F1 Paddock Shenanigans

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 1
The Monaco Grand Prix had just wrapped up, the air still thick with the roar of engines and the buzz of adrenaline. Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri, McLaren’s golden duo, were winding down in the paddock’s private facilities, their race suits half-unzipped, clinging to sweat-slicked skin. They’d been joking about their on-track rivalry when the sound of running water from the nearby showers cut through their banter.
Lando tilted his head toward the noise, his curls damp and tousled from the helmet. “Sounds like someone’s still in there,” he muttered, a grin tugging at his lips. Oscar, leaning against the lockers with his arms crossed, raised an eyebrow, his sharp jawline catching the dim light. “Probably Charles. He’s always lingering after a race, preening like he’s about to walk a runway.”
They shared a knowing chuckle—Charles Leclerc, Ferrari’s prince, had a reputation for looking unfairly good even after hours of sweating it out in a cockpit. But neither of them expected what came next.
The shower door swung open, and there he was: Charles, dripping wet, a white towel slung low around his hips. Water glistened on his tanned skin, tracing the lean lines of his chest, down the taut ridges of his abs, and disappearing beneath the towel’s edge. His dark hair was slicked back, droplets clinging to the ends, and his green eyes flickered with a casual confidence as he nodded at them. “Evening, boys,” he said, voice smooth as velvet, before sauntering toward his locker.
Lando’s breath hitched. Oscar’s grip on the locker tightened. Because it wasn’t just Charles’ sculpted torso that caught their eye—it was the unmistakable outline beneath that towel. Even through the thin fabric, they could see it: his cock, semi-hard, pressing against the material. The shape was bold, thick, the head subtly defined as it shifted with each step. A faint vein snaked along the side, visible just enough to make their imaginations run wild.
“Bloody hell,” Lando whispered, turning to Oscar once Charles was out of earshot. His hazel eyes were wide, a flush creeping up his neck. “Did you see that?”
Oscar smirked, trying to play it cool, but the heat in his cheeks betrayed him. “Hard to miss, mate. Looked like he was halfway to a full-on stiffy. What’s he even thinking about in there?”
Lando leaned in closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “Probably all those podium fantasies he’s got. You know, spraying champagne, flexing for the cameras. Bet he’s got a gorgeous dick to match that face—long, thick, the kind that’d feel heavy in your hand.”
Oscar laughed softly, but his gaze lingered where Charles had disappeared around the corner. “You’re not wrong. That bulge… it’s gotta be what, seven inches? Maybe more when it’s fully up. And that vein—Christ, it’s like it’s teasing you on purpose.”
Lando licked his lips unconsciously, shifting his weight as his race suit suddenly felt tighter. “Bet it’s smooth, too. Perfectly proportioned, like the rest of him. Probably curves just a little to the left—you know how those European lads are built.”
Oscar’s eyes darkened, his voice taking on a huskier edge. “Yeah, but imagine the head. Nice and plump, flushed pink when he’s worked up. I reckon it’d twitch if you got too close, like it’s daring you to do something about it.”
They fell silent for a moment, the air between them charged with unspoken tension. Lando adjusted himself discreetly, his mind racing with images of Charles’ glistening body, that towel slipping just a fraction lower. “You think he knows we’re staring?” he murmured.
Oscar grinned, wicked and boyish all at once. “Oh, he knows. Prick probably loves it. Strutting out like that, giving us a show. Bet he’d smirk if he caught us drooling.”
Lando’s laugh was shaky, his hand raking through his curls. “Mate, I’d drool. I mean, look at us—we’re half-hard just talking about it.” He glanced down at Oscar’s race suit, where the fabric strained slightly over his lap, then back at his own. “Reckon we could take him on, though? Show him what McLaren’s packing?”
Oscar’s eyes glinted with mischief. “You’re on. But let’s be real—Charles’ cock might be the star of this paddock tonight. Ours are just gonna have to wait their turn.”
They shared a heated look, the locker room suddenly feeling too small, too warm. Charles’ footsteps echoed faintly as he dressed a few rows over, oblivious—or maybe not—to the storm he’d stirred in his rivals. For Lando and Oscar, the race might’ve been over, but the night was just beginning.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 2
The locker room’s tension had reached a boiling point, and Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri couldn’t ignore the heat pooling in their guts any longer. With a shared glance—half challenge, half dare—they stripped off their race suits, peeling the sweat-soaked fabric from their lean, muscled frames. The air hit their skin, cool and sharp, as they kicked off their boots and shed their fireproofs, leaving them in nothing but their bare, flushed bodies. Towels in hand, they padded toward the showers, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the tiles.
Under the spray, water cascaded over them, tracing the contours of their athletic builds. Lando’s skin glistened, his toned chest and narrow waist catching the light, droplets clinging to the smattering of hair trailing down his abdomen. Oscar stood taller, broader through the shoulders, his pale skin turning pink under the heat, water sluicing over the defined lines of his hips. Both of them were already half-hard, their cocks stirring from the lingering thoughts of Charles Leclerc—and the filthy chat that had set their pulses racing.
Lando’s dick hung heavy between his thighs, a solid six inches even at half-mast, thick and uncircumcised. The foreskin hugged the broad, rounded head, a soft pink peeking out as it swelled with each passing second. A few dark curls framed the base, damp and clinging to his skin, and a subtle vein ran along the underside, pulsing faintly as blood rushed south. He shifted under the water, letting it stream over his chest, his hand brushing his length as if testing its weight.
Oscar’s was different but no less striking—longer, closer to seven inches, with a slight upward curve that made it bob as it stiffened. His cock was slimmer but elegantly proportioned, the shaft smooth and pale, tapering to a flushed, tapered tip that glistened under the shower’s spray. A single prominent vein twisted along the top, throbbing as his arousal deepened, and the sparse blond hair at the base darkened with water. He leaned back against the tiles, letting the heat soak into his muscles, his eyes flicking to Lando with a smirk.
“Still thinking about him, aren’t you?” Oscar teased, voice low and rough over the hiss of the water. His hand drifted down, fingers wrapping loosely around his shaft, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke. “Charles and that bloody perfect dick of his.”
Lando groaned, his own hand mirroring Oscar’s, gripping his thickening cock and sliding the foreskin back to reveal the slick, swollen head. “Can’t help it, mate. Did you see how it moved under that towel? Bet it’s even better hard—nice and fat, stretching you out just right.”
Oscar’s laugh was husky, his strokes picking up pace as his cock hardened fully, the curve more pronounced now, the tip a deep rosy red. “Yeah, reckon it’d slap against his thigh if he let it loose. Probably leaks like mad when he’s worked up—bet he’s a mess in bed.”
Lando’s breathing hitched, his dick now rock-hard in his fist, the vein pulsing as he pumped himself faster. The head was fully exposed, glistening with a mix of water and precum, the thick shaft twitching with every filthy word. “Fuck, imagine him wanking it right now. Those long fingers wrapped around it, tugging that gorgeous head ‘til he’s dripping.”
They were lost in it, eyes half-lidded, water steaming around them as they stroked themselves in sync, their lusty chatter filling the space. Oscar’s voice dropped lower, almost a growl. “Bet he’d smirk at us like he owned the place, cock bouncing while he—”
“I heard my name,” came a smooth, accented drawl, cutting through the haze.
Lando froze mid-stroke, Oscar’s hand stilled, and they whipped their heads toward the sound. There, stepping into the showers, was Charles Leclerc—stark naked, towel discarded, and his hard cock leading the way like a goddamn beacon.
It was everything they’d imagined and more. Charles’ dick stood proud, a solid eight inches of pure perfection, thick and straight, the shaft smooth and tanned like the rest of him. The head was plump and flushed a deep, needy pink, glistening with a bead of precum that caught the light. A network of faint veins pulsed along its length, the most prominent curling up the side, and the base was framed by neatly trimmed dark hair, damp from the humidity. It bobbed slightly as he walked, heavy and confident, matching the swagger in his stride. His body was a sculpted dream—lean muscle, water-slicked skin, and those piercing green eyes locked on them with a knowing glint.
“Enjoying yourselves?” Charles asked, his voice dripping with amusement as he stopped a few feet away, one hand resting casually on his hip, the other giving his cock a lazy, teasing stroke. “Didn’t realize I’d left such an impression.”
Lando’s mouth went dry, his hand still wrapped around his throbbing dick, unable to look away. Oscar swallowed hard, his curved length twitching in his grip, a flush spreading across his chest. For a moment, the shower was silent save for the water, the air crackling with a tension that promised this night was far from over.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 3
The shower steam swirled around them, thick and heady, as Charles Leclerc stood there, his naked form a vision of dominance. Water beaded on his tanned skin, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the ripple of his abs, and the proud jut of his eight-inch cock—hard, thick, and glistening with a bead of precum that trembled at the tip. His green eyes burned with authority, a smirk curling his lips as he took in Lando and Oscar, both still gripping their own throbbing erections, caught mid-act.
“You two,” Charles said, his voice low and commanding, cutting through the hiss of the water like a whip. “Stop playing with yourselves and come here. If you’re so obsessed with my body, then worship it properly.”
Lando’s breath hitched, his thick, six-inch cock twitching in his hand, the foreskin pulled back to reveal the swollen, slick head. Oscar’s longer, curved length pulsed, the flushed tip leaking as his eyes widened, a mix of shock and eager lust flashing across his face. They didn’t hesitate. Dropping their hands, they stepped forward, water splashing under their feet, drawn to Charles like moths to a flame.
“On your knees,” Charles instructed, his tone dripping with control as he spread his stance, letting his heavy cock sway slightly. “Start with my chest. Work your way down.”
Lando hit the tiles first, his curls plastered to his forehead, hazel eyes locked on Charles’ sculpted torso. Oscar followed, his broader frame kneeling beside him, both of them reaching out with trembling hands. Lando’s fingers traced the wet ridges of Charles’ pecs, brushing over a taut nipple, while Oscar’s palms slid down the Ferrari driver’s sides, mapping the lean muscle of his ribs. Charles tilted his head back, a soft groan escaping his lips as their hands roamed, reverent and hungry.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” Lando muttered, his voice thick with awe, leaning in to press his lips to Charles’ sternum, kissing the warm, wet skin. Oscar followed suit, his tongue flicking out to taste the water beading on Charles’ abs, tracing the defined lines with a slow, deliberate lick.
Charles’ smirk widened, his hand threading through Lando’s curls, tugging lightly. “Good boys. Keep going. You know what you want.”
Their worship descended, hands and mouths sliding lower. Lando’s fingers grazed the dark trail of hair below Charles’ navel, while Oscar’s lips brushed the V of his hips, both of them inching toward the prize. Charles’ cock loomed before them, thick and imposing, the plump head glistening, the vein along the side pulsing with every beat of his heart. They exchanged a glance—lust-blown and unspoken—before diving in.
Lando wrapped his hand around the base, marveling at the girth, how it filled his palm, hot and heavy. He gave it a slow stroke, watching the foreskin glide back to expose more of that flushed, needy tip. Oscar leaned in, his tongue darting out to lap at the bead of precum, moaning softly at the salty taste. “Tastes as good as it looks,” he murmured, before sucking the head into his mouth, lips stretching around its width.
Charles groaned, hips twitching forward, one hand gripping Oscar’s hair now, the other guiding Lando’s strokes. “That’s it. Work it. Show me how much you want it.”
Lando’s own cock throbbed between his thighs, leaking onto the tiles as he pumped Charles faster, his thumb rubbing the sensitive underside where the vein pulsed. Oscar bobbed his head, taking more of Charles in, his curved dick bobbing untouched as he hollowed his cheeks, slurping wetly. The shower echoed with their mingled sounds—gasps, moans, the slick rhythm of skin on skin.
But Charles wasn’t done dominating. “Up,” he commanded, pulling them off with a firm tug. They obeyed, standing shakily, their cocks—Lando’s thick and veiny, Oscar’s long and curved—jutting out, desperate for release. Charles stepped closer, his hard length brushing against theirs, sending jolts through all three of them. “Hands on me. Now.”
Lando and Oscar reached for him again, their hands colliding as they gripped Charles’ cock together, stroking in tandem. Charles returned the favor, his long fingers wrapping around Lando’s shaft first, pumping the thick length with a twist of his wrist, then switching to Oscar’s, tracing the curve with a teasing squeeze. The air turned frantic, a blur of hands and heat, water slicking their movements.
“Fuck, I’m close,” Lando gasped, his hips bucking into Charles’ grip, his cock swelling, the head a deep, angry red. Oscar nodded, panting, his tip glistening with precum as Charles worked him faster. Charles’ own breaths grew ragged, his dick twitching in their hands, the vein throbbing harder.
“Cum for me,” Charles growled, his voice a velvet-edged order. “Both of you.”
It hit like a tidal wave. Lando went first, a choked moan tearing from his throat as his cock pulsed, thick ropes of cum erupting from the swollen head. The first shot splattered across Charles’ abs, pearlescent and hot, streaking down the tanned skin in messy rivulets, mixing with the water. The second hit higher, coating Charles’ chest, clinging to his pecs before sliding off in the spray. Lando’s knees buckled, his hand still stroking Charles through the aftershocks.
Oscar followed, his release quieter but no less intense. His curved cock jerked, the first spurt arcing upward, a long, thin stream that caught Charles’ thigh, painting the muscle in glossy white. The next burst was thicker, landing on Charles’ hip, dripping slowly down the groove of his V-line, the water diluting it into a milky sheen. Oscar’s eyes fluttered shut, a whimper escaping as he milked himself dry.
Charles’ climax was the finale, orchestrated by their hands. His cock throbbed violently, the head flaring, and then he came with a low, guttural groan. The first shot was powerful, a fat, creamy rope that blasted across Lando’s chest, splattering over his collarbone and dripping down in heavy streaks. The second hit Oscar’s jaw, a warm splash that clung to his skin before trickling onto his neck, thick and sticky. Charles kept going, spurts of cum coating their hands, pooling between their fingers, the water washing some away but leaving the air heavy with the scent of sex.
They stood there, panting, water cascading over their spent bodies, cum-streaked and trembling. Charles’ smirk returned, triumphant, as he surveyed the mess they’d made. “Not bad, boys,” he purred, stepping back under the spray, letting it rinse him clean. “Next time, maybe I’ll let you taste more.”
Lando and Oscar exchanged a dazed, grinning look, their cocks softening but their pulses still racing, knowing this shower had changed the paddock dynamic forever.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 4
The shower water hissed as Charles Leclerc stepped out, his sculpted body glistening one last time under the spray before he grabbed a towel and wrapped it low around his hips. Without a word, he strode toward the lockers, his hard cock still half-visible through the fabric, leaving Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri panting in his wake. The air hung heavy with the scent of cum and steam, their bodies streaked with the aftermath of their frantic release, minds utterly blown.
Lando leaned against the tiles, his thick, softening cock dangling between his thighs, water dripping from his curls. Oscar stood beside him, his longer, curved length still faintly flushed, his chest heaving as he ran a hand through his damp blond hair. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence thick with disbelief and lingering lust.
Finally, Oscar broke it, his voice hoarse and incredulous. “Did that just happen, or was I dreaming?”
Lando let out a shaky laugh, wiping a hand down his face, smearing water and the last traces of Charles’ cum from his chest. “Mate, if that was a dream, I’m never waking up. Did you see him? Telling us to worship him like he’s some bloody god—and we did.”
Oscar smirked, turning off the shower with a flick of his wrist, the sudden quiet amplifying their ragged breaths. “Yeah, and he just walked off like it was nothing. That cocky bastard. Eight inches of pure arrogance, and we were on our knees for it.”
They stumbled toward the lockers, legs still weak, grabbing towels to dry off. Lando tugged on his jeans, the denim clinging to his damp skin, his mind replaying the way Charles’ cum had painted his chest—thick, hot ropes that had left him trembling. “Reckon he’s done that before? He was too smooth, too in control.”
Oscar pulled a shirt over his head, the fabric stretching across his broad shoulders, his thoughts on the taste of Charles’ precum, salty and intoxicating. “Oh, he’s done it alright. You don’t boss a scene like that without practice. Bet he’s got a whole paddock hit list.”
They dressed in a daze—Lando in a tight black tee and sneakers, Oscar in a crisp white button-up and trainers—grabbing their jackets as they headed for the Monaco after-party. The night air was cool against their flushed skin, but their heads were still in the shower, replaying every stroke, every command.
The party was in full swing when they arrived, the clink of champagne glasses and thumping music filling the sleek, neon-lit venue. Drivers, team principals, and VIPs mingled under chandeliers, but their eyes found Charles immediately. He stood near the bar, flawless in a tailored blazer, his dark hair still damp, that knowing smirk firmly in place. Spotting them, he waved them over with a lazy flick of his hand, two flutes of champagne already in his grip.
“There you are,” Charles said, voice smooth as silk, handing them the glasses. He raised his own, his green eyes glinting with mischief. “A toast—to the real champions. Even though I won in every way tonight.”
Lando nearly choked on his first sip, the bubbles fizzing against his lips, while Oscar’s eyebrow shot up, a grin tugging at his mouth. They clinked glasses, the sound sharp over the music, but before they could respond, a familiar voice slid into the conversation.
“Another victory parade in the showers, Charles?” George Russell sauntered up, all lanky elegance in a navy suit, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. He’d clearly overheard the toast, and his tone was dripping with implication. “Hope it was as good as the one I gave you last year when you won here.”
Lando’s jaw dropped, his champagne flute tilting dangerously in his hand. Oscar’s head whipped toward George, then back to Charles, disbelief etched across his face. Charles just laughed, a low, velvety sound, leaning back against the bar with an air of unshakable confidence.
“George, you always bring your A-game,” Charles replied, tipping his glass toward the Mercedes driver. “But tonight’s performance was… let’s say, a team effort.”
George smirked, sipping his drink, his gaze flicking between Lando and Oscar. “Oh, I can imagine. You two look like you’ve seen a ghost—or something a lot more impressive. Don’t worry, lads, he’s got that effect.”
Lando sputtered, finally finding his voice. “Wait, you—what? Last year? You and him?”
Oscar elbowed him, trying to keep his cool, though his own mind was spinning. “Mate, are we the last to know Charles runs a bloody shower circuit?”
George chuckled, clapping Lando on the shoulder. “Not the last, I’m sure. Just the latest. He’s got a knack for picking winners—and I don’t just mean on the track.”
Charles raised his glass again, his smirk widening into something downright devilish. “To victories, gentlemen. On the podium and off.”
Lando and Oscar stared at each other, glasses still in hand, their disbelief melting into a mix of awe and reluctant admiration. The night stretched ahead, glittering with possibility, and one thing was clear: Charles Leclerc wasn’t just winning races—he was rewriting the rules of the game.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 5
The after-party buzzed around them, a blur of champagne flutes, flashing lights, and laughter, but Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri were in their own world. They’d snagged a corner near the bar, nursing their umpteenth glasses of bubbly, their voices low and conspiratorial as they dissected Charles Leclerc’s shower dominance—and who else might’ve fallen under his spell.
“George, obviously,” Lando said, his hazel eyes glassy from the booze, his curls a mess from running his hands through them. He leaned closer to Oscar, his voice dropping. “But who else? Max? He’s got that cocky vibe—bet Charles had him on his knees once.”
Oscar snorted, swirling his champagne, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a sliver of his chest. “Nah, Max’d fight for top. I’m thinking Daniel. That grin of his? He’s definitely tasted the Leclerc special.”
Lando laughed, a little too loud, the alcohol loosening his limbs and sharpening the ache in his jeans. “Fuck, can you imagine? Daniel sucking him off, all sloppy and eager, while Charles just smirks down at him?”
Oscar’s grin turned wicked, his hand brushing his own lap where his cock stirred, pressing against the fabric. “Yeah, and Charles probably came all over that stupid tattoo on his thigh. Bet it was a mess.”
Their fantasies spun wilder with every sip, the memory of Charles’ thick, eight-inch cock—hot, veiny, and dripping—burning in their minds. By midnight, the party still thrummed, but their bodies demanded more than words. Lando shifted, wincing as his erection strained his jeans. “Mate, I’m dying here. Need to sort this out.”
Oscar’s eyes darkened, a tipsy flush on his cheeks. “Same. Toilets?”
They stumbled through the crowd, giggling like schoolboys, the champagne making their steps unsteady. The furthest stall in the sleek, marble bathroom beckoned—an oasis of privacy. They piled in together, Lando fumbling the lock as Oscar pressed against him, their breaths hot and ragged. The door clicked shut, and they crashed into each other, lips colliding in a sloppy, desperate kiss.
Lando groaned into Oscar’s mouth, tasting champagne and lust, his hands gripping the taller driver’s shirt. Oscar kissed back harder, his tongue sliding against Lando’s, his fingers digging into Lando’s hips. They swayed, tipsy and tangled, cocks throbbing in sync.
“Sit,” Lando rasped, pulling back, his voice thick. Oscar didn’t argue—he dropped onto the toilet seat, the lid cool against his thighs, and yanked Lando around to face him. With a swift tug, he dragged Lando’s jeans and skimpy black briefs down, freeing his cock. It sprang out, thick and hard, six inches of flushed, veiny heat, the foreskin pulled back to reveal a glistening, swollen head. A bead of precum clung to the tip, trembling as Oscar’s breath ghosted over it.
“Fuck, look at you,” Oscar murmured, his voice rough with want, before leaning in and wrapping his lips around the head. Lando gasped, hands flying to Oscar’s hair, tugging as that warm, wet mouth slid down his shaft. Oscar sucked hard, his tongue swirling over the sensitive underside, tracing the pulsing vein, his cheeks hollowing with every pull. Lando’s hips bucked, the stall wall rattling, his moans echoing off the tiles.
“Shit—Osc—keep going,” Lando panted, his cock twitching in Oscar’s mouth, the suction driving him wild. Oscar hummed, the vibration shooting through Lando’s length, his own cock straining against his trousers as he worked. He bobbed faster, slurping wetly, spit slicking his chin, lost in the rhythm of it.
Then—a flash.
Bright, blinding, cutting through the haze. Lando’s eyes snapped open, Oscar choking mid-suck as they both whipped their heads toward the stall door. Too slow, too drunk to react, they caught a glimpse of Ollie Bearman—Ferrari’s young reserve driver—ducking behind the wall, his phone still raised, a grin splitting his face.
“Bloody hell!” Lando yelped, yanking his briefs up, his cock still hard and slick with Oscar’s spit, tenting the fabric obscenely. Oscar scrambled to his feet, wiping his mouth, his trousers bulging as he lunged for the door. “Ollie, you little shit—get back here!”
But Ollie was already gone, his laughter echoing down the hall, the telltale click of his phone a promise of chaos. Lando and Oscar slumped against the stall, breathless, half-dressed, and caught between mortification and lingering arousal.
“Fuck,” Oscar muttered, running a hand through his hair, his cock still demanding attention. “He’s gonna tell Charles, isn’t he?”
Lando groaned, adjusting himself with a wince, the image of Charles’ smirk flashing in his mind. “Oh, he’ll do worse. Bet he’s texting the whole paddock right now. ‘McLaren boys caught mid-blowie.’”
They stared at each other, then burst into tipsy, helpless laughter, the absurdity of it all sinking in. The night was a mess—a glorious, filthy mess—and somehow, they knew Charles would find a way to make it even messier.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 6
The morning sun filtered through the heavy curtains of their lavish Monaco hotel suite, casting golden streaks across the tangled mess of sheets. Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri lay sprawled in the king-sized bed, their naked bodies half-covered by the duvet, evidence of a wild night strewn around them. Empty champagne bottles rolled on the hardwood floor, a discarded condom wrapper glinted near the nightstand, and Oscar’s briefs hung precariously from a lamp. The air smelled of sweat, sex, and a faint whiff of Lando’s cologne.
Oscar shifted, a low groan escaping as a pleasant burn throbbed in his ass—a delicious reminder of where Lando’s thick, six-inch cock had spent most of the night. He stretched, feeling the ache in his muscles, his own curved length stirring lazily against his thigh as he replayed the blurry, heated moments: Lando pinning him to the mattress, that veiny shaft driving into him with relentless rhythm, both of them too drunk and horny to care about anything but chasing the next high.
Lando stirred beside him, his curls a chaotic halo, his chest marked with faint red scratches from Oscar’s nails. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep, rubbing his eyes. “What a night.”
Oscar smirked, propping himself on an elbow, the burn in his backside flaring as he moved. “Yeah, you were a menace. My ass is still feeling you.”
Lando grinned, shameless, his hand sliding under the sheet to give Oscar’s thigh a teasing squeeze. “Can’t help it, mate. You were begging for it by the third round.”
They lay there, soaking up the hazy, post-coital atmosphere, the room quiet save for the distant hum of the city below. Then—beep beep—their phones chimed in unison on the nightstand. They froze, eyes locking, a flicker of dread cutting through the afterglow.
“Oh fuck,” they said at the same time, fumbling for their devices.
Oscar grabbed his first, squinting at the screen. An invitation to a WhatsApp group titled “Paddock Shenanigans”—from Ollie Bearman. Lando’s phone showed the same, his thumb hovering over the accept button. “No way,” he muttered, but they both tapped it anyway, too curious to resist.
A message popped up almost instantly: the photo from the toilets. There it was in grainy, glorious detail—Oscar on the seat, lips wrapped around Lando’s glistening cock, mid-suck, eyes half-lidded with lust; Lando standing, head thrown back, hands in Oscar’s hair. The flash had caught every slick curve, every flushed inch. Underneath, Ollie’s text: “Looks like I got you boys by the balls… literally.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and stunned. Lando’s mouth hung open, his phone slipping slightly in his grip. Oscar blinked at the screen, then at Lando, then back at the photo, his brain short-circuiting.
Finally, Oscar broke it, a slow grin spreading across his face. “It’s a fucking hot photo, I’m not gonna lie.”
Lando snorted, the tension snapping as he laughed, a mix of disbelief and amusement. “You’re mental. But yeah—look at us. We’re bloody porn stars.”
They dissolved into chuckles, the absurdity of it washing away the initial panic. Oscar zoomed in on the image, tilting his head. “Your dick looks massive from that angle. And my technique? Impeccable.”
Lando shoved him playfully, still grinning. “Oi, my cock’s massive from every angle. But yeah, you’ve got skills. Ollie’s got taste, I’ll give him that.”
They lounged back against the pillows, phones in hand, the photo still glowing on their screens. “So,” Oscar said, voice turning strategic, “what do we do? Kid’s got us cornered.”
Lando tapped his chin, his mind ticking over. “Play it cool. He’s fishing for a reaction. We don’t give him the freakout he wants.”
Oscar nodded, warming to the idea. “Simple, then. Keep him guessing. Hit him with a curveball.”
They brainstormed for a moment, tossing ideas back and forth, until Lando smirked, typing out their response. “This’ll do it.” He held up his phone, showing Oscar the screen: “What now?”
Oscar laughed, sharp and approving. “Perfect. Balls back in his court.”
Lando hit send, the message zipping off into the ether. They tossed their phones aside, sinking back into the sheets, the tension easing into a shared, reckless thrill. Whatever Ollie had planned, they’d face it together—half-naked, hungover, and still buzzing from a night that had rewritten their rulebook.
“Think Charles is in that group?” Oscar mused, smirking.
Lando groaned, his cock twitching at the thought. “If he is, we’re fucked. Literally.”
They laughed again, the morning stretching ahead, ripe with chaos and possibility.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 7
Lando and Oscar were still sprawled in the tangled sheets, basking in their shared amusement over Ollie’s photo, when their phones beeped again. Their laughter died mid-breath, hearts sinking as they exchanged a wary glance. “If that’s him…” Lando muttered, snatching his phone. Oscar grabbed his too, both of them bracing for round two of blackmail.
But the WhatsApp group stayed silent. Instead, it was a text from their McLaren PA, crisp and no-nonsense: “You boys have missed breakfast. Assume you’re hungover and still in bed. Cars are leaving in an hour—don’t be late.”
Oscar exhaled, tossing his phone onto the mattress. “Thank fuck. Just the team. Thought we were toast.”
Lando grinned, relief flooding his features, though his eyes still glinted with mischief. “An hour? Plenty of time for a shower.” He waggled his brows, already rolling out of bed, his naked body a lean, tanned silhouette in the morning light. His thick, soft cock swayed slightly as he stood, the foreskin hugging the head, a faint sheen of last night’s sweat still clinging to his skin.
Oscar followed, the pleasant burn in his ass flaring as he swung his legs over the edge. His longer, curved length dangled between his thighs, the tip still faintly flushed from their wild night. “Together, yeah?” he said, voice low and teasing, already picturing the water sliding over Lando’s frame.
“Obviously,” Lando shot back, leading the way to the suite’s sleek bathroom. The shower was massive—marble tiles, a rainfall head, and enough space for two horny drivers to maneuver. They cranked the water, steam billowing as they stepped in, the heat hitting their skin like a lover’s touch.
Lando grabbed the soap first, lathering his hands before turning to Oscar. “C’mere,” he murmured, sliding his slick palms over Oscar’s chest, thumbs brushing his nipples. Oscar groaned softly, retaliating by soaping up Lando’s shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle. Their hands roamed, but it didn’t take long for the focus to shift lower.
Oscar’s sudsy hand wrapped around Lando’s cock, the thick shaft hardening fast under his grip. He stroked slowly, the soap making it slippery, the foreskin gliding back to reveal the swelling, pink head. “Fuck, you’re quick,” Oscar teased, thumbing the slit where a bead of precum mixed with the foam.
Lando hissed, hips jerking, his own hand finding Oscar’s length. He lathered it up, tracing the curve, the prominent vein pulsing under his fingers as it stiffened to its full seven inches. The tapered tip flushed a deep rosy red, slick with soap and arousal. “Look who’s talking,” he shot back, pumping Oscar’s shaft with a firm, twisting motion. “This thing’s begging for round—what, five?”
They pressed closer, cocks brushing as they worked each other, water cascading over their shoulders, rinsing the suds in streams down their legs. Lando’s free hand gripped Oscar’s ass, kneading the firm muscle, while Oscar’s lips hovered near Lando’s ear, breath hot. “Wish we had time to finish this proper,” he muttered, voice thick with want.
“Fuck, me too,” Lando groaned, his cock throbbing in Oscar’s fist, the head glistening under the spray. “But we’re cutting it close.”
Reality crashed in—they had to move. With a shared, frustrated growl, they rinsed off, stepping out to towel down in a hurry. Oscar’s erection bobbed as he dried his hair, while Lando’s strained against the towel around his waist. “I need to get to my room,” Lando said, peeking out the door. “It’s just across the hall. Cover me?”
Oscar smirked, tossing his towel aside, still half-hard. “Go for it. I’ll play lookout.”
Lando darted out, towel clutched low, his bare feet silent on the plush carpet. The hall was mercifully empty, and he slipped into his room unnoticed, the door clicking shut behind him. Oscar lingered, grinning to himself, before ducking back to throw on jeans and a hoodie—casual enough to hide the bulge still lingering in his trousers.
A few minutes later, they met in the hotel reception, Lando strolling in with a yawn, Oscar sauntering down the stairs, both acting like they’d just rolled out of separate beds. “Morning, mate,” Lando said, voice overly chipper, scratching his curls. “Sleep alright?”
Oscar played along, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, you? Look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”
“Rough night,” Lando quipped, winking subtly as they joined the McLaren crew milling near the exit. The cars idled outside, engines purring, ready to whisk them to the next stop. Their phones stayed silent—no more beeps from Ollie, no fallout yet—but the weight of that photo hung between them, a secret ticking time bomb they’d have to face soon enough.
For now, though, they climbed into the backseat of the team SUV, knees brushing, the memory of soap-slicked hands and hard cocks still simmering beneath their grins.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 8
The McLaren Range Rover hummed along the winding roads from Monaco to Nice airport, the hour-long drive a blur of sunlit cliffs and shimmering sea. Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri slouched in the backseat, their bodies still buzzing from the morning’s shower and the lingering high of their wild night. They’d meant to nap—exhaustion tugged at their eyelids—but sleep wouldn’t come. Not with their phones clutched tight, screens dark but menacing, waiting for Ollie’s next move. The WhatsApp group stayed silent, an eerie radio silence that only sharpened their nerves.
Lando’s knee bounced, his fingers tapping his phone case, hazel eyes flicking to Oscar. “He’s plotting something, I can feel it.”
Oscar nodded, his longer frame slumped against the leather, one hand resting on his thigh, close to where his cock had pressed against his jeans earlier. “Yeah, kid’s too quiet. Probably saving it for maximum damage.”
The car rolled onto the packed runway at Nice, private jets gleaming under the Riviera sun, and fate decided to twist the knife. The McLaren jet—sleek, papaya-orange accents glinting—sat parked right next to the Ferrari team’s beast, a bigger, flashier monster of engineering excess. Lando and Oscar locked eyes, a wry chuckle escaping them both.
“Murphy’s bloody law,” Lando muttered, shaking his head.
Oscar smirked, running a hand through his damp blond hair. “Of course it is.”
The Range Rover swung around a corner, tires crunching on asphalt, and stopped beside their jet. The crew popped the doors, cool air rushing in, but as Lando and Oscar stepped out, their hearts slammed to a halt. There, climbing the stairs to the Ferrari jet, was Charles Leclerc—his ass a goddamn vision in tight, designer jeans that hugged every curve, the denim stretching over his firm cheeks like a second skin. Each step flexed the muscle, a hypnotic rhythm that had them both staring, mouths dry, cocks twitching faintly in memory of the shower.
And then, because fate hadn’t screwed them enough, Ollie Bearman appeared right behind him. The young Ferrari reserve driver, all boyish charm and devilish intent, spotted the McLaren boys mid-step. He froze on the stairs, his grin splitting wide, and threw them an exaggerated, childish wave—big and goofy, like a cartoon villain. Then, as if that wasn’t enough salt in the wound, he raised a hand to his mouth, mimicking a sloppy blowjob motion, tongue poking his cheek, before bursting into loud, obnoxious laughter.
Lando’s jaw clenched, his phone nearly slipping from his grip. Oscar’s hand froze halfway to his pocket, his face a mask of stunned horror. They stood rooted, praying—begging—Charles wouldn’t turn around. Ollie’s cackle rang out, sharp and gleeful, but mercifully, Charles kept climbing, his perfect ass disappearing into the jet’s doorway, oblivious to the chaos below. Ollie shot them one last smirk, a wink that promised trouble, then ducked inside. The jet door hissed shut, sealing them in.
Lando exhaled, a shaky laugh breaking free. “Little prick. He’s loving this.”
Oscar rubbed his face, his voice low and strained. “Yeah, and he’s got Charles right there. Bet he’s showing him that photo as we speak.”
They trudged up the stairs to their own jet, the crew bustling around them, oblivious to the storm brewing in their heads. Lando flopped into a plush leather seat, kicking his legs out, his jeans still tight from the morning’s unfinished business. “If Charles sees it, we’re done. He’ll lord it over us forever.”
Oscar sank into the seat across from him, leaning back, his hoodie doing little to hide the faint bulge from their earlier shower tease. “Or he’ll want a repeat. You saw his ass just now—those jeans? He knows what he’s doing.”
Lando groaned, shifting to ease the pressure in his lap, his mind flashing to Charles’ commanding smirk, that thick cock they’d worshipped. “Fuck, don’t start. I’m still half-hard from this morning.”
Oscar chuckled, dark and knowing, his eyes glinting. “Same. But we’ve got a flight to figure this out. Ollie’s got the upper hand—for now.”
The jet engines rumbled to life, vibrating through their seats, and they buckled in, phones still silent but heavy with unspoken threats. The Ferrari jet taxied beside them, sleek and taunting, carrying Charles, Ollie, and whatever chaos was brewing behind those tinted windows. Lando and Oscar exchanged a look—half dread, half thrill—knowing this was far from over.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 9
The McLaren jet soared into the sky, slicing through the clouds as exhaustion finally claimed Lando and Oscar. The adrenaline, the champagne, the relentless tension of Ollie’s photo—it all crashed down at once. They slumped into their plush seats, phones still clutched tight, and passed out, heads lolling, bodies spent. The hour-long flight to London blurred by, unnoticed, until the thud of the landing gear jolted them awake.
Lando blinked, groggy, his curls a mess against the headrest. “Shit, we’re here already?” Oscar groaned, stretching, the ache in his ass from their wild night flaring briefly as he shifted. They grabbed their phones, flicking them off silent mode as the jet door hissed open, cool London air rushing in. The screens lit up, buzzing and pinging with a flood of notifications—texts, emails, missed calls—but their thumbs scrolled past it all, hunting for one thing: the WhatsApp group.
There it was: “Paddock Shenanigans”—two unread messages. “Oh fuck,” they said in unison, voices cracking with dread.
Oscar’s wide eyes darted to Lando, his hand hovering over his phone. “You open it. I can’t bear it.”
Lando swallowed, thumb trembling as he tapped the chat. He glimpsed the first message, then flung his phone onto the seat like it burned him. “We’re fucked,” he said, a little too loud, drawing a glance from a crew member stowing bags nearby.
“You kidding?” Oscar’s voice pitched up, panic edging in. “He’s shown Charles, hasn’t he?” He didn’t wait for confirmation, snatching his own phone to open the first message. There it was, from Ollie: “The boss is impressed.” A simple line, cryptic and loaded, with no photo attached—just enough to send Oscar’s heart hammering against his ribs. “What the actual fuck are we going to do?” he whined, raking a hand through his blond hair.
Lando, still pale, picked up his phone again as the crew ushered them toward the exit. He opened the second message, and his expression shifted—jaw slackening, a huff of disbelief escaping. It was a string of laughing face emojis, followed by: “Bet I had you boys panicking.” He turned the screen to Oscar, a grudging smirk tugging at his lips. “Fuck, I’ll give it to him. This kid’s got game.”
Oscar scanned it, tension melting into a shaky laugh. “Little bastard. Had me thinking Charles was about to strut in here with that dick of his and demand round two.”
They stumbled off the jet, still chuckling, into the waiting Range Rover bound for McLaren HQ. The drive was quiet, London’s gray sprawl rolling past, but their minds churned. The weekend debrief loomed—fourth and fifth places, decent but no podium, no champagne spray to match the chaos they’d stirred off-track. They tossed around half-baked plans to counter Ollie—leak a fake photo? Play dumb?—but nothing stuck. Their heads were too foggy, too distracted by the memory of soap-slicked cocks and Charles’ commanding smirk.
The debrief dragged on in a sterile conference room, team strategists droning about tire wear and pit stops. Lando slouched in his chair, doodling on a notepad, his mind replaying Oscar’s lips around his shaft in that toilet stall. Oscar stared at a wall screen, unseeing, the phantom burn in his ass pulsing every time he shifted, a souvenir of Lando’s relentless thrusts. Neither registered a word.
When it finally ended, Lando caught Oscar’s eye as they filed out. “Fancy coming back to mine? We can… strategize.” His tone was casual, but the glint in his hazel eyes was anything but.
Oscar grinned, adjusting his hoodie over the faint bulge he couldn’t shake. “Yeah, mate. Strategize.”
The drive to Lando’s plush London apartment was a blur of traffic and stolen glances. The second the door clicked shut behind them, strategy flew out the window. Lando shoved Oscar against the wall, lips crashing into his, tasting the faint tang of champagne still lingering from the night before. Oscar groaned, hands yanking at Lando’s shirt, tearing it off to reveal the lean, scratched-up chest beneath.
They stumbled to the bedroom, shedding clothes—jeans, briefs, socks—until they were naked again, cocks springing free. Lando’s thick, six-inch length was already hard, the foreskin pulled back, the head flushed and leaking. Oscar’s curved seven inches bobbed, the vein throbbing as he shoved Lando onto the bed and straddled him.
“Fuck strategizing,” Lando rasped, gripping Oscar’s hips as that perfect ass hovered over him. “Just fuck me.”
Oscar didn’t need asking twice. He grabbed lube from the nightstand—evidence of prior chaos—and slicked them both up, his fingers teasing Lando’s hole before lining up and sinking in. Lando moaned, loud and shameless, his cock twitching against his stomach as Oscar thrust, deep and relentless, the burn from last night now a shared ache.
They lost themselves in it—sweaty, wild, desperate—flipping positions, hands stroking, mouths sucking, until the room echoed with gasps and the slap of skin. When they came, it was messy and glorious: Lando spilling thick ropes across his chest, Oscar painting Lando’s thighs with long, hot spurts, both of them trembling through the aftershocks.
Panting, they collapsed side by side, cum-streaked and grinning, Ollie’s game forgotten for now. The phones lay silent on the floor, but the night stretched ahead, ripe for more chaos—on their terms.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 10
The afterglow still hummed in the air of Lando’s plush London apartment, their naked bodies tangled in the cum-streaked sheets, breaths slowing from their frantic high. Lando lay sprawled, his thick, six-inch cock softening against his thigh, a faint sheen of sweat and Oscar’s release glistening on his skin. Oscar propped himself on an elbow, his curved seven-inch length still semi-hard, cum dripping lazily from the flushed tip onto the duvet. The room was a mess—lube-slicked fingers, discarded clothes, the faint musk of sex—but then it hit him.
Like a bolt of lightning, Oscar shot upright, eyes wide with revelation. “Lando, I’ve got it!” he exclaimed, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. “If we can’t beat him, let’s join him!”
Lando blinked, groggy and confused, propped up on his elbows. “What’re you on about, mate?”
Oscar didn’t answer—not with words. He angled his phone, snapping a quick photo of his cock—still thick and heavy, the tapered head glistening with a fresh bead of cum, the vein along the shaft pulsing faintly. He studied the shot, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Fuck, that’s hot,” he whispered, turning the screen to Lando.
Lando’s eyes locked on the image, his tongue darting out to lick his lips instinctively, a flicker of hunger cutting through his haze. “Bloody hell, Osc. Yeah, it’s hot—but what’re you gonna do with it?”
Oscar’s grin turned devilish, his gaze steady and daring. “Check your phone.”
Lando frowned, heart thudding as he fumbled through the tangled duvet, fishing out his phone. The screen glowed with a notification: one unread message in the “Paddock Shenanigans” WhatsApp group. His stomach dropped, dread coiling tight. “No way,” he muttered, glancing at Oscar, who just nodded, calm as anything.
“Open it,” Oscar urged, voice low and insistent.
Lando tapped the chat, and his eyes nearly popped out of his skull. There it was—Oscar’s photo, his cum-dripping cock in all its glory, posted to the group. Below it, a message from Oscar: “Suppose you can guess where this has just been. Bet you wish it was you on the receiving end.” Lando’s head snapped to Oscar, jaw slack, voice a raw mix of anger and disbelief. “What the fuck, Osc? What are you doing?”
“Read the message,” Oscar said, unfazed, his smirk unwavering.
Lando’s eyes flicked back to the screen, the words sinking in. The audacity, the taunt—it clicked. Oscar wasn’t running from Ollie’s game; he was rewriting the rules, turning the kid’s blackmail into their weapon. A slow, incredulous grin broke across Lando’s face. “Fuck yes,” he said, voice rising with excitement. “Let’s turn this on him.”
Oscar leaned closer, their bare shoulders brushing, the heat of their bodies reigniting as they stared at the phone. “He thinks he’s got us by the balls,” Oscar murmured, his breath hot against Lando’s ear. “But we’re gonna make him squirm. Show him we’re not scared—we’re players too.”
Lando chuckled, dark and eager, his mind racing. “Right. He’ll see that and think—he’ll think we’re untouchable. Maybe even jealous.” He grabbed his own phone, scrolling to the camera. “Gimme a sec—let’s double down.”
He angled the lens, snapping a shot of his own cock—still semi-hard, the foreskin hugging the thick, flushed head, a streak of Oscar’s cum smeared across his thigh. He showed it to Oscar, who whistled low. “Fuckin’ hell, mate. That’s a power move.”
Lando typed fast, attaching the photo to the group with a message: “Guess who’s been busy too. Next time, join in instead of watching.” He hit send, tossing the phone aside with a triumphant laugh. “There. Let’s see how Ollie handles that.”
Oscar’s eyes glinted, his semi twitching at the thought. “Kid’s gonna choke on his own game. And if Charles is in there lurking? He’ll be hard as a rock seeing this.”
They collapsed back onto the bed, side by side, buzzing with adrenaline and a fresh wave of arousal. The phones lay silent for now, but the air crackled with anticipation—Ollie’s move, Charles’ reaction, the whole paddock potentially watching. Lando’s hand drifted to Oscar’s thigh, teasing the sticky mess there. “Round three while we wait?”
Oscar grinned, rolling to pin Lando beneath him. “Fuck strategizing. Let’s just fuck.”
And they did—wild, messy, and loud—riding the high of their counterstrike, oblivious to the storm they’d just unleashed.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 11
Lando’s plush London apartment was a cocoon of post-sex haze, the sheets tangled around their naked bodies, the air thick with the scent of sweat and cum. Lando lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, his other hand lazily twirling strands of Oscar’s blond hair, the strands soft and damp between his fingers. Oscar lounged beside him, his head resting on Lando’s chest, his curved seven-inch cock still soft against his thigh, a faint sheen of their latest release drying on his skin. They basked in the glow, smug and proud of their daring switch-up on Ollie—those photos, those taunts—flipping the kid’s game right back at him.
“Think he’s shitting himself yet?” Lando murmured, voice low and satisfied, his thick, six-inch length twitching faintly at the thought.
Oscar chuckled, his breath warm against Lando’s chest. “Dunno. Bet he’s staring at those pics, though—probably hard as hell and cursing us out.”
They grinned, lost in their triumph, until—beep beep—their phones chimed in unison, shattering the quiet. Their eyes snapped wide, hands freezing mid-motion. “Fuck,” Oscar breathed, sitting up, the pleasant burn in his ass flaring as he shifted. “That’s him, isn’t it?”
Lando propped himself on an elbow, heart thudding. “Has to be. Flying to pick ‘em up.” He swallowed, glancing at Oscar. “We opening it on our own phones, or…?”
“Together,” Lando whispered, voice barely audible, a mix of dread and thrill lacing the word. They grabbed their phones from the nightstand, fingers trembling as they tapped the “Paddock Shenanigans” chat. Oscar opened the message first, Lando leaning in close, their bare shoulders brushing as a video thumbnail loaded.
It played, and for a split second, the screen was a blur—grainy, shaky—until it sharpened into something unmistakable. Ollie’s hand, a furious flurry, pumping his cock with reckless abandon. The camera zoomed out, revealing the full scene: Ollie’s lean frame, his dick—maybe seven inches, straight and thick—erupting in a massive cum shot. Thick, white ropes blasted from the flushed head, splattering across his abs, one spurt arcing high enough to hit his chest, glistening wetly under dim light. The video cut off abruptly, leaving the sound of his heavy breathing echoing in their ears.
Lando’s jaw dropped, his phone slipping slightly in his grip. Oscar’s breath hitched, eyes locked on the frozen frame. Their cocks—despite the marathon they’d just run—stirred traitorously, rising against their thighs. Lando’s thickened first, the foreskin peeling back as the head flushed pink, a bead of precum forming. Oscar’s followed, the curve pronounced as it hardened, the vein pulsing with fresh blood.
“Osc, what the fuck,” Lando rasped, voice cracking. “What the actual fuck!”
Oscar blinked, still stunned, then scrolled down to the message below the video. He read it aloud, voice unsteady: “See you boys in the showers at the next race.” Their eyes met, wide and wild, the implication sinking in—Ollie wasn’t backing down; he was doubling down, hard.
Before they could process it, their phones beeped again. A new notification flashed: “Charles Leclerc has been added to the chat.”
The room spun. Lando’s hand shot to his mouth, muffling a choked laugh, while Oscar’s phone clattered onto the bed. “No fucking way,” Oscar said, half-whisper, half-groan. “He’s brought Charles in on this? Now?”
Lando’s grin was manic, his cock now fully hard, bobbing against his stomach. “Oh, we’re screwed, mate. Literally. You saw that video—Ollie’s playing dirty, and Charles? He’s gonna see everything. Our pics, that cum shot, the lot.”
Oscar ran a hand through his hair, his own erection twitching at the thought of Charles—those commanding green eyes, that thick, eight-inch cock—scrolling through the chat. “Fuck, imagine him watching it. Bet he’s smirking right now, stroking himself to Ollie’s little show.”
They stared at each other, the post-sex glow morphing into a fresh wave of lust and panic. Lando licked his lips, voice dropping low. “Next race—shower showdown. Ollie’s calling us out, and Charles… he’s gonna be there, isn’t he?”
Oscar nodded, slow and deliberate, his mind racing. “Yeah. And we’re not running from this. We started it—let’s finish it.”
Lando’s eyes glinted, a reckless edge sharpening his grin. “Right. We’ve got a week to prep. Bigger moves, dirtier pics. Maybe even drag Charles into it ourselves—beat Ollie at his own game.”
Oscar laughed, dark and eager, leaning in to nip at Lando’s jaw. “Deal. But first…” His hand slid down, wrapping around Lando’s throbbing cock, giving it a slow, teasing stroke. “We’ve got some tension to work off.”
Lando groaned, hips bucking into Oscar’s grip, his own hand finding Oscar’s length, mirroring the rhythm. “Fuck yeah. Let’s give ‘em something to dream about.”
The phones lay forgotten as they tumbled back into the sheets, mouths crashing, cocks slick with fresh want—plotting and fucking their way toward the next race, where the showers promised more than just steam.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 12
The “Paddock Shenanigans” group chat had gone eerily quiet that night, no more taunts from Ollie, no fallout from their daring counterstrike—just silence. Lando and Oscar, spent from their latest round of wild, cum-soaked sex, curled into each other on Lando’s plush bed. Lando’s arm draped over Oscar’s waist, their naked bodies pressed close, legs tangled in the sheets. Exhaustion pulled them under, and they sank into a deep, much-needed sleep, the chaos of the past days fading into dreams of steamy showers and smirking rivals.
Oscar stirred first as dawn crept through the open curtains, sunlight spilling across the hardwood floor of Lando’s bedroom. He blinked, disoriented, the ache in his ass and the warmth of Lando’s body against his slowly grounding him. “Mornin’,” he mumbled, voice rough, as Lando shifted beside him, his curls a tousled mess against the pillow.
“Bloody hell, it’s bright,” Lando groaned, squinting at the surprisingly sunny London sky outside. He stretched, his thick, six-inch cock brushing Oscar’s thigh under the sheets, stirring faint echoes of last night’s frenzy. “Breakfast? That spot in Chelsea?”
Oscar grinned, rolling out of bed, his curved seven-inch length dangling as he stood. “Yeah, but shower first. We reek of sex.”
They stumbled into the bathroom, the shower a quick but heated affair—hands roaming, soap slicking their skin, cocks twitching but time too short to indulge. Dressed in casual gear—Lando in a black hoodie and jeans, Oscar in a gray tee and track pants—they grabbed their keys and bolted for the door, dodging the ever-present paparazzi lurking near Lando’s apartment. They sprinted across the road to Lando’s black McLaren, its sleek lines glinting in the sun, and piled in, breathless and laughing.
Oscar buckled up, glancing at Lando as the engine roared to life. “Imagine the headlines later—‘McLaren drivers emerging from Lando’s apartment together, is something simmering there?’”
Lando smirked, shifting gears, the car purring under his hands. “If only they knew, mate. ‘Simmering’ doesn’t cut it—we’re fucking boiling.”
They both cracked up, the absurdity of their secret fueling the laughter as they tackled London traffic, weaving through the morning crush toward Chelsea. At their favorite breakfast spot—a cozy café with big windows—they slid into a table by the glass, ignoring the stares of passersby who stopped dead, gawking at the F1 stars. Full English breakfasts and frothy cappuccinos arrived, the smell of bacon and coffee grounding them after days of chaos.
Their phones buzzed nonstop—texts, notifications, the usual post-race noise—but they tuned it out, forks clinking against plates, trading lazy banter about the debrief they’d zoned through. Until—beep beep—their phones chimed in unison, a sound that cut through the chatter like a blade. Their hearts stopped, forks hovering mid-air. They knew that sound, that sync. The WhatsApp group.
Oscar’s cappuccino trembled slightly in his hand as he set it down. Lando’s jaw tightened, both of them reaching for their phones with a shared, unspoken dread. The screens glowed: one unread message in “Paddock Shenanigans”—from Charles Leclerc.
“Fuck,” Lando whispered, thumb hovering over the chat. Oscar nodded, mute, and they tapped it together, heads close, breaths held.
The message loaded, and there it was—Charles’ words, dripping with that velvet-edged dominance they’d felt in the showers:
“Impressive moves, boys. Ollie’s little video was cute, but I’ve seen better—done better. Next race, showers, my rules. Bring your A-game, or I’ll show you how it’s really done.”
Attached was a photo: Charles, shirtless, leaning against a mirror—likely on the Ferrari jet—his tight jeans unbuttoned just enough to tease the waistband of his briefs, the bulge beneath unmistakable. His green eyes stared straight into the camera, that infuriating smirk curling his lips, a promise and a challenge rolled into one.
Lando’s fork clattered onto his plate, his cock stirring traitorously in his jeans. “Holy shit, Osc. He’s not fucking around.”
Oscar swallowed hard, his own length twitching, voice low and shaky. “No, he’s not. ‘My rules’? He’s gonna own us—and Ollie—next race.”
They stared at each other across the table, breakfast forgotten, the café buzzing around them oblivious to the storm brewing in their laps. Charles had upped the ante, and the showers at the next race loomed like a battlefield—steamy, filthy, and theirs to conquer, or be conquered.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 13
The days before the Spanish Grand Prix had blurred into a frenzy of anticipation, the “Paddock Shenanigans” WhatsApp group silent but looming over Lando and Oscar like a storm cloud. Sunday’s race delivered a podium—Charles in first, Oscar second, Lando third—Max sidelined by a rare breakdown. The ceremonies dragged, champagne spraying, cameras flashing, but the McLaren boys’ minds were already in the showers, Charles’ velvet promise from the chat echoing in their heads: “My rules.”
Most drivers had cleared out by the time the trio reached the steamy shower block, their footsteps echoing in the tiled corridor. They bumped into George Russell on his way out, towel low, smirking as he smacked Charles’ ass. “Go easy on them,” he called, chuckling as he strutted off, leaving the air crackling with expectation.
Charles pushed the shower door open, his grin wicked. “After you,” he purred, peeling off his race suit to reveal his tanned, sculpted frame. His thick, eight-inch cock hung heavy, already half-hard, swaying as he stepped under the spray. Lando and Oscar followed, shedding their suits, their cocks stirring—Lando’s six inches thickening, Oscar’s curved seven twitching—as water cascaded over their skin.
Charles turned, water streaming down his chest, green eyes commanding. “My rules, boys. Touch me first. Prove you can handle it.”
Lando moved, hands sliding up Charles’ wet abs, fingers trembling as they traced the ridges. Oscar stepped closer, palms cupping Charles’ pecs, thumbs brushing his nipples. Charles groaned, his cock hardening fully, the plump head flushing pink, precum beading at the tip. Lando’s hand wrapped around the shaft, thick and pulsing, stroking slow, while Oscar sank to his knees, licking the head before sucking it in, lips stretching wide.
“Fuck, yes,” Charles hissed, one hand gripping Oscar’s hair, the other on Lando’s shoulder as they worked him. Lando’s free hand found Oscar’s cock, pumping the curved length, his own throbbing untouched, leaking against his thigh. The steam swirled, their gasps and wet slurps bouncing off the tiles, the heat building fast.
Just as Charles grabbed Lando’s wrist, guiding him faster, the shower door banged open. All three froze, heads whipping toward the sound. Ollie Bearman stood there, race suit half-off, his lean frame glistening with sweat, a cocky grin splitting his face. His eyes raked over them—Charles mid-groan, Lando stroking, Oscar on his knees—and he laughed, low and brash. “Started without me, huh?”
Charles’ smirk didn’t falter. “You’re late, kid. Catch up.”
Ollie didn’t hesitate, kicking off his suit to reveal his body—lithe, toned, a smattering of dark hair trailing down his abs. His cock sprang free, seven inches, straight and thick, already hard from whatever he’d been imagining on the way. He stepped under the spray, water slicking his skin, and grabbed Charles’ free hand, guiding it to his shaft. “Thought you’d want a taste of this after my video,” he teased, voice dripping with bravado.
Charles chuckled, dark and approving, his fingers wrapping around Ollie’s cock, stroking with the same commanding rhythm Lando mirrored on him. “Bold move,” he said, eyes glinting. “Let’s see if you can back it up.”
Lando’s breath hitched, his own cock twitching as he watched Charles handle Ollie, the sight pushing him closer to the edge. Oscar pulled off Charles with a wet pop, glancing up at Ollie, then at Lando, a wicked spark in his eyes. “Room for one more,” he rasped, shifting to take Ollie’s cock in his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue swirling over the flushed head.
“Fuck,” Ollie groaned, hips bucking, his hand fisting Oscar’s hair as the McLaren driver worked him. Charles spun Lando around, pressing him against the wall, slicking his cock with spit and water before thrusting in—deep, relentless, stretching Lando’s tight heat. Lando moaned, loud and broken, his cock jerking as Charles pounded him, the tiles cool against his chest.
The shower became a tangle of bodies and steam—Charles fucking Lando, Oscar sucking Ollie, hands roaming, cocks pulsing. Lando’s fingers gripped the wall, his release building fast, while Ollie’s bravado cracked, his moans pitching higher as Oscar hollowed his cheeks. Charles controlled it all, his thrusts syncing with his strokes on Ollie, his voice a low growl. “Cum for me, all of you.”
Lando broke first, a guttural cry echoing as he spilled, thick ropes shooting across the tiles, some splashing Oscar’s shoulder, hot and messy under the water. Oscar pulled off Ollie, stroking himself as he came, long spurts hitting Lando’s thigh and the floor, his curved cock twitching with every pulse. Ollie followed, his cock erupting in Charles’ grip—massive, creamy shots arcing high, one splattering Charles’ abs, another streaking Lando’s hip, the rest pooling at their feet.
Charles finished with a growl, pulling out of Lando to stroke himself, his eight-inch length unleashing a torrent. The first blast coated Lando’s ass, thick and warm, dripping down his legs; the second hit Oscar’s chest, clinging before rinsing away; a final spurt caught Ollie’s thigh, marking him too. The shower washed it all clean, leaving them panting, spent, water streaming over their trembling bodies.
Charles stepped back, rinsing off, his smirk triumphant. “Not bad, gents. Ollie, you’ve got potential.” He grabbed a towel, tossing one to each of them. “Next race, we raise the stakes.”
Lando and Oscar slumped against the wall, cocks soft, staring at Ollie, who grinned like he’d won the lottery. “Told you I’d keep up,” he quipped, toweling off.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Lando rasped, a dazed laugh escaping. “We’re in over our heads.”
Oscar nodded, wiping cum-streaked water from his chest. “Yeah. And I’m not even mad about it.”
The shower hissed around them, the tension easing into a shared, reckless thrill. Charles had ruled, Ollie had crashed in, and the game was now a full-on war—wet, wild, and far from over.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 14
Ollie Bearman strutted toward the shower door, towel slung low around his hips, his lean frame still flushed from the chaos he’d crashed into. Just before stepping out, he turned back to Lando and Oscar, his grin wide and wicked. “Keep your phones close by,” he said, throwing that childish, exaggerated wave again—big and goofy, a taunt wrapped in innocence—before disappearing into the corridor, leaving the steamy air buzzing in his wake.
Lando slid down the shower wall, collapsing onto the wet tiles, the hot water pounding his back. His legs splayed out, his thick, six-inch cock soft and spent against his thigh, his body wrecked from Charles’ relentless thrusts. “Osc, my ass is wrecked,” he groaned, voice hoarse, head tipping back against the wall.
Oscar stood under the spray, water streaming over his broad shoulders, his curved seven-inch length dangling, still faintly flushed. His eyes burned with lingering lust as he looked at Lando, a dazed grin tugging at his lips. “Honest to God, Lando, that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Better than any porn I’ve ever watched. How the fuck did you handle that?”
Lando shook his head, water dripping from his curls, a weak laugh escaping. “Fuck knows,” he rasped, the memory of Charles’ thick cock stretching him, Ollie’s cum splattering across them, and Oscar’s mouth on him flashing through his mind. “Just… hung on for the ride, I guess.”
They lingered, catching their breath, the shower washing away the evidence but not the heat still simmering between them. Eventually, they toweled off, dressed in fresh clothes—Lando in a tight black shirt and jeans, Oscar in a gray hoodie and track pants—and headed for the after-party, legs still shaky, minds reeling.
The Spanish Grand Prix after-party was in full swing by the time they arrived, the sleek Barcelona venue pulsing with music, clinking glasses, and the buzz of a victorious night. Their late entrance was becoming a pattern, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed—pit crew whispers and sidelong glances followed them as they wove through the crowd, trying to play it cool.
George Russell spotted them first, leaning against the bar, all lanky elegance in a navy blazer, a gin and tonic in hand. His blue eyes twinkled with mischief as he sauntered over, a smirk playing on his lips. “Well, well, the McLaren boys finally grace us,” he drawled, loud enough to turn heads. “What kept you this time? Another shower delay?”
Lando’s face flushed, his grin faltering. “Piss off, George,” he muttered, grabbing a beer from a passing tray, but George wasn’t done.
“Oh, come now,” George teased, leaning closer to Oscar, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You two looked like you’d run a marathon when you got here. Charles give you a proper workout, did he?” He clapped Oscar on the shoulder, laughing as Oscar choked on his first sip of lager.
Ollie appeared next, bouncing into the fray like a kid on a sugar high, his dark hair still damp, a cocktail in hand. “Oi, lads!” he called, jabbing a finger at them. “You recover yet? Thought I’d have to call a medic after that shower show!” He mimicked his blowjob gesture from the jet stairs, cackling as Lando groaned and Oscar buried his face in his hand.
“Keep it down, you little shit,” Lando hissed, but Ollie just grinned wider, unrelenting.
“Aw, don’t be shy,” Ollie jabbed, dodging Lando’s half-hearted swipe. “You loved it—both of you. Bet you’re still hard just thinking about it.” He winked, sipping his drink, his jests sharp but playful, keeping them on edge.
Through it all, Charles Leclerc hovered on the periphery, aloof and untouchable, the picture of control. He leaned against a high-top table, a glass of champagne in hand, his tailored blazer hugging his frame, those tight jeans from the jet photo still etched in everyone’s minds. His green eyes flicked over the scene—George’s teasing, Ollie’s jabs, Lando and Oscar squirming—but he said nothing, just sipped his drink, that infuriating smirk curling his lips. Every so often, he’d catch their gaze, a silent promise in his stare, and their cocks twitched traitorously despite the exhaustion.
George circled back, undeterred, slinging an arm around Lando’s shoulders. “So, Charles,” he called, loud enough to draw the Ferrari driver’s attention, “you gonna let these two off easy next time, or is it full domination again?” He winked at Lando, who elbowed him off, face burning.
Charles finally spoke, voice smooth as silk, cutting through the noise. “They handled it well enough,” he said, eyes locking on Lando and Oscar, then sliding to Ollie. “But the kid’s got some catching up to do. We’ll see who’s ready for more.” He raised his glass, a toast to no one in particular, his control unshaken, leaving them all dangling on his thread.
Ollie snorted, unfazed. “I’ll keep up, boss. Just wait—my phone’s got more tricks.” He waved it playfully, dodging Oscar’s glare.
Lando leaned into Oscar as George drifted off to harass someone else, muttering, “This is a bloody circus, mate.”
Oscar smirked, sipping his beer, lust and dread warring in his chest. “Yeah, and Charles is the ringmaster. We’re fucked.”
The party thrummed around them—George’s teasing, Ollie’s jabs, Charles’ aloof reign—but their phones stayed silent in their pockets, a quiet threat humming beneath the chaos, promising the next race would be anything but tame.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 15
The Spanish Grand Prix after-party pulsed with energy, the Barcelona venue a swirl of neon lights, thumping bass, and clinking glasses. Lando and Oscar had rolled in late—again—drawing curious glances from the crowd, their disheveled hair and flushed cheeks betraying more than just race-day adrenaline. They grabbed drinks and tried to blend in, but the night had other plans.
George Russell was relentless, orbiting them like a shark with a gin and tonic in hand, his navy blazer unbuttoned just enough to show off his lean frame. His teasing had started sharp but playful— “Another shower delay, lads?”—but as the drinks flowed, it morphed into something bolder, hotter. He sidled up to Lando, towering over him, his blue eyes glinting as he leaned in close. “You’ve got that glow, mate,” he purred, voice low and suggestive, brushing a finger along Lando’s jaw. “Charles must’ve worked you hard.”
Lando’s beer nearly slipped from his grip, his face burning, cock twitching in his jeans despite himself. “Fuck off, George,” he muttered, but his grin was shaky, his body leaning into the touch before he caught himself.
George didn’t back off, turning to Oscar next, his smirk widening. “And you, Osc—those knees still sore? Bet you looked gorgeous down there.” He trailed a hand down Oscar’s arm, lingering at the wrist, his tone dripping with flirtation. Oscar’s lager sloshed as he jolted, lust flaring in his eyes, his curved seven-inch length stirring traitorously under his track pants.
“Jesus, George,” Oscar rasped, voice cracking, but he didn’t pull away, caught between confusion and a reckless heat blooming in his gut.
Ollie Bearman darted in and out of their orbit, a cocktail in one hand, mischief in the other. “Oi, lovebirds!” he called, jabbing at them. “George stealing you from Charles already? Sloppy seconds, mate!” He cackled, dodging Lando’s swat, then mimicked his blowjob gesture again, tongue poking his cheek. “You two were screaming for it in there—don’t pretend!”
“Shut it, you little prick,” Lando shot back, but his laugh was strained, his mind replaying Ollie’s cum shot splattering across them, his cock hardening further. Oscar groaned, sipping his beer, the memory of Charles’ thick shaft and Ollie’s bold entry stoking the fire George’s flirting had lit.
Through the haze, they noticed something odd—Charles Leclerc was gone. The aloof king of the night, who’d ruled the showers and sipped champagne with that infuriating smirk, had vanished early. Lando squinted through the crowd, nudging Oscar. “Where’s Charles? He was just here.”
Oscar scanned the room, frowning. “Dunno. And… wait, where’s Max? He was sulking by the bar earlier.” Their eyes met, a spark of curiosity cutting through the booze and lust—Charles and Max, missing together? Suspicion gnawed at them, a mission forming: find out what the hell was going on.
But George and Ollie were a relentless distraction. George pressed closer, his breath hot against Lando’s ear. “Forget Charles—stay here, let me show you a good time.” His hand slid to Lando’s hip, squeezing lightly, and Lando’s resolve wobbled, his thick six-inch cock straining painfully now. Oscar wasn’t faring better, George’s other hand brushing his thigh, whispering, “You’re too pretty to chase shadows, Osc.”
Ollie darted back, grinning. “Yeah, stay and play, boys! Or you scared I’ll outdo you again?” He waved his phone tauntingly, hinting at more chaos to come.
The night blurred—drinks, flirting, jests—until 2 a.m. rolled around, the party thinning out. Lando and Oscar stumbled from the venue, buzzed and horny, their mission to track Charles and Max drowned in booze and George’s relentless charm. With the next race two weeks away, their flight back to London wasn’t until Tuesday, so they staggered to their hotel, parting ways in the corridor with a sloppy high-five.
Lando shoved his room door shut and slid down it, just like in the shower, his ass still tender from Charles’ pounding, his head spinning. Across the hall, Oscar flopped face-first onto his bed, hoodie rucked up, the burn in his knees a faint echo of the shower frenzy. As if on cue—beep beep—their phones chimed the second their doors clicked closed, like someone was watching.
Lando fumbled his phone from his pocket, heart thudding. Oscar rolled over, grabbing his from the nightstand. The screens glowed: a message from Ollie in the “Paddock Shenanigans” chat. A link to a folder. They tapped it, breath held, and there it was—a file named “Spain Showers.”
Lando’s jaw dropped, his cock twitching despite the exhaustion. “Fuck, Osc,” he muttered to the empty room, thumb hovering over the file. Oscar sat up, staring at his screen, lust and dread warring in his chest. “He didn’t…”
They hadn’t opened it yet, but they knew—Ollie had captured the shower chaos, and whatever was in that file would blow their world wide open. The night stretched ahead, their phones heavy with promise, the after-party’s heat still simmering in their veins.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 16
Oscar shot up from his bed, the adrenaline hitting like a freight train. He bolted out of his room, barefoot and wild-eyed, sprinting down the hotel corridor to Lando’s door. He pounded on it frantically, fists hammering, not giving a damn if the whole floor heard. “Lando! Open up!” he shouted, voice raw with panic.
Lando, still slumped against the inside of his door, jolted upright, his tender ass protesting as he scrambled to twist the handle. The door flew open, Oscar barreling in just as—beep beep—their phones chimed in unison again, a sound that felt like a gunshot in the quiet night.
“What the fuck?” they blurted simultaneously, eyes wide, breaths shallow.
Oscar fumbled his phone, tapping the “Paddock Shenanigans” chat first. The message from Ollie Bearman loaded, and his face drained of color. He hurled his phone across the room with a yell, the device skidding under the dresser. “That fucker’s watching us, isn’t he?” he shouted, panic thick in his throat. “But how?” he whined, hands raking through his damp blond hair.
Lando opened the same message on his own phone, heart pounding so hard he felt it in his ears. Ollie’s words stared back: “So you’re going to watch it together, smart move.” His head spun, the room tilting as the implications sank in. He looked up at Oscar, who was pacing like a caged animal, and his voice came out quaky, unsteady. “Osc, am I dreaming? Is this real, or am I still asleep in Monaco?”
Oscar stopped dead, spinning to face him, frustration flashing in his eyes. “Are you tripping, Lands? Seriously?” he snapped, voice sharp but trembling beneath the bravado.
They locked eyes, the absurdity and terror of it all hanging heavy. “Fuck it,” Lando muttered, thumbing open the folder link from Ollie’s earlier message. Oscar crowded in, their shoulders pressed tight as the file—“Spain Showers”—loaded. The video started, crisp and high-definition, plunging them right back into the Spanish team showers. It was edited to kick off the moment Charles, Lando, and Oscar had entered—no preamble, just raw action. Charles stripping, his thick eight-inch cock swaying; Lando’s hands on him, Oscar’s mouth sinking down; Ollie bursting in, his seven-inch shaft erupting in Charles’ grip. Every thrust, every moan, every cum shot—Lando’s ropes on the tiles, Oscar’s on his thigh, Ollie’s across Charles’ abs, Charles’ painting them all—caught in stunning detail.
The video ended, and they sat in stunned silence, the shower’s hiss still ringing in their ears. Oscar broke it first, a dazed grin tugging at his lips. “Fair play, he’s got a seriously good hidden camera.”
Lando whipped his head around, irritation flaring through the booze-soaked haze. “Is that what you’re taking away from this?” he snapped, voice rising. “Osc, we’re fucked if this gets out!”
Oscar’s grin faded, reality crashing in. They slumped against the door together, shoulder to shoulder, too drunk and shell-shocked to think straight. Lando’s head lolled back, his whisper barely audible. “If this ever gets out…” He let it hang, the unspoken weight crushing them both—careers torched, reputations shredded, the paddock a circus of scandal.
Oscar exhaled shakily, scrubbing his face. “We’re too pissed to deal with this now. I’m crashing.” He pushed off the door, swaying slightly, and glanced at Lando. “See you tomorrow, yeah?”
Lando nodded, still slumped, watching as Oscar slipped out, sneaking back down the corridor to his own room. The hall was mercifully empty, no prying eyes to catch his retreat. He shoved his door open and flopped face-first onto his bed, hoodie rucked up, the mattress swallowing him whole. His mind was a blurry, complicated mess—Charles’ commanding thrusts, Ollie’s brazen cum shot, George’s flirty hands, that video now burned into his brain. Lust, panic, and exhaustion tangled together, pulling him under as he passed out, sprawled and spent.
Back in Lando’s room, he’d barely shifted from the door when—beep—his phone chimed again. Across the hall, Oscar’s buzzed too, jolting him half-awake. The “Paddock Shenanigans” chat lit up: a new message from Charles Leclerc. Lando squinted at his screen, Oscar groaned into his pillow, both reading the same velvet-smooth taunt:
“Good night, gents. Hope you didn’t miss me too much at the after-party. Had some business to take care of.”
Lando’s cock twitched despite himself, his mind flashing to Charles and Max vanishing together—was that the “business”? Oscar buried his face deeper, a muffled curse escaping as the same thought hit him. Charles was still in control, always one step ahead, leaving them dangling in his wake. The night settled, phones silent but heavy with threat, the two-week break stretching ahead—plenty of time for the next move in this filthy, reckless game.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 17
The chaos of the night before—Ollie’s video, Charles’ taunt—had left Lando and Oscar drained, and despite the storm in their heads, exhaustion won out. They crashed hard, sleeping through blaring alarms, lost in a deep, dreamless void until frantic banging on their hotel doors jolted them awake. Lando stumbled from his bed, groggy and disoriented, his skimpy briefs clinging to his hips, the faint ache in his ass a reminder of the shower frenzy. He fumbled with the lock, heart thudding, and his manager burst in the second it clicked open.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, the video’s leaked,” was all Lando could think, his stomach plummeting as he stood rooted to the floor, wide awake now, panic surging. “I can explain,” he blurted, voice cracking, bracing for the end of everything.
His manager squinted at him, quizzical. “What? Explain what?” Before he could stammer out more, she launched into a tirade, hands flying. “Where’s your phone? There must be 500 missed calls and messages! This is big!”
Lando’s heart sank further, the room spinning, his world crumbling in real-time. He barely registered her words, the roar in his ears drowning her out—until one phrase cut through: “Max was rushed to hospital last night, ruptured appendix.” His head snapped up, blinking dumbly. “What? What?” he croaked, grasping at straws.
“So it’s not the video?” he mumbled, dazed, as she barked, “What video?” and lunged for the remote, flicking on the TV. The news anchor’s voice filled the room: “World champion Max Verstappen was rushed to a Barcelona hospital last night with a ruptured appendix. Charles Leclerc looks like he has the championship in the bag.”
Lando’s mind raced, the pieces clicking—Charles’ message last night: “Had some business to take care of.” Not the video, not them, but Max. Relief flooded him, then suspicion, his legs wobbling as he sank onto the bed.
Across the hall, a mirror scene unfolded in Oscar’s room—his manager pounding the door, him staggering up in boxers, the same panic-then-relief rollercoaster as the Max news hit. Both boys were desperate to talk, to untangle the mess, but their managers were unrelenting. “Team’s heading back to London in two hours. Get ready. Don’t be late,” Lando’s barked, tossing his phone at him before storming out, leaving him alone, breathless.
He scrambled for it, hands shaking, but the “Paddock Shenanigans” chat was silent—no Ollie, no Charles, just eerie quiet. Too rattled to leave his room, he dialed Oscar, who picked up on the first ring. “Lands, what the fuck!” Oscar’s voice was a lifeline, raw and frantic.
“Max—hospital—Charles’ message,” Lando stammered, pacing now. “It’s not the video, Osc. We’re clear—for now.”
Oscar exhaled hard, audible over the line. “Fuck, I thought we were done. But Charles… what’s he playing at?”
“Dunno, mate,” Lando said, voice low. “We need to talk proper. London?”
“Thursday,” Oscar agreed. “Quiet spot. That pub in Chelsea.”
The trip back was a blur—two hours later, they were on the McLaren jet, seated apart, surrounded by crew, unable to speak freely. Lando slouched by a window, hoodie up, staring at clouds, his mind replaying Charles’ smirk, Ollie’s camera, Max’s collapse. Oscar sat rigid, scrolling his dead-quiet phone, the same loop tormenting him. They landed in London Tuesday afternoon, parting with a tense nod, the weight of unspoken theories hanging between them.
Thursday evening, they met at a quiet pub in Chelsea, a dimly lit corner booth shielding them from prying eyes. Lando arrived first, nursing a pint, his black jacket zipped high, curls tucked under a cap. Oscar slid in across from him, gray hoodie low, a lager in hand, his broad frame tense. The pub hummed softly—locals chatting, glasses clinking—but their bubble was all nerves and heat.
“Right,” Lando started, voice hushed, leaning in. “Charles’ message—‘business to take care of.’ Max goes down the same night. Coincidence?”
Oscar sipped his beer, eyes narrowing. “No way. He was at the party, then gone—Max too. You think Charles… what, planned this?”
Lando’s fingers tapped the table, restless. “Dunno. Sounds mad, but he’s always in control—shower, chat, everything. Maybe he knew Max was off, waited him out. ‘Business’ could mean securing the title.”
Oscar nodded, slow, his mind flicking to the shower—Charles’ thick cock, his commands. “Or he’s just fucking with us again. That video’s still out there, Lands. Ollie’s got it, and Charles knows. They’re dangling it over us.”
Lando groaned, shifting, his jeans tight from the memory alone. “Yeah, and George flirting, Ollie jabbing—felt like a bloody setup. Charles vanishes, Max’s appendix bursts, and we’re left paranoid and horny.”
Oscar smirked, dark and wry, sipping again. “Horny’s right. I can’t stop thinking about it—Charles owning us, Ollie crashing in. That video’s HD, mate. If it drops…”
Lando’s pint paused mid-air, his voice dropping lower. “We’re toast. But Charles—he’s too smart to let it leak, right? He’d use it, not burn it.”
Oscar leaned closer, their knees brushing under the table, heat simmering despite the dread. “Maybe. Or he’s got bigger plays—Max out, title locked, us on a leash. ‘Business’ could be all of it.”
They sat in silence, beers half-drunk, the pub’s cozy hum a stark contrast to the storm in their heads. Lando’s hazel eyes met Oscar’s, a shared spark of lust and fear. “What now?” he whispered.
Oscar’s grin was shaky but game. “Keep our phones close. Wait for the next beep. And maybe… practice for the showers.”
Lando laughed, low and ragged, the tension easing just enough. The two-week break stretched ahead—quiet for now, but Charles’ shadow loomed, and Ollie’s video lurked, a fuse ready to light.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Lando’s mood lifted at Oscar’s cheeky jab about shower practice, a grin tugging at his lips. “I like the sound of that,” he said, leaning closer across the pub table, voice low and eager. “Feel like a training session now—back at my place?” Oscar’s eyes glinted, a reply forming, but before he could speak—*beep*—Lando’s phone chimed alone, breaking the synced rhythm they’d grown to dread.

Lando glanced down, heart skipping as he saw the sender: *1 unread message from George Russell*. He kept it from Oscar, thumbing it open quick: *“Meet me at The Ritz in an hour. Come alone, leave your play toy Oscar at home.”* His pulse raced, George’s flirty edge from Spain flashing in his mind. He looked up at Oscar, forcing a casual tone. “Ah, shit, something’s come up. Gotta postpone our training session.”

Disappointment flickered across Oscar’s face, concern softening it. “Everything okay, mate?”

“Yeah, just some family stuff I need to take care of,” Lando lied, the words bitter on his tongue. They said their goodbyes, promising a weekend catch-up for that “practice,” and parted outside the Chelsea pub. Lando lingered, mumbling to himself, “The Ritz—how typically pretentious of George,” as he flagged a cab.

One pulled up, the driver instantly clocking him. “Aren’t you Lando Norris?” the man asked, grinning. “Yeah, mate,” Lando replied, masking his frustration. “I’ll get you there fast, but I can’t promise F1 speeds,” the driver chuckled, and Lando forced an awkward laugh, settling in for the ride.

Soon, he strode into The Ritz’s opulent lobby, the concierge greeting him with a polished, “Ah, Mr. Norris, welcome. Mr. Russell is waiting in The Rivoli Bar.” Lando sighed under his breath—“Could George be any more stereotypical?”—as he was ushered through to the bar. There sat George, pristine in his trademark blue blazer, lounging at the end of the counter like he owned the place. He stood as Lando approached, his smirk sharp. “On time, that makes a pleasant change. Suppose you don’t have your boy toy distracting you, though.” The jest landed more condescending than playful.

Lando ignored it, sliding onto a barstool. The bartender sauntered over. “What can I get you, Mr. Norris?” “A lager,” Lando said, but George hissed in disapproval. “Come on, Lando, this isn’t some high street pub—keep it classy. He’ll have a double gin and tonic,” he purred at the bartender, overriding Lando with ease.

Lando sat back, scraping the back of his neck, tension coiling. “Okay, why’ve you brought me here?” he finally asked, voice edged with impatience.

George raised a brow, feigning offense. “No formalities, just straight in? Where are your manners?” Another jab, cloaked as a joke but biting all the same. Lando stared, unyielding, and George held his gaze, a pro at awkward silences. Lando squirmed, his resolve cracking, until George relented, leaning in close. “You’ve heard about Max’s little mishap in Spain, no doubt. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

Lando’s full attention snapped to him, heart thudding. “Coincidence?” he stammered. “How so? What do you mean?”

George’s voice dropped, a purring contrast to Charles’ velvet, but it still sent a tingle straight to Lando’s crotch. “Oh, you know… how our wonder boy Charles is almost certainly winning the title this year, all of a sudden…” He trailed off, sipping his drink, watching Lando over the rim.

Lando said nothing, downing half his gin and tonic in one gulp, the burn sharpening his senses. George’s smirk widened. “Drink up, boyo. Let’s take this chat private—up in my room.”

Lando’s heart skipped again, pulse racing. Alone with George after all that flirting in Spain? *This only means one thing,* he thought, a thrill cutting through the nerves. “I’m down for it,” he whispered to himself, too quiet to catch. “What was that?” George asked, tilting his head. “Nothing,” Lando stammered, flushing.

George stood, gesturing toward the lift with a lazy, commanding flick of his hand. “Come on, then.” Lando followed, the gin buzzing in his veins, cock already stirring as they rode up in silence, George’s presence looming tall and assured beside him.

In George’s suite—plush, all gold accents and velvet—George didn’t waste time. He shrugged off his blazer, revealing a crisp white shirt stretched tight over his lean frame, and stepped close, crowding Lando against the wall. “You want answers about Charles and Max?” he murmured, breath hot against Lando’s ear, one hand sliding to his hip. “Earn ‘em first.”

Lando’s breath hitched, arousal overriding reason. “Fuck, alright,” he rasped, relenting as George’s lips crashed into his, hard and demanding. The kiss was all teeth and tongue, George dominating from the jump, pinning Lando with his body. He yanked Lando’s jacket off, tossing it aside, then tore at his shirt, buttons popping as he shoved it down his arms.

“On your knees,” George growled, voice dripping with authority, unbuttoning his own trousers. Lando dropped, eager despite the gin-fueled haze, his hands fumbling to free George’s cock—long, maybe eight inches, slim but veiny, the head flushed and leaking. He sucked it down, lips stretching, moaning around it as George gripped his curls, thrusting deep, controlling the pace.

“Fuck, you’re good at this,” George groaned, hips snapping, Lando gagging but taking it, his own cock straining in his jeans. George pulled him up, spinning him to face the bed, and shoved him down onto all fours. He tugged Lando’s jeans and briefs off in one go, exposing his ass—still tender from Charles—and slicked himself with lube from the nightstand.

Lando gasped as George pushed in, relentless and deep, filling him with every inch. “Take it,” George snarled, one hand gripping Lando’s hip, the other pressing his head into the mattress. He pounded hard, the bed creaking, Lando’s moans muffled as his cock leaked onto the sheets, the domination igniting every nerve.

George flipped him onto his back, hoisting Lando’s legs over his shoulders, thrusting even deeper, his blue eyes locked on Lando’s flushed face. “Cum for me,” he ordered, stroking Lando’s thick six-inch cock in time with his thrusts. Lando broke, crying out as he spilled—thick ropes splattering his chest, some hitting George’s abs, hot and messy. George followed, pulling out to cum across Lando’s stomach, long spurts painting his skin, marking him as he panted through the high.

They collapsed, sweaty and spent, George rolling off with a satisfied smirk. “Not bad, Norris,” he said, catching his breath. “Now—about Max and Charles…”

Lando lay there, cum-streaked and dazed, the gin and sex blurring his edges, knowing George would talk now—but at what cost to his already tangled mess?

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

Me: "Lando, don't go. Don't go, Lando. Don't do it, don't do it, don... Crap."

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 19
Lando lay sprawled on the bed, chest still sticky with cum, his thick six-inch cock soft against his thigh, while George lounged beside him, his long, slim eight-inch length twitching faintly from the pounding he’d just delivered. George’s arms were folded behind his head, his lean frame stretched out shamelessly, and he glanced at Lando with a lazy smirk. “Caviar and champagne, don’t you think? I always get peckish after a good pounding.” He rolled over, reaching for the room service phone, dialing with a casual purr despite the clock ticking toward midnight.

Lando’s mind raced, desperate to pry out what George knew about Charles and Max. “George, come on, what’s the deal with—” he started, but George cut him off with a raised hand.

“We’re in no state for that chat now,” George said, voice smooth but firm. “First we snack, then we shower, then we chat… maybe.” The *maybe* hung in the air like a whispered taunt, leaving Lando’s stomach twisting with anticipation and frustration.

The thirty minutes until room service arrived dragged like hours, Lando’s nerves fraying as he lay there, cum drying on his skin, questions burning his tongue. A gentle knock finally came, and George purred, “Enter,” not bothering to cover up, his cock still out and proud. Lando scrambled under the plush duvet, yanking it to his chin as the waiter stepped in—a young guy with calm familiarity in his nod to George and a polite, “Mr. Norris,” to Lando.

Visions of tabloid headlines flashed through Lando’s mind: *“Lando Norris Cozies Up to George Russell for a Night of Passion at The Ritz.”* He could see the scandal—paparazzi, blackmail, his career in flames. *How do I keep landing in these fucking situations?* he thought, pulse racing, the shower video and now this piling up like a house of cards ready to collapse.

George strutted to the tray, popping the champagne cork with a sharp *crack*. “Been too long since I’ve done that on the podium,” he said, chuckling as he glanced at Lando. “Our golden boy Charles seems to be taking all that glory.” The mention of Charles snapped Lando upright, duvet slipping to his waist, hope flaring that George might finally talk.

But George just grinned, pouring two flutes. “Come on, help yourself.” He spooned caviar onto a cracker, popping it into his mouth with relish. Lando, more a burger-and-chips guy, wrinkled his nose at the fishy smell and skipped it, gulping down a glass of champagne instead, the bubbles sharp against his throat.

“Let’s get cleaned up,” George said, setting his glass down. “The showers here are glorious—not like those nasty paddock showers.” He shot Lando a knowing glare, and Lando’s face flushed, the memory of Charles’ thick cock and Ollie’s cum shot surging back.

They headed to the ensuite together, the massive shower a marble oasis with rainfall heads. It reminded Lando of that Monaco morning with Oscar—soap-slicked hands, hard cocks, the start of this whole mess. George stepped in first, water cascading over his lean frame, and started scrubbing, teasing Lando with slow, deliberate strokes of his long, slim cock. He pulled the foreskin back, revealing the plump, flushed head, still glistening from their earlier round. Lando’s ass puckered, a visceral memory of where it had been, and his own cock betrayed him, filling with blood, the foreskin retracting slightly to expose the sensitive tip.

“No! No repeat performance,” Lando scolded himself silently, though his thickening shaft disagreed. “George owes me answers.” Before temptation won, he jumped out, snagging a fluffy white robe from the door and wrapping it tight, padding back to the room. George followed shortly, opting to stay naked, his glistening body a taunt as he sauntered over.

“So, Lands, what do you want to know?” George finally purred, settling onto the bed, one leg bent, cock resting casually against his thigh.

Lando’s questions poured out, a stammering flood he’d been bottling all night. “What’s with Charles and Max? Was it planned? The appendix thing—did Charles know? What’s his game? Is he behind—” He tripped over his words, breathless.

George raised a hand, slowing him with a soft, condescending laugh. “One at a time, my guy. You’re all over the place.”

Lando took a shaky breath, starting again. “Okay—Max’s appendix. Coincidence, or did Charles have something to do with it?”

George tilted his head, smirking faintly. “Funny timing, isn’t it? Max goes down, Charles soars. Could be luck… or could be someone’s got a knack for seizing opportunities.”

Lando frowned, pressing. “So you think Charles planned it? Got Max out of the way?”

George shrugged, maddeningly vague. “I think Charles is clever—always has been. He’s got a way of making things fall into place. Whether he *made* it happen or just rode the wave, who’s to say?”

“What about the party?” Lando pushed, voice rising. “He left early—said he had ‘business.’ Was that Max?”

George sipped his champagne, eyes glinting. “Maybe he was playing nurse. Or maybe he was just… elsewhere. Charles likes his secrets, doesn’t he?”

Lando’s frustration spiked, his cock still half-hard under the robe from the shower tease. “Come on, George, give me something solid. What’s he up to?”

George leaned closer, voice dropping to that purring drawl. “He’s winning, Lands—on the track, off the track. Always in control. You’ve felt it, haven’t you? In those showers?” He smirked, letting the question linger, offering nothing concrete.

Lando groaned, flopping back against the headboard, the champagne glass trembling in his hand. “You’re useless,” he muttered, but George just chuckled, stretching out beside him, naked and unperturbed.

“Patience, boyo,” George said, his tone a purring tease. “You’ll figure it out—or Charles’ll show you. He always does.”

The room settled into a tense quiet, Lando’s head spinning with half-answers and pent-up heat, George’s vague games leaving him strung out and craving more—answers, or otherwise.