⋆｡°✩ kinktober day five ✩°｡⋆
✩ 05: Thigh High || MV1 ✩
⋆ Pairing:
↳ Max Verstappen x girlfriend!Reader
⋆ Summary:
↳ Summer break slowly starts coming to a close and you aren't a fan. You remind max what he's going to be missing.
⋆ Kink Tag:
↳ Thigh riding involves one partner grinding or straddling the other’s thigh for sexual stimulation, often using friction and closeness to build pleasure. Minors Do Not Interact. NSFW.
⋆ Word Count:
↳ 1.5K
⋆ Masterlists:
↳ Asficdiary || kinktober '25
Summer had blurred into a haze of salt water, heat, and Max. You were sure every surface on his yacht had been tainted by the time summer break had started coming to a close. The cabin walls, sun-warmed deck chairs, even the railings when you’d been too reckless to care about the open sea. He’d fucked you with the same intensity he drove with, and you’d matched him every time, both of you drunk on the freedom of having no schedule but your own.
But the break never lasted forever. You could feel it shifting already, the way his phone lit up more often, the steady increase of Red Bull emails in his inbox, the way you always caught him in thought, about the rest of the season no doubt. Max was easing back into race mode, even if you were still caught in the lingering softness of summer mornings spent tangled up with him.
That was why waking up to an empty bed felt so jarring. The sheets were still warm on his side, but the cool stretch of absence had you pulling on the plain white shirt you’d torn off him and slid back into the black underwear he’d stripped from you the night before. You padded barefoot down the hall, expecting him in the kitchen, maybe making coffee.
Instead, you found him on the couch, eyes narrowed, his jaw set in that familiar concentration. The TV flickered with last year’s Dutch GP replay, the orange army as your only clue. The volume was low, and his notebook lay open across his thigh. He was already halfway through a page of scrawled notes, pen tapping absently against the margin. “Morning,” you murmured, settling onto the cushion beside him.
He hummed, distracted, not looking up.
You leaned in, kissed his shoulder, the clean fabric of his hoodie brushing your lips. Nothing. Just the sound of engines from the TV and the scratch of his pen. “Why am I not surprised you ditched a naked girl in your bed for a race”
“Need to finish these notes,” he said simply, chewing on the end of the pen, eyes locked on the screen. The sight made your thighs press together. His lips wrapped around plastic, teeth dragging it out with a slow pull, jaw clenching as he jotted something else down. He didn’t even notice how you shifted closer, tugging at the hem of his hoodie until your knee brushed his.
“Max,” you whispered, your mouth brushing the sharp line of his jaw. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even glance at you. He just smirked faintly, still watching the car dart around Zandvoort. You tugged lightly at his hoodie, pressing your hand under the fabric to graze his stomach. “Pay attention to me…”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even glance at you. Just smirked faintly, chewing on the end of his pen. “Schat, you’re very persistent this morning,” he murmured without looking away, eyes still tracking the car darting through Zandvoort.
You huffed, throwing yourself backwards on the couch. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, kissing the side of his neck. He shook his head writing down more notes. That only made your chest tighten, needing heightening with every second of his deliberate indifference. Your hand skimmed higher, brushing his side, nails teasing the waistband of his sweatpants. Finally, a low chuckle, eyes flicking to yours. “Fine,” he said, voice rough and amused, patting his thigh. “You want to be fucked? Prove to me how much” He challenged. Your eyes searched for him and you knew whatever he was going to ask would humiliate you, just a bit. “Ride my thigh, slet”
Your eyes widened, taken off guard, “What? Max?” You tried acting offended, or even possibly turned off but the truth was it was anything but. It was something you always joked about, fantasized about even. But he’d always play it off as a joke. Max’s smirk only deepened at your expression, pen dangling lazily from his fingers now. “Don’t look so shocked,” he murmured, leaning back into the couch like he had all the time in the world.
“You think I haven’t noticed the way you get when we joke about it? I want you desperate, soaking my shorts, moaning like I’m inside you.” Heat pooled low in your stomach, your thighs pressing together instinctively.
“You’re such an ass,” you muttered, though your voice wavered, betraying you.
He tilted his head, watching you squirm. “Schat, you want to get high off my thighs. Don’t bother pretending otherwise.” He gave his leg another deliberate pat, a quiet command.
Your pulse spiked. Every part of you screamed to move, to climb into his lap and prove him right. And when you did, the way his hands came to settle heavy on your hips, guiding you down against the flex of his muscle, stole the air from your lungs.
You swung a leg over him, straddling his thigh, the worn cotton of his shorts brushing against the thin strip of your underwear. Max hummed low in his chest, pleased, his big hands settling on your hips like they belonged there. He didn’t push, didn’t rush. Just sat back, lips twisting as if he knew how badly you needed it already.
“Go on then,” he said softly, taunting. “Show me.”
You shifted, pressing down until the pressure made your breath hitch, a needy sound escaping before you could stop it. The muscle of his thigh was firm beneath you, and the friction already had heat licking through your veins.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, voice low, thumb stroking the bare skin of your hip. “Knew you’d give in fast. Always so fucken horny for me.”
You whimpered, rocking against him, each drag sending sparks through your body. The wet slide of your panties against the rough fabric made your cheeks burn. Max’s smirk only grew. “Look at you,” he rasped, tightening his grip to guide your movements, forcing you to grind deeper against the hard line of his thigh. “You love this shit. Can’t even pretend otherwise.”
Your head tipped forward, a moan slipping out, thighs trembling with the pace he set. His hoodie still smelled like him, salt air and sweat, and the low rumble of the Dutch GP commentary played forgotten in the background while he coaxed you closer and closer to the edge. You found a rhythm, rolling your hips in slow, hungry drags. Max’s hand stayed firm on your hip, grounding you, guiding you. Without care one left your hip and he casually reached for the notebook still perched against the arm of the couch, pen scratching across the page like you weren’t trembling on top of him.
“Are you-” you gasped, pausing in disbelief as another needy shiver jolted through you, “fuck- actually taking notes right now?”
“Mm,” he hummed, unbothered, glancing at the screen again. His thigh flexed beneath you, urging you forward even as he jotted something down. “Multi-tasking.”
Your jaw dropped. “You’re insufferable.”
The smirk tugged at his lips, eyes flicking briefly to yours, dark and amused. “And you’re still riding me, schat.”
Frustration bubbled, mixing with the heat curling low in your stomach. If he wanted to act unaffected, that was fine, you’d make him notice. You braced against his shoulders and rocked down harder, faster, dragging yourself across the thick muscle of his thigh with new determination.
That finally pulled a low grunt from him, pen pausing mid-word. His grip on your hip tightened, thumb pressing into your skin. “Fuck,” he muttered, jaw clenching as he looked back at you. “That’s it. Show me how bad you want it.” You ground down harder, chasing the burn, the friction, the way his thigh flexed just right when you moved against it. Heat coiled sharp and tight in your belly, spilling out in broken whimpers you couldn’t hold back.
Max dropped the pen at last, forgotten on the couch. Both hands gripped your hips now, holding you to his pace, his gaze finally locked on yours. “Always love that, don’t you?” he rasped, voice thick. “Getting high off my thighs.”
Your head fell forward, forehead against his, your breath breaking apart. “Max! Please!”
“That’s it.” His words threaded through the pounding in your ears. “Come for me.”
The pleasure tears through you all at once. You collapsed against him, trembling, nails clutching at his shoulders as wave after wave rolled through you. His hands kept you pressed down, riding it out until you sagged boneless against his chest, breathing sinking into your thigh-high bliss. He hummed, low and satisfied, thumb stroking lazily over your waist. “Always so fucking horny for me.”
Before you could catch your breath, he shifted, rolling you back onto the cushions with ease. His body hovered over yours, shadows flickering across his sharp grin. “Now,” he murmured, voice promising filth, “I’ll give you what you really want.”