F1 Paddock Shenanigans

[jayson_steyn]

The early hours of the morning hung heavy in George’s suite at The Ritz, but Lando wasn’t getting the answers he’d chased all night—just George’s vague taunts and that maddening purr. Fed up, he decided to head home, climbing out of bed with a grunt, the robe slipping as he searched for his scattered clothes. George stretched languidly, naked and smug, his long, slim cock soft against his thigh. “Leaving already?” he purred, disapproval dripping from his tone. “No repeat performance?” He sniggered, shaking his cock teasingly at Lando, the head flopping with a taunt that hit Lando square in the gut.
Lando stared, biting his bottom lip hard, lust flaring as he remembered George’s relentless pounding. But sense ruled over desire for once, and he resisted, yanking on his jeans and jacket. “This isn’t done with you yet,” George called after him, a whispered promise as Lando bolted for the door.
Outside, the chilly London air stung his face, a sharp echo of the ache in his ass from George’s earlier dominance. He flagged a cab, sliding in with a sigh, and the driver’s grin lit up the dark. “Hey, are you Lando Norris?” came the inevitable line, followed by a lame F1 joke: “Bet I can’t corner like you, eh?” Lando mumbled, “Thank God for media training,” forcing a smile as the cab rolled toward his apartment.
Back home, alone for the first time in what felt like forever, the quiet unnerved him. The chaos—Charles, Ollie, George, the video—had been constant, and now the silence pressed in, amplifying his racing thoughts. He grabbed his phone, fingers trembling as he typed: “Osc, are you awake?” The reply was instant: “Yeah, Lands, what’s up?”
Lando hesitated, then typed, “I need to tell you something, but promise you won’t be mad.” Oscar’s response came fast: “Of course, anything. Are you okay?” Lando spilled it all—a rushed message detailing his night with George, the flirting-turned-fucking, ending with a desperate “IM SORRY” in caps. He hit send, heart sinking as the seconds stretched with no reply. Had he fucked up with Oscar? Was this Charles’ game all along—driving a wedge between the McLaren golden boys?
But then—beep—a deep sigh of relief escaped him as his phone lit up. He opened Oscar’s message, and a video started playing: unmistakably Oscar’s curved seven-inch cock, firing off a massive load—thick, white ropes splattering across his abs, his hand pumping through the high. Below it, a text: “You dirty dog!” Lando giggled, tension melting into a grin, and tossed his phone onto the bed before crashing hard, exhaustion claiming him at last.
Morning crept in, sunlight slicing through his curtains, and Lando stirred, groggy but lighter. Across town, Oscar rolled awake too, both reaching for their phones at the same time. Then—beep beep—the WhatsApp group chimed in unison: “Ollie Bearman has added George Russell to the chat.” Lando’s eyes widened, and with a frustrated yell, he hurled his phone across the room, the device skidding under a chair. Oscar groaned into his pillow, dread coiling anew.
Seconds later, another beep: a message from Ollie loaded with laughing emojis and a sarcastic jab: “Lando, you really can’t keep your hands to yourself, can you?” Lando fished his phone out, staring at the screen, heart pounding, while Oscar sat up, reading the same taunt. The game was spiraling again—George in the mix, Ollie poking the bear, and Charles’ shadow looming silent but ever-present. The two-week break stretched ahead, a minefield of lust and leverage neither could escape.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Lando’s thumb hovered over Oscar’s contact, ready to dial, when—*beep beep*—his phone chimed: *1 unread message from George Russell*. He nearly chucked it across the room again, but curiosity clawed at him, and with a trembling finger, he opened it: *“Charlie boy! You said he was tight but damn! I was not expecting that! Thought he would have stretched out after taking your monster! Have a great day, boy.”* Lando’s face burned red, embarrassment flooding him, his heart pounding, breaths short and ragged. *How has my dick gotten me into so much shit?* he thought, the betrayal of his own lust sinking in.

Just then, his phone rang, shrill and insistent. He jumped, fumbling it to the floor, the device skittering across the hardwood. Scrambling, he missed the call, but it rang again immediately—his manager’s telltale persistence. “It’s leaked,” pounded in his skull, dread choking him. He finally snatched it up, relief crashing over him as Oscar’s name flashed instead. “Osc!” he answered, breathing hard.

“Lands, you had me worried there—are you okay?” Oscar cut in, voice urgent.

“Hanging in there, mate… just,” Lando replied, shaky. “We need to meet ASAP!”

They settled on their trusty breakfast spot in Chelsea, a few hours later. Two McLarens rolled up outside—one black, one electric blue—Lando and Oscar stepping out into a frenzy of paparazzi flashes. They greeted each other with a bro-y hug, cameras snapping like wildfire, before ducking into the café’s relative stillness. Over cappuccinos, Oscar slumped forward, whining, “We need a plan, Lands.”

Frustrated, Lando snapped back, “Well, obviously, but we’re fucked at every turn!”

Right then—*beep beep*—their phones chimed in unison, dread flashing in their eyes. *“1 unread message from Ollie Bearman”* glowed on both screens. Oscar shook his head, muttering, “I can’t believe the fucking balls on this kid,” as he opened it. His phone clattered onto the table in disbelief—a photo of their cars parked side by side outside the café, timestamped *now*. Oscar’s voice rose, barely contained, “He’s here, he’s fucking *right here*!”

As if summoned, Ollie popped up outside the window they sat at, grinning wide and throwing that childish, exaggerated wave. Lando’s cappuccino slipped from his hand, crashing to the floor, coffee splattering, the cup shattering—a perfect metaphor for his life, he thought grimly. The café door swung open, and Ollie strutted in, beaming that cheesy grin. “Mind if I join you boys?” he chirped, plopping into a chair between them. “One large orange juice!” he shouted to no one in particular, then added, “And we’ve had a spillage in aisle seven!” with a cackle.

Lando and Oscar sank back, a mix of embarrassment, fear, and annoyance twisting their guts. “What do you want?” Lando barked, voice sharp, his patience shredded.

Ollie leaned in, elbows on the table, his grin turning sly. “Alright, lads, here’s the deal,” he said, voice dropping low, all jest gone. “You’ve seen what I’ve got—Spain showers, HD glory. I could leak it tomorrow, and poof, your golden boy reps are toast. But I’m generous, so I’ll give you an ultimatum.” He paused, letting it sink in, his eyes flicking between them. “You’ve got until we leave for the Canadian race—two weeks. Either you two play nice and join my little game—my rules, my calls—or I send that video to every journo, team boss, and fan page I can find. Your choice.”

Lando’s jaw clenched, his shattered cup a mirror to his fracturing calm. Oscar’s hands balled into fists, his latte untouched, the weight of Ollie’s words crushing them both. “Play nice?” Oscar rasped, voice tight. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

Ollie smirked, sipping the orange juice a waiter slid over. “Oh, you’ll see. Could involve showers, could involve more. Maybe even Charlie and George fancy a round. But you’ve got ‘til Canada to decide—join me, or crash and burn.” He stood, tossing a wink. “Think it over, boys. Phones close, yeah?” With that, he sauntered out, leaving them reeling in the wreckage of their breakfast.

Lando stared at the coffee pooling on the floor, heart hammering. “We’re so fucked, Osc.”

Oscar nodded, slow and grim. “Yeah. But we’ve got two weeks to figure out how to fuck him back.”

The café buzzed around them, oblivious to the ultimatum now ticking down—Canada looming, Ollie’s game tightening its grip, and the McLaren boys teetering on the edge of surrender or rebellion.

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

Of course, if the video leaks, Charles's and Ollie's careers crash as well.

I was going to suggest they go to the Metropolitan Police, but I suppose police cases become public record ...

 

[jayson_steyn]

The Chelsea café ambush lingered like a bad hangover, and that evening, Lando and Oscar’s phones beeped in sync—Ollie Bearman’s latest salvo in the “Paddock Shenanigans” chat: “Monaco, next weekend. Charlie’s throwing a party—exclusive, drivers only, past and present. I’m setting it up. You two are the entertainment. Be there, play nice, or the Spain shower vid drops to every journo by Monday. Stories’ll keep coming—your dirty laundry, weekly. Tick tock, boys.”
A photo followed: Charles’ Monaco penthouse balcony, the sea shimmering under a sunset, his silhouette leaning casually, shirt unbuttoned, smirking. Lando’s gut twisted, Oscar’s jaw clenched—they were cornered.
The week crawled by, their phones a flurry of texts. Midweek, Oscar typed, “Lands, if he releases the video, we’re not the only ones going down—Charles and Ollie are in it too. They’d sink with us.”
Lando, sprawled on his couch, fired back, “Dream on, Osc. It’d just be us—Charles’d play victim, ‘poor me, caught in McLaren’s mess.’ Ollie’s a rookie, he’d cry innocent, pin it on us. Our faces’d take the hit, not theirs.”
Oscar’s grim “Shit, you’re right” killed their defiance, and by Thursday, they were on a McLaren jet to Monaco, landing in Nice, a sleek car ferrying them to Charles’ glass-walled penthouse. They’d spent days fretting—sex slaves for a room of randy drivers?—their cocks half-hard with dread and reluctant lust.
Saturday night, the lift opened into a scene of sleek excess—low lights, pulsing music, champagne flutes clinking. Charles stood central, white shirt half-open, trousers snug, exuding control. Ollie bounced over, floral shirt loud, grinning. “The entertainment’s arrived!” he crowed, waving to the crowd—Sebastian Vettel sipping a drink, Kimi Räikkönen blank-faced, Daniel Ricciardo winking, George Russell smirking from a couch, Fernando Alonso and Nico Rosberg scattered among other F1 ghosts and stars.
Charles sauntered up, green eyes glinting. “Glad you made it,” he purred, velvet voice smooth. “Ollie’s planned a night to remember—you’re here to entertain. Don’t disappoint.”
Lando’s throat tightened—strip, fuck, perform?—Oscar’s fists balled, imagining the worst. Ollie leaned in, whispering, “Keep ‘em laughing, and the video stays locked. Fuck up, and ‘McLaren Boys’ Shower Fiasco’ hits Monday, with weekly leaks—your secrets, all out.”
Charles clapped, silencing the room. “Let’s start easy,” he said, smirking. “Karaoke—‘Sweet Caroline,’ both of you. Sell it.” He gestured to a mic stand by the bar, a screen flickering to life.
Lando blinked, Oscar’s jaw dropped—not sex?—but relief clashed with humiliation as they shuffled forward. The room erupted in cheers and jeers as the intro blared. Lando croaked out, “Sweet Caroline,” off-key, Oscar mumbling, “Bah-bah-bah,” his face red. George catcalled, “Stick to driving, lads!” Daniel doubled over laughing, “That’s torture, not talent!” Vettel grinned, Kimi muttered, “Awful,” but clapped once.
Ollie circled, phone out—not filming, just taunting. “Brilliant, boys! Next—dance-off, solo. Worst moves win.” Charles nodded, sipping champagne, amused. Lando flailed like a broken windmill, Oscar jerked like a malfunctioning robot—Alonso snorted, “My abuela moves better,” Nico cackling, “Retirement looks good now.”
The night spiraled—humiliation, not debauchery. Ollie handed them inflatable guitars, staging an “air band” with Kimi on “drums” (a table), Lando and Oscar wailing Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” to roars of laughter. Their dread—sex slaves for Charles’ ring—melted into absurd relief, but Ollie kept needling. “What, did you really think Charles was some sex ring leader?” he teased, loud enough for Daniel to overhear and choke on his drink. “You two stressing over nothing—pathetic!”
Charles smirked, aloof, as the hilarity peaked—Lando slipping mid-“twerk,” Oscar’s mic feedback screeching, the room a cacophony of jeers and applause. But as the party wound down, Ollie sidled up, grin turning sly. “Good show, lads. Kept the video safe—for now. But the real fun? That’s the after-party. Invitation only. Be ready.”
Dread slammed back, their cocks twitching despite the night’s farce. Charles raised a glass, eyes locked on them, silent but potent. “Well done, gents,” he purred, then turned away, leaving them with Ollie’s dangling threat. The room thinned—Vettel and Kimi gone, George lingering, Daniel waving—but the after-party loomed, a shadow over their fragile respite. Two weeks to Canada stretched ahead, Ollie’s game shifting from laughs to something darker, and Lando and Oscar teetering once more on the edge.

 

[HankWanker]

So hot story

 

[jayson_steyn]

The Monaco penthouse party stretched into the early hours, the crowd thinning until only Charles Leclerc, George Russell, Ollie Bearman, Lando Norris, and Oscar Piastri remained. The room buzzed with tipsy laughter—except for Charles, stone-cold sober despite downing champagne all night, his green eyes sharp and unyielding. Ollie, buzzing with barely contained excitement, started bouncing on his heels, practically jumping up and down. “Is it time now? Is it time yet?” he yelled, voice piercing the late-night haze.

Charles sighed, a mix of annoyance and amusement flickering across his face. “Almost, Ollie, but damn, your over-excitement gets a bit much sometimes.” Ollie barely registered the jab, bolting for the door and jabbing the elevator button like a kid on a sugar rush. Charles smirked, smoothing his half-open shirt. “I guess it’s after-party time,” he announced, voice velvet-smooth. George downed his gin and tonic in one gulp, snapping at Lando and Oscar, “Come on, let’s go,” clapping sharply as he stood.

The 22-floor descent from Charles’ penthouse felt like an eternity, the lift’s hum amplifying their nerves. Lando’s ass still ached faintly from past escapades, Oscar’s knees twinged—both braced for the unknown. “Where are we going?” Oscar dared to ask as the doors finally pinged open.

George grinned, a rare crack in his cool facade. “Oh, you’re going to love this—the Ferrari yacht.” Excitement bled through his usual calm, and Lando’s brows shot up, Oscar’s jaw tightening.

The yacht was docked a short stroll from Charles’ building, its sleek silhouette cutting through the harbor’s dark waters. Ollie bounded ahead, pointing wildly and leaping onboard like an overeager puppy. The others followed, stepping onto a vessel that screamed wealth—70 feet of polished white fiberglass, red Ferrari accents gleaming under LED lights, a sprawling deck with cushioned loungers, a glass-walled hot tub bubbling silently, and a bar stocked with crystal decanters. The interior promised more—plush leather, gold-trimmed fixtures, a faint scent of saltwater and luxury cologne lingering in the air.

Charles turned to Ollie as they boarded. “Make sure no staff’s around—and the other guests are ready,” he said, voice low and commanding. Ollie darted off, leaving Lando and Oscar exchanging a look—*other guests?*—a silent, mental SOS flashing between them.

Ollie bounded back moments later, beaming. “No staff, guests ready!” Charles nodded, smoothing his trousers. “Let’s go inside, gents,” he purred, “and don’t forget—shoes off.” Lando and Oscar slipped off their sneakers, stepping ahead as Charles lingered, giving George’s cock a firm squeeze through his tailored pants. “You ready for this?” he winked, George smirking back.

Lando and Oscar entered the yacht’s lavish interior—a sunken lounge with cream leather sofas, a massive flat-screen, and a chandelier casting soft light—and froze. “What the hell?” they blurted in unison. Sprawled on a couch, champagne flutes in hand, sat Liam Lawson, Andrea Antonelli, Jack Doohan, Isack Hadjar, and Gabriel Bortoleto—F1’s rising stars, all grinning like they’d been waiting.

“Hi, new boys!” Charles beamed, stepping in behind. Ollie darted to the couch, flopping among them, crowing, “Told you Charles rules over Lando and Oscar!” The group laughed, Liam tipping his glass, Andrea nudging Jack with a smirk.

Lando and Oscar locked eyes—fear, excitement, and curiosity swirling into a chaotic cocktail. Charles raised a hand, voice cutting through. “Alright, settle down. These lads”—he nodded at the young drivers—“are the new blood, getting their first taste of paddock shenanigans. You two”—he pointed at Lando and Oscar—“are here to make sure the ride’s smooth as possible.”

Ollie butted in, bouncing on the couch. “Yeah, they’re the veterans now—gonna show you lot how it’s done!” Charles shot him a look, but Ollie plowed on. “Not sex slaves, ha! Just guides—well, maybe a bit more, right, Charles?”

“Enough, Ollie,” Charles said, velvet edge sharpening. “They’ll ease you into the game—our way. Rules, fun, a bit of chaos. Lando, Oscar, you’ve been through it—Spain, here. Now you pass it on.”

Ollie piped up again, “Oh, they’ve passed plenty—on their knees, on their—” Charles cut him off with a glare, but the damage was done. Liam smirked, “Sounds wild,” Jack leaning in, “Spill it, then,” while Isack and Gabriel chuckled, sipping their drinks.

Charles sighed, regaining control. “Point is, they’re your… mentors, let’s say. Keep ‘em in line, show ‘em the ropes—figuratively, for now.” Ollie sniggered, “For now!” earning another sharp look.

Lando’s heart raced—*mentors, not slaves?*—relief clashing with dread at Ollie’s after-party tease. Oscar’s grip tightened on his discarded shoe, mind spinning. Charles clapped once, smirking. “Let’s drink, gents. To new traditions—and old secrets staying buried.” His eyes lingered on Lando and Oscar, a silent reminder of the Spain video, Ollie’s leverage still humming beneath the hilarity.

The yacht rocked gently, the night young, and Lando and Oscar stood caught—guides to chaos they barely grasped, dread creeping back as Ollie’s grin promised more than karaoke awaited.

 

[jayson_steyn]

The Ferrari yacht’s interior pulsed with late-night energy, the after-party whittling down to Charles Leclerc, George Russell, Ollie Bearman, Lando Norris, and Oscar Piastri. Charles stood stone-cold sober despite the champagne, while Ollie buzzed with restless glee, hopping around. “Is it time now?” he yelled, earning an annoyed but amused, “Almost, Ollie—calm down,” from Charles. Ollie bolted for the elevator, jabbing the button, and Charles smirked. “After-party time, then.” George downed his gin and tonic, clapping at Lando and Oscar. “Let’s go.”

The 22-floor descent dragged, tension coiling. “Where to?” Oscar asked as the doors opened. George grinned, “The Ferrari yacht—you’ll love it.” They followed Ollie’s bounding figure to the docked vessel—70 feet of sleek white, red Ferrari stripes, a deck with plush loungers, a bubbling hot tub, and a bar gleaming with crystal. The interior oozed luxury: cream leather, gold accents, a faint sea-salt tang.

Charles directed Ollie, “No staff, check the guests.” Ollie darted off, returning with, “All clear, guests ready!” Charles purred, “Inside, gents—shoes off.” Lando and Oscar stepped in first, Charles lingering to squeeze George’s cock through his trousers, winking, “Ready?”

They entered, freezing. “What the hell?” they said in unison. Liam Lawson, Andrea Antonelli, Jack Doohan, Isack Hadjar, and Gabriel Bortoleto sprawled on a couch, champagne in hand, grinning. “Hi, new boys!” Charles beamed. Ollie flopped among them, crowing, “Told you Charles rules these two!”

Charles stepped forward, voice velvet-sharp. “Lando, Oscar—strip. Show ‘em how it starts.” Lando’s pulse raced, peeling off his shirt and jeans, revealing tight black Calvin Klein briefs. He tugged them down—his thick six-inch cock flopped free, semi-hard, foreskin hugging a plump pink head, a neat patch of dark pubes curling above, framing the veiny shaft. Oscar shed his hoodie and track pants, dropping navy boxer-briefs—his curved seven-inch cock sprang out, slim and long, the foreskin parting to show a flushed, tapered tip, sparse blond pubes dusting his pelvis, a pulsing vein snaking along.

The new boys whistled—Liam smirking, “Solid,” Andrea nudging Jack, “They’re set.” Charles clapped. “Good. Now, either end of the sofa—suck ‘em, one by one. Edge ‘em, but no finishing ‘til I say.” He and George sat, unzipping—Charles’ thick eight inches, George’s slim eight—stroking as they watched.

Lando knelt before Liam, who shed his shorts—white briefs, a thick bulge. Liam’s cock emerged, six-and-a-half inches, straight, uncircumcised, red head peeking from foreskin, wild brown pubes spilling out. Lando sucked slow, tongue teasing, Liam groaning, hips twitching. Oscar started with Gabriel, trunks off—black boxers, a hefty outline. Gabriel’s seven-inch cock, girthy with a slight curve, popped free, foreskin back, dark pubes thick. Oscar’s lips wrapped it, sucking deep, Gabriel gasping.

They moved down the line—Lando on Andrea’s slim six-inch, pale and tight-foreskinned, blond fuzz; Oscar on Isack’s dark seven-inch, straight and glistening, jet-black pubes. Each teetered, Charles’ “Hold it” keeping them in check. Jack was last—gray briefs stretched over a thick seven-and-a-half-inch cock, plump pink head, auburn bush. Lando and Oscar tag-teamed, tongues brushing, Jack trembling under Charles’ barked restraint.

It spiraled—Liam on Andrea, Andrea on Isack, Isack on Gabriel, Gabriel on Jack, Jack on Liam, a sucking circle. Charles and George stroked, smirking, Ollie darting around, cheering, “Paddock legends!” Lando and Oscar’s cocks throbbed, unrelieved.

Charles stood. “Enough—Lando, Oscar, floor, on your backs. Boys, finish on ‘em.” They sprawled, the new drivers circling, stroking fast. Liam came first, a low groan, his load splashing lightly across Lando’s chest, warm and quick. Andrea followed, a soft moan, his release dotting Oscar’s thigh, subtle and swift. Isack edged out, a grunt, his cum falling in a gentle streak over Lando’s stomach. Gabriel’s turn—a sharp gasp, his load landing softly on Oscar’s abs. Jack finished, a muffled cry, his release dusting Lando’s neck, light and fleeting.

Lando and Oscar lay there, sticky but spared a deluge, the new boys slumping back. Charles laughed, cock still hard. “Rinse off—off the side.” They stumbled to the deck, naked and buzzing, leaping into the Monaco sea with splashes, washing clean. Back onboard, they dressed—Liam, Andrea, Jack, Isack, and Gabriel waving sloppy farewells as they staggered off, leaving Charles, George, Lando, Oscar, and Ollie.

Charles turned, smirking, George stroking again, Ollie vibrating. “Now,” Charles purred, “the real fun begins.” Lando and Oscar, damp and tense, shared a look—fear, lust, and chaos swirling as the yacht rocked, primed for whatever came next.

 

[MrDGray]

We need moooooore

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 24​

The Ferrari yacht rocked gently on the Monaco harbor, the night air cool and salty against Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri’s damp skin as they stood on the deck, freshly rinsed from their leap into the sea. Their clothes clung awkwardly—Lando’s tight black briefs and half-soaked shirt, Oscar’s navy boxer-briefs and rucked-up hoodie—while the faint buzz of the new drivers’ cum lingered in their minds, a sticky memory of Charles Leclerc’s latest game. The deck was quiet now, the younger lads—Liam, Andrea, Jack, Isack, and Gabriel—stumbling off into the night, leaving only Charles, George Russell, Ollie Bearman, Lando, and Oscar behind.
Charles leaned against the bar, his white shirt still unbuttoned, revealing the lean planes of his chest, his thick eight-inch cock tucked back into his trousers but no less commanding in its absence. George lounged on a cushioned seat, his slim eight-inch length still half-hard under his open fly, sipping a fresh gin and tonic with that infuriating smirk. Ollie darted between them, a live wire of energy, his floral shirt garish under the LEDs, his grin wide and wicked. “What a warm-up, eh?” he chirped, clapping his hands. “New boys got a proper initiation—thanks to you two!”
Lando’s jaw tightened, his thick six-inch cock twitching despite the exhaustion, the humiliation of sucking off the rookies still burning in his gut. Oscar shifted beside him, his curved seven-inch length stirring under his briefs, his voice low and edged. “That was the ‘real fun,’ then? Mentors, my ass—felt more like party favors.”
Charles chuckled, a velvet rumble, pushing off the bar to stalk closer, his green eyes glinting with control. “Oh, that was just the appetizer, gents. A little taste for the new blood—easing them in. The real fun?” He paused, letting the words hang, his gaze flicking between them. “That’s for us. The inner circle.”
George snorted, swirling his drink. “Don’t pout, lads. You did splendidly—kept ‘em on edge, just like Charlie ordered. But now…” He trailed off, nodding at Charles, who smirked wider.
Ollie bounced on his heels, cutting in. “Now it’s our turn! No cameras this time—just us, raw and proper!” He mimed a thrust, cackling, and Lando’s stomach flipped—relief at “no cameras” clashing with dread at what “raw and proper” might mean.
Charles raised a hand, silencing Ollie with a look. “Inside,” he purred, gesturing to the yacht’s lavish interior. “Hot tub’s waiting. Strip again—everything off this time.” His tone brooked no argument, and Lando and Oscar exchanged a glance—half resignation, half reckless heat—as they followed, George and Ollie trailing behind.
The hot tub room glowed with soft amber light, the glass walls steaming up as the water bubbled, a decadent swirl of heat and promise. Charles shed his shirt and trousers in one fluid motion, his eight-inch cock springing free, thick and proud, the plump head already glistening. George stripped next, his slim eight-inch length bobbing as he kicked off his pants, his lean frame taut with anticipation. Ollie yanked off his floral shirt and shorts, revealing a seven-inch cock, straight and thick, the head flushed red, bouncing as he practically leapt into the tub with a splash.
Lando hesitated, peeling off his damp shirt and briefs, his six-inch cock hardening despite himself, the foreskin retracting to show the swollen pink tip. Oscar followed, dropping his hoodie and boxer-briefs, his seven-inch curve stiffening, the vein pulsing as he stepped in, the water lapping at his thighs. Charles and George slid in last, the five of them sinking into the heat, steam curling around their naked bodies.
Charles leaned back, arms spread along the tub’s edge, his cock floating just below the surface, a beacon of dominance. “Rules are simple,” he said, voice smooth and commanding. “We play—hands, mouths, whatever feels right. No one cums ‘til I say. Break that, and Ollie’s got a new video to play with.” His eyes locked on Lando and Oscar, a silent reminder of Spain’s leverage still humming in the background.
Ollie grinned, water sloshing as he scooted closer to Lando. “I’ll start!” His hand darted under the surface, wrapping around Lando’s shaft, stroking fast and sloppy, the heat of the water amplifying every touch. Lando gasped, hips jerking, his cock throbbing in Ollie’s grip, the kid’s enthusiasm relentless.
George slid toward Oscar, his long fingers finding Oscar’s curved length, tracing the vein with a teasing twist. “Relax, mate,” he purred, his slim cock brushing Oscar’s thigh under the water. Oscar groaned, head tipping back, the dual sensation of George’s hand and the bubbling jets driving him wild.
Charles watched, stroking himself lazily, his thick shaft breaking the surface now and then, the head plump and leaking. “Good boys,” he murmured, then beckoned Ollie over. “My turn.” Ollie abandoned Lando, splashing to Charles, his mouth diving onto that eight-inch prize, sucking eagerly, water sloshing as he bobbed. Charles groaned softly, one hand guiding Ollie’s head, the other reaching for George.
Lando and Oscar locked eyes through the steam, their cocks aching, hands drifting to each other instinctively. Lando’s fingers wrapped around Oscar’s curve, pumping slow and firm, while Oscar gripped Lando’s thick shaft, matching the rhythm. The tub turned frantic—Ollie slurping on Charles, George stroking Charles’ base, Lando and Oscar lost in their own desperate sync.
Charles’ voice cut through, husky but firm. “Hold it—everyone.” They froze, breaths ragged, cocks twitching on the edge. Ollie pulled off, panting, his lips slick. George smirked, releasing Charles. Lando and Oscar stilled, the tension unbearable, their hands trembling underwater.
Charles stood, water streaming off him, his cock a glistening tower. “Out. Deck. Now.” They obeyed, dripping and hard, stumbling onto the deck’s cool wood. Charles pointed. “Lando, Oscar—on your knees. George, Ollie—behind ‘em. I call the shots.”
Lando and Oscar dropped, asses up, the night air sharp against their wet skin. George lined up behind Lando, his slim eight inches slick with tub water, pushing in slow and deep, a groan tearing from Lando’s throat. Ollie took Oscar, his seven-inch cock thrusting fast, Oscar’s moan echoing off the yacht’s hull. Charles stood over them, stroking himself, his green eyes burning with control.
“Fuck ‘em good,” Charles ordered, voice velvet-edged steel. George and Ollie obeyed, hips snapping, the deck a symphony of gasps and slaps. Lando’s cock leaked onto the wood, Oscar’s bobbed untouched, both teetering as Charles watched, his own climax building.
“Cum—now,” Charles growled, and it hit like a wave. George pulled out, painting Lando’s back with long, slim spurts. Ollie followed, his thick load splattering Oscar’s ass, dripping down his thighs. Lando and Oscar broke, Lando’s ropes hitting the deck, Oscar’s arcing into the night, their cries mingling with the sea’s hum. Charles finished last, a guttural groan as his eight-inch cock erupted, thick streams landing across Lando and Oscar’s shoulders, marking them both.
They collapsed, panting, cum-streaked and trembling, the yacht silent save for their breaths. Charles smirked, stepping back. “That’s the real fun, gents. Clean up—sea’s right there.” Ollie cackled, already jumping in, while George grinned, smug and sated. Lando and Oscar shared a dazed look, the night’s chaos sinking in—Charles’ game, Ollie’s leash, and a break ahead thick with uncertainty.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 25​

The Monaco dawn crept over the horizon, painting the Ferrari yacht in soft pinks and golds as Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri slumped against the deck railing, still naked, their skin tacky with drying cum and saltwater. The hot tub frenzy had left them wrung out—George Russell’s slim eight-inch cock still haunting Lando’s tender ass, Ollie Bearman’s relentless seven-inch thrusts a throbbing echo in Oscar’s. Charles Leclerc stood pristine at the helm, trousers back on, his thick eight-inch length tucked away, sipping an espresso like he hadn’t just orchestrated a cum-soaked power play. George lounged nearby, shirtless now, his lean frame glistening, while Ollie darted around, still buzzing, his floral shirt back on but misbuttoned.
Lando’s voice rasped, hoarse from moaning. “So that’s it? We’re your puppets now—entertainment for your little club?” His thick six-inch cock hung soft, the foreskin slick with sea and sweat, his hazel eyes flicking between Charles and Ollie.
Charles smirked, setting his cup down with a clink. “Puppets? No, gents—you’re players. You’ve got a role, and you play it well. Last night proved it—new boys in line, you two keeping the rhythm.” His green eyes glinted, a silent and the video stays buried humming beneath his words.
Oscar shifted, wincing as his ass protested, his curved seven-inch length soft against his thigh, the vein still faintly visible. “Yeah, but for how long? Ollie’s got that Spain tape—how many hoops ‘til he’s bored of waving it?”
Ollie popped up, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Bored? Me? Never! You two are gold—kept the party rocking, and now the new lads are hooked. That video’s my insurance—you play nice, it stays locked.” He mimed zipping his lips, then winked, infuriatingly chipper.
George chuckled, stretching, his slim cock twitching faintly under his open trousers. “Oh, relax, Osc. You’re in the game now—Charlie’s inner circle. Bit of fun, bit of leverage. Keeps the paddock spicy.” He shot Charles a knowing look, and Charles nodded, a king acknowledging his knight.
Lando rubbed his face, the weight of it sinking in. “So we’re stuck—mentors, fuck toys, whatever—‘til you lot decide we’re done?”
Charles stepped closer, crouching to their level, his voice dropping to that velvet purr. “Not stuck—chosen. You’ve got talent, on and off the track. I see it, Ollie sees it, George too. This?” He gestured to the yacht, the sea, the lingering scent of sex. “It’s power. Play it right, and you’re not just surviving—you’re winning.”
Oscar snorted, skeptical but intrigued, his hand brushing his soft cock absently. “Winning? Feels more like losing—our dignity, at least.”
Charles straightened, smirking. “Dignity’s overrated when you’ve got control. Ask George—he’s been at it longer.” George raised his glass in a mock toast, his smirk widening.
Ollie darted in, clapping Lando’s shoulder. “Come on, Lands—lighten up! You’re legends now—Spain, this, the new boys drooling over you. Next race, Canada—you’ll see, it’s all gravy!” His energy was relentless, and Lando swatted him off, half-amused, half-exhausted.
The yacht’s engines rumbled to life, a crew member materializing from nowhere to steer them back to shore. Charles waved them off. “Get dressed, gents—jet’s waiting at Nice. Two weeks ‘til Canada—rest up, ‘cause Ollie’s got plans.” His tone promised more, and Lando and Oscar groaned in unison, dragging themselves to their scattered clothes.
The flight back to London was a haze—Lando slouched in a jet seat, hoodie up, his ass still tender, replaying Charles’ words: chosen, not stuck. Oscar sat across, scrolling his phone, the Spain video’s shadow a quiet threat in his mind. They landed mid-morning, parting with a tired fist bump, retreating to their separate flats to crash.
But peace didn’t last. Thursday evening, Lando’s phone beeped—a text from Oscar: “Pub, Chelsea, now. Need to talk.” Lando hauled himself out, meeting Oscar in their usual booth, both nursing pints, faces drawn. Oscar leaned in, voice low. “Charles’ ‘inner circle’—bullshit or real? And Ollie’s ‘plans’—what’s next?”
Lando sipped, grimacing. “Real, I reckon. Charles runs it—George’s his wingman, Ollie’s the wild card. We’re in deep, mate—puppets or players, doesn’t matter. That video’s the leash.”
Oscar nodded, slow and grim. “Canada’s two weeks off. If Ollie’s planning, it’s big—more than karaoke or hot tubs. Maybe the new boys again—or worse.”
Lando’s pint paused mid-air, a flicker of lust cutting through the dread. “Worse? Like what—full paddock orgy? Charles conducting?” He half-laughed, but his cock twitched, betraying him.
Oscar smirked, dark and knowing. “Wouldn’t put it past him. But we need a move—push back, not just roll over.”
They brainstormed—leak a fake video? Call Ollie’s bluff?—but every idea crumbled under the Spain tape’s weight. The pub hummed around them, oblivious, until—beep beep—their phones chimed together. “1 unread message from Ollie Bearman” glowed on both screens. Oscar groaned, “Fuckin’ hell,” as Lando opened it.
A photo loaded: Charles, George, and Ollie on the yacht deck, post-hot-tub, smirking at the camera, captioned: “Canada prep starts now. Rest up, boys—gonna need it.” Lando’s stomach dropped, Oscar’s grip tightened on his pint. The break stretched ahead, a ticking clock to chaos they couldn’t outrun.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 26​

The two-week break before the Canadian Grand Prix crawled by, each day a slow drip of tension for Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri. Lando holed up in his London flat, pacing between the couch and the kitchen, his thick six-inch cock stirring every time his mind replayed the yacht—George’s slim eight inches pounding him, Charles’ thick eight-inch command, Ollie’s relentless seven-inch chaos. Oscar, across town, sprawled on his bed, scrolling X aimlessly, his curved seven-inch length twitching at the memory of the hot tub, the new boys’ cum, Charles’ velvet orders. Their phones stayed quiet after Ollie’s taunting photo, but the silence was louder than any beep—a storm brewing just out of sight.
Thursday before the race, they jetted to Montreal, the McLaren crew buzzing with strategy talk while Lando and Oscar sat apart, knees brushing in the jet’s plush seats, their minds elsewhere. Landing at Montréal-Mirabel, they piled into a Range Rover, the city’s gray sprawl blurring past as they headed to the hotel. No Ferrari jet in sight, no Charles or Ollie waiting—just a rare, fragile calm.
Friday’s practice sessions were a grind—Lando P4, Oscar P5, decent but no podium buzz. The paddock hummed with usual chaos, but Charles kept his distance, all business in Ferrari red, his green eyes catching theirs only once, a flicker of a smirk promising more. Ollie darted around, chirpy and annoying, but no overt moves—yet. George lingered near Mercedes, throwing Lando a wink that hit like a jolt to his cock, but nothing else.
Saturday night, post-qualifying—Lando P3, Oscar P4—their phones finally beeped, synced as ever. “Paddock Shenanigans” lit up: Ollie’s message, short and sharp: “Hotel rooftop, 11 p.m. Drivers only. Bring your A-game.” No photo, no hint—just a command. Lando groaned, tossing his phone onto the hotel bed. Oscar, across the hall, muttered, “Here we go,” dragging a hand through his blond hair.
They met in the corridor at 10:55, Lando in a black tee and jeans, Oscar in a gray hoodie and track pants, both jittery but resigned. The rooftop was a sleek oasis—string lights, a bar, a hot tub (fuck, not again, they thought), and a view of Montreal’s skyline. Charles stood central, white shirt unbuttoned, trousers tight, his eight-inch cock a subtle bulge. George leaned against the bar, blazer off, slim frame taut. Ollie bounced near the edge, floral shirt loud as ever, grinning. Liam, Andrea, Jack, Isack, and Gabriel were back, sprawled on loungers, drinks in hand, smirking like they knew the drill.
Charles clapped once, silencing the chatter. “Welcome, gents—Canada edition. Lando, Oscar, you’ve earned your stripes. Tonight, you lead.” His smirk widened, gesturing to the new boys. “They’re yours—run the show. Ollie’s got the tape on standby, so don’t fuck it up.”
Lando’s heart thudded—lead?—his cock stirring despite the pressure. Oscar’s jaw tightened, but his curved length twitched, a reluctant thrill building. Ollie darted forward, handing them each a whistle. “Blow ‘em when you’re ready—get ‘em in line!” he cackled, stepping back.
Lando blew his first, sharp and loud. “Liam, Andrea—strip, hot tub, now.” His voice cracked but held, authority shaky but growing. Liam grinned, shedding shorts and briefs—six-and-a-half inches flopping free, red head peeking. Andrea followed, slim six-inch cock pale and tight, both splashing in. Oscar blew his whistle. “Jack, Isack, Gabriel—same deal.” Jack’s thick seven-and-a-half inches bounced, Isack’s dark seven-inch glistened, Gabriel’s girthy seven-inch curved slightly as they joined, water sloshing.
Charles and George watched, stroking themselves through their trousers, smirking. Ollie circled, phone out but not recording—yet. Lando stepped to the tub’s edge, voice firmer. “Liam, suck Andrea—slow.” Liam obeyed, lips wrapping Andrea’s slim shaft, sucking deep, Andrea’s moan soft. Oscar pointed. “Jack, on Isack—go.” Jack’s mouth took Isack’s dark length, slurping wetly, Isack groaning. “Gabriel, hands only,” Oscar added, and Gabriel’s fist pumped his own cock, eyes locked on the chaos.
Lando and Oscar shed their clothes—Lando’s six-inch cock hard, foreskin back, Oscar’s seven-inch curve throbbing—joining the tub, water steaming around them. “Switch,” Lando barked, and the new boys shuffled—Andrea on Jack, Isack on Liam, Gabriel on Isack—a messy, sucking chain. Charles unzipped, his eight-inch cock free, stroking slow. George followed, slim eight inches glistening.
Ollie cheered, “Legends!” as Lando and Oscar took over—Lando’s mouth on Liam, Oscar’s on Gabriel—edging them per Charles’ playbook. The new boys teetered, moans rising, Charles’ voice cutting through: “Hold it.” They froze, trembling, cocks twitching.
Charles stood, smirking. “Out—rooftop floor, all of you. Finish ‘em, Lando, Oscar.” They scrambled out, dripping, the new boys circling as Lando and Oscar knelt. Liam came first, a grunt, his load splattering Lando’s chest—thicker this time, hot. Andrea followed, soft spurts on Oscar’s shoulder. Jack’s thick ropes hit Lando’s neck, Isack’s streaked Oscar’s abs, Gabriel’s landed on Lando’s thigh—all messy, glorious chaos.
Charles clapped, slow and mocking. “Well done, leaders. Clean up—tub’s there.” They sank back in, rinsing off, the new boys slumping, spent. Ollie grinned, pocketing his phone. “Tape’s safe, boys—good show!” Charles and George stayed hard, untouched, smirking as the night wound down—or so they thought.