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OP81 • NO RIGHT TO FINISH

summary: You thought escaping to the bathroom would save you from a drunk and clingy Oscar, but you were wrong. He follows you, intent on proving that his stamina extends far beyond the race track. A story about overstimulation, denial, and an Oscar Piastri who refuses to let you finish until he’s completely satisfied.

pairing: Oscar Piastri x fem!reader

word count: 4.8+ k

raiting: 18+

genre: smut, pwp, romance, established relationship, fluff (at the end).

warnings: drunk Oscar (but sweet and consensual), bathroom sex, counter sex, mirror sex, overstimulation, edging, dirty talk, slight roughness, praise kink, unprotected sex (creampie), aftercare, cuddling

author note: So I wrote a new fanfic about y/n as Oscar's girlfriend. I think these will be the most frequent fics on my blog, because that's what you love the most. Actually, I had many versions of this fanfic, but I decided that this slightly drunk and dominant, insatiable version of Oscar and y/n's not-quite-protesting version would be the most interesting. It turned out so intense and long 🤭 I swear I haven't written anything more intense and dirty in all my writing (and I've written over 100 explicit scenes on another blog) 🩵 What this Oscar did to me?! 😱🫠🫢 If you like long, intense, and Oscar, then this is for you 👇🏻

The electronic key gave a quiet click, and the hotel room door opened. You walked inside, supporting Oscar, who, although capable of walking on his own, had decided he couldn’t manage without you. He was heavier than he looked at first glance. Oscar leaned his entire body weight against your shoulder; his usual composure had melted away somewhere at the bottom of his third glass of gin, giving way to a relaxed, warm heaviness.

A third consecutive victory at the Miami Grand Prix was the reason for his celebration. Oscar usually didn’t drink much—he always kept himself in check, even at parties. But this time, teammates and sponsors had insisted: "To first place! To the hat trick!" And he gave in.

Not to the point of total intoxication, no—he understood everything, but he spoke a bit lazily, drawing out his words. Alcohol made him completely unlike himself—more relaxed, more playful. A slight sway in his step and a warm smile that wouldn’t leave his face made him look both cute and funny at the same time. You couldn’t remember the last time you saw Oscar like this. Perhaps on his high school graduation day, when he got drunk with friends.

You gripped him tighter under the arm, feeling his muscles tense under the thin fabric of his black t-shirt, and involuntarily leaned closer to his neck.

The expected sharp smell of alcohol was there, but it was lost, receding into the background before what you adored to the point of trembling knees. He smelled like a storm that had finally subsided. It was a scent you would recognize among a thousand others. The smell of sun-dried wood and sea salt.

Heat radiated from Oscar’s flushed skin, and this scent was unfolding in a special way right now. It held the freshness of the wind on the Melbourne coast and the tartness of sage, which, mixing with the barely perceptible notes of expensive gin, created an intoxicating cocktail. Oscar always smelled like home.

But this dreamy moment was interrupted by his careless movement toward the bed, and you almost fell with him. You helped him land on the soft mattress, and your boyfriend fell, absolutely exhausted from the party. You ran a quick gaze over his body, sprawled across the middle of the bed, and shook your head, smiling. His black, tight-fitting t-shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing part of his flat stomach, and his white shorts had slipped down a bit on his hips.

"Champion, you definitely overdid it with the victories today," you said and sank to your knees in front of the bed to pull off his massive sneakers.

"I’m so tired..." he mumbled from somewhere above. His legs dropped limply to the floor as you removed his shoes. "But so... happy. Three in a row. Can you imagine?"

You stood up, walked to the nightstand beside the bed, and placed your purse and phone there. He turned his head toward you, and his smile grew wider.

"Are you proud of me?"

Warmth spread through your soul. You were prouder of him than he could imagine.

"I am proud of you," you whispered, leaning down to him and bracing your hands on the bed. Your lips gently touched his temple, and you felt him instantly bury his fingers in your hair. You hadn’t planned anything, just wanted to kiss him gently to express your pride. But Oscar craved more. He intercepted your lips, and his tongue slipped inside your mouth, deepening the kiss. The longer you kissed, the wetter and more chaotic it became.

Oscar pulled you toward him. You tried to resist, but he was stronger. Even drunk, he easily, effortlessly pulled you down next to him. But that wasn’t enough for him. He didn’t want you just lying next to him—he needed to feel all of you. With agility surprising for his state, he threw a leg over your thighs and in a moment, using inertia, pinned you under him.

The air was knocked out of your lungs. He was heavy. His relaxed body seemed to weigh a ton, and he didn't even try to hold himself up, trusting gravity completely. He sprawled over you, pressing you into the mattress with every inch of his body.

"Oscar... you're going to crush me," you laughed, trying to move his shoulder, but it was like moving a rock.

"No," he mumbled into your neck, and you felt his wet, hot smile against your skin. "I'm holding you. You're my main trophy today."

You were too tired for what Oscar had in mind. It was almost three in the morning, and after such a long and eventful day, you only dreamed of sleep.

"Oscar... I want to sleep..." you said. He began rubbing his nose against your cheek, then moved down to your neck, inhaling your scent as deeply as if it were oxygen. And then followed the kisses. His movements were languid, the trails wet, and the desire—obvious.

"You smell... tasty..." he whispered, lazily running his tongue over the sensitive skin behind your ear, sending a herd of goosebumps through you.

You realized: this had to end while you still had the strength to resist. Because a little more—and his lazy, hot kisses, his weight pressing you so pleasantly into the mattress, his scent filling your lungs—would do the job. You could already feel the response warming between your thighs, your body forgetting the fatigue and starting to reach for him. So you gathered all your will into a fist. First—gently. You ran your palm down his back, as if soothing him, and laughed quietly.

"Oscar... you really will crush me. I can't breathe."

He chuckled lazily but lifted his head slightly, looking down at you with those drunk, shining eyes.

"Then I'll make it lighter," he mumbled and tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but the alcohol made his movements clumsy. Instead, he just rolled a bit to the side, still holding you in his arms, and you seized the moment.

Sharply, but playfully, you twisted out from under him, as if wrestling, and slipped down—between his arms, past his chest, past his stomach. He tried to grab you by the waist, but his fingers only slid over the fabric of your dress. You were already at the edge of the bed, on your feet, laughing quietly so as not to wake his hunting instinct too strongly.

"No, no, champion," you said, retreating back toward the bathroom. "The trophy chooses a shower and bed today."

Oscar lay on his side, propped up on an elbow, looking at you with an offended, drunken smile. His hair was disheveled, and in his eyes, you could read disappointment mixed with desire. You saw that he was aroused: the fabric of his shorts was taut, his breathing accelerated. He reached a hand out in your direction, as if wanting to pull you back.

"Hey, come here..." he drawled lazily. "I haven't celebrated properly yet..."

"Celebrate in your dreams," you replied, already standing in the bathroom doorway. "I'll be quick. And don't touch yourself without me, got it?"

He just chuckled, falling back onto the pillow, and you closed the door—not all the way, out of habit.

In the bathroom, you exhaled with relief. Fatigue washed over you in a wave. You took off your dress to feel free, and before getting into the shower, you started washing the makeup off your face. Although there wasn’t much, skincare was mandatory. The face in the mirror looked tired but happy. You managed quickly and leaned down to wash with cool water.

When you lifted your head, drops were running down your cheeks, and when the water finally stopped blurring your vision, you saw Oscar in the mirror. He was standing in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame. The black t-shirt was still slightly ridden up; the white shorts, low on his hips, did not hide his erection. He looked at you silently, and you saw mischievous sparks in his eyes. You wiped your face with a paper towel and turned to him.

You looked at his arousal and raised your eyes, meeting his.

"What? Want to shower first?" you asked, not without a dose of sarcasm, hinting that he needed to calm down.

But Oscar didn’t answer. He pushed off the doorframe and slowly approached you. There was not even a hint of drunkenness in his movements now. His eyes ran from bottom to top over your almost naked body. You turned back to the mirror and realized that now you were definitely trapped. In a moment, he was behind you. His large, solid body pressed you against the vanity with the sink. His lips found your neck again, and his fingers, which just a moment ago were on your waist, slid down your stomach to the place that had begun to pulse. You felt his aroused cock against your buttocks.

"Oscar, I'm really tired," you said almost inaudibly, because his fingers had already found their way to your wet folds. You felt his touch and gripped the edge of the cold marble countertop with your palms. The mirror in front of you fogged up from your breath, but you still saw his reflection: eyes dark, shining, a sly drunken smile, but absolutely confident.

"I know," he answered right by your ear. "But you said it yourself... don't touch myself without you. Besides, you started it..."

His fingers on your pussy moved slowly, you would even say teasingly—not penetrating, just circling around your center. You reacted instantly: your hips pushed forward on their own, seeking more pressure, but he evaded, keeping you on the edge.

"Mmm..." you tried to protest one more time, but nothing came out, just an uncontrollable moan escaped.

He pressed harder—you felt his full length, hot and hard, through the thin fabric of his shorts against your buttocks. With one hand he held you by the waist, not letting you pull away, with the other—he continued these slow, unbearable caresses.

"You're wet," he whispered, as if surprised, as if it were a discovery for him. "Very wet. And this is after you were 'tired'?"

You bit your lip, trying not to give away how much this turned you on—specifically this drunken confidence of his, this playful cruelty, knowing you wouldn't run away now.

He turned you to face him. You ended up sandwiched between his body and the sink. His lips found yours—the kiss was greedy, passionate, wetter from the alcohol, but one that made your head spin. While he kissed you, his fingers slid down again—this time inside, unhurriedly sinking into you. You arched, pressing against his palm. Your own hands slipped under his t-shirt, lifting it up as if urging him to take it off, and Oscar, without thinking twice, got rid of it in a moment, remaining only in shorts.

He returned to your lips as soon as he fulfilled your silent request and tore away from you only when you both needed air. He looked into your eyes—and smiled. This Oscar was not at all like the one you were used to seeing in bed.

He touched your thong and pulled it down. It fell, gathering at your ankles, and the cool air touched your moist folds. Oscar grabbed you by the thighs. One sharp, confident movement—and you were off the floor. The cold of the marble countertop burned your bare buttocks and thighs when he sat you on it, but that cold instantly vanished under the pressure of his hot body. Oscar unceremoniously spread your knees wider, settling between them so tightly that not a millimeter of free space remained.

Now your faces were on the same level. In his eyes splashed dark, intoxicating pleasure—he saw you trembling, and he liked it.

"Osc..." you tried to say something, but he didn't let you finish. His lips attacked yours again—not just kissing, but as if consuming you. But this time he didn't stop at the lips.

He began real torture. Oscar covered your jawline with kisses, descending to your neck, intentionally lingering on the most sensitive points where the blood pulsed. He sucked on the tender skin, alternating it with light bites that made you arch back, nearly hitting the back of your head against the mirror.

He didn’t take off the bra you were still wearing; he just yanked it, and it rode up, freeing your breasts.

His lips fell to your aroused nipples, and he caressed them with his tongue. The arousal intensified from these caresses because your breasts were an erogenous zone for you, and Oscar knew it well.

His hand ended up between your bodies, found the place that was the main trophy for him. And he acted ruthlessly.

His fingers moved inside in a rhythm he set himself, completely ignoring your chaotic attempts to adjust. He would speed up, sharply thrusting deeper and forcing you to throw your head back, then almost stop, barely touching, teasing you to tears. It was masterful, planned overstimulation. And you didn’t know what you were being punished for. Was it for running away?

You felt everything at once: the cold stone under your palms, the heat of his breath on your chest, and this unbearably sweet pressure below. Your moan became louder, echoing off the tiled walls of the bathroom.

"Shhh..." he whispered right into your mouth, stealing your breath. "The neighbors will hear..."

"Then... you... need... to stop..." you barely said, and your voice still broke into a loud moan from the overstimulation. Oscar had no intention of stopping, and you realized this when he sped up his movements. A wave of pleasure was already rising to your throat, your body tensed, preparing for the explosion. You instinctively squeezed his shoulders, pushing your hips toward his hand, begging for the finale.

But he sensed it. And abruptly stopped.

His fingers froze inside, ceasing movement exactly the second it was vitally necessary. Your body trembled treacherously from the incompleteness, and you opened your eyes, looking at him with a mixture of indignation and despair.

Oscar looked at you, breathing heavily, with a self-satisfied smile atypical for him. He ran his thumb over your lower lip, enjoying your reaction.

"Hmm... I'd like to try something else," he said. You let out a loud breath, feeling resentment that he tortured you so much but didn't allow you to come.

When he dropped to his knees and his face was right between your legs, you felt your walls contract in anticipation of his actions.

Oscar placed his palms on your thighs, spreading your legs even wider and securely fixed you in this defenseless position.

At first, you felt only his hot, ragged breath scorching your most sensitive skin, causing your stomach muscles to contract involuntarily. And then his tongue touched you—softly, broadly, from bottom to top, gathering all your juices.

"Mgh!..." you threw your head back, pressing the back of your head against the mirror. The cold of the glass sobered you a little, but the heat below was unbearable.

Oscar was in no hurry. It seemed he decided to taste every millimeter of you. He kissed the inside of your thighs, slowly approaching the center, teasing you with his slowness. His tongue moved confidently and wetly, and you felt him enjoying the taste as if you were his favorite vanilla ice cream.

But the real torture began when he focused on your clitoris. He didn't apply strong pressure, no. He barely touched it with the tip of his tongue, vibrating quickly, then suddenly switched to slow, wide circular motions. It was maddening. You wanted harder, faster, rougher, but he kept you in this state of weightlessness where pleasure bordered on the pain of tension.

"Fuck..." you exhaled, trying to move your hips toward his mouth to increase the pressure. "Oscar... please..."

He reacted, but in his own way. His hands gripped your thighs to the point of bruising, not letting you move on your own.

"Quiet..." his hum vibrated against your skin, sending a new electric shock through you.

Suddenly he added fingers. Two fingers abruptly entered inside, filling you, and began to move in the same rhythm as his tongue. This double attack knocked the air out of your chest. You grabbed his hair with your hands, clutching the strands, trying to hold on to reality, which was blurring before your eyes.

He played with you like a race car on a track—accelerating you to a crazy speed, forcing you to breathe raggedly and moan loudly, then abruptly dropping the revs, leaving you trembling at the very peak, but not letting you cross the finish line.

He pulled away for a second, and you felt the cold air on your wet skin. You opened your clouded eyes and saw him looking up at you from below. His lips were wet and swollen, his chin glistened with your juices, and that same devilish, drunken satisfaction burned in his eyes.

"You're so tasty when you beg," he rasped, his voice vibrating with arousal. "Want to come?"

He knew the answer. He saw your body taut as a string.

"Yes... Oscar, yes!" you almost shouted.

He smiled, and that smile promised you everything. He fell upon you again, but this time without games. His tongue moved fast, hard, knowing exactly where to strike. He began sucking on your clitoris with such intensity that you forgot how to breathe. His fingers moved inside madly fast, curling, seeking your G-spot, and when they found it, the world exploded.

A wave of pleasure crashed over you with such force that your vision went dark. Your legs trembled, and if Oscar hadn't held you with his strong hands, you would have just slid off that countertop onto the tiles. You gasped for air, trying to calm your heartbeat, which seemed to echo even in your ears.

But Oscar didn't give you time to rest.

He stood up from his knees, his face wet with your juices, and his eyes—dark and even greedier. He didn't even kiss you—just ran his hand along your wet thigh, as if checking the result of his work, and grunted with satisfaction.

"Thought that was it?" he rasped. "I haven't really celebrated yet..."

He easily lifted you off the countertop. Your legs gave way, your knees were like cotton, but he pressed you firmly against him, not letting you fall. He led you deeper into the bathroom, to the toilet, the lid of which was down.

"Stand here," he commanded softly. You leaned your back against the cool wall, watching him through a fog of pleasure. Oscar stood before you, flushed, incredibly handsome in his drunkenness and desire. His fingers, a bit clumsy from alcohol but impatient, gripped the waistband of his white shorts. He jerked them down, along with his underwear. The fabric fell to his ankles, and he carelessly kicked them aside, standing before you absolutely naked.

You involuntarily lingered your gaze on him. His cock stood straight up, hard, engorged with blood, pulsing with impatience. On the pale skin of his thighs, where his shorts usually were, the contrast with his tanned legs stood out. He looked powerful, and at the thought that all of this would be inside you right now, a wave of arousing heat ran through your body again.

Oscar sat on the toilet lid, spreading his legs wide, and pulled you by the hands toward him.

"Come to me," he called, looking you straight in the eyes. "Sit on top."

You took a step toward him. His warm palms rested on your buttocks, guiding you. You threw a leg over him, straddling him. His thighs were hard under yours.

You felt his head press against your wet, swollen entrance. It was a sensation on the edge—you were so sensitive after the orgasm that any touch seemed almost excessive, but at the same time, you felt an emptiness that only he could fill.

Oscar put his hands on your waist, helping you find your balance.

"Slowly..." he warned, though his own breathing was ragged.

You began to lower yourself. Centimeter by centimeter, he entered you, stretching, filling every corner with himself. You felt his hot hardness, his girth, and it made you throw your head back and moan loudly.

"Oh God..." you groaned.

When you lowered yourself all the way, your buttocks touching his groin, Oscar pressed his face into the curve of your neck with a noisy exhale. You sat face to face, tightly intertwined, skin to skin. It was intimate, hot, and incredibly tight. You felt his heart beating against your chest—just as madly as yours.

You tried to take the initiative and start moving yourself to find a comfortable rhythm, but Oscar stopped you. His large palms squeezed your waist, fixing you in place.

"No..." he mumbled, burying his nose in your hair. "I'll do it myself."

And he began to move. These were not the fast, rhythmic thrusts you were used to. Because of the alcohol, his body worked in a different mode: his movements were slow, languid, but incredibly deep. He would toss you up with his hips, and then forcefully lower you onto himself, burying himself in you to the very hilt, hitting your cervix.

For your body, which had just experienced an explosion of pleasure, this was a real test. Your walls were still spasmodically contracting, nerve endings were exposed, and every deep movement of his felt too sharp—on the border between pain and pleasure. You bit your lips, trying not to scream, because the sensations were so intense that tears gathered in your eyes.

"Oscar... that's... too deep..." you groaned, bracing your palms on his shoulders, trying to lift yourself at least a little to reduce the depth of penetration.

But he didn't listen. Or simply couldn't stop. Alcohol played a cruel joke on him for the first time: it dulled his sensitivity. What was overstimulation for you was insufficient for him. To feel you, to get closer to release, he needed more friction, more pressure, more time.

"I don't feel... the edge..." he rasped, and in his voice, irritation mixed with lust could be heard.

He began to move more insistently, rougher. He entered you at different angles, searching for that point that would finally allow him to break. He rubbed his pubic bone against your clitoris, which was already burning, forcing you to shudder with your whole body. It was like an endless loop: he stretched you, filled you, withdrew almost completely, and burst inside again, giving you not a second of respite.

You felt sweat trickling down your back, hair sticking to your neck. The air in the bathroom became heavy and humid.

"Oscar, I can't take it anymore..." you exhaled, feeling your legs starting to go numb from the awkward position, and everything inside burning from the continuous friction. "Please, finish..."

He raised his head and looked at you. His eyes were clouded, pupils dilated. He saw your fatigue, but that seemed to turn him on even more. He was aroused by having complete power over you, that you were entirely at his disposal, even when you had no strength left.

"I'm trying, baby..." he said playfully. "But you're so tight... and wet... I want this to last forever."

He changed tactics. Instead of deep thrusts, he began to grind into you with his hips, creating frantic friction inside. He squeezed your buttocks so hard that you knew—tomorrow there would be marks from his fingers there.

"Damn..." you cursed when he hit that same, overexcited G-spot again, forcing your body to treacherously react again, preparing you for a second wave you didn't ask for, but which he was striving for. "You're mocking me..."

"A little," he smiled crookedly, and a drop of sweat rolled down his temple. "That's for running away." He confirmed your guess as to why he decided to just kill you today.

You realized that if you didn't take the situation into your own hands (or rather—into your own body), this drunken marathon would last until dawn, and you would simply pass out right on top of him. You needed to push him over the edge, break through that alcohol haze that had dulled his sensitivity.

Gathering the last crumbs of strength, you stopped resisting his chaotic rhythm and did the only thing that could work without unnecessary movement. You hugged him around the neck, pressed your cheek to his wet temple, and squeezed your internal muscles with all your might.

Oscar hissed, freezing abruptly. You felt his cock twitch inside from this unexpected tight ring.

"Oh..." he exhaled, and his fingers dug painfully into your thighs.

You didn't let go. You continued to rhythmically squeeze him, combining it with short, barely perceptible pelvic movements to meet each of his thrusts. It worked. The pressure and heat finally did their job, switching something in his brain.

His breathing turned into a hoarse moan. The chaotic movements became short, sharp, and frantic.

"Yes... yes, like that... don't let go..." he babbled into your shoulder. You felt yourself relaxing, and his cock hitting exactly where it needed to. A second orgasm covered you today, and your walls began to contract around his again.

He made a few more deep, desperate thrusts, burying himself in you with the full weight of his body, and finally broke. His body tensed like steel, his back arched, and with a loud, drawn-out moan, he poured into you. You felt the hot, pulsating waves of his orgasm, which seemed to never end.

When the last spasms subsided, Oscar went limp. He dropped his head heavily onto your chest, breathing as if he had just run a marathon. You were completely exhausted too. Legs trembling, heart pounding, eyelids heavy as lead.

"I think I died..." you protested, having no strength even to move.

Oscar made some undefined sound, similar to a chuckle, and lazily kissed your collarbone.

"I'll revive you... tomorrow," he mumbled in a hoarse, sleepy voice.

"Shower," you whispered peremptorily, realizing that if you didn't wash the sweat and everything else off yourselves right now, you would simply fall asleep right here, on the toilet in the bathroom. "And this time—only to wash."

He laughed quietly, the vibration from his chest transferring to you.

"Yes, ma'am."

He helped you stand up. Your legs barely obeyed you, trembling after such tension, and Oscar, noticing this, just scooped you up under the arm, pressing you tightly to his side. Together you walked into the shower cabin.

Oscar turned on the water, and in a moment, pleasant warm steam enveloped you. When the streams of water hit your skin, you barely held back a moan of relief. The water washed away the stickiness, fatigue, and the remnants of the alcoholic haze.

This time he was surprisingly tender. Oscar took the shower gel and lathered it in his palms. He slowly ran his soapy hands over your shoulders, back, moving down to your lower back. His touches no longer demanded or teased—they soothed. He washed the traces of his fingers from your thighs, kissing the wet drops on your neck.

You, in turn, just leaned your forehead against his chest, allowing the water to run down both of you, and lazily moved your palm over his torso, washing away the sweat.

"You can barely stand on your feet," he mumbled into the top of your head, rinsing the foam from your hair.

"Whose fault is that?" you tore yourself away from his chest and looked up at him. He smiled, and now this man looked like "your Oscar" and not that wild lover who barely left you alive. The combination of three consecutive wins and a large amount of alcohol had revealed a new version of your boyfriend to you. And you would definitely never forget it.

Having dried off with one towel for two—quickly and carelessly, because the cold of the bathroom had already started to bite at your heated skin—you finally left the bathroom.

Reaching the bed seemed like the last task for today. As soon as you were near it, Oscar simply collapsed onto the mattress, pulling you with him. The cool bed linen seemed like the most pleasant thing in the world.

He immediately scooped you under him, settling into the "little spoon" position. His hand possessively lay on your waist, pressing your back to his chest, and his legs intertwined with yours. You felt his warmth, his even breathing by your ear, and that familiar scent, which was now clean and fresh.

Darkness and fatigue instantly swallowed you both. And although Oscar won the race in Miami today, his main victory, undoubtedly, was you, peacefully sniffling in his arms right now.

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