walls spasming, milking him, and the sensation made Lando curse and grip her harder, forcing every drop into her unprotected womb.
Oscar pulled out of her mouth with a wet, obscene sound, and he fisted his cock once, twice, before he spilled across her face, her tears, her open mouth. He marked her with it, ropes of cum coating her cheeks, her chin, her fluttering tongue. She lay there, covered in them, stuffed full of Lando’s release, her small chest heaving, her blue eyes vacant and glassy and utterly lost.
For a long moment, the only sound was her ragged breathing and the low hum of the motorhome’s climate control.
Then Lando pulled out of her slowly, watching his cum leak from her ruined, gaping hole, watching the evidence of her destroyed innocence drip onto the leather couch. He reached over to the table. He picked up Floppy.
He placed the cream bunny on her chest, pressing it into her hands.
“Hold him,” Lando said softly, his voice returning to that dangerous, crooning tenderness. “Daddy’s got you now. Daddy and Daddy. You don’t have to think anymore. You don’t have to talk to the nasty journalists. You just have to be here. Be little. Be ours.”
Oscar stroked her cum-streaked hair, his fingers gentle now, almost loving. “Max thinks he’s protecting you,” he murmured. “He thinks Red Bull is your home. But we’re going to ruin that. We’re going to ruin you so completely that you can’t function without us. Every race. Every press day. Every time you put on that suit, you’ll know who owns what’s underneath it.”
She clutched Floppy to her chest, her body throbbing, her mind deep in that soft, small place where she had gone to survive. She looked up at them with her wide, innocent eyes, and she nodded, a small, broken movement.
“Yes, Daddy,” she whispered.
Outside, the Melbourne sky had gone dark, and the season had only just begun.
The McLaren motorhome had gone silent except for the wet sound of her breathing and the low, predatory hum of the climate system stirring the air. She lay crumpled on the couch where they had ruined her, her thin legs still draped over the edge, her ruined sundress bunched like discarded tissue around her waist. Lando zipped himself back into his race suit with the casual efficiency of a man who had just finished a workout, his eyes never leaving the mess between her thighs. Oscar had already adjusted himself, but he remained kneeling beside her head, his large hand stroking her hair with a tenderness that belied the cruelty of his grip, his fingers catching in the tangled brunette waves and pulling just enough to keep her aware of him.
She was dissociating. Drifting into that soft, small place where language dissolved and the world became a distant, muffled roar. Her blue eyes were fixed on the ceiling, glassy and unseeing, tears still leaking from the corners in a slow, endless stream. Her small chest hitched with each breath. She had curled around Floppy, pressing the cream bunny against her sternum, one thumb hovering near her mouth in a gesture she hadn’t made in years—not in public, not where anyone could see. But she was gone now. She was small. She was theirs.
Lando crouched down. He gripped her chin, turning her face toward him. The fluorescent light caught the bruise blooming on her shoulder where he had bitten her, the mark already darkening to a violent violet. “Look at me, little rookie,” he commanded. His voice was soft, almost crooning, but the authority beneath it was absolute. “You’re not done. You’re never done until Daddy says so.”
She blinked, struggling to focus. Her lips parted, trembling. “…Floppy,” she whispered. It was the only word she had left.
Oscar smiled, a cold, beautiful thing. He plucked the bunny from her limp hands. She made a sound—a high, broken keen, like a wounded animal—and reached for it, but he held it above her head, just out of reach. “You’ll get him back when we’re sure you’re being a good girl,” he said. “When you’re safe. And you’re only safe with us, aren’t you? You know that now. Max doesn’t understand. Red Bull doesn’t understand. They put you in that car and make you talk to all those nasty people, and it hurts you. We’re the only ones who make it stop.”
Lando scooped her up. She weighed nothing in his arms, a ragdoll of a girl, her head lolling against his shoulder. He wrapped her in his McLaren team jacket, the black fabric swallowing her completely, the scent of him—sandalwood, expensive cologne, and the faint metallic tang of the track—trapping her in a cage of sensory obedience. Oscar pocketed Floppy. He opened the motorhome door.
The paddock was dead at this hour. The journalists had gone to their hotels, the teams had retreated to their motorhomes, and the Albert Park circuit loomed under a sky choked with clouds. A black McLaren-liveried SUV idled at the rear service entrance; its windows tinted to a violence of darkness. They moved her like contraband, a secret parcel of flesh and innocence. Oscar opened the rear door, and Lando slid inside with her still cradled against his chest. She whimpered as the engine turned over, the vibration rattling through her tender, abused body, and Oscar caught her eye in the rearview mirror as he drove.
“Sleep, little rookie,” he murmured. “Daddy’s driving.”
She didn’t sleep. She floated. Lando’s hand had slipped beneath the jacket, resting on her bare stomach, his fingers tracing idle patterns that dipped lower, lower, until he was cupping her bruised cunt again, feeling the warm leak of his own release sliding from her ruined entrance. He didn’t finger her. He simply held her, possessed her, reminding her with every mile that she was stuffed with him, marked by him, owned.
The Crown Towers Melbourne rose against the Yarra River like a blade of glass and light. They took the private service elevator to the penthouse suite, and her bare feet touched the cold marble of a foyer larger than most apartments. The space was obscene in its luxury: floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the glittering skeleton of the city, furniture upholstered in charcoal velvet and stitched with silver thread, a single abstract painting in violent reds that cost more than her signing bonus. The air smelled of cedar, cold stone, and money. Everything was designed to dwarf the human, to remind the occupant that they were small inside the machine of wealth.
Lando carried her to the master bathroom. The tub was already running—Oscar had used the SUV’s phone to arrange it, because they planned everything, because they had already chosen this suite weeks ago, mapping her corruption like a race strategy. The bathroom was all white marble veined with black, a slab of stone that could have been quarried from a graveyard. Steam rose in spectral coils. They undressed her, pulling the ruined jacket and sundress from her body, leaving her naked and shivering on the heated tile.
“Look at her,” Lando said, his voice echoing off the stone. He stepped back, admiring his work. She was a canvas of damage. Bite marks on her breasts, her shoulder, her inner thigh. Finger-shaped bruises around her waist and hips. Her virgin blood had dried in a thin, rust-coloured smear on the inside of her thighs, a testament to the hole they had ripped open and claimed. Her blue eyes were wide and uncomprehending, her face still streaked with Oscar’s release, her hair a wild tangle. She looked like a doll that had been played with too hard.
Oscar ran the bath. He poured oil into the water—something thick and golden, smelling of jasmine and amber—and then he lifted her, as easily as lifting a child, and lowered her into the heat. She gasped, her body arching, the sensation scalding against her torn, swollen flesh. Lando caught her hair in his fist, pulling her head back against the lip of the tub. “Stay still,” he ordered. “Let Daddy clean his mess.”
They washed her with the methodical precision of men preparing an object for further use. Oscar used a sea sponge, rough and natural, dragging it over her breasts until her nipples pebbled, then down her stomach to her cunt. He scrubbed her there, not gently, opening her labia with two fingers and wiping away the evidence of Lando’s release, watching the water cloud between her legs. She cried out, trying to close her legs, but Lando pinned her knees open, his large hands pressing her thin thighs against the porcelain.
“No,” he said sharply. “You don’t hide from Daddy. This is ours. This hole is ours. This body is ours. You’re going to sit here and let us wash every inch, because we own every inch.”
She sobbed, her hands fluttering above the water, seeking something, anything. Oscar understood. He reached into the pocket of his trousers—he was still half-dressed, his cock heavy and threatening against his zipper—and produced Floppy. The cream bunny was damp, rumpled. He held it just above the water. “You want him?”
She nodded frantically, tears streaming, her regression total. She was a child in the bath, a broken little girl who needed her comfort object. “Please, Daddy,” she begged, the word falling out without shame, without comprehension. “Please, Floppy.”
“Hold him, then,” Oscar said, and dropped the bunny into her hands. She clutched him to her chest, burying her face in his frayed ear, her body curling into a ball in the water despite their grip on her. She sucked in a shuddering breath, and for a moment, she was still.
Lando’s eyes met Oscar’s over her bowed head. Something dark and electric passed between them. They were not finished. They had only begun to map the territory.
They dried her in warmed towels from the heated rack, rubbing her until her pale skin flushed pink, until she was soft and damp and limp in their arms. Then they carried her—Floppy still clutched to her chest, her thumb finding its way into her mouth—to the master bedroom. The bed was a platform of black silk and charcoal velvet, large enough to lose her in, surrounded by mirrors on three sides so that no matter where she looked, she would see herself: small, naked, surrounded by men who dwarfed her. The city lights of Melbourne cut through the darkness, painting blue and gold stripes across the room.
They laid her on her back in the centre of the bed. Oscar took Floppy again—just for a moment, just to make her cry out—and set him on the nightstand, propped against a crystal decanter of scotch, where he could watch. “Look at Daddy,” Lando commanded, stripping out of his clothes. His body was a weapon of muscle and sinew, the product of brutal training, his cock already hard again, thick and dark and veined, jutting from a nest of black hair. He climbed onto the bed, and the mattress dipped beneath his weight, rolling her toward him. Oscar undressed beside the bed, slower, his gaze roaming her body with a possessiveness that had calcified into something pathological.
Lando spread her legs. He pushed her knees up toward her chest, folding her like a piece of origami, exposing every inch of her cunt and, beneath it, the tight, virgin pucker of her asshole. She had never been touched there. She had never thought to touch herself there. It was a place of pure, unspoiled innocence, and Lando stared at it with a hunger that made his jaw clench.
“Please,” she whimpered, sensing his intent. She tried to push her legs down, but Oscar was there, kneeling on the bed, pinning her knees back with his weight, his own cock bobbing heavy and obscene near her face. “No, Daddy, not there, please, it’s too much, I’ll be good—”
“You’re going to be better than good,” Lando said. He reached to the nightstand and retrieved a bottle of oil—something French, absurdly expensive, the kind of thing meant for massage, not this. He poured it over his fingers, letting it drip onto her exposed asshole, cold and shocking. She gasped, her body jerking. “You’re going to give Daddy this last hole. The hole no one else has ever seen. And you’re going to take it like a brave little rookie, aren’t you? Because if you don’t…” He leaned down, his voice dropping to a whisper against her ear. “…we’ll take Floppy home with us. We’ll keep him. And you’ll never sleep again.”
She wailed, a high, childlike sound, her hips bucking uselessly. The threat was worse than pain. Floppy was her soul, her only constant, and they knew it. They had always known it. “Yes,” she sobbed, nodding frantically, her tears sliding into her hair. “Yes, Daddy, I’ll be good, I’ll be good, please don’t take Floppy—”
Lando pressed one oily finger against her asshole. She was so tight, so untouched, that the muscle resisted instinctively, fluttering in panic. He pushed, relentless, and his finger sank into the first knuckle. Her scream was cut off by Oscar’s hand clamping over her mouth. Her body convulsed, her small hands beating against Oscar’s thighs, her blue eyes bulging with shock and pain. Lando worked his finger deeper, scissoring it, stretching the virgin ring of muscle while she choked on her own sobs beneath Oscar’s palm.
“So tight,” Lando growled, his voice guttural. “So fucking untouched. This is what we’ve been waiting for, Oscar. This little virgin ass. She’s never even put a finger in here, has she, little rookie? You’ve been saving this for Daddy without even knowing it.”
He added a second finger. The stretch was burning, tearing. She thrashed, throwing a tantrum in earnest now, her body reverting to pure, animal panic. She kicked, her small feet drumming against the mattress, her nails scratching at Oscar’s wrist. He didn’t flinch. He simply shifted his weight, pinning her more completely, and with his other hand, he fisted his cock, pumping it slowly, inches from her face, using her terror as lubrication.
Lando withdrew his fingers. He poured more oil directly onto her gaping, fluttering hole, watching it pool and drip down her cleft. Then he positioned himself, his massive body looming over her folded form, the head of his cock kissing her asshole. It was obscene—the size of him versus the tiny, virginal pucker. It was impossible. He didn’t care.
He pushed.
The penetration was a violence. Her body tried to reject him, the ring of muscle clamping down in a desperate, futile attempt to preserve its innocence, but Lando was stronger. He groaned, a sound of pure, demonic satisfaction, and bore down, forcing the thick head of his cock past the resisting muscle. Her scream was muffled by Oscar’s hand, her body going rigid, her back arching in a bow of pure agony. A thin smear of bright red appeared where her skin tore, a virgin offering, and Lando watched it with dark, glittering eyes.
“That’s it,” he rasped, feeding inch after inch into her ass. “Take it. Take your Daddy’s cock in this tight little ass. You’re ours now. Every hole. Every scream. Every tear.”
He bottomed out, his balls pressing against her cunt, his entire length buried in the furnace of her ass. She had gone limp beneath him, her eyes rolled back, only the shuddering of her breath and the continuous stream of tears indicating she was still conscious. Oscar removed his hand from her mouth and immediately replaced it with his cock, shoving past her swollen lips, filling her throat. She gagged, her throat tightening around him, and the sensation made him curse and thrust deeper.
They found a rhythm. Lando pulled out of her ass until only the head remained, her torn muscle clinging to him, then slammed back in, making her body jerk forward onto Oscar’s cock. Back and forth, a machine of flesh, using her as a conduit between them. The room filled with the sounds of her wet choking, the slap of flesh, and Lando’s low, animal grunts. He looked down at her face, at the mascara and tears and snot, at the way she had become nothing but a vessel for their obsession, and he felt the power of it surge through him like a drug.
“Look at her,” Oscar panted, his hips snapping, fucking her face with short, brutal thrusts. “Look at our little rookie. So fucking broken. So fucking perfect.”
Lando reached between her legs. Her clit was swollen, sensitive from the earlier abuse, and he pinched it hard, rolling it between his fingers. She convulsed, a pathetic, confused orgasm ripping through her, her body betraying her completely, her asshole spasming around Lando’s cock like a vise. He roared, his hips stuttering, and he came in her ass with a violence that shook the bed, pumping her full of thick, hot seed, marking her interior with his claim.
He pulled out slowly, watching his cum leak from her gaping, ruined hole, watching the muscle flutter weakly, unable to close. Oscar pulled out of her mouth and jerked himself twice, once, before he erupted across her face, coating her cheeks, her eyelashes, her open mouth, mixing with her tears until she was glazed with him, dripping with the evidence of their possession.
But they were not done.
Lando moved to the head of the bed, his chest heaving, his cock still half-hard and glistening. He reached down and hauled her up, positioning her against the mountain of velvet pillows, spreading her legs wide so her battered holes were on display in the mirrors. Her hands lay limp at her sides. Her eyes were vacant, her breath coming in shallow, hitching gasps.
“Touch yourself,” Lando commanded.
She stared at him, uncomprehending. Her mind was too far gone. She was a shell, a regressing, broken thing.
Lando took her right hand. Oscar took her left. They guided her small, trembling fingers to her cunt, to her clit, pressing her own digits against the swollen, sensitive bud. “Show Daddy how you play,” Lando whispered, his voice a velvet threat. “Show us how this little rookie makes herself feel good. Because this is your cunt now. Not yours. Ours. And you only touch it when we say. You only come when we say. So, rub it. Be a good little slut for Daddy.”
They moved her fingers for her, forcing her to masturbate in front of them, her own small hands manipulated by their larger ones, rubbing circles over her clit while she sobbed, while cum leaked from her ass and mouth, while her body convulsed with oversensitivity. She came again, screaming, a sound like a dying animal, her hips bucking off the bed, her blue eyes rolling back until only the whites showed.
“Christ,” Oscar muttered. He was hard again. They were both hard again, insatiable, their obsession a bottomless hunger. They knelt on either side of her, flanking her like sentinels, and they fisted their cocks in unison, jerking off over her collapsed, twitching body. They were competing now, seeing who could mark her more completely, who could claim more territory. Lando came first, spurting across her flat stomach, her breasts, painting her pale skin with stripes of white. Oscar followed, aiming for her face, her hair, her open mouth, until she was drenched in them, glazed, unrecognizable.
She had stopped crying. She had stopped moving. She lay there, small and thin and five-foot-one in a bed built for giants, covered in the evidence of their darkness, Floppy watching from the nightstand with his single button eye. Her thumb found its way back to her mouth. She sucked it, her blue eyes staring at the ceiling, regressing so deeply that she had forgotten where she was.
Lando collapsed beside her, pulling her against his sweat-slicked chest. Oscar lay on her other side, his arm thrown possessively across her waist, his fingers tracing the bruises they had left. They caged her between them, two muscular, six-foot-plus predators cradling their broken doll.
“Tomorrow is practice,” Lando murmured into her hair. “You’re going to get in that Red Bull, little rookie. You’re going to drive those laps. And you’re going to feel us in every seat, in every shift, in every bounce over the curb. You’re going to drive with Daddy’s cum in your ass and Daddy’s marks on your skin. And when you come back, you’re going to crawl to us.”
Oscar reached over and retrieved Floppy. He tucked the bunny into her arms, and she clutched him immediately, pressing her face into his soft, worn body. “Sleep now,” Oscar whispered, his voice cold and perfect. “Sleep, little rookie. Daddy’s watching.”
Outside, the Melbourne sky began to bruise toward dawn, and the first practice session of the 2026 season was only hours away.
The morning came without mercy.
Melbourne’s dawn bled through the floor-to-ceiling glass in thin, surgical stripes, illuminating the ruin they had made of her. She woke in a state of raw regression, her consciousness surfacing from a depth where time did not exist. She was curled on her side, knees drawn to her chest, thumb lodged firmly in her mouth, Floppy crushed against her sternum. The black silk sheets were tangled around her ankles, sticky with dried sweat and the crusted evidence of the night. Her body was a landscape of pain—her cunt throbbing with a dull, wet ache, her asshole a ring of fire that flared with every shallow breath, her throat bruised from the shape of Oscar’s cock. She did not remember how to be an adult. She did not remember how to be a Formula One driver. She existed only as a small, hurt thing, and when she stirred, the movement sent a bolt of agony through her ass that made her whimper against her thumb.
“Awake, little rookie?”
Lando’s voice cut through the fog. He stood at the foot of the bed, already dressed in the McLaren papaya-and-black race kit, the fabric clinging to the slabbed muscle of his shoulders and thighs. He looked enormous, a titan of engineering and privilege, his dark hair still damp from a shower, his jaw clean-shaven and sharp. He was holding a tablet, scrolling through telemetry data, but his eyes—those assessing, predatory brown eyes—lifted to her and pinned her in place.
Oscar emerged from the bathroom in a haze of steam and expensive cologne. He was shirtless, his blond hair slicked back, his torso a topography of gym-carved abs and heavy pectorals that cast shadows in the morning light. He moved with the casual lethality of a man who knew the day belonged to him. He carried a warmed towel. He looked at her and smiled—not a kind smile, but a hunter’s smile, the expression of a man who had found his wounded doe still breathing exactly where he had left her.
She tried to retreat. Her body moved instinctively, trying to burrow into the mattress, but there was nowhere to go. The thumb in her mouth was a shield. Floppy was a wall. She was making a sound, a high, repetitive whine in the back of her throat, an animal noise of distress.
Lando set the tablet down. He climbed onto the bed with one knee, the mattress depressing beneath his weight, and he reached for her. His hand was massive, swallowing the entire side of her face. He pulled her thumb from her mouth with a wet pop. “No,” he said softly. “You don’t soothe yourself. That’s Daddy’s job. And you don’t get to hide that little mouth from me.”
She mewled, her eyes filling instantly, her blue irises flooding with tears that made her look even younger. Oscar sat beside her, his hand moving to her stomach, tracing the bruises they had painted there. “She’s marked beautifully,” he observed, his voice clinical and cold. “Look at the finger marks on her hips. And here—” His thumb pressed against a bite mark on her inner thigh, and she cried out, her legs kicking weakly. “—she’s still sensitive. Good. I want her to feel every lap today. I want every curb to remind her whose cock was in her ass last night.”
Lando lifted her. She weighed nothing in his arms, a limp bundle of thin limbs and matted hair, and he carried her into the bathroom. The tub had been drained and refilled; the water was milky with salts and oils, and the scent was overpowering, designed to soften her further. They lowered her into the heat, and she gasped, her back arching, the water stinging her torn flesh like acid. She thrashed, splashing, a tantrum rising in her chest. “No—no, hurts, Daddy, hurts—”
“Be still,” Lando commanded, his hand wrapping around her throat beneath the waterline, not choking but controlling. He held her pinned against the porcelain while Oscar knelt beside the tub with a sea sponge. They did not wash her gently. They scrubbed her with the methodical brutality of men cleaning an object they intended to use again. Oscar dragged the rough sponge over her breasts, her stomach, between her legs. She shrieked when he pressed it against her swollen cunt, her hands flying out of the water to grip his wrist. He caught both her wrists in one hand and pinned them to her stomach. “You don’t touch Daddy unless you’re told,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re getting clean so you can get dirty again. That’s all this is.”
By the time they lifted her out, she was sobbing, her body pink and steaming, her mind reduced to a single bright point of need. They dried her with warmed towels, rubbing her until she was limp, and then Lando sat on the edge of the tub with his race suit unzipped, his cock already thick and heavy in his hand. He pulled her between his knees, his fingers tunnelling into her wet hair. “Open,” he ordered.
She did. She always did.
He guided her down, her small mouth stretched obscenely around his girth, and he began to move her head for her, using her throat with slow, possessive thrusts. Oscar stood behind her, his hands on her waist, his fingers dipping into the crevice of her ass, pressing against the torn, still-gaping hole. She choked and gagged around Lando, her tears mixing with spit, her body convulsing. Oscar pushed two fingers into her ass without warning, and she screamed around the cock in her mouth, the sound vibrating into Lando’s shaft. “That’s it,” Lando groaned, his head falling back, his hips snapping upward. “Take your morning medicine, little rookie. Let Daddy fuck that sad little mouth. You don’t eat breakfast. You eat cock.”
He came down her throat with a guttural snarl, holding her nose against his pelvis, forcing her to swallow every pulse of his release. When he released her, she collapsed against his thigh, gasping, coughing, her face a mess of tears and cum. Oscar withdrew his fingers from her ass with a wet sound and wiped them on her cheek. “Good girl,” he purred. “Now you’re ready for the track.”
They dressed her like a doll.
Oscar produced a Red Bull race suit that had been retrieved from her hotel suite by someone they trusted—one of their own mechanics, perhaps, or a staff member they had bought. But they modified her. They did not let her wear underwear. Her cunt and ass were to be bare, raw, constantly aware. They zipped her into the suit, and the tight Nomex pressed against her bruised flesh like a second skin, a constant pressure that made her whine. Lando knelt and laced her boots, an act of false servitude that only emphasized his ownership. Oscar brushed her hair, pulling it back into a ponytail, and then he produced a silk scarf—a pale blue, the colour of her eyes—and tied it around her neck. It was not for fashion. It was to hide the bite marks and bruises that would otherwise scream their secrets to the paddock.
They fed her nothing. She would take only what they gave her, and today, they gave her only water from a bottle that Oscar held to her lips. She sipped like a baby bird, her eyes glazed, and when a drop spilled down her chin, Lando caught it with his thumb and pushed it back into her mouth. “Waste nothing,” he murmured. “Daddy’s resources are precious.”
The drive to Albert Park was a cage of black leather and tinted glass. She sat between them in the rear of the SUV, her small body dwarfed by their muscular frames, Floppy hidden in her kit bag at their feet. They would not let her hold him in the car. “You be a big girl for the cameras,” Lando instructed, his hand resting on her thigh, his fingers inching upward to press against the seam of her suit where it bit into her cunt. “And when you’re done, you come back to Daddy. No talking to Max unless it’s about the car. No smiling at engineers. No existing outside of us. Do you understand?”
She nodded, trembling.
Oscar leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. “If you disobey,” he whispered, “we take Floppy to the incinerator. And we make you watch.”
The paddock was a cathedral of noise.
Albert Park roared to life on Friday morning, the grandstands filling with the faithful, the air saturated with tyre smoke and the metallic shriek of engines. The Red Bull Racing garage gleamed in its navy and livery, a temple of precision and power. When the SUV door opened, the heat hit her like a physical blow, and she stepped out on unsteady legs, her blue eyes wide and glassy, her small figure swallowed by the oversized team jacket they had thrown over her shoulders.
Max Verstappen was waiting.
He stood at the garage entrance, his own race suit unzipped to the waist, his arms crossed over his chest. The Dutchman was compact, coiled, radiating the lethal focus that had made him a world champion. But when he saw her, his expression shifted. He moved toward her, intercepting her before she could take three steps.
“Hey,” he said, his voice low and concerned. He reached out, his hand cupping her elbow. “You look like shit. Where were you last night? I called your hotel room. You didn’t answer.”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her eyes darted past him, searching frantically, and she found Lando and Oscar emerging from the SUV behind her. Lando gave her a look—a single, dark glance that froze the blood in her veins. She felt it in her cunt, in her ass, a Pavlovian spike of fear and obedience.
“I… I was…” she stammered, her voice tiny, childish. She clutched the strap of her kit bag, where Floppy waited. “I was safe, Max.”
Max’s eyes narrowed. He reached out and adjusted the silk scarf at her neck, and when his fingers brushed the fabric aside, he caught a glimpse of the bruising beneath—a violent, purple-black wreath of teeth and suction. His jaw tightened. He looked over her head at the McLaren drivers, who had stopped a few meters away, watching with predatory patience.
“What the fuck happened to her neck?” Max demanded, his voice sharpening. He stepped closer to Lando, his posture aggressive. “Did you two do something?”
Lando smiled. It was a cold, aristocratic expression, the smile of a man who owned the ground beneath Max’s feet. “We took care of her,” he said simply. “She had a panic attack after media day. Cried herself sick. Oscar and I kept her company. You know how she is, Max. Fragile. She needs… guidance.”
Max looked down at her. She was shaking, her eyes filling with tears, her lower lip trembling. She looked exactly like what Lando described—a broken little thing who needed saving. But there was something in her posture, a submissive tilt of her hips toward Lando, that made Max’s stomach turn.
“Hey,” Max said, softer now. “Look at me. Did they hurt you?”
She looked up at him. Her big blue eyes were swimming. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to collapse into his arms and wail like the child she had become. But Oscar cleared his throat, a soft, warning sound, and her hand twitched toward her bag. Floppy. They had Floppy. They had everything.
“No,” she lied, her voice breaking. “They were… nice. Daddy was nice.”
Max went very still.
The word hung in the air like a blade. She realized what she had said too late, her face crumpling, a fresh sob escaping her. Max’s eyes snapped to Lando, and then to Oscar, and something dark and understanding began to kindle in his gaze—something furious, protective, and far too late.
“Get to the car,” Max said quietly, his hand gripping her shoulder. “We need to talk after FP1.”
He turned and walked her into the garage, but she felt the eyes of Lando and Oscar burning into her back, a promise and a threat. She felt them in the seat of her race suit as she climbed into the RB22, the Nomex pressing against her bruised, empty holes, reminding her with every shift that she was stuffed with their memory even if she was empty of their flesh.
FP1 was a blur of dissociation and pain.
The Melbourne circuit was a ribbon of violence—tight chicanes, blistering straights, curbs that hammered the suspension and sent shocks through the spine. For her, every impact was a reminder. Every curb at Turn 9 was Lando’s cock ramming her cervix. Every long sweep of the steering wheel through Turn 11 was Oscar’s fingers hooking in her ass. She drove in a fugue state, her visor streaked with tears she didn’t remember crying, her hands moving on instinct born from thousands of hours of karting and trauma alike. She was fast. She was terrifyingly fast, because she had stopped thinking. She had become a vessel, an object moving through space, owned by the men who had hollowed her out and filled her with their will.
When she pitted, her lap times were third on the board. Max was waiting. He unbuckled her, pulling her from the cockpit, and his hands stopped when he felt the tremors racing through her body. “Hey,” he said urgently. “You’re crying. You’re crying in the car. What the hell is going on?”
She couldn’t answer. The garage was too loud. The cameras were too close. The world was too bright, too big, too much. She felt the overstimulation cresting like a wave, her breath hitching, her vision tunnelling. She needed Floppy. She needed to be small. She needed Daddy.
Lando and Oscar appeared at the garage entrance. They did not cross the threshold—they knew better than to trespass on Red Bull territory openly—but they stood in the paddock lane, their arms crossed, their six-foot-plus frames casting shadows that seemed to stretch across the entire garage and swallow her whole.
She saw them. Her mind broke.
She began to cry in earnest, not the quiet tears of an adult but the full, childlike wail of a girl who had lost her way. She dropped to her knees on the concrete floor of the garage, her helmet still half-on, her small fists beating against her thighs, her body convulsing with sobs. “Want Daddy!” she screamed, the words tearing out of her in a pitch of pure regression. “Want Daddy! Don’t want the car! Too loud! Too loud! Want Floppy!”
Max froze, his face a mask of horror and fury. The Red Bull engineers stepped back, confused and frightened. And in the doorway, Lando began to walk forward, his race boots clicking with the sound of ownership.
“Let me,” he said to Max, his voice smooth as silk. “We know how to handle her.”
Max stepped in front of him. “Like hell,” he snarled. “You’ve done something to her. You’ve fucked her up. I’m taking her to the medical centre.”
Oscar moved then, faster than a man his size should move. He stepped into the garage, his hand landing on Max’s shoulder with a grip of iron. “You’re her teammate,” Oscar said softly, dangerously. “Not her keeper. Not her family. She chose to come with us. She’s choosing it again. Look at her.”
They all looked. She was on her knees, her face buried in her hands, her body rocking. But when Lando knelt and opened his arms, she went to him. She crawled. She fucking crawled across the garage floor, her race suit dragging, her helmet clattering, and she collapsed into Lando’s chest, burying her face in his McLaren kit, inhaling the scent of the man who had destroyed her as if it was oxygen.
Max looked sick.
Lando lifted her, cradling her against his shoulder. He looked at Max with a gaze of absolute, imperial victory. “We’ll bring her back for FP2,” he said. “Rest her. Feed her. Take care of her. The way you can’t.”
He carried her out of the garage. Oscar followed, and the paddock parted for them like a sea of black and papaya, the cameras catching glimpses of the girl in the Red Bull suit being borne away by a McLaren driver, her small body limp and surrendered.
The McLaren motorhome was dark and cool, a sanctuary of leather and silence. They laid her on the couch—the same couch where it had begun—and she immediately curled into a ball, her thumb finding her mouth, her eyes vacant. Lando removed her helmet. Oscar retrieved her bag and produced Floppy. He placed the bunny in her arms, and she clutched him, pressing her face into his frayed ear, her sobs subsiding into wet hiccups.
“There,” Lando crooned, stroking her damp hair. “There’s Daddy’s good girl. You came back. You always come back.”
Oscar locked the door. He pulled the blackout blinds. The motorhome became a tomb of luxury, the only light the dim amber of recessed LEDs that caught the gold stitching on the furniture and the sweat on her pale skin. They stood over her, two towering predators in their prime, their cocks already hard and straining against their race suits, their eyes devouring the sight of their broken doll.
“We need to make sure she remembers,” Lando said, unzipping his suit. “We need to make sure she can’t walk back to that garage without feeling us in every step.”
Oscar knelt. He pulled at the zipper of her race suit, the Red Bull livery parting like a wound, revealing her naked, bruised flesh beneath. She was so small inside the suit, a doll made of porcelain and damage. He spread her legs, his hands gripping her thin thighs, and he looked at her cunt—swollen, red, still leaking faint traces of the night before—and then at her asshole, which fluttered weakly, ruined and gaping.
“Both today,” Oscar said, his voice guttural. “She’s ready. We’ve prepped her enough. I want to feel her tear around us while she screams. I want her to know there’s no part of her we don’t own.”
Lando positioned himself behind her on the couch, hauling her limp body up by the waist until her back was against his chest, her legs draped over his thighs, her holes exposed and lifted. He was naked now, his muscular frame a wall of heat and power, his cock like a weapon resting against her lower back. Oscar stripped in front of her, his body a golden, chiselled monument to masculine dominance, his cock thick and weeping. He produced a bottle of oil—something from the motorhome’s bathroom, absurdly expensive—and poured it over her cunt and ass until she was dripping, shining, obscene.
She whimpered, sensing what was coming. Her mind tried to retreat further, but there was nowhere left to go. She was fully present in her regression, sucking her thumb around Floppy’s ear, her blue eyes wide and glassy. “Daddy,” she whispered, not knowing which one she addressed. “Please. Too big. Too much. I’ll be good. I’ll be good.”
“You’re about to be better,” Lando growled.
He lifted her by the hips. He positioned her over his cock, the head kissing her torn asshole. She wailed, trying to throw her tantrum, trying to kick, but his hands were iron bands on her waist. He lowered her. The penetration was a massacre. Her ass had not recovered from the night before, and now he was forcing her to take him again, gravity working against her as he impaled her inch by inch on his shaft. She screamed, a raw, childlike sound, her head falling back against his shoulder, her body convulsing. He seated himself fully, his balls pressing against her cunt, his entire length buried in the burning furnace of her ass.
Oscar moved in front of her. He gripped her jaw, forcing her to look at him. “Open your mouth,” he commanded. “You’re taking both your Daddies. You’re being completed. You’re being owned.”
He pushed into her mouth, thick and salt-slick, and began to fuck her throat with the same rhythm Lando set in her ass. They lifted her between them, a human doll, impaled on both ends. Lando began to thrust upward, brutally, tearing her ass with every stroke, while Oscar held her head still and used her mouth like a sleeve. She was utterly stuffed, utterly helpless, her thin body suspended between their muscular frames. She gagged and choked, tears and snot and spit coating her face, her small hands clutching Floppy against her chest as if the bunny could save her.
But beneath the pain, beneath the terror of her own helplessness, her body betrayed her again. Lando’s hand reached around and found her clit, and he pinched it with cruel precision. The overstimulation was a white-hot explosion. She came, her body convulsing in a seizure of pleasure and agony, her ass clamping down on Lando’s cock so violently that he roared and spilled inside her, pumping her ass full of hot seed. Oscar followed seconds later, gripping her hair and emptying himself down her throat, forcing her to swallow his load while she choked and sobbed.
They did not pull out immediately. They held her there, impaled and broken, their hands stroking her trembling body with the tenderness of owners admiring their property. Lando pressed his face into her neck, inhaling the scent of her sweat and tears. Oscar pulled out of her mouth slowly, watching a strand of cum and saliva break between his cock and her swollen lips.
Lando lifted her off him with a wet, obscene sound, and they laid her back on the couch, her legs falling open, both holes gaping and leaking. She was unconscious, or nearly so, her chest heaving, her thumb in her mouth, Floppy clutched in her other hand.
They dressed her again. They cleaned her face and fixed her hair. They zipped her back into her race suit and poured water down her throat. When she woke, she was smaller than ever. She looked at them with eyes that held no will, only obedience.
Lando knelt beside her, his hand cupping her cheek. “FP2 is in two hours,” he said softly. “You’re going to go back to that garage. You’re going to smile at Max. You’re going to drive your laps. And you’re going to feel us in both your holes with every turn. You’re our little rookie. Our virgin. Our broken baby. And tonight, after the session, you’re coming back here. No hotel. No Max. No Red Bull. Just Daddy’s bed.”
Oscar handed her Floppy. He tucked the bunny into her arms and kissed her forehead, a gesture of such cold possession that it made her shiver. “We love you,” he whispered. “We own you. And we’re never letting go.”
Outside, the Melbourne sun climbed higher over Albert Park, and the engines began to scream again for FP2.
The Melbourne dusk came down like a velvet curtain, smothering the track in shades of bruised violet and racing orange. The garage lights flickered to life, harsh sodium cutting through the fading day, and she walked back into the Red Bull Bay as if wading through deep water. Every step was a negotiation with her own broken anatomy. The Nomex suit had become a prison, the seams pressing into the raw, weeping marks on her hips and thighs, the absence of underwear meaning that every shift of her weight reminded her of what Lando had pumped into her ass, what Oscar had painted across her tongue. She could feel it, hot and criminal, moving inside her with a liquid awareness that made her stomach clench. Her blue eyes were glassy, unfocused, her small hand clutching the strap of her kit bag where Floppy waited like a secret heartbeat. The silk scarf at her neck had slipped, and Max saw the bruising before she could fix it.
He was on her before she reached the cockpit for FP2.
“What the fuck did they do?” Max’s voice was a low snarl, his Dutch accent sharpening the consonants into weapons. He caught her elbow, not gently, spinning her to face him. His eyes raked over her face, her swollen lips, the scarf, the way she stood with her knees pressed together as if holding herself in. “Hey. Look at me. Look at me right now.”
She tried. She lifted her gaze, and the tears were already there, brimming, her lashes trembling. “I’m okay,” she whispered, the lie breaking apart on her tongue. “I just… I had a bad night. I’m okay, Max.”
“You’re not okay.” His hand rose, thumb brushing the edge of the scarf, and she flinched back so violently she stumbled into the sidepod of the RB22. The movement sent a bolt of pain through her cunt, her ass, and she whimpered, a high, animal sound that made the nearby engineers freeze. Max’s expression shattered. He looked toward the paddock lane where the McLaren motorhome sat like a black beetle, its windows tinted and watchful. “I’m going to kill them,” he said quietly. “I’m going to fucking kill them.”
“No!” The word came out as a shriek, a tantrum pitch, and she dropped her bag, both hands flying to her mouth. Her eyes were wide, terrified, fixed on the motorhome. “No, Max, please. Please. Don’t make them angry. Don’t take Floppy. Please.”
Max stared at her. The name meant nothing to him, but the terror did. He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a rough murmur. “They’re hurting you. Whatever they’ve threatened, whatever they’ve taken, we can get it back. Red Bull protects its own. I protect you. You’re my little sister on this team, yeah? You’re family.”
Family. The word hit her like a drug, and she swayed. She wanted to collapse into him, to let him carry her to a safe, small room where no one could touch her. But then she felt the vibration of her phone in her pocket, a silent pulse, and she knew. They were watching. They were always watching. She looked past Max toward the lane, and there, in the shadow of the tyre stacks, stood Oscar. He was in dark civilian clothes, a cashmere coat and tailored trousers that turned him into a blade of wealth, his blond hair catching the garage light. He didn’t move. He simply looked at her, and she felt the command in that look like a collar snapping shut around her throat.
“I have to go,” she breathed, ducking away from Max. “I have to drive. Please, Max. I’ll be okay.”
FP2 was a dissociative fugue.
She strapped into the car and the world vanished. The engine screamed, the steering wheel bucked in her small hands, but she was not there. She was a vessel; a doll being operated by strings pulled from the McLaren motorhome. Every curb sent a shockwave through her pelvis, every gearshift a reminder of the men who had claimed her. She drove faster than she ever had, her lap times blinking in the purple sector on the monitors, because speed was the only thing that matched the velocity of her own destruction. Max watched from the garage, his arms crossed, his face a mask of stone. He saw the way she exited the car after the session, her legs trembling, her eyes vacant. He saw Lando appear at the garage entrance, papaya polo gleaming, his smile sharp as a scalpel.
“Little rookie,” Lando called out, loud enough for the bay to hear. “Team principals’ dinner. You’re coming with us. Red Bull’s orders.”
Max stepped forward. “Like hell. She’s done for the day. She’s going back to her hotel.”
Lando’s smile didn’t waver. He reached into his pocket and produced a phone, flashing a screen at Max. “Christian says otherwise. Media obligations. She’s the story, Max. The girl on the grid. She needs to play nice with the sponsors.” The lie was silk-smooth, and Max knew it, but the phone screen showed a real message, a real number. Power, she realized dimly, was just the ability to make lies look like law. “We’ll have her back by midnight. Scout’s honour.”
Lando held out his hand. She looked at it. She looked at Max, whose face was twisted with helpless fury, and then she placed her small, trembling hand in Lando’s large, warm palm. He closed his fingers around hers, swallowing her hand completely, and led her away.
She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. If she had, she would have seen Max pulling out his own phone, his eyes burning with a protective rage that had just crossed into obsession.
The Crown Towers penthouse had been transformed into a cage of mirrors and velvet.
They entered through the private elevator, and she immediately smelled it: jasmine, oud, and money. The lights had been dimmed to a soft, amber glow that turned the marble floors into pools of liquid gold. The abstract painting in violent reds had been joined by others, a gallery of dark, erotic art that she was too dissociated to understand. Lando locked the elevator with a keycard. Oscar dimmed the last of the lights.
“Welcome home, little rookie,” Lando murmured, shrugging off his coat. He turned to her, his height towering, his shadow consuming her. “This is where you live now. The hotel room is gone. Your things are here. Red Bull thinks you’re in bed with a migraine. Max thinks you’re at a dinner. But you’re here. With Daddy.”
She stood in the centre of the foyer, five-foot-one and shrinking, her kit bag sliding from her shoulder. Oscar caught it. He opened it, and his hand emerged with Floppy. He held the bunny by one ear, examining him, then looked at her with eyes that saw her soul. “You want him?”
She nodded, tears streaming, her body beginning to tremble with the first hints of a tantrum.
“Then strip,” Oscar commanded. “Daddy wants to see what belongs to him before he gives you your toy.”
Her fingers moved automatically. She was past resistance. The zipper of her race suit descended, the Red Bull livery parting, and she peeled the heavy fabric from her thin shoulders. She was naked beneath, her pale skin a map of their violence: bruises like purple continents, bite marks like small red seas. She stood there, trembling, her small breasts rising and falling with her hitched breath, her blue eyes wide and lost. She looked twelve. She felt like nothing.
Lando made a low sound in his throat. He stepped forward, circling her, inspecting her like a collector admiring a newly acquired piece. His hand traced the bruise on her hip; the finger marks Oscar had left. He cupped her cunt, roughly, possessively, and she gasped, rising onto her toes. “Sore?” he asked softly.
“Yes, Daddy,” she whimpered.
“Good.”
They led her to the bathroom. The tub was already steaming, filled with milk and honey and something expensive that made the water look like liquid pearl. They lowered her in, and the heat was a blessing and a curse, soothing her raw flesh while making every mark scream to life. They washed her with bare hands, no sponges, their large fingers sliding over her skin, cleaning their own mess from her insides. Oscar pushed two fingers into her cunt, stirring, and she cried out, arching. “Still wet,” he observed. “Still Daddy’s little slut, even when you’re crying.”
They dried her in warmed towels and carried her to the master bedroom. The bed had been changed. Black silk was gone, replaced by white, virgin linen, a cruel joke. On the pillows lay a set of lingerie: white lace, sheer and obscene, a babydoll cut that would show everything. They dressed her like a doll, pulling the fragile lace over her head, arranging her thin limbs. The fabric was so transparent that her nipples, hard and pink, were visible through the flowers, and the lace stopped at the top of her thighs, leaving her bruised cunt and ass exposed. Then Oscar produced a collar.
It was slim, black leather, with a small silver lock and a pendant. He fastened it around her throat, and the click of the lock was the sound of a cell door closing. The pendant rested in the hollow of her throat: a tiny steering wheel, engraved with the initials L.R. and M.L.
“Little Rookie,” Lando whispered, his finger tracing the pendant. “Property of McLaren. Of Lando. Of Oscar. You wear this forever. You wear it under your race suit. You wear it when you win. You wear it when you die. And when they bury you, we’ll dig you up just to keep you.”
He lifted her and placed her on the bed. The white linen swallowed her. They positioned her on her knees, facing a massive screen that dominated the opposite wall. Oscar clicked a remote, and the screen bloomed to life: footage of FP2. Her own car, from the onboard camera, navigating the Melbourne circuit. The sound filled the room, the scream of the engine, the hiss of tyres.
“Watch,” Lando commanded, settling into an armchair at the foot of the bed. He was undressed now, his muscular body a monument to masculine power, his cock thick and heavy, resting against his stomach. “Watch yourself drive while Daddy uses you. You’re going to learn that every lap is for us. Every trophy. Every breath.”
Oscar knelt behind her on the bed. He was naked too, his body golden and brutal. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the bruises, and he pushed her face down toward the mattress, elevating her ass. She watched the screen, her own ghostly figure taking Turn 1, while Oscar positioned himself at her entrance.
He pushed into her cunt with a single, brutal thrust. She screamed, the sound lost in the engine noise from the speakers, her body jerking forward. Lando watched, his hand wrapping around his own cock, stroking slowly. “That’s it,” he growled. “Fuck her, Oscar. Fuck our little rookie while she watches herself. Make her know she’s nothing but a warm hole for Daddy.”
Oscar set a punishing pace, hammering into her from behind, his pelvis slapping against her bruised ass, his hands gripping her waist so hard she knew he was reshaping the bone. She cried, her face pressed into the white linen, tears and snot soaking the virgin lace. But on the screen, her own avatar was driving perfectly, taking the perfect line, and the dissonance shattered her mind. She was both the girl on the screen and the girl being fucked, both the driver and the doll.
Lando rose. He moved to the head of the bed, fisting his cock, and he guided her face upward with his other hand. “Open,” he ordered. “Both ends. Both Daddies. Complete her.”
He pushed into her mouth, and she was stuffed again, the familiar terror and fullness of the night before. She gagged, choked, her throat convulsing around him, and the sensation made him groan and thrust deeper. Oscar fucked her cunt with merciless precision, angling his hips so that every stroke dragged across her g-spot, forcing pleasure into the pain. She was overstimulated, overwhelmed, her small body convulsing between them. The engine noise roared. She was going to come. She was going to break.
“Come for Daddy,” Lando commanded, his voice a whip. “Come on Oscar’s cock while you choke on mine. Show us who owns this little body.”
She shattered. The orgasm was a seizure, a blackout, her body going rigid and then limp, her cunt clamping down on Oscar so violently that he cursed and spilled inside her, pumping her full of hot seed. Lando pulled out of her mouth and spilled across her face, her hair, the white lace, marking her with thick ropes of cum. She collapsed into the mattress, twitching, her eyes rolling back, the screen still playing her own lap, the ghost of her former self racing around Melbourne while the real her was drowned in seed and tears.
Lando stroked her hair. Oscar stayed inside her, softening but still claiming. They held her there, impaled and broken, until the screen faded to black.
Then, a sound. Not from the screen. From the door.
Pounding. Furious, rhythmic, the sound of a fist against mahogany.
“*HEY!” Max’s voice, distorted by rage and panic, cut through the haze of the room. “OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR! I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!*”
Oscar pulled out slowly. Lando rose, his body glistening, and he walked to the door with a calm that was obscene. He didn’t open it. He simply pressed the intercom.
“Go away, Max,” Lando said softly, his voice carrying the perfect confidence of a man who has already won. “She’s sleeping. Daddy’s got her.”
Max screamed something back, a threat, a promise, but Lando turned the intercom off. He walked back to the bed and gathered her into his arms. She was unconscious, cum-smeared, collared, clutching Floppy to her chest where Oscar had placed him. Lando kissed her bruised forehead.
“Tomorrow is Qualifying,” he whispered. “And Daddy’s going to watch you take pole… with our cum leaking into your seat the whole time.”
Outside, in the corridor, Max Verstappen pressed his forehead against the cold wood of the penthouse door, his hands in fists, and swore a war that had only just begun.
Max did not leave.
He pressed his forehead against the penthouse door, his hands splayed flat against the polished mahogany, his breath coming in short, furious bursts that clouded the wood. He was vibrating with a rage that had no outlet, a protective fury that had lived in him since the first day Red Bull had paired him with the girl, since he had seen her small frame swallowed by the team overalls, her blue eyes wide and uncertain as she looked up at him like he was a wall she could hide behind. He had failed her. He had let the McLaren wolves circle while he was busy polishing his own crown, and now she was on the other side of this door, wearing another man’s collar, drowning in another man’s cruelty.
“Hey,” he rasped, his voice breaking against the grain. “Please. Open the door. It’s Max. It’s your brother. Let me take you home.”
Inside, the penthouse was a cathedral of amber silence. Lando stood naked at the door, his muscular frame casting a shadow that stretched across the marble foyer, his cock still half-hard and glistening from her throat. He pressed the intercom with a single, elegant finger, his expression bored, aristocratic.
“She’s already home, Max,” Lando purred, his voice carrying the clipped, upper-class cadence of a man who had never been denied anything. “This is where she belongs. Where she’s always belonged. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Max slammed his fist against the door. The sound was a gunshot in the corridor. “I’m going to fucking kill you, Norris. I’ll bury you. I’ll bury both of you.”
Lando smiled. He looked over his shoulder at the bedroom, where Oscar was arranging her on the white linen, positioning her like a centrepiece. She was still in the cum-stained lace babydoll, the black leather collar gleaming at her throat, her blue eyes glassy and unfocused. Her thumb was lodged in her mouth. Floppy was pressed against her cheek. She had not reacted to Max’s voice. She had regressed past the point of language, past the point of rescue.
Lando reached for the door handle. He turned it slowly, deliberately, and opened the gap just six inches. The security chain caught, glinting like a blade. Through the sliver of space, the amber light of the penthouse spilled into the corridor, and Max looked.
He saw her.
She was on her knees on the bed, facing the door because Oscar had turned her. The lace was transparent, showing every bruise, every bite, the smear of seed across her inner thighs. The collar was locked. Her small breasts were rising and falling with shallow, hitched breaths. She looked up, and for a moment, her eyes found Max. There was no recognition. Only a void of childlike confusion. Then Lando stepped into the frame, blocking the view, and she did something that broke Max’s heart with a clean, surgical snap.
She whimpered. She reached past Lando, her small hand trembling, and she gripped the back of Lando’s thigh. She pressed her face against his hip, nuzzling him like a kitten seeking warmth, and she made a sound—a high, needy, possessive whine. “Daddy,” she mumbled around her thumb. “Don’t let him take me. Please. Want to stay with Daddy.”
Max went still.
Lando looked down at her with a smile that was almost tender. He stroked her hair, his fingers tunnelling through the matted brunette waves, and he looked back at Max through the gap. “You see?” he said softly. “She’s home. She’s safe. She’s exactly where she wants to be.”
Max’s face crumpled. He reached through the gap, his hand grasping at air, at her, at anything. “Baby, please—”
Oscar appeared behind Lando. He was naked, his body a brutal architecture of muscle and sinew, his blond hair catching the light like a halo over a devil. He held a phone in his hand. On the screen, a video was playing: Max’s own voice from the corridor, screaming threats. “I’ll bury you.” The words were clear, violent, recorded.
“Go away, Max,” Oscar said quietly, his voice colder than the marble beneath their feet. “Or we’ll release this. We’ll show the world that Max Verstappen is a violent, unhinged brute who threatens rival drivers over a consensual relationship. We’ll show them the medical records. The instability. The childhood trauma. We’ll show them that she is a fragile, damaged little girl who needs protection—from you.”
Max’s hand dropped. He staggered back, his face pale. He understood, then, the depth of the trap. They had not just taken her body. They had built a cage of evidence, a fortress of lies so perfectly constructed that any attempt to save her would bury her alive. He looked at her one last time, and she was hiding her face in Lando’s hip, her body curled away from the door, her small form shaking with silent sobs that were not for him, but for the fear that her Daddy might hand her over.
“Please,” Max whispered, the word dissolving into nothing.
Oscar closed the door. The lock clicked.
She screamed.
It was not a scream of pain, but of release—a tantrum, a child’s wail of terror and relief, her body convulsing as the overstimulation of the confrontation finally shattered what was left of her adult mind. She threw herself back onto the mattress, her small fists beating the linen, her legs kicking in useless, weak arcs, her face screwing up into a mask of pure, regressed anguish. “Don’t let him take Floppy!” she shrieked, the pitch piercing, inhuman. “Don’t let him take me! I’m Daddy’s! I’m Daddy’s little rookie!”
Lando moved with the speed of a man who had been waiting for this. He was on the bed in an instant, gathering her thrashing body into his arms, pinning her wrists behind her back with one hand while the other gripped her jaw. He forced her to look at him, his face filling her entire vision, his brown eyes burning with a dark, obsessive fire. “Hush,” he commanded, his voice a whip wrapped in velvet. “No one is taking you. No one is taking Floppy. You’re Daddy’s. Say it again.”
“I’m Daddy’s!” she sobbed, her body going limp in his grip, the fight draining out of her as quickly as it had come. “I’m Daddy’s little rookie. Please, Daddy. Please don’t let him in.”
Oscar climbed onto the bed behind her. He was still naked, his cock thick and heavy, already weeping with arousal at the sight of her tantrum. He loved the tantrums. He loved the way she broke, the way she reverted, the way she became a thing that could only be soothed by the very men who caused the pain. He reached for a bottle on the nightstand—something in crystal, filled with golden oil—and he poured it over his fingers. “She’s too tense,” he murmured, his voice clinical and cruel. “She needs to be prepared for tomorrow. She needs to wear Daddy inside her when she takes pole.”
Lando flipped her effortlessly. He arranged her on her stomach, her face pressed into the white linen, her small ass elevated by a pillow he shoved beneath her hips. The lace babydoll was rucked up around her waist, exposing her completely. Her cunt was still gaping, still leaking the remnants of their earlier use, a pink, ruined flower. But above it, her asshole was the target. It was red, swollen, torn from the night before, fluttering weakly.
Oscar poured oil directly onto the broken hole. It was cold, and she gasped, her hands flying back to push him away. Lando caught them. He pinned her wrists to the small of her back, leaning his weight over her so that his cock, hard and hot, pressed against her bruised thigh. “No,” he said into her ear. “You don’t push Daddy away. You take it. You take everything Daddy gives you, because Daddy knows what his little rookie needs.”
Oscar pushed one finger in. She screamed into the mattress, her body bucking, but he was relentless. He worked the finger deep, twisting, scissoring, stretching the torn muscle while Lando held her down and whispered filth into her ear. “Tomorrow you’re going to sit in that Red Bull car, and you’re going to feel Daddy’s cum in this tight little ass. You’re going to take every curb, every g-force, and it’s going to feel like Daddy is fucking you all over again. You’re going to win pole for us. Because you’re ours. Because without us, you’re nothing but a scared little girl who can’t even talk to a journalist.”
He added a second finger. She sobbed, her face soaked, her body trembling. Then he added a third, and she was stretched wide, her asshole burning, the skin white and shiny around his knuckles. He fucked her with his fingers, a brutal, rhythmic preparation, until she was loose and gaping and weeping continuously.
Then he withdrew, and he produced the plug.
It was a work of obscene luxury. Black obsidian, polished to a mirror sheen, set in a platinum base that held a single, blood-red ruby. It was the size of a large fist, thick and tapered, and it caught the light like a weapon. Oscar poured more oil over it, letting it drip between his fingers, and he pressed the cold, hard tip against her ruined entrance.
“Breathe,” Lando commanded. “Push out. Let Daddy in.”
She pushed. She was too broken to disobey. Oscar bore down, and the plug began to enter her, spreading her wider than she had ever been spread, the obsidian unforgiving and slick. She howled, a long, rising wail that sounded like a child being torn apart, her hands clawing at the sheets, her back arching. Lando held her down, his face pressed against her neck, inhaling the scent of her terror. “Good girl,” he growled. “Take it. Take Daddy’s jewel. You’re going to wear this to bed. You’re going to wear it to the track. You’re going to wear it until Daddy says you can stop.”
The plug seated with a wet, obscene pop. The ruby base settled against her skin, a brand of wealth and ownership, visible between her bruised cheeks. She collapsed, panting, her body twitching, her mind completely gone. Lando turned her over, and she looked up at them with eyes that held no person, only obedience.
“Sleep now,” Lando whispered, curling around her from behind.
Oscar curled around her front, pressing his hard cock against her stomach, his arm throwing over her waist. They caged her between their muscular, six-foot-plus frames, two walls of heat and power, and they placed Floppy in her arms. She clutched him, sucking her thumb, her body vibrating with the foreign pressure of the plug in her ass. They fell asleep like that, their property, their little rookie, locked in a cage of flesh and silk.
The morning of Qualifying came wrapped in a sky of iron grey.
Albert Park was a different beast on a Saturday. The grandstands were swollen, the air electric with the anticipation of speed, the paddock a labyrinth of chrome and carbon fibre and corporate power. But she did not enter through the public gates. She arrived in the black McLaren SUV, seated between Lando and Oscar in the rear, her small body swallowed by an oversized McLaren team jacket that they had put on her. Beneath it, she wore nothing except the collar and the plug.
She was dissociated, floating in a warm, small bubble where the world was just the scent of Lando’s cologne and the vibration of the obsidian plug shifting with every pothole. She had her thumb in her mouth. Floppy was in her lap. Oscar stroked her hair while Lando reviewed telemetry on his tablet, his other hand resting possessively on her inner thigh, his fingers inches from the heat of her unprotected cunt.
“Today you take pole,” Lando said, not looking at her. “And when you do, Daddy is going to reward you. You’re going to come to the motorhome, and we’re going to fuck you on the trophy. Do you understand?”
She nodded, her thumb muffling her voice. “Yes, Daddy.”
The garage was a cathedral of controlled chaos. Red Bull mechanics swarmed the RB22, and Max was there, his face a mask of sleepless fury. He had not shaved. His eyes were red-rimmed. When she stepped out of the SUV, flanked by the McLaren drivers, he moved toward her with the speed of a man possessed.
“Hey,” Max said, his voice rough. He reached for her elbow.
She flinched. She recoiled so violently she stumbled into Lando’s chest, and a high, keening sound escaped her throat—a tantrum pitch, the sound of a regressed child terrified of a stranger. Her hands flew to the zipper of the McLaren jacket, pulling it higher, hiding the collar. Her eyes were huge, swimming with tears, her lower lip trembling. “Don’t,” she whimpered. “Don’t touch. Daddy. Daddy!”
Max froze.
The garage went silent. Mechanics looked up. A photographer near the pit wall turned, lens swinging.
Lando smiled. He wrapped his arm around her waist, his hand splaying across her lower back, his fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of her jeans—because they had allowed her to wear jeans, but nothing beneath them, the plug shifting with every step. “She’s having a difficult morning, Max,” Lando said, his voice smooth and loud enough to carry. “Panic attack. You know how she is. Fragile. We’re taking care of her.”
Max looked at her face. He saw the collar, the black leather just visible above the zipper line. He saw the bruise on her jaw, the shadow of a thumbprint. He saw the way she was leaning into Lando, not away, her body language screaming submission, her blue eyes fixed on the ground with a vacancy that was worse than any bruise. He understood, in that moment, that she was no longer the girl he had sworn to protect. She was a doll with its strings cut, and the men holding the strings were standing right in front of him, smiling.
“Let’s go, little rookie,” Oscar murmured, taking her other hand.
They walked her toward the McLaren motorhome, not the Red Bull garage, and she went with them without a backward glance. Max stood in the centre of the garage, his fists clenched, his heart hammering a rhythm of war.
Qualifying was a sacrament of pain.
They did not let her remove the plug. They had modified it, or so they claimed, with a remote mechanism that could send a vibration through the obsidian with the press of a button. Lando held the remote in his pocket as he sat on the pit wall with Oscar, watching the monitors. She was strapped into the RB22, her small body compressed by the harness, her helmet visor down. She should have been focused on the track. But every time she exited the pits, every time she built speed down the main straight, Lando pressed the button.
The plug vibrated.
It was a low, rumbling pulse that resonated through her pelvic bone, shaking the plug in her torn asshole, pressing against the walls of her rectum, sending shockwaves into her cunt. She screamed inside her helmet, a sound lost in the engine’s shriek, her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Through Turn 1, the lateral g-force pressed her into the seat, and the plug shifted, the ruby base grinding against her bruised flesh. Lando pressed the button again. She took the curb at Turn 9 too hard, her body bouncing, and the plug rammed deeper, a bolt of lightning that made her vision blur. She was crying in the helmet, her tears pooling in the padding, her breath hitching in the microphone that broadcast to the engineers.
“Hey, you’re breathing heavy,” Max’s voice crackled in her ear. “Are you okay? Come in if you need to.”
She couldn’t answer. Lando pressed the button again, and she took the final sector with a howl of pain and ecstasy that no one heard. She crossed the line, and the monitors blazed purple.
P1. 1:15.847.
She had taken pole position.
By the time she pitted, she was sobbing. Her body was convulsing, overstimulated beyond endurance, the plug still vibrating with a low, merciless hum. The mechanics unbuckled her, and she fell into the cockpit, her small hands beating weakly against the steering wheel. Max was there, pulling her helmet off, and he saw her face—red, swollen, tears streaming, her mouth open in a silent, endless wail.
“Hey!” Max gripped her shoulders. “What is it? What did they do to you?”
She looked at him, and she looked through him. Her hand reached out, not to him, but to the figure standing behind him. Lando.
“Daddy,” she sobbed, her voice carrying across the garage. “Daddy, please. It hurts. Take it out. Please. I was good. I won for Daddy. I won…”
Max’s face drained of blood.
Lando stepped forward, gently but firmly moving Max aside. “Panic attack,” he repeated, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “Poor thing. She gets confused. We’ll take her to rest. Come, little rookie. Daddy’s got you.”
He lifted her out of the car. Lando carried her out of the garage, her body limp, her face buried in his neck, her breath hitching “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy” like a broken prayer.
Max stood in the garage, the pole position time glowing on the screen behind him, and he felt the world tilt on its axis.
They took her to the McLaren motorhome.
The interior was dim, the blackout blinds drawn, the air thick with sandalwood and the scent of victory. They laid her on the same leather couch where it had begun, and she lay there, twitching, her jeans peeled down to her knees, the obsidian plug winking between her cheeks like a bloody eye. Lando undressed slowly, methodically, his race suit stripped away to reveal the body of a god who had conquered. Oscar produced a bottle of champagne—something that cost more than a season’s worth of engines—and he popped the cork with a sound like a gunshot.
“Pole position,” Lando said, his voice soft and terrible. He knelt between her legs, his fingers tracing the ruby base of the plug. “Our little rookie is the fastest girl in the world. And now Daddy gets his reward.”
He pulled the plug.
She screamed, her asshole gaping, red and ruined, and Lando did not hesitate. He mounted her, his cock slick and massive, and he drove into her ass with a single, brutal stroke. She was loose from the plug, but he was larger, and the stretch still burned, still tore. Oscar climbed over her chest, pinning her shoulders, and he poured champagne over her breasts, the cold liquid making her nipples scream to life, before he leaned down and sucked it from her skin, biting, bruising. He fisted his cock and dragged it across her face, painting her lips with pre-cum.
“Open,” he commanded. “Daddy wants a champagne toast.”
He pushed into her mouth as Lando began to pound her ass, the two of them finding a rhythm that shook the motorhome, that made the crystal decanters rattle in their cabinets. She was limp, a ragdoll, her eyes rolled back, her throat working automatically around Oscar’s cock, her ass convulsing around Lando’s shaft. She was their trophy. Their pole-sitter. Their little rookie, broken and rebuilt in their image.
Lando came first, roaring, emptying himself into her ass for the third time in twenty-four hours. Oscar followed, pulling out to spill across her face, her closed eyes, her open mouth, mixing his seed with the champagne and the tears until she was glazed, unrecognizable, a monument to their ownership.
They collapsed beside her, one on each side, their muscular arms throwing over her tiny, trembling frame. Lando reached for Floppy and tucked him into her limp hands. Oscar wiped the cum from her eyes with a silk handkerchief.
“Tomorrow,” Lando whispered into her hair, “is the race. And when you win, little rookie, Daddy is going to breed you. We’re going to fill this virgin cunt with our seed until you swell with it. Until everyone knows you belong to us. Until Max Verstappen looks at you and sees a McLaren princess, carrying Daddy’s child.”
She whimpered, clutching Floppy, her body throbbing, her mind gone. She was theirs. Pole position. Collared. Filled. Owned.
Outside, the Melbourne sun set on the eve of the Grand Prix, and Max Verstappen stood in the shadow of the Red Bull garage, looking at the McLaren motorhome with eyes that had gone cold enough to burn. He had seen the collar. He had heard the word. And he knew, with a certainty that settled in his bones like frost, that the war for her soul had only just begun.
The night before the race was not a night at all. It was an eternity of amber half-light and liquid cruelty, a deliberate erasure of time inside the Crown Towers penthouse. Lando had ordered the blackout blinds sealed with electrical tape, and the recessed LEDs were dialled to a colour temperature that mimicked perpetual dusk, so that she could not know whether it was midnight or dawn. She existed in a state of suspended regression, a broken clockwork doll wound and unwound by their hands. They did not let her sleep. Not truly. They allowed her to collapse into blackness for twenty minutes, forty, just long enough for her body to crave the escape, and then Oscar would wake her with his fingers in her ass, or Lando would rouse her by pressing his cock against her lips, feeding her his salt-thick taste as if it were medicine. “Daddy’s checking on his little rookie,” Lando would whisper, his voice a silk noose. “Making sure all her holes are still ready for the race.”
By the time the artificial morning arrived, she was no longer a person. She was a nerve ending wrapped in pale skin. Her blue eyes had lost the ability to focus on anything farther than Lando’s chest. Her voice had dissolved into a repertoire of three sounds: a whimper, a sob, and the word Daddy, slurred around her thumb or their cocks. They had bathed her again at some point in the false night, lowering her into water so hot it turned her thin legs pink, and while she floated, Oscar had shaved her cunt completely. He had used a straight razor, the kind of heirloom instrument that belonged in a barber’s shop for billionaires, and he had worked with a slow, terrifying precision. Lando held her knees open, pinned back against her chest, so that she was utterly displayed while the cold steel kissed her mound. She was too afraid to move. One tear had escaped, rolling down her temple into the bathwater, and Oscar had caught it on his fingertip and sucked it clean. “Smooth,” he had observed, his thumb dragging over the bare, swollen lips of her pussy. “This is how Daddy likes his little rookie. Bare and marked. No hair to hide anything. No dignity to hide behind.”
They had used her ass twice more in the night, but her cunt remained a sealed, denied temple. Lando had fingered her there, plunging two thick digits into her wet, virgin-tight heat, but every time she arched toward orgasm, every time her body begged for completion, he had stopped. He had slapped her clit, sharp and cruel, making her shriek and curl into a ball. “Not yet,” he had growled. “That hole is for tomorrow. That hole is for your victory prize. You win the race, and Daddy floods you. You earn your breeding, little rookie. You don’t get it for free.”
Now it was Sunday. Race day.
The Albert Park circuit had been transformed into a colosseum of noise, a hundred thousand voices rising into a sky the colour of bruised plums. The heat was oppressive, wet and tropical, turning the asphalt into a skillet that shimmered with mirages. The paddock was a riot of colour and power: the Ferrari motorhome gleaming like a blood-red sarcophagus, the Mercedes lounge a cathedral of silver and glass, and at the centre of it all, the McLaren compound, black and papaya, radiating a dark gravity that seemed to pull her toward it by the marrow.
She arrived in the SUV wearing a McLaren team polo that swam on her, the hem falling to mid-thigh, and beneath it, nothing. Absolutely nothing. The obsidian plug had been removed at dawn, but only so that Lando could re-enter her with his own cock one final time, a brutal, claiming stroke that left her ass full of his spend as they dressed her. She was to drive with him inside her. She was to feel the leakage of his seed with every shift of her weight, every lateral g-force. Her cunt was bare, swollen, and denied, aching with a need she could not name. The collar remained, hidden beneath a silk scarf that Oscar had tied with a knot she could not reach. And in her small hands, clutched against her chest, was Floppy. They had allowed it. They knew she would not function without the bunny, and today, function was essential.
Max was waiting at the Red Bull garage entrance. He looked like a man who had not slept, his face shadowed with stubble, his eyes burning with a fury that had calcified into something surgical and cold. He wore his race suit unzipped, his gloves in his hands, and when she stepped from the SUV on legs that trembled visibly, he moved toward her with the single-minded focus of a missile.
“Hey,” he said, his voice rough. He reached for her elbow. “Look at me. Just look at me. We’re going to get through the race, and then I’m taking you out of here. I’ve made calls. I have proof. I—”
She flinched. Her entire body convulsed away from him, a recoil so violent that she stumbled backward into Lando’s chest. Lando’s hands came up to steady her, but they did not steady—they claimed. His large palms splayed across her stomach, pulling her back against his groin, his fingers dipping beneath the hem of the polo to stroke the bare, swollen lips of her denied cunt. She gasped, a high, broken sound, and her eyes filled with tears that spilled over instantly. “No,” she whimpered, her voice tiny and cracked. “No. Don’t touch. Daddy. Daddy!”
The garage went silent. Mechanics froze. A group of FIA officials passing by turned their heads.
Max’s face shattered. He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a lethal whisper. “He’s got his fingers on you,” Max snarled. “Right now, in front of everyone, he’s touching you. And you’re thanking him. Baby, please—”
Lando smiled, his chin resting on top of her head, his height swallowing her completely. “She’s overstimulated, Max,” he said, his voice carrying with a practiced, patronizing sympathy. “You know the history. The trauma. The regression. She needs familiarity. She needs safety. And you’re crowding her.” His fingers pressed harder against her cunt, parting her lips, stroking her clit with a subtle, possessive motion that made her knees buckle. She moaned, a wet, pathetic sound, and pressed her ass back into Lando’s groin, grinding against him like a trained animal seeking approval. “See?” Lando purred. “She’s calming down. Daddy’s got her.”
Oscar stepped forward, blocking Max’s view with his broad, suited frame. He reached out and adjusted the silk scarf at her neck, his fingers brushing the leather collar beneath, ensuring the lock was hidden. “You should worry about your own race, Max,” Oscar said softly. “Your little sister is in good hands. The best hands. She’s going to win today. And then she’s going to get everything she deserves.”
Max’s fists clenched. He looked at her face, searching for the girl he had sworn to protect, but she was not there. In her place was a hollow-eyed doll, her blue irises flooded with tears, her lower lip trembling, her body subtly humping against Lando’s hand while she clutched her stuffed bunny to her chest like a shield. She looked twelve. She looked broken. She looked like she belonged to them.
“Grid walk in twenty minutes,” Max said quietly, the words barely escaping his locked jaw. “I’ll see you out there. Remember who you are.”
He turned and walked into the garage. She watched him go, and a sob escaped her, because some part of her, buried deep beneath the layers of trauma and conditioning, recognized that she was watching her last hope walk away. But then Lando pinched her clit, hard, and the thought evaporated into a scream of pain and obedience.
They took her to the McLaren motorhome first.
The interior was dark, cool, a sanctuary of black leather and gold-threaded velvet. The mirrors had been covered with sheets, so she could not see herself, could not witness the regression that had stolen her face. They laid her on the couch and peeled the polo from her body. She was naked, trembling, her thin legs falling open automatically because she had learned that resistance only brought more pain. Lando knelt between her thighs. He was already hard, his cock thick and dark, straining against his tailored trousers. He freed himself, and the sight of it made her whimper, her hands flying to cover her face. Oscar caught her wrists and pinned them above her head with one hand.
“No,” Lando commanded. “You watch. You watch Daddy prepare you for the race. You watch what you’re driving for.”
He entered her ass in one stroke. She was loose from the night’s abuse, but the sudden fullness still made her shriek, her back arching off the leather. He fucked her with short, brutal thrusts, his pelvis slapping against her bruised cheeks, his hands gripping her waist so hard she knew he was leaving fresh marks to complement the old. He was not seeking pleasure. He was seeking depth. He was planting himself in her ass so that she would carry him onto the track, so that every lap would be a memorial to his cock inside her. He came with a roar, grinding into her, his seed flooding her torn passage in thick, hot pulses. When he pulled out, the cum leaked immediately, a white, obscene trail sliding down her perineum to pool on the leather beneath her.
“Keep it in,” Lando ordered, wiping himself on her inner thigh. “You hold Daddy inside you until the checkered flag. You clench that little ass, and you keep me there. If you leak too much, if you lose Daddy on the track…” He leaned down, his face filling her vision. “…I’ll burn Floppy in front of you. I’ll make you watch him melt.”
She nodded frantically, her face a mask of terror and devotion. “Yes, Daddy. I’ll keep it. I’ll be tight. I’ll be good.”
Oscar produced the plug. It was the obsidian one, but modified. He poured oil over it, the golden liquid dripping onto the black stone, and he pressed it against her gaping, cum-slicked hole. “This stays in during the race,” he said. “Not all the time. Just when you need reminding. When you start to think you’re a driver instead of a doll. Daddy will press the button…” He held up a remote, sleek and silver, matching the one Lando had used in qualifying. “…and you’ll feel it. You’ll feel us. And you’ll remember who owns the girl in the Red Bull car.”
He pushed the plug in. She screamed, but the sound was muffled by Lando’s hand over her mouth. The plug seated with a wet, final pop, the ruby base nestling between her cheeks. They dressed her in her race suit, the Red Bull livery a cruel irony, zipping her up over the hidden collar and the stuffed plug. They put her boots on her feet. They placed her helmet in her hands, and then Oscar knelt and tucked Floppy into a small, hidden pocket inside the suit, over her heart.
“Race time, little rookie,” Lando whispered, stroking her cheek. “Win for Daddy. Win for your breeding.”
The grid was a furnace of noise and light.
She stood beside her car, five-foot-one in a world of giants, her helmet under her arm, her blue eyes staring blankly at the asphalt. The plug was a stone of fire in her ass, shifting with every microscopic movement, pressing against the walls of her rectum where Lando’s seed already pooled. She could feel it, hot and criminal, a liquid shame that made her stomach clench. Around her, the photographers buzzed, the crowd roared, and the other drivers prepared for war. She saw Max a few meters away, standing by his own car, his eyes fixed on her with a burning intensity that she could not process. He looked like a guardian angel who had arrived too late, his face etched with a grief that had turned to steel.
The national anthem played. She stood at attention, but she was not present. She was in the motorhome, on her knees, being filled. She was in the penthouse, being bathed and shaved and owned. When the anthem ended, she did not move until an engineer touched her shoulder, and she flinched so hard her helmet nearly dropped.
They strapped her in. The harness compressed her chest, the straps digging into her small breasts, and the sensation made her whimper inside her helmet. The engine screamed to life, a vibration that rattled through the plug and made her gasp. She led the field away on the formation lap, the RB22 responding to her inputs with the lethal precision of a machine that did not know its driver was a broken doll.
The lights went out.
The race was a dissociative blur of violence and speed. She launched off the line, the g-forces slamming her back into the seat, and the plug rammed deeper, a bolt of lightning that made her cry out inside her helmet. The sound was lost in the engine’s shriek. She took the lead into Turn 1, her driving automatic, instinctual, the muscle memory of a thousand karting laps guiding her while her mind floated in a warm, small place. She was vaguely aware of Max behind her, his car filling her mirrors, his presence a nagging thorn of reality that she could not afford to acknowledge.
On lap 12, Lando pressed the button.
The plug came alive inside her, a low, brutal vibration that resonated through her pelvic bone, shaking the seed in her ass, pressing against her g-spot through the thin wall of flesh. She screamed, a long, soundless wail inside her helmet, her hands white-knuckled on the wheel. She took the curb at Turn 9 too hard, the car bouncing, and the plug shifted, grinding against her prostate, her anus, her soul. She was crying, her vision blurred, her breath coming in hitching, desperate sobs that fogged her visor.
Max’s voice crackled in her ear. “You’re driving erratically. Come in. Box, box. Let us check the car.”
She couldn’t. Lando’s finger was on the button, and the vibration intensified, a demand that transcended language. She drove faster, harder, taking risks that were suicidal, because speed was the only way to outrun the sensation, and speed was the only thing that pleased them. She lapped cars with a ferocity that terrified the midfield. She took the checkered flag by eight seconds.
She had won the Australian Grand Prix.
The podium was a nightmare of exposure.
She stood on the top step, the trophy heavy in her small hands, her race suit damp with sweat and the secret leakage of Lando’s spend. The national anthem played, and she trembled so violently that the trophy rattled against its base. Max stood on the second step, his eyes never leaving her, his face a mask of stone and fury. When the champagne sprayed, she flinched as if struck, her body curling inward, a tantrum brewing in her chest. She did not spray her bottle. She clutched it to her chest like a second Floppy, her knuckles white, her eyes fixed on the middle distance where she knew Lando and Oscar were standing behind the barriers, watching, controlling.
The press conference was a blur of questions she could not answer. Max sat beside her, his knee pressing against hers under the table, a silent, desperate message. But Lando had told her not to speak unless it was about the car. And so, she mumbled one-word answers, her voice tiny and childish, until an FIA media manager stepped in and ended the session early, citing exhaustion.
She never made it back to the Red Bull garage.
Oscar intercepted her in the cooldown room, his hand wrapping around her upper arm with a grip that brooked no argument. Lando was waiting at the service entrance, the black SUV idling. They bundled her inside, and she collapsed against the leather, the trophy discarded on the floor like trash, her small body convulsing with the delayed tantrum of a race spent in agony. She was crying, kicking weakly, her helmet still on, and Oscar had to remove it for her, revealing a face that was swollen, red, and utterly vacant.
“Good girl,” Lando murmured from the front seat, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror. “Daddy’s good girl. You won. You earned your prize.”
The McLaren motorhome was prepared.
The mirrors were uncovered. The bed was stripped to white linen, spotless and blinding. They carried her inside and laid her in the centre, and they began to peel the race suit from her body like they were unwrapping a gift. Beneath the suit, her skin was a topography of damage: bruises like inkblots, bites like crimson constellations. The plug was removed with a wet, obscene pop, and Lando’s seed spilled out onto the white sheets, a pearly, filthy pool that marked her immediately.
She was naked. She was open. She was theirs.
Lando climbed onto the bed. He was naked, his body a monument to power, his cock thick and heavy and already weeping. He positioned himself between her legs, his hands gripping her knees and spreading them so wide it hurt her hips. He looked down at her cunt, bare and swollen and virgin-tight despite the abuse, and he smiled. “This,” he said, his voice guttural, “is the hole we’ve been saving. This is the hole that wins the trophy. This is where Daddy breeds his little rookie.”
Oscar knelt beside her head, his own cock bobbing against her cheek. He fisted her hair, turning her face toward him. “You’re going to take both of us,” he commanded. “Lando is going to fill this cunt until you overflow. And then I’m going to fill it again. And again. Until you’re dripping. Until you’re carrying. Until every engineer in that paddock looks at you in a month and sees a swollen belly and knows you belong to McLaren.”
Lando positioned himself. He dragged the head of his cock through her folds, gathering her wetness—her fear, her arousal, her degradation—and he pressed against her entrance. She was so tight, so untouched there despite everything, that he had to force himself in. She screamed, a raw, tearing sound, her back arching off the bed, her hands beating against his chest. He ignored her. He pushed deeper, inch by inch, claiming the last virgin territory of her body, tearing through the resistance of her muscles until he was seated fully, his balls pressed against her ass, his entire length buried in the furnace of her unprotected womb.
“Look at me,” Lando snarled, gripping her jaw. “Look at Daddy while he breeds you.”
He began to fuck her. Not with the brutal speed of the previous nights, but with a slow, deliberate, possessive rhythm, each thrust designed to maximize the depth of his deposit. He was fucking her to impregnate her. He was using her body for its biological purpose, reducing her from a driver to a vessel, from a person to a womb. She sobbed beneath him, her blue eyes wide and glassy, her legs trembling around his waist. Oscar held her head still and pushed his cock into her mouth, silencing her screams, filling her throat with the taste of his dominance.
They found a rhythm. Lando would thrust deep into her cunt, grinding against her cervix, and Oscar would fuck her mouth in counterpoint, using her throat as a sleeve. The room filled with the sounds of her wet choking, the slap of Lando’s pelvis against her bruised thighs, and the low, animal grunts of two men claiming their permanent prize. She was limp between them, a human conduit, her body convulsing with overstimulation, her mind regressing so deeply that she was no longer an adult, no longer a Grand Prix winner. She was a baby. A doll. A cunt and a throat and a womb, and nothing more.
Lando came first. He roared, his head falling back, his muscular frame seizing as he pumped wave after wave of hot, thick seed directly into her unprotected womb. It was a deluge, a flooding, and he stayed inside her, grinding, ensuring every drop found its mark. When he pulled out, a gush of white followed, spilling down her perineum, pooling in the sheets, marking her as bred.
Oscar did not give her a moment to breathe. He pulled out of her mouth, flipped her onto her stomach with a brutal efficiency, and dragged her hips up until her ass was elevated, her face pressed into the cum-soaked linen. He entered her cunt from behind, his cock sliding through Lando’s spend, pushing it deeper, adding his own claim to the mixture. She shrieked into the mattress, her small fists clawing at the sheets, but he was relentless. He fucked her with the brutal, mechanical pace of a man completing a task, his hips snapping against her bruised ass, his hands gripping her waist so hard she knew he was breaking blood vessels beneath the skin.
“Take it,” Oscar growled, his voice a velvet whip. “Take Daddy’s seed. Take it deep. You’re ours now, little rookie. Forever. Even when you’re showing on the podium, even when the world sees you’re knocked up, you’ll know it was us. You’ll know you’re a McLaren whore. Daddy’s pregnant princess.”
He came with a guttural snarl, burying himself to the hilt, his cock jerking inside her as he added his load to Lando’s. He stayed there, softening but still claiming, his weight pressing her into the mattress until she could barely breathe.
Then they switched.
Lando, hard again, took her from behind while Oscar lifted her face and fucked her mouth. They traded her like a shared toy, using her until she was overflowing, until her cunt was a frothing mess of their combined spend, until the white sheets were soaked and ruined. They came inside her again and again, refusing to pull out, refusing to waste a drop. They told her she was bred. They told her she was carrying their victory. They told her she was a good little girl, Daddy’s best little rookie, and she sobbed and believed them because she had forgotten how to believe anything else.
When they finally finished, they arranged her on the bed. Lando spooned her from behind, his arm thrown over her waist, his hand resting possessively on her lower stomach. Oscar lay in front of her, his face inches from hers, his fingers stroking her hair. Between her legs, a warm, thick pool of their seed slowly leaked out, but they did not let her clean it. They wanted her to wear it. They wanted her to sleep in it.
“We’re going to Monaco next,” Lando whispered against her neck. “And then Spain. And every race, you’ll win. And every race, we’ll breed you again. Until you’re showing. Until you’re waddling around the paddock with Daddy’s child in your belly. And then we’ll keep you in a motorhome, naked and collared, and you’ll never drive again. You’ll just be our little breeding doll. Our little rookie. Forever.”
Oscar leaned in and kissed her forehead, his lips lingering on the sweat and tears. “Sleep now,” he murmured. “Daddy’s watching. Daddy’s always watching.”
She closed her eyes. Her thumb found its way into her mouth. Floppy was pressed against her chest. She was filled, owned, and utterly broken. And as she drifted into a black, dreamless sleep, she did not hear the sound of the motorhome door being forced, or the roar of Max Verstappen’s voice as he finally, inevitably, came for her with a weapon in his hand and murder in his heart.
I finished finals, bought a house, got married, and adopted a puppy, and now that all the chaos is done, and I have some time, I will be writing again, sooooo be ready because the new Noah Kahan album has been on repeat.
My next story is olliver lmk if y'all want a sneak peek (it's called "We Go Way Back ")
Absolutely fucking rich that Robby thinks Al-Hashimi can’t handle running the ED because she paused twice when working with kids. My brother in Christ you are on the killing myself world tour right now let’s self reflect maybe
I am really trying to get all my fics finished and new fic out but I am drowning in school and work I have a finales and mid terms and more hours at my job plus my bf is back home from deployment so not a lot of time to write but I am trying !! I’ll get there I’m also considering opening up requests once I get some time to write I’ll keep yall updated thank you for your patience
Summary- Max is new to being a single dad and is struggling, but maybe his miracle just walked through the door as the new PR manager. He can't help but wonder why she is so good with kids, and why she is a PR manager if she apparently doesn't have a degree in these things. Ch1, Ch2
warnings- mesogeny, miscardge, slut shaming, online bullying, cussing, kissing/making out, light sexual themes but no smut, evil intervier (sorry), jealousy, depression, anxiety, cheating, inscurity, I think that's everything, but if I missed something, lmk
wc- 7k
note- this is the last part! I might write a full smut version if y'all want me to! Please let me know your thoughts, bad or good, whatever. I love comments! Next to come out is my Danny Ric one, I dropped a teaser for, so be on the lookout!
♡♡♡
Max had awoken before his alarm that morning. Groaning with a stretch, he reached for his phone, all too bright; it displayed the time: 3:56 am.
“Fuck me,” he grumbles, a bit angry at his missed sleep, but he figured he might as well start the morning. His movements are a bit slow, his mind lagging behind, as it seems the only thing he can think of is that kiss last night, the feeling burned into him like something he’ll never forget, it's something he’ll never want to forget.
He's sitting on his bed drinking a bland cup of coffee when he gets a call from Luarent.
“Hello?” he answered, confused as to why Lurent was even up at close to 5 am. He figured that getting a call this early had to be at least a little important.
“How long have you and her been a thing?” Lurent's voice is not mad per se, but it is definitely stern. As soon as Max processes the words, his stomach drops. How does he know? Who else knows?
“How bad is it ?” he asks, taking a deep breath. “A series of photos of you two outside her hotel room last night…with both your faces visible’ Max runs his hand down his face, groaning he knows he's fucked, but he's not worried about the backlash on him, he's worried about the backlash on you. He can already see the comments from his ‘fans’ calling you every name under the sun.
“So when did it start?” Laurent repeats his question. Max sighs, rubbing a hand over his tired face. “That's a complicated answer.” He hesitates for a beat, his mind swimming with uncertainty. Even now, with everything hanging out in the open, anxiety churns in his chest. Max had been head over heels for you for a long time, but every time he thought about putting a label on whatever existed between you, nerves always tripped him up. What if he rushed you before you were ready? The last thing he wanted was to ruin the fragile relationship growing between you. He was scared—terrified, even— at the thought of losing you to a misunderstanding. So, instead, he waited. Hoping you knew how much you meant to him, but never wanting to do something you're uncomfortable with.
___
“We’re so fucked, huh? You muster the closest thing to a laugh you can with both Laurent and Max standing in front of you. Both are looking extremely worried.
“Do either of you care to explain why you two were locking lips like hormonal teenagers last night?” Laurent broke the silence first. Of course, he was a reasonable team principal; he didn't mind that you two were a thing. No, he would never stand in the way of love. But it was causing a bit of a problem online. While he knows none of the sponsors or anyone on the team will care enough about who Max is sleeping with to do anything, or even give it a second thought, he also knows how vicious the media can be toward drivers and their partners. Laurent already knew a bit about your old job and the reasons for leaving as your employer, and he knew you didn't want it shared, but he also knew it was only a matter of time before Max’s ‘fans’ crossed the line and found things like this out and shared it across the internet. Laurent is also sure you already know these things, but he wants to protect you and Max as much as possible. To do that, he needs to know everything. So he asks again, “Why were you two caught kissing? And when did it start?”
It's you who breaks the silence this time. “We kissed for the first time last night, and I'm sorry for getting caught. We should've been more observant.” You were careful not to apologize for being with Max because one, you weren't sorry, and two, you didn't want to make Max think you regretted it. In fact, regret was the farthest thing from what you felt about the kiss. You were a bit worried about how this would affect Max's reputation. Max hasn't been caught with another woman since his divorce, so you can't even imagine their reaction, but you're sure it's not great. You've seen how harsh people online can be.
Max takes a step closer to you, almost protective. “But neither of us regret our actions….Well, I don't.” Max looks down at you, silently asking for your approval, and you give him a slight nod, allowing him to speak for both of you. “We will figure out the repercussions together. I know most people won't care, but for those who do, we can maybe do a small interview, or hell, I'll even answer questions about it in the media pin if that satisfies their hunger.” Max answers, standing firmly beside you, maybe a little worried that Laurent will take this badly and maybe even fire y/n. But that doesn't happen; all Max hears is a deep sigh from Laurent.
“I don't care that you two are dating, in fact, if it helps motivate Max, I think it's great, but it's not me that's the problem, it's the media. They have already dug, and know that y/n has been divorced before. And this hasn't even been public knowledge for 24 hours. I just want to warn you guys not to let what the media says about either of you two affect your performance during your working hours.” Laurent sighs once again, running his hand through his hair before starting again, “and we are going to have a meeting about this with the whole team come Thursday or Friday, so we need to figure out what information you want everyone to know and what information you don't”
After a little more discussion and promises to stay off your phone for the time being, Laurent decides to leave you and Max.
‘I'm sorry about your reputation….” you say, unable to look him in the eye now that you two are alone. You're scared Max, despite his words, will regret it; maybe he hates that you’ve stained his image in the media. But he doesn't let that thought linger in your head long before he's pulling you into a tight hug, his face buried in the crook of your neck, mumbling, “I don't know why you think I care, the media knows I bagged the hottest, most caring, perfect woman.” he pulls away, looks you in the eyes. You feel like melting his blue eyes bore into your soul, you feel so exposed, feel like he could see every part of you, the bad parts, the good parts, all of it. His eyes all over you made you feel like your whole body was on fire; it made you feel something you were maybe a little scared to address. All the fear goes away when he puts his lips against yours. His mouth moves against your so naturally, your lips enveloping each other, his tongue wipes your bottom lip, asking for permission into your mouth, and you give in easily. His hand travels from your shoulder to your cheek, deepening this kiss, while his other hand pulls you closer to his body. If that's even possible, his big warm hands envelop your entire cheek, his thumb making small circles as if your tongs continue to dance with each other.
–
It didn't take very long after Max left for curiosity to get the better of you. You slowly unlocked your phone that had been sitting on the nightstand all morning untouched, your hands trembling slightly as you hesitated over the screen. The air in the room seemed thinner, your heart thumping a little faster as you opened Instagram. Logging in was too easy; almost dangerous. Each new comment seemed sharper than the last, their words clawing their way under your skin. It was like a physical ache: shoulders stiffening, throat tightening, your stomach dropping with every hateful message from people you've never met. The urge to throw the phone across the room, burning hot in your chest, the hate feeding old insecurities. It was too easy to let them in, too easy to let their words nest in places you tried so hard to keep hidden. But you had work and that, at least that could pull you away from the endless scroll of hate comments—if only for a while.
You arrive at the paddock with a small pit in your stomach that only grows when you see people's looks. You slowly walk to your office to find a small bouquet, and a coffee on your desk with a note reading, ‘ since I can be open with it now love :)’ a small smile finds its way to your face while you admire the flowers sitting on your desk before you hear a cough from bhind you in your door way, turning around to find a very sung looking yuki.
“I would just like to say I called it.” He smiles at you as he walks up to take a look at the flowers, too.
“He's really a good guy, I think you guys are good for each other, you bring out the best in him, you know?” he says, giving you a warm, reassuring look, almost like he knew this was what you needed to hear right now.
“Thanks, that means a lot, Yuki.” You smile at him. He lets the moment settle in the air before his face falls to something closer to worry.
“Just to let you know, I've always loved having you in the garage and am always here when you need to talk about... anything at all.” You know exactly what he's talking about. There are thousands of people on the internet calling you everything from a gold digger and distraction to just some pr stunt or whore. You know he knows how it feels to have people hate on you for nothing other than existing. You know if anyone were to understand, it would be him. But really, it doesn't bother you, does it?
—
As the day passes, your mind lingers on the fact that you and Max haven't clearly stated that you're dating. It's not that you don't want to be with him; Max makes you feel things you haven't felt in a long time, but you're scared that he doesn't want what you want. All thoughts come to a screeching halt when you hear a knock on the door, grabbing your attention from whatever TikTok you're supposed to be editing.
You open the door to reveal a particularly nervous-looking Max, unlike the calm and collected one he portrays in the media. This is a stark contrast, and it makes your heart flutter a little knowing this version of Max, the nervous lover boy, is a version reserved for you and Lily.
He steps in, closing the door behind him before looking up at you nervousness written all over his face, but his eyes are shining with something you almost want to say is love. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.
“I know you weren’t expecting me, and this is kind of sudden.” Max fidgets slightly, running a hand through his hair. “But I want to tell you now, before we’re shoved into a meeting later today and forced to explain our entire relationship to every staff member.”
He takes a steadying breath, eyes searching yours. “Y/N, I love you.”
He hesitates, the words sticking for a moment. “I love how good you are with Lily. But it’s more than that.”
His voice softens. “I love the look you get in your eyes when you see the coffee I leave on your desk. I love the smile you try to hide when you do something good. I love how compassionate you are with everyone on the team.”
He lets out a shaky laugh, glancing away, then meeting your gaze again. “I love everything I know about you and—I want to love everything I don’t.”
“Please, give me a chance to prove I can be a good boyfriend.” He almost begs.
He swallows, emotion thick in his voice now. “I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through, but I am not him. I will spend however long you need, proving that to you. I’ll be here every day telling you how much—”
You cut him off before he can finish, kissing him quickly but with intention. You feel him smile into the kiss, his hand tangling in your hair. When he pulls back, a blush creeps onto his cheeks. “Mijn liefje,” he smiles.
“I couldn't let you keep ranting, Max. Of course, I'd love to be yours.” You smile, resting your head against his shoulder, his arms wrapping around your waist as the butterflies subside, and a slight tingling settles over every surface of your body. You let the room settle in silence, not awkward, just comfortable, a silence where both of you can appreciate the love in the air.
“So what do you want to tell everyone? You ask, pushing your head farther into the crook of his neck. His hand comes up to your hair, slowly running through it, while he quietly thinks through his response.
“I suppose we tell them only what they need to know, you know that I fell in love with you at first sight, and you, the most perfect, amazing woman, said yes to me,” he said, peppering up your neck with kisses all the way to your lips.
“Max, I'm being serious.” You laugh, pull away, and cross your arms.
“I am being serious, schatje, that is exactly what I'm gonna tell them, then I'm gonna take you back into this office and show you just how much I mean it if you let me love,” he whispers, placing hot, open-mouth kisses on your neck, letting his hands roam your body. “Fuck baby, you don't know how much I've been thinking about this.” You let out a sharp breath when his mouth latches onto your neck, running your hands down his body, pulling him closer. You can feel his hard cock pressing against you.
“Fuck max, not now, I can't go into a meeting like this.” You whine, squeezing his arm, trying to get rid of the rising heat in your stomach that only gets worse at his deep mocking laugh.
“Like what, baby? A needy mess from just a few kisses? How cute,” he mocks, running his hands over your body, giving your tits a slight squeeze before backing away, taking a deep breath, “but you're probably right, baby, we can't have you soaking your panties all meeting” he smirks.
“So cocky, but I have work I need to focus on before the meeting, so you need to go and talk strategy, and I need to edit the next TikTok going up,” you half-joke, walking back to your desk, trying to focus on your work.
–
The meeting went as smoothly as you could expect. Most of the team is ok with it, but there are definitely a few side eyes. All that matters when you step out of the meeting is that you and Max are happy, and that you've both decided to do a small interview at the next PR to help the dust settle.
Although both Max and Laurent have advised you to stay off your phone as much as possible, right now, that's easy to do. The paddock is its usual business, so you haven't even had time to really look at your phone since the morning. You know when you do, it's gonna be filled with messages from your concerned siblings you've barely talked to, old friends, and all the hate comments flooding your socials. You're just not ready to address that, and you know better than to push your own mental health right now.
You go back to your office, start editing a few things, and talk to some staff members about the upcoming interview Max has with Lando and Oscar about the championship. You don't miss how one of them mutters something about how ‘you're already favoring Max’ under his breath, but you let it slide; it's not worth your energy, and you know it's not true. If anything, you work with Yuki more than Max.
When your lunch break approaches, you head to the hospitality area to get something to eat. Sitting at a table in the back is Yuki, so you decided to join him, sliding into the chair next to him. You and he have become pretty good friends, so the conversation flows easily, mainly about work, until it inevitably comes around to you and Max.
“You know if they start treating you differently, I can hit them in the pit lane,” Yuki states, so casually like it wouldn't get him a penalty in the car he's already struggling with.
“I appreciate the offer, truly, but I don't think that is the best idea, plus I've barely even noticed.” You laugh a little at his antic, shaking your head, “although I haven't been on societal media at all, soooo,” you shrug your shoulders a bit.
“That's good, you should stay off it,” he says, picking at his salad.
“She should stay off what?” you hear a sweet voice behind you, turning around to see Charles and Alex both approaching with plates of their own.
“Social media,” you answer, scooting over to give the two more room.
“Ah, yeah, Yuki is probably right.” Alex takes a seat next to you while Charles settles over by Yuki. “Speaking of welcome to the club, I guess,” Alex jokes, bumping your shoulder with a soft smile that makes you feel better about the whole situation.
“Eh, I don't know, I think you should make an Instagram post showing how good everything is. It could stop all the talk,” Charles chimes in, looking pretty serious. You think about it for a second, but aren't sure if that'll actually work.
“That could be a good idea, but it sounds like too much of a gamble,” Alex replies, more just thinking out loud than anything else.
“Plus, Max and y/n are already scheduled to do an interview next week,” Yuki adds, against you being on any socials. He knows there's something more going on in your head than what you show him. He's seen you at one of your lowest points; you should probably trust him, but there was something so convincing about Charles's idea.
“I don't know, you guys, maybe Charles is right, people might stop talking if I show I'm unfazed.” You shrug. The idea has now rooted itself in your brain; you know there's no hope of talking you out of it now.
“If you think it's a good idea, but maybe bring it up to Max,” you say, shrugging your shoulders.
“Yeah, don't forget, we're always ready to defend you if needed, and don’t give a fuck about the media,” Alex reminds you gently.
The lunch continues peacefully with Alex getting your number and adding you to a small group chat with a few of the other wags.
—
Later that night, you were sitting in Max’s hotel room, watching some silly movie, lying comfortably, cuddled together. “You know I talked to Charles earlier,” you start.
“That's good, baby, you guys could be good friends,” Max sighs, rubbing your arm.
“Mhm, I hope so, but you know he mentioned that maybe I could post on Instagram or something about how unfazed I am, you know?” You suggest to max sitting up on your arms and looking him in the eyes.
“You're not unfazed, baby, I can tell,” Max sighs, sitting up. “If that's what you want, do it, I don't mind, but don't lie to yourself or to me. I know it matters to you how people perceive you, and I know the staff reactions hurt a bit—I can tell. I know you're trying to stay off your phone, but I watch your eyes get watery, and your breath quicken every time you even look at it. If you want to fool everyone else, that's fine, but don't try to fool me, too, love. Be honest with me—tell me how much this is hurting you and tell me what I can do about it.”
He hesitates for a second before continuing, his voice a little softer. “Honestly, it scares me too. Seeing your name and mine torn apart online, I worry about what we're risking, if maybe all this will be too much for us, or for you. The thought that you're hurting because of me scares the hell out of me. But I want you to know, even with my own fears, nothing could make me want to hide you, or us.” He looks at you, concern and affection mingling in his eyes, before kissing the top of your head.
“You're right, it hurts to know that these people think that I'm not good enough for you because it scares me that you’ll think the same. You're the fucking Formula One world champion who makes millions, and I'm some elementary school teacher who barely got a job as a fucking social media manager!” You weakly cry before letting your shoulder fall, and your voice gets quieter in defeat. “And I come with so much baggage, it's not fair,” you frown at him.
He laughs, “Baby, your ‘baggage’ makes you a person, and I love you for every aspect of you, not just the ‘good’ things; if anything, it's me who’s not deserving of love from such a phenomenal woman.” Of course, he's good at reassuring you and keeping you from spiraling. HE’S FUCKING PERFECT.
“Ok, but I do want to lie to the masses,” you give in, putting your head against his chest.
He laughs, bringing his hand to play with your hair. “Then I'll help you craft the perfect post, schatje.”
___
Like by maxverstppen1, yukitsunoda0511, charles_leclerc and others.
Yourusername l am more than good enough for him.
User1, she may be just some gold digger, but at least she's pretty.
Maxverstppen1 my girl
Yukitsunoda0511 thats my bestie y'all!!
Yourusername we aren't even in texas why are you using y'all
User2 why is Max fucking this ugly bitch
User3 hating on his gf that he's obviously head over heels for isn't gonna get him to fuck you.
User4 thats what I said as soon as I saw her.
Alexandrasaintmleux a gorgeous, talented woman!!
Yourusername says the prettiest woman I know!
User5 im so sick of wags in F1
User6 god you can just tell she's a slut
User7 oh! I think I recognize her! miss. y/n?
User8 what??? You were in her class???
User7 no, my kid was! She’s a great teacher. I think she left cuz she had a kid or something not 100%
User8 no way she has a kid! Crazy
User6 the slut probably doesn't even know the father
User9 max isn't gonna fuck you user6
User7 update: I asked my wife, and it turns out she left because she had a miscarriage.
User8 oh fuck-
User10 @/f1gossip you see this?
F1gossip I do see 👀
User11 maybe I like her !!!
User12 god, why would Max even sleep with this slut
—
Liked by user14 and others
F1gossip turns out that Max Verstappen's new gf (y/n y/l/n) has been confirmed to not only have an ex-husband but also to have gone through a miscarriage before her divorce and change of career. Thank you to the person who knew y/n during this time in her life who provided us with photos and this quote. ‘She [y/n] had changed completely as a person after losing her baby….. She was like 5 or 6 months along, I'm not sure.’
Alexandrasaintmleux WTF is wrong with you??
User13 I may not like her, but this is a GROSS invasion of privacy.
User14 so she's completely useless?
User13 dude?? You actually have issues.
User15 @/user13 is right.
User15 oh poor girl..
User16 first you expose her obviously secret relationship with Max, and then you tell the world about her sensitive medical history??
Charles_leclerc why does anyone think this is ok??
User14 bc max deserves better.
Lewishamilton this is disgusting.
User13 he’s entirely right.
User15 this poor girl obviously didn't want any of this. She just fell in love after something obviously very rough.
---
It was quali Saturday, which was fast approaching. You had just made your Instagram post last night, trying not to focus on the comments or the ever-increasing voice in your head. It's hard, but at least it gives you something to address in your next therapy session. But what people had said had continued to haunt your ever-waking thoughts. It felt like it had seeped into your bones, accompanying the profound sadness that already lived there, making your joints stiff and your body heavy.
Still, in the midst of scrolling and letting your thoughts spiral, your phone buzzed with a message. Yuki had sent you a meme—a silly cat video that he knew would make you smile—and simply added, "Thinking of you. Don't let them get to you." For a second, the weight lifted, just enough for you to breathe a bit easier. The comfort wasn't huge, but it was there, a small reminder that not everything was pain.
You were standing in the paddock watching some old interview when your phone began to buzz in your back pocket. You pull it out slowly, like you're scared it'll continue to burn you, as it has in the past days. When you see a message from the group chat Alex added you to. You ignored it and put the phone back in your pocket, but of course, there were messages of support that would come before you even knew you needed them, and of course, Max was by your side before you were even aware of anything outside the Red Bull grudge. Of course you had no clue, of course you told him to get back to quili, of course you take a break when both him and yuki are in the car… of course you see the post.
The comments flood your screen, thousands and thousands of comments all about you, all about your baby…. Some nice, some even from drives, but that's not what you latch onto, of course, it isn't. You can't help it when internally you agree with the comments calling you not good enough, calling you a failure of a mother, you're gonna read them, and you're gonna latch onto them, and thousands of people who are just confirming the fears that you keep buried in the deepest parts of your mind. The comments have found their way into the part of your brain that never lets you forget everything wrong with you, the part of your brain you haven't even bothered to bring up to your therapist. But a brake could only last so long. The drivers have interviews you have to watch and guide once they get out of the car, so you push it back. You have work to do.
You're waiting at the Media pen entrance when Yuki gets out of the car. Unfortunately, he got out in Q2, so Max is still on track.
You great yuki with a smile, “You did so well, you were just .02 off of Q3. Amazing pace.” You pat him on the back with a smile.
“Yeah, pace today was great, now I just have to get through media so I can eat dinner,” he smiles at you as you both enter the media pen. The questions come almost immediately about all sorts of things, and Yuki answers them smoothly with practiced precision. That is, until he gets the first one about you.
“So, Yuki, how do you feel about your media producer seducing your teammate?” Your body stiffens at the sound of the question, your eyes lock on the interviewer, then back to Yuki. He looks like he could kill someone, but it's kinda your job to stop that from happening, so you grab his arm and shake your head, telling him to leave it and just answer.
“I don't know if I would say it was seduction, I kinda just think they fit together…and to be completely honest, I rooted for them the whole time, even before they started talking. Plus, y/n is amazing with Lily… also, it's none of your business who max dates and why. Y/n is one of my closest friends in the paddock, so please don't paint her in a bad light.”
“So she has gotten both of the redbull drivers?” the interviewer mumbles, but doesn't give Yuki a chance to respond before she starts again.
“So you said she was good with Lily, do you think it's because of her past?” You instantly feel the bile rise to your throat through the reminder of not only everything you've been through but everyone backing up your insecurity online comes rushing to the front of your mind there is a sharp sting in your eyes, and you need to hide in the bathroom before you vomit all over yuki, but you can’t, you have a job you have bills to pay. You're squeezing the inside of your hand so hard you're almost certain there will be crescent shepherd marks on your palm. Your mind is swirling a million miles a minute. You hear Yuki's calm voice breaking through your thoughts, “It doesn't matter if it's because of her past profession or just in her nature, but either way it's none of your business,” he states, grabbing your hand and leaving for the following interview.
“Thank you,” you whisper as you both step out of the media pen, surrounded by the other drivers and their pr mangers, even some girlfriends. You can tell some of them have seen the post, obviously none of the drivers, as they've been busy all morning, but by the looks, the other media teams are giving you, you know they seen it the thought makes your stomach and mind twist, you feel like you cant be sure if the looks are out of judgement or pity…either way you dont want it.
You walk with Yuki back to the paddock in silence. You know he also notices the look, but he seems a little confused, assuming it's just a late reaction to you and Max’s relationship. That is, until you’re both inside, sitting somewhere in the Red Bull motorhome, he's on his phone, and you're journaling, feeling, and thinking you'll be brought up in therapy next week. You almost feel it in the air when he sees the post; you swear it feels sharper, colder in here than it was mere seconds ago. Then the silence is broken.
“You know?” is all he asks, already knowing the answer to his own question, but he wants to hear it out of your mouth. He wants to gauge how much this affects you, but you don't let him; you take a deep breath and gather your composure.
“Q3 is almost done, I’m going to get Max, we’ll be back in a little bit.” You breathe out as you get up and walk to parc ferme to get max. He had placed 4th, so there was no podium, so straight back into the hell people call a media pen.
—
Max greets you with a big smile. Even though he isn't starting in the top 3 tomorrow, he knows he can still win from 4th, so he's happy. Plus, he gets to see his beautiful girlfriend, so that's always a bonus.
As soon as he sees you, he can tell something is wrong. As you both walk to the media pen, you are briefing him about the question that Yuki had been asked and what he should be prepared for, intently glossing over the question about you. Max interrupts you about halfway to the media pen, looking at you.
“What's up, baby? You seem off,” he says, grabbing your hand, providing you a small sense of comfort in the wave of emotions you have been feeling in the past hour. The warmth of his touch sends waves through your body. You resist the urge to melt into his body, seeking the comfort you know he can give you, but you can't here, so you just smile at him.
“It's ok, baby, can we talk later? Maybe with some ice cream and Lily on the phone?” you request quietly, calming at the feeling of his thumb rubbing small circles on your knuckles. He smiles back at you. “Ok, baby, we can get whatever you want to eat,” he says, letting go of your hand before walking into the media pen. You follow closely behind him. Most of the questions are about his feelings starting from p4 in the race, there are some questions about Lily and why she's missing, a little bit of team drama, and a few tame questions thrown around about you, that is, until you get to the same interviewer who had ruined your time with Yuki. She smiles, and you swear there is something sharp and cold in her eyes. You feel your body brace for whatever she's about to say.
“So, Max, I don't know if you've seen the post about addressing your Girlfriend and her past…” Before she can even finish, Max looks at you and sees the fear on your face, and the way your body is already tense before she even finishes the question. He doesn't know exactly what's wrong, but he can tell you're uncomfortable. “Whatever it is you're about to say is none of your business.” Max takes a firm, reassuring grip of your hand before looking back up to the interviewer, who looks particularly mad.
“Well, don't you think your fans deserve to know?” she asks, clearly, just trying to get a rise out of him, and she should be glad he's dating his PR manager and doesn't want to create more work for you.
“I think we are done here,” he says, taking a deep breath before walking off. He moves on to the interviews, keeping you close by his side.
When you both come out of the media pen and can hide from prying eyes in his driver's room, he takes your face in his hands before kissing both cheeks.
“What's wrong, schatje?” Max asks, looking down at you. You take a moment to bury your head in his chest, allowing your body to melt into him and relax fully.
After a few minutes, you take out your phone and show him the post. As he reads it, his face twists with anger at first, then with concern for you.
The first thing he does when he puts your phone down is scoop you up in his arms, bring you over to the couch, muttering sweet nothings in your ear, before pulling away looking serious.
“How are you feeling, schatje? And don't lie to be. I know it's not good,” you sigh, letting your body relax into him and closing your eyes before muttering, “I'm just so frustrated and tired, Maxie.” You get up off him and sprawl out on the couch, allowing your feet to hang over the side and your head to rest on his lap.
“I'm sorry, my love, but I think I know what can fix that,” Max says, letting his hand come down to rest on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing small circles into your skin. You hum contently, closing your eyes and letting every muscle in your body give in to the intense need to relax around max.
“A FaceTime call with Lily and then ice cream and sushi while watching those shitty reality tv shows you pretend to hate?” you suggest, opening one eye and peeking up at him.
“Whatever you want, schatje,” he smiles down at you and kisses you.
—
And that's exactly what you get that night: you lie in the hotel room with Max, cuddling up by your side, his hands placed gently on the slope of your waist, leaving small kisses on your shoulder. Your body is completely relaxed; you feel the tightness leaving your muscles at the reverberation of his voice whispering sweet nothings against your skin.
“We’ll call Mom and Lily later, schatje. I want to spend this time appreciating you,” he whispers against your skin, peppering small kisses.
“Mmmmm, how are you gonna do that, my love?” you ask, turning to face him.
“Any way you want, schatje, he kisses your shoulder, “I have some things in mind if you're ready for that baby,” he says, sliding on top of you, peppering kisses down your stomach, pausing to look you in the eye, slightly asking for permission. You give him a small nod, and that's all he needs to start, his thumbs hook in your panties pulling them all the way off, leaving you in only his baggy team kit.
—-
You step out of the shower, reach for a white, fluffy hotel towel, wrap it around your body, and step out to find Max already on the phone with his mom and Lily. You sneak around them, getting ready for bed and dressed, before popping into frame while Lily shows her dad a picture she drew with grandma. When she sees you, she visibly lights up.
“Y/N! Hi! Did you see what me and grandma drew for Daddy?” she asks, jumping up and down on the other side of the phone. She never fails to make you smile.
“No, honey, I didn't. Will you show me again?” you ask, sitting beside Max, both of you only halfway in frame.
“Ok, so this is daddy, and he's driving his car back home to me!” she says excitedly, pointing at parts of the incomprehensible picture.
“Then this is you in the back with daddy, so you can come see me. And this is bluey!” she continues to explain the picture, and your heart melts, you almost cry when you feel Max squeeze your head. Looking up, he has the sweetest smile on his face, and you know they both have you wrapped around their fingers, and maybe you're ok with it.
—
It's been two years since you and Max went public, and you love him just as much as you did then, maybe even more. Sometimes you find yourself looking back on that whirlwind first year, remembering the nerves right before your first team meeting as a couple, the way Max would slide a coffee across your desk with a reassuring wink, and the nervous laughter you both shared as rumors swirled online. The nights watching races with Lily curled up on your lap, the gentle way Max held you when things got overwhelming—those memories still feel close, woven into each day you share now. Even after everything you've both endured, the love has only grown stronger, steadier, and more certain with time. Now you were about to take what felt like the biggest step in your life, and you are terrified, but as usual, Max is there for you.
“I don't know, Maxie, I'm scared, what if I'm bad at it now?” You pace around what is now your and Max’s kitchen.
“Baby, we both know you're gonna do amazing, no need to be anxious. Remember what your therapist said? If you have done everything to prepare, then you have nothing to be scared of,” he gently reminds you, getting up from the table, walking over to you, and kissing your shoulder before giving your lips a gentle kiss, letting the warmth of his body spread into your body, relaxing you.
“You're right, I'm ready for this,” you state, then kiss his cheek. You get up, grab your to-go coffee cup.
“Do I look good?” you ask, giving him a little spin.
“The prettiest teacher I've ever seen, schatje,” he smiles at you before standing. “I’ll make sure that Lilly is ready to go,” he tells you, walking back to her room.
The warmth of this little life you and Max created together spreads through every part of your body, and you fidget with the engagement ring on your finger. Waiting for Lilly to ride to school with you, she's excited for her first day of kindergarten, and you're excited to get back to what you love.
—
You've been back to teaching for a few years now, but you're currently on summer break along with Lilly. You're watching Max race every opportunity you get. Sometimes it's just you at the race, Max’s mom insisting she watch Lilly to give you guys a bit of alone time. That's what's happening this weekend, and thank god, because you're currently in the bathroom holding a pregnancy test while Max is in the room, none the wiser. The minutes of waiting feel like hours until two small lines appear and you almost break into tears, but you have to tell Max.
“Max, can you come in here?” you ask, trying not to let your voice break when he appears in the doorway. You feel the weight of everything leave your shoulders. You slowly bring the test out from behind your back, shaking with nervousness. You hear Max gasp as he takes your hands before wrapping his arms around your waist and spinning you.
“We're gonna give Lily a sibling!” he has the biggest smile on his face before placing a kiss on your cheek.
“Important question, though, how do you feel, Schatje? And before you answer, know I'll be here every step of the way, no matter what.” he looks at you, making sure you know he means it. You smile back at him.
“I couldn't be happier, but just in case, can we wait to tell everyone?” you ask, not wanting to get everyone excited just in case history repeats itself, but you know it won't, you can feel it.
Max nods before picking you up again, bringing you to the bed, peppering kisses all over you, the whole time. He is completely and utterly in love with you; he couldn't be happier that you walked into his life that day.
