So Fucking Generic

Fuck. What if she can't even piss out of it? What if it's fucking wired up wrong or whatever? What if she dies from being full of piss because she's got a fucking stupid cock nailed on her? Fucking hell.

"Lando." Jon sounds like a man who was out all night. "Stop - look. We knew this might happen, didn't we? All the guys end up with - well, the other thing. You're going to be fine, just go back to sleep for a bit and then get Oscar to sort you out, yeah?"

Oscar. Who Jon must know is not in Lando's suite because the problem with wanting to celebrate winning a title with your girlfriend is it's a bit awkward when she's the person you beat to it.

Well, Max is. But that probably wouldn't make it any better for Oscar to have it pointed out.

Jon isn't really helping, so Lando mumbles something about going to take a shower and hangs up. Unlike the thing hanging down between her legs, which looks like it might be classifiable as a weapon. There's no way she's getting through airport security with this in her trousers. Max Fewtrell is going to have a fucking field day if she tries to tuck it into joggers, for fuck's sake.

It doesn't seem fair, really. Yes, all the blokes get a pussy for winning the title. That's nice, who fucking doesn't love pussy? They might even find out how to get a woman off in the process, a bit of service to the wags they'll propose to while they're high on winning.

Lando does not want a cock. She just won, specifically, without a cock. The first time anyone's ever done it. Oscar doesn't need to find out what to do with a cock, they get off just fine when they're not pissing each other off about a stupid fucking championship. God, at least Oscar doesn't have it - Lando's only given two blow jobs in her life and although both Maxes were nice about it she knows they weren't good. And this thing would not be going anywhere inside her, she knows that much.

Maybe Jon's right. Maybe going back to sleep is the only option here. Maybe it will go away on its own if she stops, like, poking it and fucking hell there's horrible balls and everything. This is just. Awful.

In the end the idea of calling Oscar because Oscar helps her deal with shit like this. Well not like this. There's never been a cock to deal with before but like, when Lando's having a fucking meltdown and things. That wins out over respecting Oscar's right to a big post-race sulk or whatever she's been doing for the last 16 hours.

It's a huge relief when she answers. Lando was a bit paranoid this might be fucking it for them, which would be just the most fucking terrible way to celebrate winning a championship. No pussy on her, none from Oscar - might as well go throw herself in the harbour now.

Fortunately that doesn't seem to be what's going on. "Hey, champion," Oscar mumbles down the phone, yawning. "Whassup? Are you out of tequila or something?"

"I wish." That'd be such an easy problem to solve. "I've got a fucking massive dick, Osc."

Lando knows she sounds a bit whiny when she's upset. Which she is, this is a pretty major crisis. And that ok, yes, it's not the most dignified but it's still not fair that Oscar has clearly dropped her phone onto the mattress to full-body laugh in an uncontrollable way. Lando heard the soft thunk and everything.

"Oscarrr. I'm being serious - it's all wrinkly and it's huge and soft. What if I can't piss and I die?"

The idea of Lando passing away from dick-related illnesses seems to sober Oscar up a bit. "Alright, alright. Calm down. I'm sure we can deal with your fucking-" she's laughing again, half-wheezing into the phone "-fucking massive championship cock, oh my god."

"I don't want it," Lando complains, miserably. "Oscar, please, Jon said you'd be able to sort it out."

summer break 🫧

Edward Okuń (1872-1945, Polish) ~ Wisterias in Bloom, 1911