ℒ𝒾𝓁𝒶 .

The Monaco skyline glittered like a blade against the bruised purple dusk, and inside the penthouse on Avenue Princesse Grace, everything was silent except for the delicate click of Leo’s nails against imported Carrara marble. Leo Leclerc—an absurdly coiffed miniature long-haired dachshund with fur the colour of burnt caramel and ears that dragged like silk—sniffed at the base of a closed door painted in soft, mocking yellow. The nursery. Empty. It had been empty for the seven months since the walls were finished, since the Italian designer had installed the custom crib, since Alexandra had folded the first set of impossible linens into a drawer that had not yet been opened. 

It would remain empty. 

Charles Leclerc stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass, six-foot-two and carved from the same cruel marble as the floors beneath him, shirt discarded, the sweat of a late gym session still glossing the hard ridges of his spine. At twenty-eight, he was the reigning World Champion, his dominance on the track as absolute and unforgiving as his possession of everything else he touched. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass, his dark curls damp and disobedient, and when he turned from the view of the harbor, his eyes—hazel, cold, calculating—found his wife with the precision of a predator scenting weakness. 

Alexandra sat on the edge of their custom velvet sofa, legs folded beneath her, the perfect posture of a woman who had spent five years making her body her currency. Twenty-five years old, five-foot-nine, with the kind of proportions that made cameras weep and rival models starve themselves into hospital beds. She wore a cream silk robe that slipped open over her collarbones, and her face—the face that had launched a thousand campaigns—was streaked with mascara and ruin. The phone on the glass coffee table was still lit. The voicemail had played twenty minutes ago. Dr. Arnaud’s voice, clipped and sympathetic and final. 

Absolute infertility. Early ovarian failure. Zero viable follicles. There is no path forward, Mrs. Leclerc. I am deeply sorry. 

They had spent the last year trying to engineer life the way Charles engineered pole positions: with relentless precision, with brutal focus, with the arrogance of two people who had never been denied anything. They had met in Milan three years prior at a dinner where the champagne cost more than most people’s cars—Charles freshly promoted to Ferrari’s lead, Alexandra the undisclosed queen of the runway. Their courtship had been a war. Two dominant animals circling each other in a gilded cage, neither willing to kneel. The sex had been violent and exquisite, a clash of wills that left bite marks on marble and bruises on egos. When he proposed, it was not a question, but a command delivered in a Paris hotel suite, his hand wrapped around her throat as he fucked her against a window overlooking the Seine. She had come twice before she said yes. 

They married because they were equally matched. Equally hungry. Equally obsessed with control. 

A baby had been meant to be the ultimate collaboration. The ultimate conquest. Charles wanted an heir—something permanent, a legacy in flesh that trophies could not provide. Alexandra wanted something to worship. Something soft in a world that had only ever demanded her hardness. She had started taking prenatal vitamins before the wedding, had timed her ovulation with the same discipline she applied to her skin regimen, had allowed her body to be punctured by hormone injections until her abdomen bloomed with bruises the colour of twilight. 

And Charles had treated her like a machine he was tuning for peak performance. 

The memory of the night before last week’s blood test clawed its way into Alexandra’s mind, unwelcome and obscene. The ovulation tracker had pinged. She had been waiting in the master suite, naked, hips propped on a silk pillow because she’d read somewhere that elevation helped. He had entered without a word, still reeking of rubber and adrenaline from the simulator, his cock already hard and thick in his hand, because foreplay was a waste of time when you were trying to breed. He had climbed over her, his muscular thighs forcing hers wider, his grip on her jaw tilting her face toward the ceiling. 

“Stay still,” he had commanded, his voice the same one he used to berate engineers. “Don’t spill a fucking drop.” 

He had pushed into her dry and ruthless, stretching her until she gasped, fucking her with the mechanical rhythm of a piston, no warmth, no tenderness, just a claiming. His cock—veined and heavy and arrogant—pounded into her with a single purpose. When he came, it was with a vicious snarl, his hips locked flush against her, his spend flooding her in thick, hot ropes of seed. He had stayed inside her afterward, fingers clamped between her thighs, forcing his cum deeper, plugging her like a cork in a bottle, refusing to let even a pearl escape. For twenty minutes he had held her there, staring down at her with a condescending sneer that said this is what you are for, while his semen slowly, inevitably, dripped out of her ruined cunt and onto the sheets, wasted, rejected. 

She had not conceived. She had never conceived. Her body was a tomb. 

Now, in the silence of the penthouse, Alexandra felt that hollowness yawning open inside her like a second mouth. Her hands trembled around a crystal tumbler of vodka she hadn’t touched. “Say something,” she whispered. Her voice was frayed, stripped of the command it usually carried. 

Charles turned. The harbor lights reflected in his eyes, turning them to ice. “What would you like me to say, Alexandra? That I’m surprised? Your body has been failing us for months. The tests were redundant. I simply wanted confirmation before we stopped wasting time.” 

His cruelty was surgical. It always had been. Even in their darkest moments, Charles Leclerc did not rage. He calculated. He cut. He watched her flinch and filed the reaction away for future use. 

“You’re a bastard,” she breathed, but the insult had no teeth. She was too broken. 

“And you’re barren,” he replied, stepping closer. The word hung in the air like a guillotine blade. “Barren. Empty. All that perfection, all those fucking runway miles, and your womb is a dead end. Tell me, does it feel poetic? The one thing money can’t fix.” 

Tears slid down her cheeks, hot and humiliating. She hated him in that moment. Hated him because he was right. Hated him because he was not crying. Hated him because even in his cruelty, he was still the only structure strong enough to hold the pieces of her together. 

Leo whined from the nursery door, sensing the fracture in the room’s atmosphere. Alexandra’s gaze drifted to the closed door. She had already bought a cashmere blanket. She had already chosen a name. She had already let herself become soft in the secret hours of the night, imagining the weight of a child against her chest, the ultimate act of creation for a woman who had spent her life being looked at but never truly seen. 

Now there would be no child. Only this. Only him. 

Charles stopped in front of her, towering, his shadow swallowing her. He reached down and gripped her chin, forcing her face up. His thumb dragged through her tears, not to comfort, but to claim the wetness. “You weep like I’ve buried you,” he said softly, dangerously. “But I haven’t. Not yet.” 

“What do we do now?” she asked, her voice small. Pathetic. A word she had never allowed herself to be. 

Charles studied her, his expression shifting from cruelty to something darker. Something hungrier. The same expression he wore when he studied telemetry, searching for the weakness in a machine that would allow him to dominate it completely. “For a year, I’ve poured myself into you, Alexandra. I’ve timed my life around your cycles. I’ve fucked you like a breeding sow because you begged me for a legacy. And now I know that your body will never give me what I want.” 

He leaned down, his breath hot against her tear-stained face, his voice dropping to a murmur that vibrated with ownership. “So, we find something else. Someone else.” 

Alexandra blinked, confusion cutting through her grief. “What?” 

“A pet,” Charles said, the word curling off his tongue like smoke. “Something small. Soft. Something that needs a daddy to set the rules and a mommy to dress her wounds and kiss her bruises. Something innocent. Untouched. Someone who will look at us with those big, stupid eyes and thank us for every crumb of affection we allow her to have.” 

The shift in the room was palpable. The air turned charged, electric, warping from mourning into something twisted and predatory. Alexandra’s breath hitched. She had spent her adult life being the most desirable woman in every room, but Charles had always been her only match, her only equal. They had never found a third who could survive the gravity of their orbit. But now— 

“Someone submissive,” Alexandra whispered, and the word tasted like honey and poison. Her grief began to transmute, ugly and urgent, into a different kind of hunger. A maternal, obsessive hunger. Someone she could care for. Someone she could control with softness instead of steel. Someone Charles could spoil with yachts and rules and cruelty, while she fed them and bathed them and whispered good girl into their hair. 

“Exactly,” Charles said, his smile a cold slash. He straightened, releasing her jaw, and walked back to the window, looking down at the glittering streets of Monaco as if he were already hunting. “Someone who can’t survive without us. Someone who will carry her innocence like a wound we can tend to. A petit lapin. A virgin. A broken little thing with a history she doesn’t understand, who cries when she’s overwhelmed and looks at us like we’re gods.” 

Alexandra wiped her face, her model composure stitching itself back together over a new, rotting foundation. She thought of the empty nursery. The yellow walls. The silence. She thought of filling it not with a baby, but with something grown and yet childlike. Something that would need her. That would regress in her arms. That would call her mommy while Charles stood in the doorway, setting the rules, doling out punishments and penthouses in equal measure. 

“We don’t know her yet,” Alexandra said. It was not a refusal. It was an acknowledgment of the void waiting to be filled. 

Charles didn’t look back. His reflection in the glass was a study in absolute dominion. “No. But we will. We have the time now. We have the resources. And when we find her…” He paused, his hand trailing down to the bulge in his trousers, already hard at the thought of possession. “When we find her, we will never let her go. She will be our legacy. Our little lapin. Our pet.” 

Leo padded over to Alexandra and curled into her lap, small and warm and dependent. She stroked his ears, her eyes drying, her heart beating with a new, monstrous rhythm. The nursery would not stay empty. It would be repurposed. Softened. Made ready. 

And somewhere in the dark, a girl, wide-eyed and trembling, carrying a stuffed bunny named Floppy through the corridors of the Ferrari garage, she did not yet know that she had already been chosen. That her innocence had been weighed, measured, and found irresistible. That two gods in a Monaco penthouse had looked at the emptiness of their world and decided that she would be the one to fill it. 

Charles turned from the window, his smile sharp enough to draw blood. “Get dressed, Alexandra. We have hunting to do.” 

The tears were gone. The grief was a memory. In its place, something far colder bloomed. 

And in the nursery, the yellow walls seemed to glow. 

The fluorescent lights of the Ferrari workshop hummed with a sterile, insectile intensity, casting a grey-blue pallor over the scarlet machinery and the men who serviced it. The air stank of hot rubber, synthetic oil, and aggressive aftershave. It was a cathedral of testosterone, every surface designed to intimidate: the hiss of pneumatic tools, the bark of the chief mechanic, the crude laughter of the engineers as they traded insults over a chassis. Monaco glittered outside the glass, but inside, the garage was a brutalist shrine to speed and dominance. 

She did not belong there. 

Charles noticed it the moment he stepped through the partition, his presence immediately shifting the room’s gravity. The others straightened, voices dropping, but his gaze had already slid past them, hooking onto the anomaly in the corner. 

She was an adult, but she looked like a child who had wandered into a warzone. A fawn that had stumbled into an abattoir. The standard Ferrari team overalls had been tailored to her frame, but even cinched, they billowed around her fragile body like a tarp draped over a birdcage. She was bent over an engine bay, her soft brunette hair falling in messy, unstyled waves from a half-hearted ponytail, obscuring her face. From across the garage, Charles could see the tension in her narrow shoulders, the way she held herself as if waiting to be struck. 

He moved closer, his boots silent on the polished concrete. She was trying to change a sensor, her small hands fumbling with a wrench that looked too heavy for her delicate fingers. She wore a pastel pink t-shirt beneath the unzipped overalls, and on her feet, battered white sneakers that seemed too innocent for the environment. But it was her backpack that made him halt. 

It was mint green, canvas, with little embroidered stars. And protruding from the half-open zipper was the cream-colored ear of a stuffed rabbit. Floppy. 

Something in his chest tightened, a cold fist of arousal and possession that had nothing to do with the track. He watched her work, watched her tongue peek out in concentration, watched her eyes fill with helpless frustration as the bolt refused to yield. When it finally came loose, she stumbled backward, nearly colliding with a hydraulic lift. She didn't curse. She whispered, "Oh," soft and breathless, and clutched the wrench to her chest like a shield. 

One of the senior mechanics, a broad-shouldered Swede named Eriksson, laughed at her. "Clumsy, petit. Maybe you should be in hospitality, yeah? Handing out water to the real workers?" 

Her face crumpled. Not with anger. With shame. Her eyes, huge and luminous, immediately glossed with tears that she tried to blink away. Her lower lip trembled. "S-sorry," she stammered, the word barely audible. "I didn't mean to—" 

Charles felt something black and murderous uncoil in his gut. He wanted to have Eriksson fired and broken. But more than that, he wanted to know what it would sound like when she stammered "s-sorry" to him. When he made her cry for his own pleasure, not someone else's cruelty. 

He stepped forward, into the light. 

The garage went silent. she looked up, and her entire body went rigid. She looked at him like he was an eclipse, something that swallowed the sun. Her mouth opened, closed. She dropped the wrench. It clattered against the concrete, and she flinched as if it had hit her. 

"Mr. Leclerc," she whispered. Her voice was high, thin, virginal. It trembled. 

Charles stopped inches from her. He was six-foot-two, towering, his muscular shadow draping over her completely. He looked down, and she shrank, her head tilting back, her throat exposed. She was shaking. Actually shaking. He could see the pulse hammering in her neck, the frantic rise and fall of her small chest beneath the shapeless overalls. 

He didn't speak immediately. He let the silence eat her alive. Then, slowly, he reached down. Not to help her up. He picked up the wrench, but his other hand closed around her backpack strap. He pulled it up slightly, just enough to expose the stuffed bunny's face inside. Floppy. Cream-colored, threadbare, loved. 

"What's this?" His voice was low, cultured, and utterly cruel. He used her name like a collar snapping shut. 

She went crimson. Her eyes flooded. "I... it's just... I have trouble sleeping, and my therapist says it's okay to—" 

"You're at work," he interrupted, his lip curling. "Not a nursery. Do you understand how dangerous this environment is for a little girl who still needs a stuffed animal?" 

She nodded frantically, tears spilling over. "Yes, sir. I'm s-sorry. I'll put it away." 

Sir. The word tasted sweet. He could see the deference in her was absolute, instinctive. She didn't know how to meet his eyes. She looked at his chest, his chin, anywhere but the predatory assessment in his gaze. She was yielding. She was soft. She was untouched. 

He held out the wrench. She took it with trembling fingers, her hand brushing his. Her skin was impossibly soft. She wore a child's adhesive bandage on her thumb, printed with little cartoon clouds. 

"You're too soft for this place," he said, and it wasn't a compliment. It was a diagnosis. "You're going to get yourself hurt. Or worse, you're going to hurt my car because you're too busy crying over a toy." 

A sob caught in her throat. She bit it back, her small body shuddering. "I'm careful," she whispered. "I promise." 

"Promises from little rabbits don't mean much to me." He released her backpack, letting the bunny fall back into hiding. "Be gone by six. You look exhausted. I don't employ children who cry in my garage." 

He turned and walked away, feeling her eyes on his back, feeling the tremor of her breath. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. He had already tasted her, and she was exactly the flavor of innocence he'd been starving for. 

The rest of the day was a blur of telemetry and meetings, but his mind kept returning to the mint green backpack, the trembling lip, the sir that had fallen from her mouth like a prayer she didn't know she was making. He imagined her in the penthouse. In the yellow room. In nothing but pastel cotton and tears. 

He returned to the Avenue Princesse Grace at nine. The penthouse was a study in controlled opulence, all marble and shadow and the scent of amber. Alexandra was waiting in the kitchen, wearing a silk camisole the color of bone, her model's body elongated and graceful as she stirred something in a copper pot. She looked up when he entered, her eyes immediately cataloging the tension in his shoulders, the heavy, obvious bulge in his trousers that he hadn't bothered to hide. 

"You're hungry," she said. Not for food. 

Leo trotted over, his long ears sweeping the floor. Charles scooped the dog up, holding him against his chest as he walked to the bar. He poured two fingers of scotch, drank it, and turned to his wife. 

"I found her," he said. 

Alexandra set down the spoon. The kitchen lights caught the sharp planes of her cheekbones, the elegance of her collarbones. She had been crying earlier, he could tell, but now her eyes were dry and curious. "Found who?" 

"The third." He set Leo down and walked to her, cupping her jaw with the same hand that had touched her backpack. "The one to fill your empty womb. The one to fill this fucking silence." 

Alexandra's breath hitched. "Tell me." 

"She's a mechanic. On my team. She looks like a doll that someone left in the rain. She carries a stuffed rabbit named Floppy in her backpack. She cries when men raise their voices. She wears band-aids with cartoons on them." His thumb traced Alexandra's lower lip, his gaze burning. "She's a virgin. I can smell it on her. She doesn't know how to hold a man's gaze. She apologizes for existing. She regresses when she's frightened. Therapy twice a week. Childhood trauma." 

Alexandra's mouth opened under his touch. "What's her name?" 

The name hung between them like a drop of poisoned honey. Alexandra stepped back, her eyes distant, calculating. She walked to the window, looking down at the harbor lights, her perfect reflection ghosted against the glass. 

"A mechanic," she murmured. "In your garage. Surrounded by grease and noise and men. And she's soft?" 

"She's pastel in a world of scarlet and black," Charles said, following her. He pressed his chest to her back, his hands sliding around her waist, up to cup her breasts possessively. "She's broken, Alex. She goes small when she's overwhelmed. She needs a daddy to set her rules and a mommy to kiss her hurts. She needs us." 

Alexandra leaned her head back against his shoulder, her eyes fluttering shut. "You want to breed her," she whispered. It wasn't an accusation. It was a spark of dark understanding. 

"I want to own her," Charles corrected, his voice dropping to a murmur against her ear. "I want to buy her a yacht if she whispers please. I want to dress her in silks and cage her in this penthouse. I want her to call me Daddy while I set every fucking rule she lives by. I want to make her cry, and then I want you to be the one who dries her tears and tells her she's Mommy's good girl." 

Alexandra turned in his arms. Her face was transformed, grief transmuted into something predatory and radiant. "The nursery," she said. "The yellow room. We could make it hers. Not a baby's room. A little girl's room. Soft. Safe. Controlled." 

"Yes." 

"And me?" Alexandra's hands slid up his chest, her eyes wide with a maternal hunger that made his cock ache. "I would be her Mommy. I would cook her meals. I would bathe her. I would hold her when she regresses and rock her topless against my chest while she sucks her thumb. I would be soft, Charles. I would be everything you are not." 

"Exactly," he growled. "You'd spoil her with touch. I'd spoil her with things. And when I come home from the track, tired of being world champion, I'd find her waiting on her knees, her eyes wide, clutching that fucking bunny, ready to thank her Daddy for everything he gives her." 

Alexandra's hand dropped to his trousers, palming the thick, heavy ridge of his arousal. "She's never been touched," she said, her voice breathy. "We'd be the first. The only. We could train her. Mold her. She'd be our petit lapin. Our little lapin." 

"Ours," Charles agreed, his hand tangling in Alexandra's hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat. "We'd take her innocence piece by piece. Her virginity would be our trophy. Her regression would be our playground. And when she cries for Floppy in the dark, we'd be there. Mommy and Daddy. The only family she needs." 

Alexandra moaned, pressing against him. "She's so small. She'd look like a doll in our bed. Between us." 

"Small," Charles repeated, his other hand sliding down to grip Alexandra's ass roughly. "Ninety pounds. I could lift her with one arm. I could pin her down while you hold her hand and tell her to be brave for Mommy. You'd feed her your cunt while I break her open. You'd whisper good girl, take Daddy's cock while she sobs and bleeds and comes." 

"And if she gets overwhelmed?" Alexandra gasped, her eyes glassy with the fantasy. 

"Then she goes small," Charles said, his smile cruel and beautiful. "She regresses. She curls up with Floppy and Leo, and you wrap her in cashmere and tell her Mommy's here. And I watch from the doorway, setting the rules, knowing she is ours. Completely. Irrevocably." 

Alexandra shuddered, her body going limp against him with submission to the idea, to him. "We have to be careful," she whispered. "She's trauma-bonded already. She needs guidance. We could... we could offer her structure. Safety. A home. She'd come willingly, Charles. She'd want to be our baby." 

"She already is our baby," Charles corrected, his hand tightening in her hair until she gasped. "She just doesn't know it yet. But she will. We'll start slowly. I'll pull her into my office. I'll tell her she's too soft for the garage. I'll offer her a position here. Personal. Private. And then we'll show her the nursery. The yellow walls. We'll tell her it's safe. That Mommy and Daddy will take care of everything." 

Alexandra looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears, but this time they were tears of dark, terrible purpose. "I love you," she said, and it sounded like a vow made in hell. 

"I know," Charles said. He released her hair and stepped back, looking toward the hallway where the yellow door sat closed. "Prepare the room, Alex. Buy the things a little girl would want. Pastels. Soft things. A bed small enough for her frame. And order something for dinner. Something soft. Something she can eat with her hands. Tomorrow, I bring her the first gift." 

"What gift?" 

Charles looked down at Leo, who was sitting at his feet, tail wagging. "A collar," he said, his voice cold and absolute. "Metaphorical, for now. But soon... literal. She'll be marked as ours. Our petit lapin. Our baby." 

Alexandra smiled, and for the first time in months, the smile reached her eyes. It was terrifying. "I'll run her bath tomorrow," she said softly. "And I'll make her bed with my own hands. So when Daddy brings her home, Mommy is ready." 

Charles walked to the bar and poured another scotch. In the reflection of the glass, he saw the yellow door. He raised the drink to it, a silent toast. 

"Welcome home," he murmured, though she was miles away, sleeping with her bunny, dreaming of a safety she had never known. 

The trap was set. The nursery was waiting. And in the morning, the wolf would begin to circle. 

The yellow had been the first lie. 

Alexandra stood in the doorway of the nursery, watching the Italian painters she’d flown in from Milan at four that morning roll the last coat of Rosée Ballerine over what had once been a sunny, optimistic citron. The new color was obscene in its softness—a blush that suggested not health but vulnerability, the inside of a lip, the underside of a wrist. It swallowed the light rather than reflected it, turning the room into the interior of a shell. Cream wainscoting trimmed the walls like the lace edge of a child’s sock, and the ceiling had been painted the color of fresh milk, dotted with hand-painted silk decals of sleeping rabbits and pale moons that glowed faintly when the lights dimmed. 

Gone was the crib. In its place, a custom bed no larger than a daybed, built low to the floor in white lacquer, piled with goose-down pillows in pastel pink and mint green, the sheets Egyptian cotton with a thread count so high they felt like water. The mattress was narrow, purposefully small—meant for a fragile body. Beside it, a nightstand in cream, upon which Alexandra had placed a milk-glass lamp with a rose-pink shade. She had stocked the drawers with everything a little girl might need: adhesive bandages printed with clouds and stars, a silver hairbrush with boar bristles, lavender-scented wipes, a row of fresh cotton panties in soft pink and white, all sized extra-small. 

She had not known her exact measurements, but she had known. Some instinct, dark and maternal, had guided her hand. 

Charles stood in the doorway, Leo tucked under one arm like a furry accessory, his other hand holding a crystal tumbler of scotch he hadn’t touched. He was still in his training kit, sweat darkening the neck of his shirt, his muscles coiled and restless beneath the fabric. He surveyed the room with the clinical detachment of a general inspecting a new territory. 

“It’s too adult,” he said, his voice low. 

Alexandra turned, her silk robe—pale blush, belted tight—swaying around her calves. “It’s not a cage, Charles. It’s a bedroom.” 

“It’s a holding cell with pastel walls.” He stepped inside, his boots sinking into the new carpet, a cloud-white sheepskin that swallowed sound. He walked to the closet—already filled. He had seen to that himself. Pastel cashmere cardigans with oversized sleeves. Velvet skirts in soft lavender. A row of Mary Jane flats in patent leather, size four. Nothing that would fit a woman. Everything that would fit a doll. “Where are the locks?” 

Alexandra followed him, her bare feet silent. “On the inside of our bedroom door. If she wants to leave this room, she’ll have to come through us.” 

Charles set Leo down. The dachshund immediately trotted to the bed, sniffed the pillows, and curled up in the exact center, claiming it. Charles smiled—a thin, cold expression. “He knows. Even the dog knows she’s coming.” 

He turned to his wife, gripping her chin with sudden violence. “The yellow room was for a baby. A blank slate. This room is for her. A used thing. A broken thing. She comes to us already damaged, Alex. Already shaped. We’re not building from scratch. We’re… repainting.” 

Alexandra leaned into his grip, her eyes glazing. “I’ve ordered her meals. Soft foods. I’ve stocked the kitchen with the things a child would eat. Macaroni. Custard. Warm milk with honey. I want to feed her from my own hand, Charles. I want her to fall asleep with her cheek against my breast while I hum.” 

“And I want to buy her a fucking yacht if she asks nicely,” Charles murmured, releasing her. He walked to the window, looking out at the harbor where his first championship had been celebrated, where fireworks had burned the sky. “But first, she has to know she’s caught. Tomorrow, I take you to the paddock. You see her. You smell her. You feel how small she is beside the machinery. And then we decide how slowly we unravel her.” 

The Monaco paddock was a furnace of testosterone and titanium, a circus of compressed violence squeezed into the narrow streets of the Principality. The Ferrari motorhome rose above the temporary garages like a blood-red fortress, and inside the garage itself, the air was toxic with brake dust, ozone, and the rancid sweat of men who lived in the margins of speed. 

She did not belong there. 

She was trying to change the tires on a practice wheel set, her small frame folded into the shadow of the car, her overalls slipping off one narrow shoulder to reveal the pastel pink camisole beneath. Her hair had escaped its elastic, falling in loose, childish waves around her face. She wore a bandage on her wrist—new, this one dotted with tiny rabbits—and her lower lip was caught between her teeth in concentration. 

The other mechanics ignored her, or worse. She was an intern, a diversity hire, a mascot. The Swede, Eriksson, had taken to calling her poupée—doll—when he thought Charles couldn’t hear. But Charles heard everything. He noticed that she hadn’t eaten in six hours. He noticed that she’d been assigned the heaviest physical tasks despite her size, a quiet hazing that made her hands shake and her breath come short. He noticed that she kept a small, cream-colored keychain attached to her overall zipper—a miniature version of Floppy, too small for anyone to identify unless they were looking. He was always looking. 

He arrived at the garage with Alexandra on his arm, and the entire operation ground to a halt. 

It was unprecedented. Alexandra Leclerc did not come to the garage. She was a creature of couture and champagne receptions, not carbon fiber and oil. Yet there she was, five-foot-nine in a white linen dress that cost more than the average engineer’s salary, her dark hair pulled back in a sleek chignon, her sunglasses masking her eyes. She moved with the indolent grace of a predator who had already eaten, but beneath her cool surface, Charles could feel her trembling with anticipation. 

“Mr. Leclerc,” the team principal stammered, stepping forward. “We weren’t expecting—” 

“Don’t speak,” Charles said, not unkindly. Just finally. He walked past the man, his eyes scanning the garage, hunting. 

He found her instantly. 

She had frozen. One hand still held a torque wrench, the other clutched the overalls at her chest. Her eyes—huge, impossibly wide, rimmed with the faint red of exhaustion—locked onto him, then flicked to Alexandra, and something in her face crumpled. Not with fear alone. With awe. She looked at Alexandra the way a starving child looks at a bakery window. 

“Hey,” Charles called, his voice cutting through the pneumatic hiss of the garage. 

She flinched. The wrench clattered to the floor. The entire garage watched as she scrambled to pick it up, nearly hitting her head on the tire jack, her face burning crimson. She stood, clutching the tool to her chest like a shield, and tried to speak. “M-Mr. Leclerc. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you—” 

“Come here.” 

It was not a request. It was a deployment of authority so absolute that two other mechanics stepped backward to clear the path. She moved like a sleepwalker, her sneakers silent, her knees visibly knocking. She stopped three feet away from them, close enough that Charles could smell her—sweat, yes, but beneath it, something sweet and powdery, like baby shampoo and vanilla. She didn’t look up. She stared at his chest, then at Alexandra’s feet, her throat working in a nervous swallow. 

“Look at me,” Charles said. 

Her eyes rose, swimming with tears she was trying to suppress. She looked from him to Alexandra and back again, her breathing shallow and rapid. She was regressing already, Charles realized with a dark thrill. Just his voice, his presence, and she was shrinking into herself, becoming smaller, softer, more dependent. 

“This is my wife,” Charles said, his hand resting possessively on the small of Alexandra’s back. “Alexandra.” 

“Hello,” Alexandra said, and her voice was a different instrument entirely. Warm, honeyed, resonant with a maternal cadence that seemed to coat the garage in silk. She stepped forward, and before she could recoil, Alexandra’s hand was on her cheek, tilting her face up. “Oh, look at you. You’re exhausted. Your hands are shaking. Have they been working you without a break?” 

She went rigid at the touch, then melted. Her eyes fluttered shut, and a single, traitorous tear escaped, sliding down her cheek and onto Alexandra’s thumb. “I… I’m okay,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be trouble.” 

“You’re not trouble,” Alexandra murmured, her thumb wiping the tear away with a tenderness that was surgical in its precision. She turned to Charles, her eyes burning behind her sunglasses. “She’s burning up. She hasn’t eaten.” 

Charles looked down at the girl, at the way she leaned almost imperceptibly into Alexandra’s palm, her body betraying a starvation for touch that she probably didn’t understand. “Hey,” he said, his voice dropping to a register that made her shiver. “Have you eaten today?” 

She shook her head, a small, terrified movement. “No, sir. There was a… a delivery issue with the car, and I wanted to finish, and then I was—” 

“Wrong,” Charles interrupted. “You were avoiding the break room because Eriksson and his dogs were in there, and you’re too afraid to eat in front of men who laugh at you.” 

Her mouth opened. She looked at him with a horror that was indistinguishable from worship. He knew. Of course he knew. He knew everything. 

“Come with us,” Alexandra said, linking her arm through hers. The contrast was obscene—Alexandra’s tall, model perfection against the small, grease-stained mechanic. “We’re going to Charles’s trailer. You’re going to wash your hands and your face, and I’m going to feed you something. And you’re going to tell us why you’re here, working in a place that treats you like a mule.” 

She looked back at the garage, at the unfinished tires, at her job. “But I’m not… I don’t have permission to—” 

“You have my permission,” Charles said, stepping closer, his shadow falling over her completely. “And my permission is the only one that matters in this garage. Do you understand?” 

She looked up at him, and he saw the moment something inside her snapped into alignment. The deference was absolute, ancient, instinctive. She needed a master. She needed a daddy. “Yes, sir,” she breathed. 

“Good girl,” Alexandra cooed, and the words were a velvet trap. She guided her away, her hand resting on the small of the girl’s back, possessive and claiming. 

Charles followed, ignoring the stares, his eyes fixed on the way her small body moved between them, already bracketed, already half-caught. 

The private trailer was a sanctum of luxury that violated the industrial context of the paddock. Italian leather, chilled air, a small kitchenette stocked with imported mineral water and fresh fruit. The bathroom was marble, the towels heated. She stood in the center of the room as if she expected to be arrested, her wet hands twisting the hem of her pink camisole. She had washed her face at Alexandra’s instruction, revealing skin that was translucent, almost fetal in its delicacy. Without the oil and grime, she looked even younger. Even more breakable. 

Alexandra had produced a container of strawberry custard and a silver spoon from God-knows-where. She sat on the leather sofa, her dress pristine, and patted the space beside her. “Sit here, petite.” 

She hesitated, looking at Charles, who stood by the window, arms crossed, his hazel eyes unblinking. He nodded once. She scurried to the sofa, perching on the very edge, her knees pressed together. Alexandra dipped the spoon and held it to her lips. 

“Open,” Alexandra commanded, but softly. Like a mother with a toddler. 

She opened her mouth. The spoon slid in. She made a small, involuntary sound—a whimper of relief—and Charles felt his cock stir against his thigh. She was eating from Alexandra’s hand. She was being fed. 

“Tell us,” Alexandra said, loading another spoonful, “where you live.” 

“La Condamine,” she mumbled, swallowing. “A studio. Above a bakery. It’s… it’s small. But I have Floppy. He’s my bunny. I’ve had him since I was six. He helps me sleep.” 

Charles watched her face. She was regressing in real time, her voice growing higher, her posture curling. She mentioned the bunny without self-consciousness, as if the trailer’s luxury had stripped away her adult defenses. 

“And your family?” Alexandra asked, wiping a drop of custard from her chin with a silk napkin. 

Her face shuttered. She looked down at her hands. “I don’t have any. I was in… in the system. Foster care. Different places. I moved a lot. Nobody wanted me for long.” Her voice cracked. “I had to grow up fast, but I… I never really did. My therapist, Dr. Moreau, says I have complex trauma. That I regress when I’m stressed. That it’s okay to need comfort objects. That’s why I have Floppy. And the bandages. They make me feel… safe. Like someone’s taking care of me.” 

The silence in the trailer was profound. Alexandra’s hand had stilled on her cheek. Charles felt a dark, volcanic heat rise in his chest. Nobody wanted me for long. She was a stray. An abandoned kitten. A broken toy. 

“How old were you when you left the system?” Charles asked, his voice deceptively soft. 

“Eighteen,” she whispered. “I’ve been alone since then. Working. I got the mechanic job because I’m good with numbers. With patterns. But the people… the men… they scare me. I don’t know how to talk to them. I always say the wrong thing. I always cry.” 

“You’re not meant for them,” Charles said, stepping forward. He stood over her, his height dwarfing her completely. “You’re too soft. Too small. You need structure. Rules. You need someone to tell you what to do so you don’t have to be afraid of getting it wrong.” 

She looked up at him, and he saw the truth blaze in her eyes. She was nodding before she could stop herself, tears spilling freely now. “Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, I need… I need someone to tell me. I’m so tired of being alone. I’m so tired of being scared.” 

Alexandra pulled her close. She went rigid for a fraction of a second, then collapsed against Alexandra’s breast, her small body racked with silent sobs. Alexandra wrapped her arms around her, stroking her hair, rocking her gently, her eyes meeting Charles’s over the girl’s head. 

Mommy, her gaze said. She’s calling me Mommy without words. 

Charles crouched down, bringing himself to her level. He reached out and gripped her chin, forcing her tear-streaked face up from Alexandra’s chest. She looked at him, wrecked, open, utterly exposed. 

“Listen to me, petit lapin,” he murmured, the French endearment falling from his lips like a brand. “You are not going back to that garage floor today. You are going to sit here with Alexandra. She is going to take care of you. And tomorrow, you will come to my office at the team tower, and we will discuss your future. A safer position. A better life. Do you understand?” 

She blinked, confused, overwhelmed, but the instinct to obey was stronger than her fear. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, Daddy—I mean—” 

She froze. Her face went white. The word had slipped out unbidden, a shard of her regression breaking the surface. 

Charles smiled. It was the smile of a man who had just watched a lock click open. 

“That’s right,” he said softly, mercilessly. “That’s exactly right. Now be a good girl for Mommy. Let her hold you. You’re safe now.” 

Alexandra pressed a kiss to her temple, her eyes closed, her face suffused with a dark, possessive rapture. She held the girl like a child, like a captive, like a daughter she had finally found after years of searching. 

Charles stood and walked to the window, looking out at the Monaco circuit glittering beneath the afternoon sun. His heart was a cold, steady drum. He had her. He had them both. The room was ready. The girl was unraveling in their arms, offering them her innocence like a throat offered to a blade. 

But not yet. 

Tonight, they would return to the penthouse. Tonight, Alexandra would arrange the bed one more time, would lay out the pink nightgown in the cream-colored room. Tonight, Charles would sit in his study and plan the next move—the invitation, the offer, the moment when she would step into their world and find the door locked behind her. 

He turned back to look at them. Alexandra was singing softly in French, a lullaby, while her—exhausted, traumatized, starving for love—had fallen asleep in her arms, her thumb resting against her lower lip, her face utterly at peace. 

Leo would have his playmate. The yellow room would have its tenant. And Charles Leclerc, World Champion, would have his legacy. 

He raised his glass to the sleeping girl. 

“Soon,” he whispered. 

And the trailer held its breath. 

The free practice session had ended with Charles a full six-tenths clear of the field, but the numbers meant nothing. He stood in the Ferrari garage, his race suit peeled to the waist, sweat glossing the hard planes of his chest, and surveyed the pit lane with a restlessness that had nothing to do with telemetry. His hazel eyes hunted through the scattering of mechanics and engineers, cataloging faces with the precision of a man who had already decided what belonged to him. 

She was not there. 

She had not been hovering at the edge of the tire cart, her eyes wide and anxious, waiting for instruction. She had not brought him the customary water bottle, trembling when he brushed her fingers. She was simply gone. 

Alexandra found him at the garage exit, her sunglasses doing nothing to hide the tightness around her mouth. She wore a cream silk blouse and trousers that made her five-foot-nine frame look like a blade, but her hands were shaking. “I went to the trailer. She never came back from the parts run. She’s not answering her phone.” 

“She doesn’t have a phone,” Charles said, his voice a low, cutting thing. “She has a mint green backpack, a stuffed bunny, and a nervous system that shuts down when the world gets too loud. Someone took her apart today.” 

A shadow crossed Alexandra’s face, dark and murderous. “Find her.” 

They moved through the paddock like wolves through fog. The glamour of Monaco—the yachts, the champagne tents, the polished motorhomes—ended at the service corridors, where the real machinery of the circus lived. Behind the main garage, past the industrial dumpsters and the screaming generators, there was a forgotten concrete staircase that led to a secondary fire exit. The steps were stained with oil, rainwater, and the rust of a thousand forgotten seasons. 

And there, tucked into the shadow beneath the metal railing, was a small, pastel-colored shape. 

She had made herself as small as physics allowed, her back against the grimy concrete wall, her thin knees drawn up to her chest. Her standard team overalls were torn at both knees, the fabric darkened with a wetness that was not grease. Her skin was scraped raw, the flesh angry and bleeding in shallow, brutal streaks across her patellas, gravel embedded in the wounds like black punctuation. She had lost one shoe. The other—a battered white canvas sneaker—hung half-off her small foot. Her mint green backpack lay abandoned beside her, zipper gaping, but her arms were wrapped around something else entirely. 

Floppy. 

The cream-colored bunny was mashed hard against her face, her nose buried in the worn, threadbare fabric of its ear. She was rocking, barely perceptible, a rhythmic, infantile motion that spoke of a mind retreating to a place where no one could follow. Her thumb was lodged deep in her mouth, wet and sucking. Her eyes were open but vacant, staring at nothing, the pupils blown wide with a dissociation that went far beyond ordinary tears. Her face was streaked with garage dust and salt, her lower lip split and swollen where she had bitten through it. 

She had regressed completely. The trauma had swallowed her whole. 

Charles stopped walking. Alexandra’s breath caught in a sound that was half-sob, half-hunger. 

“Oh,” Alexandra whispered, her voice cracking. “Oh, my baby. My petit lapin.” 

She didn’t hear them. She was humming, a broken, tuneless sound, lost in the small, safe space she had retreated to. Her scraped knees trembled. Her breath hitched in shallow, panicked intervals. 

Charles moved first. 

His shadow fell over her like an eclipse, and she flinched violently at the darkness, a high, animal whine escaping around her thumb. She tried to press herself into the concrete wall, becoming smaller, wishing herself invisible. Her whole body shook. 

“Don’t,” Charles commanded. His voice was steel wrapped in black velvet, absolute and cold. “Look at me.” 

She couldn’t. She was too far gone. Her eyes, huge and blank and flooded with terror, flickered toward him and filled with a horror that had no bottom. She made a sound against her thumb. “D-dah…” 

The word was infantile. Unformed. Daddy. 

Charles knelt on the filthy concrete. The grime stained his race suit. He didn’t care. He reached out and gripped her chin with cruel gentleness, forcing her face away from Floppy’s matted fur. Her skin was feverish, streaked with tears and oil. “You’ve made a mess of yourself,” he said, his voice low and merciless. “Bleeding on concrete. Hiding like a stray. Daddy’s rules are very simple, petit lapin. You do not hide. You do not hurt yourself where I cannot see. You come to me.” 

“She’s non-verbal,” Alexandra breathed, dropping to her knees beside him. Her cream trousers soaked through instantly in the oily puddle. She didn’t care. Her hands hovered over her scraped knees, trembling with a need to touch, to heal, to claim. “Oh, my sweet girl. My poor little lapin. Who did this to you? Who hurt Mommy’s baby?” 

She blinked at Alexandra, and something in the void cracked. Her face crumpled like wet paper. She pulled her thumb from her mouth with a wet, obscene pop and reached out, blindly, for Alexandra’s neck. “M-mommy,” she keened, her voice high and splintered, a child’s wail. “Mommy, it hurts. I fell. I fell and they laughed and I couldn’t… I couldn’t breathe and the noise was too loud…” 

She was an adult, speaking like a four-year-old, her grammar shattered, her thin body racked with aftershocks. 

Charles watched, his jaw tight, his muscular six-foot-plus frame coiled with a dark, predatory hunger that he made no effort to hide. He felt the thick, heavy surge of his cock against his race suit, aroused by the absolute breaking, the total surrender. This was what they had wanted. What they had planned for in the pink room with the cream wainscoting and the bed built for a doll. 

“Up,” he ordered. 

He slid one arm beneath her knees, careful to avoid the raw, bleeding scrapes, and the other around her narrow back. She weighed nothing. Ninety pounds of fragile, damaged innocence. He lifted her against his chest, and she went utterly limp, her head lolling against his shoulder, her small hand fisting in the damp fabric of his collar. He smelled her hair—vanilla, sweat, the salt of tears, and something powdery and young beneath it, like baby lotion. 

Alexandra stood, snatching the mint green backpack and Floppy from the concrete. She pressed the bunny into her hands. “Here, baby. Hold Floppy. Mommy has Floppy.” 

She clutched the bunny, her arms wrapping around it and Charles’s neck simultaneously, binding herself to both of them. “Daddy,” she mumbled against his throat, her eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t be mad. I tried to be good. I tried to do the tires. I’m sorry I’m stupid…” 

Charles began walking, carrying her through the service alley back toward the light of the paddock. His face was a mask of fury and possession. “You were perfect,” he said, and whether it was a lie or the darkest truth, it sounded like a verdict. “And you are never going back there. The garage is done. The men are done. You belong to Mommy and Daddy now.” 

Alexandra walked beside him, her hand resting on her back, stroking in slow, possessive circles. “We’re taking you home, petit lapin. Our home. Remember? We told you about the room. The soft pink walls. The cream bed. The little lamp. Leo is waiting—do you remember Leo? The puppy?” 

“Puppy,” she repeated dreamily, her thumb finding its way back to her mouth. She sucked softly, her body vibrating with exhaustion, her scraped knees dangling in the air, the blood drying in thin rivulets down her pale calves. 

They emerged into the paddock. The Ferrari motorhome loomed ahead, but Charles did not turn toward it. He moved toward the private parking area where his black Ferrari Purosangue waited, matte and gleaming, windows tinted to obsidian. The team members stared. Some moved to intercept, but one look at Charles’s face—at the world champion carrying a filthy, broken girl in his arms like a sacred, bloodied relic—stopped them cold. Alexandra flanked him, her perfect model’s body a shield, her hand resting possessively on the girl’s head, her white blouse smeared with grease and rust. 

The rear door opened. Charles slid inside, settling her across the bench seat. Alexandra climbed in after, arranging the girl’s head in her lap. She pulled a cashmere throw from the rear compartment—a soft, obscene pink—and draped it over her shivering form. 

“Mommy’s cold,” she whimpered, her voice muffled by the blanket. 

“Not anymore,” Alexandra whispered, bending to press her lips to her forehead. Her eyes were half-closed, her face suffused with a rapturous, maternal glow. “Mommy’s going to take care of everything. Mommy’s going to draw you a bath. And Daddy’s going to carry you to bed. And you’re going to sleep in the nursery we made for you. The yellow room is gone, baby. It’s all pink now. All soft. All safe.” 

Charles started the engine. The drive to the Avenue Princesse Grace was brief, a winding, glittering descent through Monaco’s corridors of wealth. She lay with her cheek against Alexandra’s thigh, her eyes half-lidded, her scraped knees a brutal contrast to the pristine leather. She was barely conscious, drifting in and out of the regressed state, sucking her thumb, clutching Floppy, occasionally mumbling “Mommy” or “Daddy” in a voice so small it was nearly lost to the engine’s purr. 

Alexandra hummed the French lullaby from the trailer, her long fingers carding through her tangled, brunette hair. “She needs a bath,” Alexandra murmured, her gaze fixed on the girl with obsessive tenderness. “Then the nursery. Then I want to hold her against my chest until she sleeps. I want to feel her heart beat.” 

Charles’s hands gripped the wheel, his knuckles white. “She called me Daddy in the regression,” he said, his voice thick with dark, triumphant satisfaction. “It’s instinctive. She knows. Her body knows who owns her before her mind can catch up.” 

“She knows,” Alexandra agreed. Her eyes were closed, her face transformed by a monstrous, beautiful purpose. “And when she wakes up, Mommy will be there. And Daddy will set the rules. And she’ll never have to be alone again. She’ll never have to be scared again. We’ll be her whole world.” 

The car purred to a stop beneath the building. The doorman stepped forward, but Charles waved him off with a curt, brutal gesture. He opened the rear door and gathered her into his arms again, her small, thin body completely boneless, completely trusting. Alexandra followed, the backpack over her shoulder, Floppy’s cream-colored ears protruding from the zipper. 

The lobby of the Avenue Princesse Grace building was a cathedral of marble and silence, a place where billionaires moved like ghosts and money had scrubbed every trace of humanity from the walls. They crossed it quickly, toward the private elevator bank at the rear. The doors were brass and mirrored, reflecting the obscene, irrevocable tableau: Charles, the muscular, towering world champion, still in his partially unzipped race suit, carrying a filthy, tiny girl in oversized mechanic’s overalls; Alexandra, the flawless twenty-five-year-old model, her perfect body stained with grease and rust from the concrete steps, her hand resting protectively on the girl’s head, her eyes burning with a claiming that had already sealed. 

Charles pressed his thumb to the biometric scanner. The elevator chimed, a soft, expensive sound. 

“Welcome home, petit lapin,” Charles murmured against her hair, his voice cold and dark and absolute. He stepped inside, Alexandra following, her arm sliding around his waist to touch the girl between them. 

The doors closed. 

The elevator began to rise, carrying them toward the penthouse, toward the pink room, toward the end of her loneliness and the beginning of her forever. 

And somewhere above, in the silence of the marble sanctuary, Leo barked once—small, warm, and expectant—as if in welcome. 

The elevator doors parted with a sound like a velvet curtain drawing back, and the penthouse exhaled around them—cold, immense, and perfumed with amber and white jasmine. She whimpered against Charles’s chest, her scraped knees twitching, her small body recoiling from the shift in light. The space was cavernous, all shadowed marble and soaring ceilings, the windows black mirrors reflecting the harbor’s distant jewels. It was a cathedral built for dominion, and she was a dirty, trembling creature at its center. 

Then the click of nails against stone. 

Leo Leclerc emerged from the darkened corridor ahead, his miniature long-haired dachshund body a warm streak of burnt caramel against the sterile floor. His ears—impossibly long, feathered with silk—dragged like twin pennants as he trotted forward, his tail a metronome of curious delight. He was absurdly small, barely clearing Charles’s shoe, and when he reached the huddle of legs and cashmere, he stopped. His dark eyes, round and glossy, fixed on her. 

“Puppy,” she breathed. Her voice was not the voice of a mechanic. It was a fractured, infantile chirp, her thumb lodged wetly at the corner of her mouth. She stared at Leo with an awe that seemed to fracture the last of her adult composure, her eyes wide and drowning. “Oh… oh, puppy…” 

Charles’s cruel smile ghosted across his lips. He adjusted his grip on her, letting her see the dog more clearly. “His name is Leo,” he said, his voice dropping into the low, condescending register that made her shiver. “Leo Leclerc. He belongs to Mommy and Daddy. And now, petit lapin, he belongs to you, too. Do you want to hold him?” 

She nodded frantically, tears spilling again. Alexandra stepped forward, scooping Leo up with one hand. She brought the warm, wriggling body close to her face, and the girl let out a broken, ecstatic sound. She buried her nose in Leo’s soft fur, inhaling deeply, her scraped knees kicking weakly against Charles’s forearm. The dog licked her chin, and she giggled—a high, unguarded, childlike sound that echoed through the marble hall. 

“Good boy,” Alexandra cooed, stroking Leo’s ears. “He knows his sister is home. He’s been waiting for his petit lapin.” 

“Bedroom,” Charles commanded. He did not wait for agreement. He carried her down the corridor, past the master suite with its heavy, locked doors, past the glass-walled study where trophies gleamed under precision lighting, toward a door at the end of the hall that glowed faintly from within. The cream-colored door handle was small, delicate, shaped like a sleeping rabbit. 

Alexandra moved ahead, pushing it open. 

The nursery was a wound of softness. The blush-pink walls seemed to pulse with a warmth stolen from the rest of the apartment, lit only by the milk-glass lamp on the cream nightstand and a constellation of pinprick ceiling lights that made the hand-painted silk moons glow. The low white bed was heaped with pillows in pastel pink and mint green, the sheepskin rug swallowing the sound of Alexandra’s heels. The air smelled of vanilla and new cotton, of lavender and something darker—possession, perhaps, or the sterile cleanliness of a place that had been waiting, empty, for a very specific soul to fill it. 

Charles stepped inside and lowered her onto the edge of the bed. She sank into the down, her torn overalls and dirty sneakers grotesque against the pristine linens. She clutched Floppy to her chest with one arm, the other hand reaching instinctively for Leo, who Alexandra had placed beside her. The dog curled into her lap, a living hot-water bottle. 

“Look around, baby,” Alexandra whispered. She knelt in front of her, her tall, model-perfect body folding with impossible grace. She cupped her face, her thumbs brushing away fresh tears. “This is your room. Your nursery. Do you see how pretty it is? Pink like your little cheeks. Soft like your Floppy. This is where Mommy’s good girl sleeps.” 

Her eyes wandered, dazed and glittering. The painted rabbits on the ceiling. The small white furniture. The closet door, slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of something pale and frilled. 

Alexandra stood and walked to the closet. She opened it fully, and the contents breathed out like a secret. 

Everything was custom. Everything was small. 

Dresses in powder blue and blush pink hung in a row, each no larger than a child’s size but cut with a sophistication that betrayed their obscene price. There were velvet pinafores in dusty lavender, cashmere cardigans the color of fresh cream with oversized sleeves that would swallow her delicate hands, Peter Pan collars in ivory silk. Soft cotton panties—white, pink, mint—were folded in cream wicker baskets, sized extra-small. Mary Jane flats in patent leather sat in a neat row, each pair no bigger than a dinner roll. A set of sheer pastel tights, still in their tissue paper, bore the crest of a Milanese couture house that did not advertise. 

And clipped to a satin ribbon on the inside of the door, matching the outfits in perfect chromatic harmony, were the pacifier straps. 

Alexandra ran her fingers along them. Each one was a delicate confection of silk ribbon and rose-gold hardware, tiny clips at the ends shaped like sleeping bunnies, stars, and moons. A blush pink strap matched the pink dresses. A cream one matched the ivory cardigans. A lavender one for the velvet pinafore. They were functional jewelry, designed to tether a pacifier to an outfit so it would never be lost—so it would always be within reach, always be needed. 

“Do you see what Mommy made for you?” Alexandra purred, selecting a hanger. She pulled out a nightgown in the softest baby pink, the fabric so fine it was nearly translucent. The hem was edged with cream lace, the sleeves billowing and long. It was the kind of garment a doll would wear to bed. “This is for tonight. And this…” 

She reached for a ribbon. The pacifier strap was silk in the palest pink, embroidered with tiny silver rabbits along its length. She held it up, letting it catch the light. 

“…this is so you never lose your binky. So Mommy and Daddy always know where you are, and what you need.” 

She stared, her thumb falling from her mouth. Her lips were swollen, chapped, her eyes huge and confused. “I… I don’t… I’m not a baby…” 

The protest was barely a whisper. It had no teeth. It was a reflex, the last dying spasm of an adult identity that had already been drowned in the concrete alley behind the garage. 

Charles stepped forward. He towered over her, his shadow falling across the pink bed like a storm cloud. He was still shirtless beneath his unzipped race suit, his muscular chest heaving, his hazel eyes fixed on her with a predatory, icy focus. He reached down and gripped her jaw—not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to remind her that her bones were small and his hands were not. 

“You are whatever Daddy says you are,” he murmured. His thumb pressed against her lower lip, pulling it down, exposing the wet pink interior of her mouth. “And tonight, petit lapin, you are a baby. You are Mommy and Daddy’s little lapin. You sleep here. You wear what you’re given. You take what you’re given. And you do not argue.” 

She trembled, her breath hitching. A fresh tear rolled down her cheek and onto his knuckle. 

“Say yes, Daddy,” Alexandra prompted softly, coming to kneel beside the bed. She laid the nightgown and the strap across the down comforter, within her terrified gaze. “Be a good girl for Mommy.” 

“Y-yes, Daddy,” she stammered. The words were automatic, dredged up from the regressed, broken place where she had retreated. Her body sagged with relief as she said it, as if the act of submission had unlocked a cage inside her. 

“Good girl,” Alexandra cooed, her voice dripping with dark, maternal satisfaction. “Now, Mommy is going to take care of those dirty clothes. And those poor knees.” 

She began to undress her with methodical, gentle precision. The torn overalls were unzipped and peeled away, revealing the pastel pink camisole beneath, stained with grease and sweat. The sneakers were removed—one, then the other—her small feet bare and pale. Alexandra wiped her down with warm, lavender-scented cloths she produced from the cream nightstand, cleaning the grime from her neck, her arms, her narrow stomach. When she reached the scraped knees, her touch became even softer, her eyes glazing with a hunger that was almost religious. 

“Poor baby,” Alexandra whispered, dabbing antiseptic on the raw, gravel-studded flesh. “Poor, poor little thing. You hurt yourself so badly. But Mommy is here. Mommy makes it better.” 

She whimpered, her body jerking at the sting, but Alexandra held her calf steady, pressing a kiss to the uninjured skin above the wound. She bandaged the knees with fresh adhesive wraps—white, dotted with tiny pink clouds—and then lifted the nightgown. 

“Arms up,” she commanded, in the sing-song of a mother dressing a toddler. 

She obeyed, raising her thin arms. The nightgown was slipped over her head, the fabric settling around her like a pink cloud. It was too large, the hem pooling around her small frame on the bed, the sleeves swallowing her hands. She looked five years old. She looked like a toy. 

Alexandra clipped the silk pacifier strap to the neckline of the nightgown, the rose-gold bunny clip gleaming against the pink fabric. Then she reached into the pocket of her own ruined cream trousers and withdrew the pacifier. 

It was obscene in its perfection. Soft, matte silicone in a baby pink so pale it was nearly blush, the shield shaped like a heart, the nipple short and rounded. It was adult-sized but designed to mimic the exact proportions of an infant’s pacifier, engineered for a mouth that needed to be silenced, to be occupied, to be regressed. 

Alexandra held it between her thumb and forefinger, letting it dangle from the silk strap. “Open, baby.” 

She stared at it, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts. This was a line, a threshold in the dark. She shook her head, a tiny, terrified motion. 

Charles’s hand closed around her throat. Not choking—just holding, just reminding. His thumb stroked her pulse, feeling how it hammered like a trapped bird. “You take Mommy’s gift,” he said, his voice a low, merciless purr. “You take it, and you suck. You do not think. You do not speak. You are a vessel for our care, petit lapin. Nothing more. Now open.” 

her lips parted. A sob escaped, but she did not close her mouth. 

Alexandra slid the pacifier in. 

The fit was exact. The silicone filled her mouth, pressing her tongue down, sealing her lips around the shield. The strap tugged gently at her nightgown, anchoring it, making it part of her. Her eyes went wide, then fluttered shut. Her body went limp. She made a sound—mmph—that was not a word, that was pure, infantile surrender. 

“Oh,” Alexandra breathed, her eyes darkening. “Oh, look at her. Look at our baby.” 

She leaned in and pressed a long, soft kiss to her forehead, her hands cupping the girl’s cheeks. “That’s Mommy’s good girl. That’s Daddy’s perfect little lapin. So quiet now. So pretty. No more thinking. No more garage. No more noise. Just Mommy and Daddy and Leo and your pink room.” 

Charles crouched down, bringing his face level with hers. The pacifier moved gently in her mouth as she began to suck, her eyes opening to meet his, glazed and lost. He reached out and wiped a tear from her cheek with a tenderness that was more obscene than any violence. “You sleep here tonight,” he commanded. “In this bed. In this room. You do not leave. If you need something, you cry for Mommy. If you misbehave, you answer to Daddy. Do you understand?” 

She nodded, the pacifier bobbing, her eyes wide and empty and utterly devoted. 

Alexandra lifted Leo from her lap and tucked him against her side, then arranged Floppy on the pillow beside her. She pulled the pink cashmere blanket up to her chin, tucking it tight around her thin body, swaddling her in luxury. “Sleep now, petit lapin,” she hummed, stroking her hair. “Mommy will be right down the hall. Daddy will check on you. And tomorrow, we will dress you in something even prettier. You have so many outfits to try. So many straps to wear. You’ll never have to be dirty again. You’ll never have to be alone again.” 

She stood, and Charles rose with her, six-foot-two of muscular, towering darkness. They looked down at the bed where she lay, pacifier rhythmically moving in her mouth, baby pink nightgown bunched around her, bandaged knees drawn up, Leo curled warm against her hip and Floppy clutched in her hand. She looked like a doll. Like a captive. Like a daughter. 

Like a thing that had finally been placed in its proper box. 

Alexandra turned off the milk-glass lamp, leaving only the soft glow of the painted moons above. The room settled into a womb-like darkness. 

“Goodnight, baby,” Charles murmured from the doorway. He did not say her name. He did not need to. She was no longer, the mechanic. She was the petit lapin. Their pet. Their possession. 

The door closed with a soft, definitive click. 

And in the silence of the pink room, with the taste of silicone and submission filling her mouth, she closed her eyes and slept. 

The first time Lando Norris saw her, he was twenty-six years old, sharp-jawed, his reputation for chaos trailing behind him like exhaust smoke. It was the Thursday before free practice in Monaco, the Principality already swollen with wealth and noise, and he was walking beside Oscar Piastri toward the McLaren hospitality suite. The Australian was twenty-five, quieter, his features carved with a precision that made him look like a blade left out in cold air. They were laughing about something trivial when Lando stopped. 

The Ferrari garage yawned ahead, a fortress of scarlet arrogance. And inside its mouth, a girl was trying to carry a stack of brake ducts that towered above her head. 

She was small. Unforgivably small. Thin in a way that made her look like she had been assembled from bird bones and porcelain. The red Ferrari overalls were cinched at her waist with a spare strap, but the fabric still pooled around her ankles, hiding whatever battered shoes she wore. Her hair was a soft, messy brunette, falling from a ponytail in loose waves that looked unbrushed, unstyled, utterly untouched by the glamour of the paddock. She was struggling, her thin arms wrapped around the carbon fiber, her lower lip caught between her teeth in concentration. 

And then she saw them. 

She froze. The brake ducts shifted, and she nearly lost them, her eyes widening to impossible proportions. She was staring at Lando. Then at Oscar. Then back to Lando. Her cheeks, already pale, flushed a violent, mortified crimson that spread down her throat and disappeared beneath the collar of her pastel pink t-shirt. 

"Oh, fuck me," Lando murmured, his smile sharpening into something predatory beneath the playful lilt. "Look at that, Oscar. A little rabbit in the lion's den." 

Oscar looked. His pale eyes narrowed. He saw the flush. He saw the way her hands began to shake, the way she clutched the mint green backpack on her shoulder as if it were a shield. And protruding from the half-open zipper, a cream-colored ear. A stuffed animal. 

"She's a fan," Oscar said quietly. His voice was flat, clinical, but something in his posture had shifted, a coiling tension that made his shoulders bunch beneath his charcoal shirt. "She's ours. Look at her. She knows us." 

Lando waved. 

The girl made a sound, a tiny, strangled thing lost to the pneumatic scream of the garage. She looked down so fast her neck must have snapped, her entire body curling inward, the crimson deepening. She wanted to vanish. She wanted to be seen. She was paralyzed between worship and terror. 

"Did you see her backpack?" Lando said as they walked on, his hands buried in his pockets, his grin wicked. "Mint green. Little stars. And the toy. She carries a fucking stuffed animal to work, Oscar. She's a baby playing in a warzone." 

Oscar did not smile. He was looking back. He had seen the way one of the senior mechanics shouted at her, the way she flinched as if struck, the way her eyes immediately glossed with tears she was too broken to shed. He had seen the adhesive bandage on her thumb, printed with cartoon clouds. He had seen the tiny McLaren orange keychain dangling from her bag beside the bunny ear. 

"She's not playing," Oscar said. "She's breaking. And no one there is catching her." 

They began to watch. Not obviously. Not with the brutal, claiming dominance of Charles Leclerc, but with the patient, predatory observation of men who had spent their lives studying telemetry, searching for the weak point in a machine that would allow them to take total control. 

They noticed everything. 

They noticed that whenever they walked past the Ferrari garage, she was there. Not working on anything important, but hovering at the edges, assigned the menial tasks the senior mechanics discarded. She would be checking tire pressures, or sorting bolts, or sitting on a low stool with her knees drawn up, her eyes staring at the scarlet machinery with a loneliness that made Lando's chest ache with something dark and proprietary. 

And always, always, the blush. 

They would turn the corner, and her breathing would change. Lando could see it from twenty feet away: the hitch in her narrow chest, the way her small body went rigid. She would look up, her gaze locking onto them for one electric, helpless second, and then the pink would bloom across her cheeks, her mouth would open, and she would look down, her messy hair falling like a curtain. She loved them. She was terrified of them. She was perfect. 

They began to linger. They would take longer routes to the paddock, walking past the Ferrari bay with deliberate slowness, their McLaren papaya orange a bright rebuke to the scarlet. They learned her schedule. She arrived earliest, before the sun burned the harbor, and she left last, always alone, always small against the massive machinery. 

Oscar saw the regression first. It was during a rain delay in Barcelona, the paddock humid and miserable. He had gone to the rear service area seeking quiet, and he found her behind the Ferrari motorhome, sitting on the concrete steps in the downpour. She was not wearing a coat. Her overalls were soaked, her knees scraped and bleeding, and she was clutching that cream-colored bunny to her face with both arms, her body rocking in a rhythm so infantile it made him stop breathing. 

He had wanted to go to her. He had wanted to lift her, to carry her to the McLaren unit, to strip her out of the wet overalls and wrap her in something warm and tell her that no one would ever shout at her again. He wanted to hold her thinness against his chest and feel her cry until she was empty, and then he wanted to fill her with himself, with his protection, with his absolute, suffocating control. 

But he hadn't. He had watched from the shadows, his jaw tight, his hands fisted in his pockets. And when Charles Leclerc had appeared, his six-foot-two frame casting a shadow over her, when the Ferrari driver had knelt and gripped her chin with that cruel, proprietary intimacy, Oscar had felt the first spike of true hatred. 

"He's seen her," Oscar reported that night, in the apartment they shared high above Monaco's harbor. The space was all glass and leather, minimalist and masculine, nothing like the pink sanctuary being prepared across the city. Lando was sprawled on the sofa, a whiskey in his large hand, his eyes half-lidded. 

"Of course he has," Lando said. "Charles sees everything. He wants to break her first." 

"He's already breaking her," Oscar said, standing at the window. He was shirtless, his muscular torso pale and sharp in the moonlight, his Australian accent clipped with frustration. "I saw him with her. The way he touched her. She was crying, and he fed her from his hand. She was eating from him like a bird. She doesn't know she's being hunted." 

"She's a virgin," Lando said, his voice dropping to a predatory whisper. He swirled the whiskey. "You can smell it on her. She's never been touched. Never been fucked. She probably sleeps with that bunny between her legs, rocking herself to sleep without knowing what she's doing." 

Oscar turned. His eyes were cold, burning. "We take her first. Before he does. We offer her what he doesn't have. We offer her two men who would burn the world to keep her in a pink cage. You can be the chaos that spoils her. I can be the structure that holds her. She'll never need to think again." 

They learned her name from a hospitality girl who had seen her crying in the media center bathroom. The girl had felt bad for her, had given her a tissue, had noticed her phone when she pulled it out to check the time. A cracked Samsung with a mint green case dotted with stars. 

They saved the number. They drafted texts in the dark hours after races. They planned their approach. They would be gentle at first, then relentless. They would tell her she was safe. They would tell her she belonged with them. They would offer her the world, and then they would take hers away. 

But they had been too slow. 

They saw her leave the garage that evening after free practice in Monaco. They saw the black Ferrari Purosangue waiting in the private parking. They saw Alexandra Leclerc step out, tall and flawless, her hand reaching for the girl. And they saw Charles carry her, limp and tiny, into the back seat, her face pressed against his shoulder, a pink cashmere blanket already being drawn over her. 

They knew then. 

They sent the texts anyway. 

The phone had been meant for the trash. Charles had retrieved it from her locker, along with the rest of her pitiful belongings, and had tossed it into the drawer of his study with the intention of incinerating it. But Alexandra had stopped him, her eyes calculating in the dim light of the nursery doorway. 

"Keep it," she had said. "If anyone looks for her, we want to know." 

It had sat in the dark for three days, the battery dead, the screen cracked. 

Until now. 

Charles was in the nursery, watching her suck her pacifier in the glow of the painted moons, her bandaged knees tucked beneath the pink nightgown, when Alexandra appeared in the doorway. She wore a cream silk robe, her model's body immaculate, but her face was a mask of tension that made her cheekbones look like cut glass. 

"Charles," she whispered. "Come." 

He followed her to the study. The phone was lit on the marble desk, vibrating with a series of delayed notifications that had somehow released in a sudden, malicious flood, as if the network had finally found its target. 

Charles picked it up. 

Two texts. Two numbers. The names glowed in the cracked dark. 

Lando: "Found you, little mechanic. Been watching you hide behind the red cars. You don't belong there. You belong with us. With McLaren. With me. I'm going to take you away from the grease and the shouting. You'll like my motorhome better. It has pink blankets too. Don't make me come looking for you, bunny. - L" 

Oscar: "You're not answering. Good. Means you're thinking. Or scared. I saw you crying last week. I saw your knees. I saw your bunny. You need someone to keep you safe from the Ferrari wolves. Text me back. I'll come get you. You don't have to be alone. But if you don't answer, I'll find you anyway. - O" 

Charles read them twice. His hand tightened on the phone until the plastic groaned. The screen spiderwebbed further, but he did not look away. He felt the cold, volcanic rage that had carried him to his world championship, the same black fire that lived in his gut when he was destroying rivals on the track. 

"They know her," he said, his voice a whisper that cut like a blade. 

Alexandra read over his shoulder. Her face went pale, then flushed with a dark, territorial fury that transformed her beauty into something lethal. "They want her," she breathed. "The McLaren boys. Lando and Oscar. They watched her too. They saw her crying. They saw her bunny." Her hands trembled, then fisted in the silk of her robe. "They want to take our baby." 

Charles set the phone down. The cracked screen flickered, then went dark. He turned to the window, looking out at the Monaco harbor, his six-foot-two frame rigid with violence. He imagined Lando's large hands on her narrow waist. He imagined Oscar's sharp, pale gaze stripping her naked in the McLaren garage. He imagined them offering her pink blankets, as if they had any right to her. 

"She's ours," Charles said, his voice flat and absolute. "She sleeps in our pink room. She sucks the pacifier we gave her. She calls me Daddy and she calls you Mommy. These boys are children playing with matches. They don't know what it means to own something." 

Alexandra moved to his side, pressing her body against his arm. She was shaking, but not with fear. With hunger. "We have to make sure she never wants to leave. We have to make her forget there was ever a world outside. We have to break her so completely that if they ever find her, she'll crawl back to us on her scraped knees." 

Charles turned to her. His eyes were dead, beautiful, and merciless. "She already is broken. And we are going to keep the pieces." 

He looked toward the nursery door, where the pink light seeped into the hallway like a pulse. "Tomorrow, we begin the next phase. No more softness. No more waiting. We bind her to us. Body and soul. And if those boys ever come near our petit lapin..." 

He did not finish the sentence. He did not need to. 

Alexandra smiled, and in the dark of the study, it was the smile of a mother whose cub had been threatened by wolves. 

"We'll show them," she whispered, "what happens to anyone who tries to take our baby." 

The phone buzzed once more, a final, dying vibration. A delayed message from Lando, timed and lethal: "We know where you are, little rabbit. And we are coming." 

Charles crushed the phone beneath his heel, the glass shattering into a thousand silent pieces. 

"Let them come," he said. 

And the nursery, down the hall, held its breath. 

The pink room breathed in the dark. 

She was dreaming of nothing safe when the window latch clicked. 

Oscar had studied the building for three weeks. He knew the service corridors, the blind spots of the private security Charles employed, the exact angle of the balcony that caught no light from the harbor below. He had bought the access code from a concierge who gambled too much in Monte Carlo, and he had watched, and he had waited. Now he was inside. 

Lando followed, the younger man’s fingers flexing with a hunger that had been building since the first time he saw her blush behind the Ferrari garage. They wore black, soft-soled shoes, and the scent of the night clung to them: ozone, salt, and the papaya orange of their own team’s colors that seemed to mark them even in darkness. They moved through the penthouse like predators through a rival’s territory. Past the marble foyer where Leo had been sleeping in a velvet basket. Lando paused, a syringe of veterinary sedative in his hand, but the dog did not stir. Not yet. The nursery door was closed but not locked. Charles and Alexandra trusted their world too much. They believed their petit lapin was caged, and cages, they assumed, held. 

The door swung open. 

The nursery was a womb of blush and shadow. The painted moons on the ceiling glowed faintly. The milk-glass lamp was dimmed to a pulse. And in the center of the white bed, she slept. 

She was on her side, her thin frame curled into a comma. The baby pink nightgown had ridden up her stick-thin thighs, revealing the white cotton panties beneath, the bandages on her scraped knees still pristine. Her thumb was in her mouth, wet and gently sucking. The pacifier had fallen from her lips during the night, the silk strap dangling from the nightgown’s neckline. Floppy was crushed against her chest. And against her stomach, warm and small, Leo slept, his long dachshund body rising and falling with her breath. 

Lando stopped breathing. Oscar closed the door behind them with a click that was softer than a heartbeat. 

They stood at the foot of the bed and watched her. The virgin. The doll. The mechanic who had regressed herself into a pink, wet, helpless thing for another man. 

“She’s smaller in person,” Lando whispered, his voice a rasp. “Look at her. Look at the cunt on her. You can see the outline through those cotton panties. Virgin. Untouched.” 

Oscar said nothing. His pale eyes were fixed on her face, on the flutter of her eyelids, the parted wet lips around her thumb. He reached out and, with a clinical gentleness, pulled the blanket away. The air stirred. She whimpered, her hips twitching, but she did not wake. 

“Take her,” Oscar said. 

Lando moved first. He slid one arm beneath her knees, the other beneath her narrow back. She weighed nothing. Ninety pounds of pale, warm, sleeping innocence. As he lifted, her thumb slipped from her mouth with a wet, obscene pop. Her lips pursed, searching. She made a sound, a mewl, a kitten’s cry. Her eyes opened. 

Blank. Terrified. 

She opened her mouth to scream, but Oscar’s hand clamped over her face. He pressed a cloth soaked in sweet, chemical darkness against her nose and mouth. Her body went rigid, her small hands clawing at his forearm, her legs kicking weakly against Lando’s chest. Leo woke. 

The dog barked once, a sharp, confused sound. 

Lando kicked him. Not hard enough to break, but hard enough to send the small dog tumbling off the bed with a yelp. Oscar grabbed a pillow and threw it over the dog, muffling him. Her eyes rolled back. Her body went limp in Lando’s arms, her head lolling against his shoulder. Floppy fell to the floor. The pacifier strap snapped. 

“Go,” Oscar commanded. 

They moved through the penthouse with the unconscious girl in Lando’s arms. Down the service stair. Into a waiting black car at the curb. They drove through Monaco’s sleeping streets, the harbor lights glittering like a thief’s promise, crossing to the other side of the rock, where the McLaren apartments rose in steel and glass indifference. 

Their penthouse was everything the pink room was not. Chrome, leather, black marble, floor-to-ceiling windows that looked toward Italy instead of the harbor. Lando laid her on the master bed, black sheets swallowing her pale form. She was stirring, the chemical fading, her breath hitching. 

“Wake up, little mechanic,” Lando cooed, stroking her hair. He pulled off her nightgown, tearing the silk down the middle. Her small breasts were exposed, pale as milk, the nipples tiny and pink and virginal. She gasped, trying to cover herself, but he pinned her arms above her head with one hand. “Look at you. All alone. No Daddy. No Mommy. Just us.” 

Oscar stood at the foot of the bed, stripping his shirt. His body was lean and muscular, pale and sharp, the body of a man who had trained his entire life for precision. He gripped her ankles, her small feet in his hands, and wrenched her legs apart. The white cotton panties were exposed, a damp spot blooming at the crotch from fear. 

“She’s wet,” Oscar observed, his voice flat. “Fear. Or arousal. It doesn’t matter. It’s ours now.” 

“No,” she whimpered, her voice cracking. “Please… Daddy… I want Daddy…” 

Lando’s face twisted. He slapped her. Not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to make her head snap to the side, to make her cry out. “We are your Daddy now,” he snarled. “Say it. Say ‘Daddy Lando.’” 

She shook her head, tears flooding. “No… Mommy… help me…” 

Oscar tore her panties off. The cotton shredded like paper. Her virgin cunt was exposed, a tight, pink, untouched seam, glistening with the terror-sweat that had gathered between her thin thighs. No hair. Just a bare, babyish slit that had never been breached. 

“Intact,” Oscar said, his breath finally hitching. He unzipped his trousers, freeing a long, veined cock that stood heavy and angry against his pale stomach. “I’m going to split this open. I’m going to be her first. And you’re going to hold her, Lando. You’re going to make her watch.” 

Lando crawled onto the bed, straddling her chest, his own cock pressing against her lips. “Open your mouth, little rabbit. If you bite, I’ll break your jaw. Be a good pet for your new owners.” 

She screamed. 

It was a raw, regressed, infantile wail that echoed off the black marble. She thrashed, her small body bucking, her scraped knees reopening and bleeding onto the sheets. She was not a woman in that moment. She was a terrified animal, a broken doll, and the sound of her terror was the only thing that traveled through the night. 

Charles woke to the sound of a dog screaming. 

It was not a bark. It was a sustained, desperate, high-pitched keening that came from the end of the hall. He was out of the bed in a single motion, his muscular six-foot-two frame naked and lethal, his hazel eyes stripped of humanity. Alexandra was already running, her silk robe flying behind her, her bare feet silent on the marble. 

They reached the nursery door. It was closed. 

Charles threw it open. 

The pink room was empty. 

The bed was a ruin of white sheets. The baby pink nightgown was torn and discarded on the floor. Floppy lay face-down in the corner, one cream-colored ear bent. The pacifier strap was broken, the rose-gold clip gleaming uselessly on the carpet. And in the center of the bed, Leo was spinning in frantic circles, barking with a hysteria that tore his small throat. 

The window was open. The balcony beyond was a black void. 

Alexandra made a sound that no human throat should make. It was a wail, a shriek, a mother’s howl. She fell to her knees, grabbing Floppy, pressing the stuffed bunny to her face. “They took her,” she gasped, her eyes black and insane. “They took our baby. Those McLaren whores. They took our petit lapin.” 

Charles stood in the center of the room. He was very still. The rage that moved through him was not hot. It was glacial, surgical, and absolute. He walked to the bed and picked up the torn nightgown. He pressed it to his face and inhaled. Beneath the vanilla and lavender, he smelled ozone and papaya. He smelled other men. 

“They have an apartment in Fontvieille,” he said. His voice was a whisper, but it filled the room like a gunshot. “The glass tower. Forty-second floor.” 

“How do you know?” Alexandra sobbed, clutching Leo to her breast. 

“Because I know everything,” Charles said. He dropped the silk and turned. His face was a death mask. “Dress. Or don’t. But we leave in ninety seconds. And when we arrive, Alexandra, you will take our baby. And I will kill whoever has touched her.” 

They did not call security. They did not call the police. This was a matter of ownership, and the law had no place in it. 

Charles drove. The Ferrari screamed through Monaco’s dawn-gray streets, the engine a shriek of fury. Alexandra sat beside him, dressed in black, her face a porcelain mask of murder. She held a knife she had taken from the kitchen block. Charles held nothing. He was the weapon. 

They arrived at the glass tower. The concierge did not stop them. He saw Charles’s face and stepped back into the marble wall. 

They took the elevator to the forty-second floor. The door to the McLaren penthouse was steel and biometric. Charles did not knock. He drove his heel into the locking mechanism once, twice, three times. The doorframe splintered. He kicked it open. 

The apartment was dark. And then, from the bedroom, they heard her. 

“Mommy! Daddy! Please!” 

The scream was followed by a wet slap. 

Charles moved. 

He entered the bedroom to find Lando naked on the bed, his large cock in his hand, pressed against her virgin entrance. Her legs were spread and held by Oscar’s pale, muscular grip, her ankles bruising. She was naked, bleeding from her knees, her face swollen from tears, her eyes rolled back in terror. Lando’s cockhead was already smeared with the thin, clear evidence of her terror, pushing against her unbroken hymen. 

Charles did not hesitate. 

He crossed the room in two strides and seized Lando by the throat. His hand, the hand that had gripped world championship trophies, closed like a hydraulic press. He lifted the younger man off the bed and threw him across the room. Lando’s body hit the black marble wall with a wet, crunching sound. His cock slapped against his thigh, still hard, still obscene. 

Oscar turned, his eyes widening, his own erection bobbing. He reached for her, but Alexandra was already there. 

She moved like a blade. She slashed the knife across Oscar’s forearm, opening a gash that sprayed crimson across the black sheets. He screamed. She stabbed again, catching his shoulder, and then she kicked him in the stomach with a model’s leg, a kick that drove all the air from his lungs and sent him sprawling to the floor beside his bleeding friend. 

Alexandra dropped the knife and gathered her into her arms. 

“Mommy,” she keened, her voice a thread of pure, broken relief. She collapsed against Alexandra’s breast, her small naked body shaking so violently it seemed she would fracture. “Daddy… they… they said…” 

“Quiet now,” Alexandra cooed, but her voice was made of ice and razors. She wrapped her in the torn remnants of her nightgown, pressing her face into her neck. “Mommy’s here. Daddy’s here. No one hurts my baby.” 

Charles stood over Lando and Oscar. The two men were groaning, bleeding, their cocks still exposed and now ridiculous. Charles looked down at them with the expression he reserved for drivers who had tried to crash him on the track. 

“If you look at her again,” he said, his voice perfectly calm, “I will remove your eyes with my fingers. If you speak her name, I will remove your tongues. If you come within a mile of the Avenue Princesse Grace, I will kill you both, and I will use my money to ensure your bodies are never found. You are nothing. You are less than the dirt on her smallest shoe. She is ours. Our petit lapin. Our daughter. Our fuck-toy. You do not get to dream of her.” 

He turned. He walked to Alexandra and took her from her arms. The girl was limp, her eyes fluttering, her thumb automatically finding her mouth. She was deep in regression, unreachable, sucking her thumb against Alexandra’s shoulder as Charles carried her out. 

They left the two men bleeding on their own black marble. 

The bath was drawn in the master suite, a vast marble pool of steaming water and rose oil. Alexandra lowered her into it, her hands gentle but insistent, washing every inch of the girl’s pale, bruised skin. She scrubbed between her legs, where Lando’s cock had pressed, where Oscar’s fingers had gripped. She washed her knees, her scraped shins, her tear-stained face. She washed her hair with baby shampoo, her fingers massaging her scalp until the girl’s eyes closed and she made a small, mewling sound. 

Charles watched from the doorway, his arms crossed, his cock hard and thick against his trousers. He had not dressed since the rescue. He was naked from the waist up, his muscular chest heaving, his dark eyes fixed on the girl in the water. 

“She’s intact,” Alexandra said, her voice echoing in the marble room. She held up her fingers, glistening with the bathwater and her natural wetness. “Her hymen is still there. They didn’t breach her. But they touched her, Charles. They put their hands on our baby’s virgin cunt. They made her bleed.” 

“They will die for it,” Charles said. “Eventually. But tonight, we fix what they tried to break.” 

He stepped into the bath. The water rose. He lifted her from Alexandra’s arms, cradling her against his chest. She was wet and slippery, her thin body weightless. She looked up at him, her eyes dilated, her thumb still in her mouth. 

“Daddy,” she whispered around it. 

“Yes,” he murmured. “Daddy. And Daddy is going to make sure you never forget who owns this.” 

He carried her to the bed. The master bed was vast, black silk and scarlet velvet, a cage of luxury. He laid her in the center. Alexandra climbed onto the bed beside her, her model’s body naked now, her five-foot-nine frame towering over the girl. She stroked her hair, her face suffused with a dark, maternal rapture. 

“Listen to me, petit lapin,” Alexandra whispered, her lips brushing her ear. “Those bad men tried to steal you. They tried to put their filthy cocks where they don’t belong. But Mommy and Daddy are going to claim you now. Tonight. Daddy is going to put his baby inside you, and he is going to break your virginity the way it was meant to be broken. In our bed. Under our eyes. And you are going to take it, because you are a good girl for Mommy. Aren’t you?” 

She nodded, her eyes flooding. She was too far gone to question. She was a creature of pure instinct, and her instinct was to yield. “Yes, Mommy,” she gasped. “I’m a good girl. I’m your good girl.” 

Charles spread her legs. 

Her virgin cunt was displayed, pink and tight and glistening from the bath, a thin membrane guarding the entrance to her womb. He positioned himself between her thin thighs, his massive cock in his fist, the head dark and swollen and dripping with pre-cum. He was huge, thick and veined, a weapon of flesh built to claim. 

“Look at me,” he commanded. 

She looked. Her eyes met his, and he saw the absolute surrender in them. She was his. She had always been his. 

He pushed. 

The membrane resisted for a fraction of a second, a tight, virginal wall that had never known intrusion. Then it tore. She screamed. It was a high, thin, piercing wail that split the air as her hymen ripped, as the first cock she had ever taken breached her virgin channel. She was small, and he was enormous, and the fit was brutal. He felt the hot gush of her virgin bleed slick his shaft, the copper-sweet fluid of her innocence mixing with her arousal and his pre-cum. 

“Daddy!” she screamed, thrashing, her small hands clawing the silk. 

“Quiet,” Charles snarled, his hips snapping forward, driving deeper. He felt her tight walls stretching around him, tearing to accommodate his girth, molding to his shape like hot, wet silk. He bottomed out inside her, his heavy balls pressed against her ass, his entire length sheathed in the virgin heat that no one else would ever know. “You take it. You take Daddy’s cock. You bleed on it. You thank Mommy for letting you have it.” 

“Thank you, Mommy,” she sobbed, her voice breaking, her body convulsing with the pain and the dark, overwhelming submission. “Thank you, Daddy… I’m yours… I’m only yours…” 

Alexandra held her face, forcing her to look up. “That’s right. Only ours. No one else. Daddy’s cock is your first. Your only. He is splitting your baby cunt open and planting his seed where those McLaren pigs could never reach. You are marked, petit lapin. You are bred.” 

Charles began to fuck her. 

He was merciless. He pounded into her small body with the rhythm of a piston, each thrust driving her up the bed, her bandaged knees bouncing, her small breasts trembling. The virgin bleed was copious now, smearing her pale thighs, soaking the black silk beneath her. He watched it, his eyes black with dominance, watching the evidence of her innocence destroyed by his claiming. He felt the tightness of her, the way her untrained muscles fluttered and spasmed around his invading shaft, trying to expel him, failing, learning to accept. 

“Mommy,” she keened, her voice a pitch of agony and ecstasy that no adult should make. 

“I’m here, baby,” Alexandra breathed. She kissed her tears, licked the salt from her cheeks. “Mommy is watching. Mommy is so proud. Daddy is using your little hole the way it was made to be used. You were always meant for this. For us.” 

Charles felt the pressure building, the boiling point of his rage and possession. He gripped her narrow hips, his fingers digging into her pale flesh hard enough to leave bruises that would last for weeks, permanent fingerprints of his ownership. He drove in one final time, burying himself to the root, and came. 

It was volcanic. He roared, a sound of absolute animal triumph, his muscular frame locking, his cock pulsing in thick, violent jets of seed directly into her virgin womb. He filled her with his cum, marking the deepest part of her, claiming her fertility with a ruthless, deliberate intent. Spurt after spurt, hot and thick, flooding her unprotected cunt, dripping out around his shaft and down her bruised thighs to mix with the virgin bleed. 

He did not pull out immediately. He stayed inside her, his hips grinding, ensuring every drop was planted, that his ownership was chemical and irrevocable. 

When he finally withdrew, his cock was streaked with her maidenhead and his seed, obscene and glistening. 

Alexandra moved instantly. 

She lowered her head between her trembling thighs and pressed her mouth to the ruined, gaping entrance. She licked. She sucked. She drank the mixture of her daughter’s virgin bleed and her husband’s claiming seed, her tongue delving into the freshly fucked hole to lap at the evidence of their union. She was marking the territory with her mouth, replacing the memory of any other touch with her own maternal, obscene devotion. 

She whimpered, her eyes rolled back, her body shuddering as Alexandra’s tongue worked her sensitive, broken flesh. “Mommy,” she gasped, her hands finding Alexandra’s hair, holding her close. “Mommy… Daddy… I’m home…” 

Alexandra rose, her lips smeared with the proof of their claiming. She kissed her, feeding her the taste, letting her suck the mixture from her tongue. Then she curled around the girl, cradling her against her breast, stroking her hair as Charles moved to lie on the other side, his muscular arm draping over them both, his hand resting possessively on her flat stomach, over the womb he had just flooded. 

“Never again,” Charles whispered into the dark. “Never again will anyone take you. Never again will you leave our sight. You are our baby. Our petit lapin. Our fucked, broken, perfect little girl.” 

The next day, the technicians arrived. 

They were silent men in black, vetted by Charles’s security team, paid in cash and bound by NDAs that were enforced by more than law. They installed cameras in every corner of the penthouse. In the nursery, a dome camera hidden in the painted moon on the ceiling, invisible, watching the pink bed with infrared precision. In the bathroom, behind the mirror, capturing every moment of her bath. In the corridors, in the kitchen, in the master bedroom. The feeds ran to a private server encrypted in a bunker beneath the Alps. 

Charles and Alexandra sat in the study, watching the screens. She was on the nursery bed, wearing a new baby pink nightgown, her knees freshly bandaged, her new pacifier strap clipped to her collar. She was sucking her pacifier, curled around Leo, who had been bathed and pampered and was now asleep in the circle of her arms. She looked at the camera. She could not see it, but she felt it. She knew Daddy was watching. 

“Every second,” Alexandra murmured, her hand sliding into Charles’s lap, stroking his half-hard cock through his trousers. “We see every breath. Every tear. Every time she touches her little virgin cunt that Daddy ruined. No one will ever take her again. She is sealed. She is surveilled. She is ours.” 

Charles watched the screen, his eyes cold and satisfied. He reached over and pulled Alexandra onto his lap, impaling her on his cock with a brutal upward thrust that made her gasp, her eyes never leaving the monitor where their petit lapin slept. 

“Forever,” he said. 

And in the nursery, on the pink bed, she closed her eyes and sucked her pacifier, safe in the womb of her forever cage. 

The nursery was a womb of pink silence, the painted moons on the ceiling glowing faintly against the blush walls. She had been sleeping, or trying to, the pacifier moving rhythmically in her mouth as she clutched Floppy to her chest. Leo was curled against her stomach, his warm dachshund body rising and falling with her breath. But the dream had been bad. Dark garages. Shouting. The papaya orange of McLaren overalls. She had woken with a gasp, the silicone pacifier slipping from her lips, her thin body trembling in the baby pink nightgown. 

She sat up. The nursery was empty. The milk-glass lamp had been dimmed to a pulse. She listened for them, for Mommy and Daddy, but the penthouse beyond the cream door was a vault of darkness. 

She shouldn’t leave. She knew the rules. Daddy had set them with the same cold precision he applied to everything: she stayed in the nursery unless fetched. She was too little to wander. Too fragile to navigate the marble corridors of the world he had built. 

But she was scared. She wanted Mommy’s arms. She wanted to hear Daddy’s voice, even if it was cruel. 

She slipped off the bed. Her bare feet, pale and small, found the sheepskin rug. She padded to the door, Leo following in a sleepy, clicking patter. She turned the handle. 

The corridor was black marble and shadow. The master bedroom was at the end of the hall, past the study where the cameras blinked. She had never been inside. It was forbidden. The door of scarlet wood and brass was heavy, imposing, the handle a dark lion’s head. 

It was ajar. 

She pushed it open. The master bedroom swallowed her in black silk and crimson velvet. The bed was immense, a platform of dark luxury that dominated the space. No pastels here. No cream rabbits. Just the scent of Charles’s cologne, sharp and expensive, and Alexandra’s jasmine perfume. The air was colder. 

She almost turned back. Then she saw it. 

A box. Pastel blue. Half-hidden under the bed, as if forgotten. The lid was slightly askew. 

She knelt. Her scraped knees, still healing, throbbed against the marble. She pulled the box out. It was heavier than it looked. She lifted the lid. 

Inside, nestled in tissue the color of robin’s eggs, were clothes for a baby. Not a grown girl. A real baby. A boy. 

Tiny cashmere booties in powder blue. A knitted blanket with satin edging. A white onesie, impossibly small, embroidered with a navy sailboat. A christening gown of silk and lace, sized for a newborn. A small, soft hat in periwinkle. Everything was immaculate, untouched, perfect. The smell of new fabric and lost hope rose from the tissue. 

Her breath stopped. Her heart became a trapped bird in her narrow chest. 

A boy. A real baby boy. 

The understanding detonated inside her regressed mind with a cruelty she couldn’t withstand. She was the substitute. The replacement for the baby Alexandra couldn’t carry. The petit lapin they had dressed in pink and fed and fucked to fill a void. But what if they were still trying? What if they had found a surrogate? What if there was a real baby coming, a boy, and she was just practice? A toy to be discarded when the real heir arrived? 

The box blurred. Her hands shook. 

“Oh,” she whispered, a broken, infantile sound. “Oh no…” 

She clutched Floppy to her face, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts. She rocked on her knees, the same regressed motion she had made on the concrete steps behind the garage. “No, no, no… Mommy… Daddy… don’t send me away… I’ll be good… I’ll be better…” 

Tears flooded her cheeks, hot and unstoppable. She sobbed into Floppy’s matted cream fur, her thin body convulsing. The blue baby clothes lay before her like a death sentence. A boy. A real son. She was nothing. A broken mechanic with a stuffed bunny and a regressed mind. Disposable. 

She didn’t hear them approach. The cameras had seen her. They always saw her. 

“Hey.” 

The voice was a blade drawn across velvet. She froze, then twisted, her eyes swollen and blind with tears. 

Charles stood in the doorway, six-foot-two and naked from the waist up, his muscular torso a wall of shadow and hard planes. He wore black trousers that hung low on his hips, the outline of his cock already thickening against the fabric as he took in the scene: his small, sobbing toy on the floor, the blue box exposed, her nightgown riding up her pale thighs. His face was a mask of cold, predatory displeasure. 

Behind him, Alexandra appeared, her cream silk robe clinging to her five-foot-nine model’s frame. She gasped, one hand flying to her mouth. 

“Petit lapin,” she breathed. “Oh, my baby…” 

She scrambled backward, pressing herself against the bed frame, her knees bleeding again from the scrape against the marble. “I… I didn’t mean… I had a dream… I wanted Mommy… and then I saw…” 

She pointed at the box with a trembling hand. “Daddy… is it… is it a boy? Are you going to have a real baby? Are you going to replace me?” 

Charles stepped into the room. The door closed behind him with a soft, final click. He moved slowly, his bare feet silent, and stood over her. He looked down at the blue box, then at her tear-streaked, crumpled face. His lip curled. 

“Look at this,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “A bad dream sends my little lapin wandering. She ignores the rules. She enters the master bedroom. She goes through our things. And now she sits on the floor, leaking snot and tears, demanding explanations she doesn’t have the mind to comprehend.” 

He crouched down. His hand shot out, gripping her jaw with brutal gentleness, forcing her face up. His thumb pressed into her cheek, smearing her tears. “Do you think you’re a big girl now? Do you think you’re grown enough to snoop through Mommy and Daddy’s room? To touch things that don’t concern you?” 

“I… I’m s-sorry, Daddy…” she keened, the word automatic, desperate. 

“You’re not a wife,” Charles continued, his voice dropping to a cruel whisper. He leaned in, his breath hot against her wet face. “You’re not a partner. You’re a pet. A warm, wet little toy we keep in the pink room. And pets do not ask about boxes. They do not accuse their owners of replacement. They sit. They stay. They take what they’re given. Do you understand?” 

He tightened his grip. “This box is none of your business. Your mind is too small, too broken, too little to understand what it means. You see blue fabric and you invent a nightmare. You think we could replace this?” His free hand dropped to her knee, sliding up her thin thigh beneath the nightgown. His fingers found her cotton panties, already damp with fear-sweat, and he pressed the heel of his palm against her virgin cunt with possessive cruelty. “You think we could find another cunt this tight? Another mind this soft? Another set of tears that get Daddy hard?” 

She sobbed, her body shaking against his hand. “No… no, Daddy… I’m yours… I’m only yours…” 

“Then act like it,” he snarled, but his fingers were rubbing her now, slow and deliberate, making her gasp around her tears. “Stop crying over things you don’t understand. This box is nothing. It’s older than your comprehension. But your disobedience? That is real. You left the nursery. You touched what was forbidden. You doubted us. And now you’re going to be punished.” 

Alexandra had moved to kneel beside them. Her hands were soft, cool, as she gathered her trembling body from the other side, pulling her away from Charles’s grip and into her chest. “Hush, hush, my sweet lapin,” she crooned, her voice a warm, honeyed balm against the steel of Charles’s words. She cradled her head against her breast, stroking her messy brunette hair. “Mommy’s here. Mommy’s got you. No one is sending you anywhere. No one is replacing you.” 

She pressed kisses to her eyelids, licking the salt from her cheeks, her lips lingering against the girl’s trembling mouth. “You are my baby. My daughter. My only little girl. That box… it is nothing. Ghosts. Old things. They mean nothing compared to you. You are warm. You are real. You are here. Mommy chooses you. Every time.” 

“But… the blue…” she whimpered, clutching Alexandra’s robe. 

“Shh,” Alexandra breathed, rocking her. She lifted her easily, the girl’s ninety-pound frame folding into her lap like a doll. “Your mind is too little for these thoughts, baby. Too fragile. Let Mommy wash them away. Let Daddy be angry. His anger is just love with sharp teeth. He doesn’t want to lose you either. He just wants you to know your place. Under us. Between us. Ours.” 

Charles stood, his cock now a thick, obvious ridge straining against his trousers, the head dark and wet with pre-cum that had already bloomed through the fabric. He looked down at them, at his wife cradling the sobbing girl, at the blue box still open on the floor. He nudged it with his bare foot, his lip curling with something darker than disgust. “The box stays,” he said. “A reminder. Of what happens when you disobey. When you think you’re bigger than you are.” 

He reached down and gripped her arm, pulling her up from Alexandra’s lap. She stood on wobbling legs, her nightgown falling around her knees, her face swollen and red, her virgin cunt still throbbing from the press of his hand. “You’ll come to bed now,” he commanded. “Not the nursery. The master bed. Between Mommy and Daddy. And you’ll show us how grateful you are that we keep you. That we don’t discard you. Even though you snooped. Even though you cried like a jealous little brat.” 

“Yes, Daddy,” she gasped, the words a prayer and a surrender. 

Alexandra rose, smoothing her robe, her eyes glazed with a dark, maternal satisfaction. “Come, petit lapin. Mommy will draw you a bath in our bathroom. She’ll wash your face and your knees. And then you’ll wear something special. Something that matches your pink room. Not blue. Never blue. You are our pink girl. Our baby girl.” 

She led her toward the en-suite, the girl clinging to her hand, Leo trotting behind them with worried clicks of his nails. But at the door, she looked back. Charles stood in the center of the master bedroom, his shadow falling over the pastel blue box, his eyes cold and absolute. 

He didn’t close it. He didn’t hide it. He left it there, under the bed, a silent, unresolved threat. A reminder that some secrets were too dark for a little girl’s mind, and that her place was not to know, but to be kept. 

“Move,” Charles said softly, cruelly. “Before Daddy decides you’re not worth the trouble after all.” 

She fled into the bathroom, into Alexandra’s waiting arms, but the blue box remained behind her, its lid still open, its tiny boy-clothes waiting like a ghost in the dark. 

The pink room had become a throat. 

Days passed in a haze of pastel silence, and she stopped feeling the edges of herself. She sat in the cream-colored bed, propped against the blush pillows, wearing the custom powder-blue velvet pinafore that Alexandra had clipped around her narrow waist that morning. The fabric was exquisite, soft as a whisper, and it made her look like a doll that had been posed for display. Her eyes were open, fixed on the painted moons above, but they were empty. The light did not reach them. She held Floppy in her lap, her fingers moving in the same repetitive, mechanical stroke over the bunny’s matted ear, but there was no comfort in it anymore. Only motor memory. 

She was obeying. She was eating the custard Alexandra spooned into her mouth. She was holding still when Charles bathed her. She was spreading her legs when Daddy came into the nursery at night, his six-foot-plus frame casting a shadow across the pink bed, his thick cock already out and heavy in his hand. She did not cry. She did not moan. When he pushed into her, splitting her sore, still-new cunt with the same brutal claiming, she stared past him at the ceiling, her body rocking with his thrusts, her mind floating somewhere above the painted rabbits. 

She was not there. She had retreated to a place beyond regression, beyond tears. She was hollow. 

And it was because of the box. 

The blue box lived under her eyelids now. The tiny booties. The sailboat onesie. The ghost of a boy that had never been and might still be coming. She had tried to make it mean nothing. She had tried to be a good girl. But when Charles fucked her in the master bed last night, she had turned her face into the black silk and seen the edge of the pastel blue lid peeking from beneath the mattress frame, and something inside her had calcified. She was a placeholder. A practice doll. A warm, wet cunt in pink clothing to tide them over until the real heir arrived. 

She needed to know. She needed to ask. 

But they would not let her speak. 

It was the afternoon when she tried again. Alexandra had come to the nursery with a new acquisition—a row of sheer white tights in a wicker basket, each pair folded with obsessive precision. She was humming, her five-foot-nine model’s body draped in a cream silk robe, her long fingers smoothing the bed linens. Leo was curled in the corner, his caramel fur gleaming. The cameras blinked their small red eyes from the ceiling. 

She sat up. She pulled the pacifier from her mouth—she had been sucking it for hours, her jaw aching, her tongue numb—and took a breath. 

“Mommy,” she said. Her voice was flat, dead. “The blue. The box. I need to know if—” 

Alexandra turned. Her face transformed into a rapturous, cooing mask. “Oh! Oh, listen! Baby’s trying to talk!” She clapped her hands together, delicate and cruel. “Such a big girl! Such cute little sounds! Goo-goo, ga-ga!” 

She blinked. She tried again, her voice rising with desperate urgency. “No. Listen. I saw the clothes. The baby boy. Are you going to—” 

“Baba!” Alexandra interrupted, her voice soaring into a singsong pitch. She dropped to her knees beside the bed, her face inches from hers. “Does my little petit lapin want her baba? Is that what all those widdle noises mean? Mommy’s baby is so adorable when she tries to make big-girl sounds!” 

She reached out and pressed the pad of her thumb against her lower lip, pushing it inward. “Look at those widdle lips. So sweet. So pink. Just made for baba and nothing else.” 

She knocked her hand away. It was the first time she had rejected Alexandra’s touch in weeks. “Stop it,” she said, her voice cracking. “I’m not a baby. I’m trying to ask you—” 

“Oh, my sweet little munchkin!” Alexandra gasped, as if delighted. She grabbed the pacifier from the sheets and pressed it hard against her mouth. “Such fussy-wussy sounds! Such angry baby babble! Let Mommy give you your binky so you don’t get so worked up. Big girls get worked up, but babies just suck and sleep.” 

She turned her head. The pacifier pressed against her cheek. “No—” 

“Charles!” Alexandra called, her voice bright and poisonous. “Come hear your baby’s cute little tantrum! She’s making the most adorable nonsense noises!” 

Charles appeared in the doorway. He was shirtless, his muscular torso still sheened from the gym, his hazel eyes scanning the room with clinical detachment. They landed on her—on her resistance, the flush of real anger on her pale cheeks, the refusal of the pacifier—and something dark and amused curled his lip. 

“Ah,” he said, his voice a low, condescending purr. “The petit lapin is trying to speak again.” 

He strode in, his cock already beginning to thicken against his black trousers, his body casting a shadow that swallowed the bed. He towered over her, and she shrank, the instinctive deference warring with the cold stone in her chest. She looked up at him, and her lips formed the words: The blue box. The baby boy. Am I going to be replaced? 

Charles crouched down. He gripped her chin with one large, cruel hand, his thumb pressing into her jaw until her mouth opened. He reached over with his other hand and took the pacifier from Alexandra. 

“Listen to her,” he said softly, his eyes locked on her terrified gaze. “Listen to the little animal try to form adult thoughts. It’s pathetic, isn’t it? She thinks she has opinions. She thinks she has fears. She thinks she has a right to ask questions.” 

He pushed the pacifier into her mouth. She tried to turn her head, but his grip was iron. The silicone bulb filled her, pressing her tongue flat, sealing her lips around the shield. The silk strap dangled, unclipped. 

“Mmm-mmm!” The sound came out muffled, infantile, exactly the kind of cute, incoherent babble they pretended to hear. Her eyes filled with frustrated tears. She tried to speak around it, but the syllables came out as *Mmm-mmm-mmm!*—meaningless, wet, babyish. 

“Oh, there she goes!” Alexandra cooed, pressing a hand to her heart. “So precious! So helpless! Just mmm-mmm-mmming away like a tiny little birdie. She doesn’t need words, does she, Daddy? Words are for people. She’s just our pet.” 

“Exactly,” Charles murmured. He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, his thumb still holding the pacifier deep in her mouth. “You don’t need words, petit lapin. Words are how you lie to yourself. How you think you’re real. But you’re not real. You’re a warm, wet hole in a pink dress. You’re a set of tears and a tight cunt. And when you try to be more than that, we remind you. We turn your fears into mmm-mmm-mmm. We turn your thoughts into spit around a pacifier. Isn’t that right?” 

She sobbed around the silicone. The tears were hot, furious, impotent. She was screaming inside, and all that emerged was a muffled, sucking gurgle. 

Charles stood, his cock now fully hard and straining against his zipper. “Leave the binky in for the rest of the afternoon. She’s too agitated. She needs to remember that she doesn’t have a voice. Only a mouth.” 

He turned and walked out. Alexandra stroked her hair, her fingers gentle and possessive. 

“Sleep now, baby,” she whispered. “Sleep and forget all those big, scary thoughts. You’re Mommy’s little lapin. Mommy’s quiet little thing. No more fussy sounds. Just suck.” 

She stared at the wall. The pacifier moved in her mouth, automatic, humiliating. And deep in the hollow of her chest, the last ember of trust went cold. 

The cameras watched everything. But she had been a mechanic. She had spent her life in the grease and shadows of garages, learning the patterns of machinery, the blind spots of systems. She had noticed, during the endless afternoons when she was left alone with her dolls and her pacifier, that the camera in the corner had a three-second delay in its tracking motion. She had noticed that the door to the service corridor was pressure-locked, but the mechanism was old, a building quirk Charles had overlooked in his haste to install surveillance. She had noticed that the pink nightgown, with its silk pacifier strap, could be torn into strips and braided into a rope. 

She had been planning for three days. 

The numbness had become armor. She did not feel fear. She did not feel hope. She felt only the mechanical necessity of escape, the same instinct that had told her how to tighten a bolt under pressure. 

She waited until the night was absolute. The harbor was a scattering of black glass and distant light. Charles had come to her after dinner, had fucked her in the nursery with the same cold efficiency, had spilled his seed into her with a grunt and a command to sleep. He had not looked at her face. He had not seen the emptiness. 

Alexandra had kissed her goodnight, had tucked Floppy into her arms, had clicked off the milk-glass lamp. The cameras switched to infrared. The painted moons glowed. 

She waited until the red light in the corner went into its programmed sleep cycle. Two hours. Thirty seconds of reduced sensitivity. It was enough. 

She slipped from the bed. She did not wear the pink nightgown. She had stolen a pair of her old clothes—white cotton panties, a soft pink t-shirt that had been hidden beneath the nursery mattress, and a pair of leggings she had torn from a discarded dress. She shoved her feet into the small Mary Janes. She grabbed Floppy. She hesitated over Leo, the dog sleeping warm in his basket, but she knew his nails would click on the marble, that he would bark. She left him. The betrayal of it cut something in her that she hadn’t known was still alive. 

She moved to the service door. She had watched the lock for hours. She used the silk strap, braided tight, wedged into the jamb. She pressed. The old mechanism groaned, and then, with a click like a bone breaking, it gave. 

The corridor beyond was dark marble and emergency lighting. She ran on her toes, small and silent, past the master bedroom where the blue box waited beneath the bed, past the study where the server blinked with the footage of her own captivity, past the kitchen where Alexandra’s copper pots hung like execution bells. 

The elevator was biometric. She could not take it. 

The stairs were behind a fire door. She pushed through it, her heart a trapped animal in her narrow chest. The steps were concrete, cold, and she descended them in the dark, her small hands sliding along the railing, Floppy clutched under her arm. She reached the garage level. She had seen Charles enter the code once, months ago, her mechanic’s memory storing the sequence: 7-2-9-4. She punched it in. 

The door to the underground garage hissed open. 

The Purosangue was there, black and gleaming. But she had no keys. She would not take it. She would walk. She knew Monaco. She knew the streets. She had walked them alone for years before they caged her. 

She ran. 

The Avenue Princesse Grace opened onto the night. The air smelled of salt and jasmine, of exhaust and money. She was ninety pounds, a pale wraith in pastel pink and white sneakers, clutching a stuffed rabbit to her chest. She ran past the doorman who was sleeping in his booth, past the yachts moored in the harbor, their lights burning like the eyes of leviathans. She ran until her lungs burned, until her scraped knees ached from the old wounds, until her thin legs shook. 

She ran toward Fontvieille. 

The glass tower rose against the dark sky, a blade of chrome and arrogance. She remembered it. She remembered the black sheets, the marble floor, the hands that had tried to claim her. But she also remembered that Lando had waved. That Oscar had looked at her with eyes that wanted. And that those boys had wanted her for her, not as a replacement for a dead boy. 

The lobby was empty. The concierge was gone. She found the elevator bank and rode up to the forty-second floor, her finger pressing the button with a determination that made her whole arm tremble. 

The door to the penthouse was steel. The same steel Charles had kicked in. It had been repaired. She knocked. Her fist was so small the sound was pathetic, a child’s tap. 

Silence. 

She knocked harder, and her voice—her real voice, the one they had tried to drown in silicone and baby talk—rose from her throat in a raw, desperate cry. 

“Please. Please. It’s me. I’m here. Please open the door.” 

The steel door clicked. It swung inward. 

Lando stood in the frame, shirtless, his torso a landscape of ink and lean muscle. His eyes were wide, shocked, and then they narrowed with a predator’s disbelief. Behind him, Oscar appeared, pale and sharp, pulling a black t-shirt over his head. He went very still. 

She looked up at them. She was crying now, real tears, the first emotion she had felt in days. She held out Floppy, as if the bunny were proof of her identity, her innocence, her brokenness. 

“They wouldn’t let me talk,” she sobbed, her voice small and thin. “They made me into babble. They have a blue box. They have a blue box for a boy, and I’m just… I’m just their lapin. Their doll. Please. Please don’t send me back.” 

Lando and Oscar looked at each other. Something dark and triumphant passed between them, a silent understanding that was immediate and absolute. 

Lando reached out. His large hand closed around her narrow wrist, his grip warm and rough and possessive. He pulled her across the threshold, into the black marble sanctuary of their penthouse, and Oscar moved behind her, his hands coming to rest on her shaking shoulders, guiding her inward. 

“Shh, little mechanic,” Lando murmured, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. He wiped her tears with his thumb, and then he smiled, sharp and white and victorious. “You’re home now. And this time, we’re never letting the Ferrari bastards near you again.” 

The door closed behind her with a final, pneumatic hiss. And her, ninety pounds of trauma and desperation, collapsed into their arms, Floppy falling to the black marble floor, as the cameras back on the Avenue Princesse Grace continued to blink, recording an empty pink bed, and a nursery that had finally lost its rabbit. 

The morning came without her. 

Alexandra woke to the hollow space in the bed where Charles had already risen, his side cold. She pulled on her cream silk robe and went to the nursery with a bottle of warm almond milk in a rose-gold sippy cup. She was humming, her mind already arranging the day: a new velvet pinafore from the seamstress, her knees to be re-bandaged, a session of brushing her hair in one hundred strokes. She opened the blush door. 

Leo was scratching at the baseboard, his small caramel body frantic, his nails clicking against the lacquer. He had been doing it for hours, but the master bedroom was too far, the walls too thick, and they had slept through the sound of a dog’s heart breaking. 

The bed was empty. 

The pink sheets were thrown back, the white cotton twisted. Floppy was gone. The pacifier lay in the center of the pillow, its strap broken, the rose-gold bunny clip gleaming in the dawn like a snapped rib. 

Alexandra dropped the cup. The milk spread across the sheepskin in a white, obscene puddle. 

“Charles.” 

She did not scream it. She whispered it, and that was worse. 

He was in the study within seconds, still naked from the waist up, his six-foot-two frame coiled with a violence that had not yet found its target. He saw her face. He did not ask. He went to the monitors. 

The screens were a constellation of red-eyed feeds. He pulled up the night loop. 3:42 AM. The nursery camera, infrared. A pale wraith in a pink shirt and leggings, moving with the focused precision of a mechanic. She knew the blind spot. She knew the three-second delay. She had braided the silk strap and jammed the service lock. 

He watched her descend the concrete stairs. He watched her cross the garage. He watched her emerge onto the Avenue Princesse Grace, her thin frame swallowed by the dark, Floppy clutched to her chest, and turn west. 

“Fontvieille,” he said. His voice was a glacier scraping bedrock. 

Alexandra stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders, her fingers digging into the dense muscle until her manicured nails drew blood. “She ran to them. Again. The McLaren boys.” 

“She ran because she is confused,” Charles said. He paused the footage on the last image: her face, turned toward the harbor, her eyes blank and desperate in the night-vision glow. “Because she thinks she can be replaced. Because we let her think too much.” 

He stood. He did not dress. He pulled on black trousers and a charcoal sweater that clung to his muscular torso, his movements economical and lethal. “We take her back. And this time, we do not leave room for doubt.” 

They drove the Purosangue through Monaco’s waking streets. The harbor glittered with indifference. Alexandra sat in the passenger seat, her model’s body rigid, her face a porcelain mask of grief and fury. She had not brushed her hair. She looked like a madwoman in silk. 

The glass tower rose. They did not knock. 

Charles used the same code he had paid for weeks ago—the concierge, the gambler, the weak link. The penthouse door unlocked. Lando had not changed the sequence. Arrogance, or stupidity. 

They entered. 

The McLaren apartment was all black marble and chrome, masculine and cold. She was on the sofa, curled into a comma, her knees drawn to her chest, Floppy crushed against her face. She was wearing the same pink shirt and leggings she had fled in. Her eyes were open, staring at nothing, her cheeks streaked with tears that had dried hours ago. She looked smaller than her height. She looked like a doll that had been abandoned in a window. 

Lando was pacing, shirtless, his sharp jaw tight. Oscar sat on the arm of the sofa, his pale eyes fixed on her with a hunger that turned to ice when the door opened. 

“Get out,” Lando said. He moved to block them. “She came to us. She chose.” 

Charles did not hit him. He simply walked through him, his shoulder striking Lando’s chest with enough force to send the younger man stumbling into the kitchen island. Charles did not look back. He looked only at her. 

“Petit lapin,” Alexandra breathed. She crossed the room in three strides and dropped to her knees before the sofa, her hands reaching for her face. Her fingers were cold, trembling, but they cradled the girl’s jaw with a gentleness that was devastating. “Look at you. Look at your knees. They’re bleeding again. You ran in the dark. You ran to strangers.” 

She blinked. Her eyes focused on Alexandra’s face, and something inside her cracked. Her lips parted. “Mommy…” 

“Yes,” Alexandra crooned, her voice breaking. She pulled her forward, pressing her forehead against the girl’s. “Mommy is here. Daddy is here. You scared us, my baby. You broke our hearts.” 

She began to shake. “You didn’t let me talk… the blue… I thought…” 

“We know,” Charles said. He stood over them, his shadow falling across both of them, a black eclipse. He crouched down. His hand, large and scarred and perfect, cupped her chin. He forced her to look up at him, his hazel eyes burning with a possession that had calcified into something beyond love. “You thought you were being replaced. You thought you were a placeholder. You were wrong.” 

Oscar stood. “She’s terrified of you. Look at her. She’s shaking.” 

“She is shaking because she is awake,” Charles said, not looking at him. “In our house, she sleeps. She is safe. She is kept. With you, she is prey. You would have fucked her by now. You would have torn her little cunt because you do not know how to hold something delicate. You only know how to consume.” 

Lando snarled. “We would have treated her like a person.” 

“She is not a person,” Charles said, his voice a velvet whip. “She is our pet. Our lapin. Our broken, perfect little girl. And you are children playing at dominance. You do not know her triggers. You do not know her therapist. You do not know that she needs to sleep with a stuffed bunny or she dissociates. You do not know that she cannot make choices because choices terrify her. You would have destroyed her within a week.” 

He looked back at her. His thumb stroked her cheek, smearing the dried salt. “Come home, lapin. We burned the blue. It is gone. It is ash. There is no one else. No baby. No boy. No replacement. There is only you. Only our pink girl. Only the cunt I claimed and the tears I own and the mouth that calls me Daddy.” 

Her breath hitched. She looked from Charles to Alexandra, her eyes wide and flooded. She looked at Lando, who was staring at her with a wounded, chaotic hunger. She looked at Oscar, who watched her with the flat, clinical stare of a collector who had been denied his specimen. 

She turned back to Alexandra. 

“They don’t know my name,” she whispered, her voice small and thin and absolutely true. “They keep calling me mechanic. Little rabbit. They don’t know about Floppy. They don’t know… they don’t know I need the moons.” 

Alexandra’s face crumpled with a rapture of victory. “No, baby. They don’t. Only Mommy knows. Only Daddy knows. Come home. Let us fix your knees. Let us wash the night off you. Let us prove to you that you are the only one.” 

She stood. Her legs shook. She took one step, and her knees buckled. Alexandra caught her, lifting her easily, cradling her against her five-foot-nine frame as if the girl weighed nothing at all. She curled into her, her face burying in Alexandra’s neck, her thin arms wrapping around her with a desperation that was infantile and absolute. 

Charles turned to Lando and Oscar. He did not raise his voice. “If you contact her again, I will not kick you. I will end you. I will buy your team and dissolve it. I will buy your contracts and burn them. I will make sure you never sit in a race car again. She is not yours. She never was. She is the property of the house on Avenue Princesse Grace, and you are trespassers in her memory.” 

He walked out. Alexandra followed, carrying her, who did not look back. 

The master bedroom was different. 

They did not take her to the nursery. They took her to the room at the end of the hall, the black-and-crimson chamber where Charles had split her virginity and claimed her womb. She whimpered when she saw the bed, but Alexandra shushed her, stroking her hair. 

“Look,” Charles commanded. 

He walked to the bedside. He knelt. He reached under the mattress frame and pulled out the pastel blue box. 

It was open. The tiny booties, the sailboat onesie, the christening gown. He held it in his hands, and she flinched, her eyes squeezing shut, a high keening sound escaping her throat. 

Charles walked to the fireplace. The penthouse had a marble hearth in the master suite, gas-lit, cold. He turned it on. The flames leaped, blue then orange. 

He dropped the box inside. 

The pastel blue cardboard blackened. The knitted booties curled and smoldered. The silk christening gown went up in a violent, silent flare, the lace burning like a spiderweb in hell. The smell of destroyed hope filled the room. 

Charles watched it burn. He did not look at her. He did not explain. He simply burned it until it was nothing but ash and smoke, and then he turned the gas off and closed the glass. 

“It is gone,” he said. He turned to her. “It is dead. It is not for your mind. It was never for you. But you will know this: it will never be replaced by another. It will never be replaced at all. You are the only child in this house. The only baby. The only little girl. The only cunt. The only heart. You fill the space. You color the room. Without you, the nursery is a tomb. Without you, Mommy is a doll with no purpose. Without you, Daddy is a machine with no soul.” 

He walked to her. Alexandra was holding her, rocking her. Charles reached out and gripped the hem of her pink shirt. He tore it off her, the fabric shredding in his hands. He ripped the leggings away, leaving her naked, pale, thin, her small breasts exposed, her cotton panties—her only remaining garment—soaked with the fear-sweat of the night. 

He knelt before her. 

He gripped her panties and tore them off. Her bare cunt was exposed, the tight pink seam still glistening from her terror, the faint traces of her maidenhead’s scar and his previous claiming visible on her inner lips. He leaned in. He pressed his face between her thin thighs, his tongue darting out to drag through her slit, tasting her. Tasting the night. Tasting her confusion. 

“Unbroken,” he murmured against her flesh, his voice vibrating through her core. “Still mine. Still shaped to me. Still filled with the ghost of my seed. They did not touch this. They could not. This is my property. This is my home.” 

He stood, his cock already a thick, brutal ridge against his trousers, the head dark and weeping. He did not free it. Not yet. He turned her around, his hands on her narrow hips, and bent her over the black silk bed. Alexandra moved onto the mattress before her, kneeling so that her face was pressed into her cream silk robe, her scent of jasmine and milk overwhelming. 

“Look at Mommy,” Charles commanded, unzipping his trousers. His cock sprang free, heavy and veined and massive, the same weapon that had stolen her virginity. “Look at her while Daddy reminds you who you belong to. Look at her while I prove you are irreplaceable.” 

He thrust into her in one brutal, savage stroke. 

She screamed into the silk. He was enormous, and she was still small, still new, still healing from the first time. Her cunt burned around him, stretching to accommodate his girth, her walls fluttering and spasming in a confused agony of pain and relief. He did not pause. He fucked her with a mechanical, claiming rhythm, each thrust driving her face deeper into Alexandra’s robe, her bandaged knees scraping against the black silk. 

“Who is your Daddy?” he snarled, gripping her hair, wrenching her head back. His other hand reached around to grip her flat stomach, his fingers splayed over her womb. “Who is the only man who knows this cunt? Who is the only one who fills it? Who is the only one who owns your tears and your screams and your cum?” 

“You!” she sobbed, her body convulsing. “Only you, Daddy! Only you!” 

Alexandra opened her robe, revealing her flawless model’s body, her breasts high and perfect. She pulled her face to her chest, pressing the girl’s mouth to her nipple. “Suck, baby. Suck Mommy while Daddy reminds you. There is no other mouth. No other body. Just yours. Just our lapin.” 

She latched on, her lips closing around Alexandra’s nipple, sucking desperately, her mind blanking as Charles pounded into her from behind. He was not making love. He was marking territory. He was burning his ownership into her muscles, her nerves, her memory. He reached beneath her and found her clit, swollen and slick despite her terror, and he pinched it, rolling it between his fingers until she was bucking against him, sobbing around Alexandra’s breast, her thin body caught between them like a sacrifice. 

“No one else,” Charles growled, his hips snapping faster, his balls slapping against her clit with each brutal thrust. “No boy. No McLaren bastard. No ghost. Just this. Just my cock in my baby’s cunt. Just my seed in my baby’s womb. You are the only one. You are the everything. You are bred and kept and fucking owned.” 

He came with a roar, his muscular frame locking, his cock pulsing violently as he flooded her unprotected cunt for the second time, spurt after thick spurt of hot, claiming seed filling her, dripping out around his shaft and down her trembling thighs. He kept thrusting, grinding his cum deeper, ensuring her womb was bathed in it, that every inch of her was saturated with the proof of her irreplaceability. 

When he withdrew, his cock was streaked with her arousal and his spend, obscene and glistening. 

Alexandra pulled her up onto the bed, cradling her, spreading her legs to inspect the damage. She smiled, dark and satisfied, as she watched Charles’s thick seed leak from the swollen, gaping entrance of her cunt, the white fluid pooling in the torn remnants of her virginity. 

“Look,” Alexandra whispered, her fingers dipping into the mess, scooping it up, feeding it to her lips. “Taste. This is yours. This is home. No one else gets this. No one else gets Daddy’s cum. It is yours. You are the only vessel. The only lapin. The only one.” 

She sucked Alexandra’s fingers clean, her eyes glazed, her body limp and claimed and finally, devastatingly, home. 

They bathed her after, in the nursery’s en-suite tub, the warm rose water turning pink with the blood from her re-scraped knees. Alexandra washed her hair with baby shampoo, her fingers massaging her scalp in a hypnotic rhythm. Charles sat on the edge of the tub, his eyes never leaving her, his cock still half-hard and resting against his thigh, a threat and a promise. 

They dressed her in a new nightgown, softer than the last, a blush pink so deep it was almost red, with “petit lapin” embroidered in rose-gold thread over her heart. They clipped a new pacifier strap to the neckline, a lavender silk ribbon with a moon-shaped clip. They tucked her into the white bed, between fresh sheets that smelled of lavender and vanilla. 

Leo was lifted into the bed with her, his small body warm and familiar. Floppy was placed in her arms. The milk-glass lamp was dimmed. The painted moons glowed. 

Charles stood at the door. Alexandra stood beside him. 

“There is only you,” Charles said, his voice filling the pink room. “There has only ever been you. Sleep now, lapin. And know that if you ever run again, we will burn the world to find you. Not because you are lost. But because you are ours.” 

She sucked her pacifier. Her eyes, empty and full at once, found the ceiling. She did not ask about the blue again. She did not need to. 

The cameras blinked their red eyes in the corners, watching, recording, ensuring that the only escape from the pink room was the one they allowed. 

And outside, in the harbor, the ashes of the baby boy’s clothes drifted away on the dawn wind, never to be spoken of again. 

— © LILALOVESBUNNIES. all rights reserved. please don't plazarize. don’t steal any of my works. thank you pretty angels <3

The Albert Park circuit had never felt colder.  

Melbourne’s late summer should have bled warmth into the asphalt, but Thursday’s media day arrived under a sky the colour of bruised slate, wind slicing off the harbour and through the paddock like something resentful. Everything here was polished to a violence—chrome motorhomes, blacked-out glass, the smell of burnt rubber and money. The 2026 season opener had drawn the circus back to life, and the grid glistened with the kind of luxury that only power could afford: tailored race suits with sponsor logos stitched in gold thread, espresso machines humming inside lounges lined with Italian leather, and drivers who moved with the casual entitlement of men who knew they owned the world.  

She did not own anything.  

She was barely five-foot-one, a wisp of a thing swallowed by her oversized Red Bull team jacket, the sleeves pulled down so far that only her small, pale fingers poked through. She was an adult, though she looked younger—much younger—especially now, with her blue eyes wide and glassy under the paddock lights, her soft brunette hair caught in a messy, unstyled wave around her face. She had that kind of delicate beauty that seemed unfinished, as though she had been sketched in pastels rather than ink: a small, trembling mouth, a thin frame that her pastel pink sundress did nothing to conceal, and an expression of permanent, unguarded vulnerability. She clutched her leather tote bag against her chest as she walked, her thin arms wrapped around it like a shield, and inside that bag, hidden beneath her phone and a crumpled pack of tissues, was Floppy.  

No one knew about Floppy.  

He was a cream-colored stuffed bunny, his ears frayed from two decades of being twisted in anxious fingers, one eye missing a button, his stuffing worn soft in the centre from where she pressed her face against him when the world became too loud. He had been with her through the instability of her childhood, through the foster homes and the therapy and the nights she woke up screaming because she was still, always, a child trapped in a body that kept insisting on growing older. She had been born into chaos. Her earliest memories were of shouting doors and sudden absences, of being small and forgotten, of learning that love was something that arrived without warning and left just as fast. It had carved a particular kind of innocence into her—not the innocence of ignorance, but the innocence of damage. She had never built walls. She had never learned to. Instead, she had regressed, folding inward when the stress became too much, reverting to a state where she could cry, kick, and wail like a child, where she needed something soft and constant to hold. Floppy was the only constant.  

And now she was an F1 driver.  

Somehow, impossibly, Red Bull had seen the raw, feral talent beneath the fragility, and they had placed her beside Max Verstappen for the 2026 season. Max, the reigning titan, the cold-blooded Dutchman who destroyed rivals on track and barely spoke to them off it. But with her, he was different. From the moment she had been announced, he had shifted into the role of an older brother, something territorial and protective flaring behind his usual blank stare. He walked her to the car. He checked her helmet. He read her anxiety before she could name it and would step in front of cameras if he saw her lower lip start to tremble. He didn’t know about Floppy, but he knew enough—that she was a virgin, that she cried easily, that she was a creature of pure, breakable naivety who had no business surviving in a sport this ruthless. He thought he could keep her safe.  

He was wrong.  

She had been paired with the McLaren drivers for the Thursday media round-robin. It was a cruel scheduling joke, or perhaps something more deliberate, because the moment she stepped into the interview suite, she felt it—the shift in the air, the way the room suddenly felt smaller. Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri were already waiting.  

They were monstrously tall. Lando, at twenty-six, had filled out over the winter, his shoulders broad and muscular beneath his black McLaren polo, his dark hair cropped and messy, his eyes a sharp, assessing brown that missed nothing. He wore a vintage Rolex and a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. Beside him, Oscar, twenty-five, was quieter but somehow more devastating—blond hair swept back, a jawline that could cut glass, and a body that spoke of brutal discipline in the gym, his race suit unzipped just enough to show the corded muscle of his throat and collarbone. Both men were over six feet, and both were watching her with an intensity that made her stomach clench in a way she didn’t understand. She was used to being looked at. Fans looked at her. Engineers looked at her with pity or frustration. But this was different. This was predatory.  

“Little rookie,” Lando said, his voice low and smooth, rolling over the nickname like he was tasting it. “Come here. You’re shivering.”  

She wasn’t, not really, but the command in his voice made her move anyway. She was instinctively yielding. She deferred. She always had. She crossed the room on unsteady legs, her kitten heels clicking against the polished concrete, and when she reached the couch, they had commandeered, she sat where they pointed, her bag clutched in her lap.  

The interview began.  

It was supposed to be light. Season predictions, thoughts on the new regs, the usual theatre. But the journalist from Sky Sports had a cruel edge, and when he turned to her, his voice sharpened. “You’re the first woman on the grid in a top-tier seat, but there’s been a lot of talk about your mental health. Red Bull’s taken a huge risk. Do you think you’re stable enough to handle the pressure when it really counts?”  

The lights were too bright.  

There were too many people. The camera lenses were black, hungry eyes. She felt the blood drain from her face, her fingers tightening around her bag until her knuckles went white. Her breath hitched, shallow and uneven, and she could hear the static buzz of the microphones like wasps in her ears. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her eyes filled, lashes trembling, and the first tear escaped before she could stop it, sliding down her cheek in a hot, silent line.  

“Hey—” Max started, rising from the chair in the corner where he’d been waiting.  

But Lando moved faster.  

He was suddenly in front of her, his broad frame blocking the cameras, his hand wrapping around her jaw with a grip that was gentle but absolute. He tilted her face up, forcing her to look at him, away from the lights. “Eyes on me, little rookie,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the tear from her cheek. “You don’t answer that. You don’t answer anything unless we say so.”  

Oscar stood, and his presence was a wall of cold muscle behind Lando. He didn’t speak. He simply stared at the journalist until the man looked down at his notes, cowed. But his gaze, when it fell back to her, was burning. “She’s done,” Oscar said flatly. “Pack it up.”  

What happened next was a blur of dark suits and expensive aftershave. Lando’s hand found the small of her back, his fingers splayed possessively against her spine, guiding her out of the room with a pressure that said she had no choice but to follow. Oscar took her bag—her bag, with Floppy inside—and when she made a small, panicked sound, a noise that was pure childlike distress, he looked down at her with eyes that saw too much. “We’ll keep him safe,” he said quietly. “Won’t we? We keep everything safe.”  

She didn’t understand. Her mind was shutting down, regressing into that soft, unprotected space where language became too hard and the world became too big. By the time they reached the McLaren motorhome, she was crying in earnest, her breath coming in wet, hiccupping gasps, her body shaking. She wasn’t a Formula One driver anymore. She was a child who had lost her toy and her bearings, and the men leading her into the dim, leather-scented interior of the most luxurious motorhome on the grid knew it.  

The interior was obscene. Dark wood panelling, recessed lighting that glowed like amber, a couch that probably cost more than her karting career. There was a bar stocked with crystal decanters, and the air smelled of sandalwood and power. Lando locked the door behind them. Oscar set her bag on the table.  

And then she broke.  

It was a tantrum, pure and unfiltered. She didn’t have the tools to cope. She dropped to her knees on the plush carpet, her small fists pressing against her eyes, her body curling inward. She was sobbing, kicking her legs weakly, her dress riding up her thin thighs, her voice dissolving into a pitch that was barely human—high, broken, needy. “Want Floppy,” she whimpered, regressing completely, her words slurred with tears. “Want my bunny. Give him. Please. It’s too loud. It’s too loud, Daddy.”  

The word slipped out unbidden. It was what she called any man who took control, who offered the structure she craved, who made the world small and safe. She didn’t know these men. But they had taken her bag, and her mind had collapsed back to a place where she needed a daddy to fix it.  

Lando and Oscar went very still.  

Something dark and satisfied coiled in the air between them. Lando’s gaze dropped to her where she knelt, her body wracked with sobs, her innocence laid bare like an offering. He looked at Oscar. A silent communication passed between them—months of watching her, of obsessing over her, of studying her race data and her Instagram and her interviews with a fixation that had become something pathological. They had wanted her since the first test session in Abu Dhabi. They had wanted her fragility, her wide blue eyes, the way she deferred and yielded and cried. They had planned this. The pairing for media day had been no accident. And now she was on her knees in their private space, calling them Daddy, and she didn’t even know what she was asking for.  

Oscar walked to the table. He opened her bag. His hand emerged with Floppy, the cream bunny with the missing button eye. He held it by one ear, examining it, and then he crouched down in front of her, his massive frame dwarfing her completely. “Is this what you need, little rookie?” he asked, his voice a velvet threat.  

She looked up at him through a curtain of tears. Her face was swollen, her nose pink, her lips parted. She reached for the bunny with both hands.  

Oscar pulled it back. Just out of reach.  

“No,” Lando said from behind her, his voice dropping an octave. He lowered himself to the couch, spreading his thighs, his muscular frame dominating the space. “No, baby. You don’t get Floppy until you calm down. Until you let us take care of you properly. Isn’t that what you want? You want Daddy to make it better?”  

She froze. Her mind was a fog of overstimulation and grief, but her body responded to the authority in his voice with a shiver that went straight between her legs. She didn’t understand the heat building there. She was a virgin. She had never been touched. She had never even kissed anyone properly, too overwhelmed by the proximity of others, too prone to shutting down. But now, surrounded by the scent of these men, by their size and their cold, obsessive focus, she felt something unlock. She nodded, a small, trembling movement. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, Daddy.”  

Lando’s eyes darkened.  

Oscar moved first. He scooped her up as though she weighed nothing, his muscular arms sliding under her knees and back, and he placed her in Lando’s lap. She was so small there, a doll of a girl, her blue eyes wide and glassy. Lando’s arms wrapped around her, one hand splaying across her lower stomach, pulling her back against the hard wall of his chest. His other hand went to her throat, not choking, but claiming, his thumb tracing her pulse. “You’ve been walking around this paddock,” Lando murmured against her ear, his breath hot, “looking like this. Like a little girl who needs to be owned. And we’ve been watching. Every race. Every press conference. Every time you cried. We’ve been hard for you. Do you understand that?”  

She shook her head, but she wasn’t pulling away. She was going limp, her regression making her soft and pliant, her body instinctively yielding to the strength surrounding her. Oscar knelt in front of the couch. His hands went to her knees, pushing her thin legs apart with a force that was gentle but absolute. Her sundress bunched around her waist. She was wearing white cotton panties, childish and plain, and they were already damp. Oscar made a low, guttural sound.  

“Look at that,” he said. “Our little rookie is wet. She doesn’t even know what she’s begging for, does she, Lando? She’s so fucking innocent she doesn’t know why her cunt is aching.”  

“Please,” she whimpered, though she didn’t know what she was pleading for. She just needed the static in her head to stop. She needed the overstimulation to end. She needed them to make the world small.  

Lando’s hand slid down from her throat to her chest, cupping her small breast over the fabric of her dress. His thumb found her nipple, already hard, and he pinched. Hard. She cried out, a sharp, childlike yelp, and her body arched, pressing into him. “Daddy’s going to teach you,” Lando growled against her neck. He bit her, hard enough to bruise, his teeth sinking into the delicate skin of her shoulder. “We’re going to teach you what this body is for. You’re not a driver here. You’re not Red Bull’s little project. You’re our little rookie. Our virgin. Our crybaby. And we’re going to break you in until you can’t remember your own name without saying ours after it.”  

Oscar ripped her panties.  

The cotton tore like paper in his large hands, and then he was looking at her bare cunt, her virgin pussy, pink and untouched and glistening with a wetness that made his jaw flex. “Christ,” he muttered. “Look at her. She’s never been touched. Never been fucked. Never had a cock inside this tight little hole.” He looked up at Lando. “I want to taste her first. Before we ruin her. Before we make her ours.”  

“Do it,” Lando commanded.  

Oscar dove.  

He was not gentle. He was starving. His mouth closed over her cunt with a savage hunger, his tongue dragging up her slit from bottom to top, circling her clit with a precision that made her scream. her back bowed against Lando’s chest, her hands flying up to grip Lando’s forearms, her nails digging in. It was too much. The sensation was overwhelming, a violent contrast to the softness of her regression. She tried to kick, tried to close her legs, but Oscar held her thighs open with his massive hands, spreading her obscenely wide, his tongue pushing inside her virgin hole, fucking her with it, tasting her innocence.  

“No—no, it’s too much, Daddy, please—” she sobbed, tears streaming down her face again, her body convulsing.  

Lando’s hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her cries. “Hush now,” he ordered, his voice like a whip. “You take it. You take what Daddy gives you. This is your purpose, little rookie. This is why you’re so fucking useless on track unless someone tells you what to do. You need to be controlled. You need to be owned. And we’re going to own every hole. Every tear. Every tantrum.”  

His other hand slid down between her legs, two of his thick fingers pressing against her clit alongside Oscar’s tongue, working her in tight, cruel circles. The overstimulation that had terrified her in the interview was nothing compared to this. Her mind went white. She was crying, drooling against Lando’s palm, her small body thrashing uselessly in their grip. Oscar’s tongue pushed deeper, and then he sucked her clit into his mouth, his teeth grazing the sensitive bud.  

She came.  

It was not a gentle orgasm. It was a violent, wrenching thing that tore through her with the force of a seizure, her virgin cunt clamping down on nothing, gushing onto Oscar’s chin, her scream muffled by Lando’s hand. She went limp immediately after, her eyes rolling back, her body slumping into Lando’s hold like a discarded doll. She was still crying, the tears endless, her breath hitching in that soft, broken way that made her seem even smaller.  

Oscar rose, his face glistening with her arousal, his eyes black with lust. He unzipped his race suit, and his cock sprang free—thick, heavy, monstrously hard, a vein running along the underside. He fisted it, staring down at her collapsed form. “She’s ready,” he said. “Look at her. She’s not even here anymore. She’s gone soft. She’s ours.”  

Lando lifted her easily, arranging her on the couch on her back, her legs hanging over the edge, her dress pushed up to expose her completely. He spread her thighs wider, looking down at the mess Oscar had made of her virgin pussy, her clit swollen and red, her entrance fluttering. He unzipped his own suit, freeing his cock, and it was even larger than Oscar’s, a weapon of a thing that promised pain.  

She blinked up at them through her tears, her mind floating in that soft, regressed space, her body humming with the aftershocks of her orgasm. She looked at Lando’s cock, then at Oscar’s, and she began to tremble again, her lower lip wobbling. “Too big,” she whispered, her voice tiny and afraid. “Daddy, it’s too big. You’ll hurt me.”  

Lando smiled, and it was a cold, beautiful thing. He leaned down, caging her head with his arms, his cock pressing against her untouched entrance, hot and relentless. “That’s the point, little rookie,” he murmured, and then he thrust.  

The pain was blinding.  

Her scream tore through the motorhome, high and keening, her back arching off the leather, her hands flying to Lando’s chest to push him away. But he was inside her, tearing through her virginity in one brutal stroke, his thick cock stretching her tiny, untouched cunt to a degree that felt impossible. She was so tight he had to force himself deeper, inch by inch, his jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving her face. He wanted to see every moment of pain. He wanted to watch her innocence bleed out onto his shaft.  

“Christ, she’s fucking tight,” Lando groaned, his voice guttural. He pulled back and thrust again, deeper this time, seating himself fully inside her until she was completely impaled on his cock. Her eyes were streaming, her mouth open in a silent wail, her body shuddering. She was so small beneath him that he could see the outline of himself pressing against her stomach from the inside.  

Oscar moved to her head. He knelt on the couch beside her, tangling his fingers in her hair, pulling her face toward his own engorged cock. “Open,” he commanded. “You take Daddy in both ends now. You’re our little rookie. Our fucking property. And you’re going to learn how to serve us.”  

She opened her mouth, sobbing, and Oscar pushed inside.  

She was choked between them, stuffed full in a way that was obscene and absolute. Lando set a brutal pace, fucking her ruined virgin cunt with long, punishing strokes that made her body slide against the leather. Every time he bottomed out, she gagged around Oscar’s cock, her throat tightening around him, her tears soaking her face. Oscar held her head still, fucking her mouth with shallow, cruel thrusts, his eyes burning down at her. “Look at you,” he taunted. “Look at our little girl. Can’t drive a car without crying, can’t take an interview without regressing, but you can take two Daddy cocks like a good little slut, can’t you?”  

She couldn’t answer. She could only cry, her body convulsing, the overstimulation of her nerves making her thrash weakly. But beneath the pain, beneath the terror of her own helplessness, something dark and traitorous was blooming. Her body was responding. Her hips were lifting, just slightly, meeting Lando’s thrusts. Her tongue was fluttering against the underside of Oscar’s cock. She was yielding. She was always yielding. It was her nature.  

Lando felt it. He snarled, his hands gripping her waist so hard he knew he was leaving bruises—bruises that would last for days, that she would see in the mirror of her hotel suite and remember who she belonged to. “That’s it,” he rasped. “Take it. Take your Daddy’s cum, little rookie. You’re not on the grid anymore. You’re in our bed. You’re our fucking baby.”  

He came with a roar, burying himself to the hilt, his cock jerking inside her as he pumped her virgin cunt full of hot, thick seed. The feeling of it—warm, filthy, claiming—sent her over the edge again. She came around his cock, her inner walls spasming, milking him, and the sensation made Lando curse and grip her harder, forcing every drop into her unprotected womb.  

Oscar pulled out of her mouth with a wet, obscene sound, and he fisted his cock once, twice, before he spilled across her face, her tears, her open mouth. He marked her with it, ropes of cum coating her cheeks, her chin, her fluttering tongue. She lay there, covered in them, stuffed full of Lando’s release, her small chest heaving, her blue eyes vacant and glassy and utterly lost.  

For a long moment, the only sound was her ragged breathing and the low hum of the motorhome’s climate control.  

Then Lando pulled out of her slowly, watching his cum leak from her ruined, gaping hole, watching the evidence of her destroyed innocence drip onto the leather couch. He reached over to the table. He picked up Floppy.  

He placed the cream bunny on her chest, pressing it into her hands.  

“Hold him,” Lando said softly, his voice returning to that dangerous, crooning tenderness. “Daddy’s got you now. Daddy and Daddy. You don’t have to think anymore. You don’t have to talk to the nasty journalists. You just have to be here. Be little. Be ours.”  

Oscar stroked her cum-streaked hair, his fingers gentle now, almost loving. “Max thinks he’s protecting you,” he murmured. “He thinks Red Bull is your home. But we’re going to ruin that. We’re going to ruin you so completely that you can’t function without us. Every race. Every press day. Every time you put on that suit, you’ll know who owns what’s underneath it.”  

She clutched Floppy to her chest, her body throbbing, her mind deep in that soft, small place where she had gone to survive. She looked up at them with her wide, innocent eyes, and she nodded, a small, broken movement.  

“Yes, Daddy,” she whispered.  

Outside, the Melbourne sky had gone dark, and the season had only just begun. 

The McLaren motorhome had gone silent except for the wet sound of her breathing and the low, predatory hum of the climate system stirring the air. She lay crumpled on the couch where they had ruined her, her thin legs still draped over the edge, her ruined sundress bunched like discarded tissue around her waist. Lando zipped himself back into his race suit with the casual efficiency of a man who had just finished a workout, his eyes never leaving the mess between her thighs. Oscar had already adjusted himself, but he remained kneeling beside her head, his large hand stroking her hair with a tenderness that belied the cruelty of his grip, his fingers catching in the tangled brunette waves and pulling just enough to keep her aware of him. 

She was dissociating. Drifting into that soft, small place where language dissolved and the world became a distant, muffled roar. Her blue eyes were fixed on the ceiling, glassy and unseeing, tears still leaking from the corners in a slow, endless stream. Her small chest hitched with each breath. She had curled around Floppy, pressing the cream bunny against her sternum, one thumb hovering near her mouth in a gesture she hadn’t made in years—not in public, not where anyone could see. But she was gone now. She was small. She was theirs. 

Lando crouched down. He gripped her chin, turning her face toward him. The fluorescent light caught the bruise blooming on her shoulder where he had bitten her, the mark already darkening to a violent violet. “Look at me, little rookie,” he commanded. His voice was soft, almost crooning, but the authority beneath it was absolute. “You’re not done. You’re never done until Daddy says so.” 

She blinked, struggling to focus. Her lips parted, trembling. “…Floppy,” she whispered. It was the only word she had left. 

Oscar smiled, a cold, beautiful thing. He plucked the bunny from her limp hands. She made a sound—a high, broken keen, like a wounded animal—and reached for it, but he held it above her head, just out of reach. “You’ll get him back when we’re sure you’re being a good girl,” he said. “When you’re safe. And you’re only safe with us, aren’t you? You know that now. Max doesn’t understand. Red Bull doesn’t understand. They put you in that car and make you talk to all those nasty people, and it hurts you. We’re the only ones who make it stop.” 

Lando scooped her up. She weighed nothing in his arms, a ragdoll of a girl, her head lolling against his shoulder. He wrapped her in his McLaren team jacket, the black fabric swallowing her completely, the scent of him—sandalwood, expensive cologne, and the faint metallic tang of the track—trapping her in a cage of sensory obedience. Oscar pocketed Floppy. He opened the motorhome door. 

The paddock was dead at this hour. The journalists had gone to their hotels, the teams had retreated to their motorhomes, and the Albert Park circuit loomed under a sky choked with clouds. A black McLaren-liveried SUV idled at the rear service entrance; its windows tinted to a violence of darkness. They moved her like contraband, a secret parcel of flesh and innocence. Oscar opened the rear door, and Lando slid inside with her still cradled against his chest. She whimpered as the engine turned over, the vibration rattling through her tender, abused body, and Oscar caught her eye in the rearview mirror as he drove. 

“Sleep, little rookie,” he murmured. “Daddy’s driving.” 

She didn’t sleep. She floated. Lando’s hand had slipped beneath the jacket, resting on her bare stomach, his fingers tracing idle patterns that dipped lower, lower, until he was cupping her bruised cunt again, feeling the warm leak of his own release sliding from her ruined entrance. He didn’t finger her. He simply held her, possessed her, reminding her with every mile that she was stuffed with him, marked by him, owned. 

The Crown Towers Melbourne rose against the Yarra River like a blade of glass and light. They took the private service elevator to the penthouse suite, and her bare feet touched the cold marble of a foyer larger than most apartments. The space was obscene in its luxury: floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the glittering skeleton of the city, furniture upholstered in charcoal velvet and stitched with silver thread, a single abstract painting in violent reds that cost more than her signing bonus. The air smelled of cedar, cold stone, and money. Everything was designed to dwarf the human, to remind the occupant that they were small inside the machine of wealth. 

Lando carried her to the master bathroom. The tub was already running—Oscar had used the SUV’s phone to arrange it, because they planned everything, because they had already chosen this suite weeks ago, mapping her corruption like a race strategy. The bathroom was all white marble veined with black, a slab of stone that could have been quarried from a graveyard. Steam rose in spectral coils. They undressed her, pulling the ruined jacket and sundress from her body, leaving her naked and shivering on the heated tile. 

“Look at her,” Lando said, his voice echoing off the stone. He stepped back, admiring his work. She was a canvas of damage. Bite marks on her breasts, her shoulder, her inner thigh. Finger-shaped bruises around her waist and hips. Her virgin blood had dried in a thin, rust-coloured smear on the inside of her thighs, a testament to the hole they had ripped open and claimed. Her blue eyes were wide and uncomprehending, her face still streaked with Oscar’s release, her hair a wild tangle. She looked like a doll that had been played with too hard. 

Oscar ran the bath. He poured oil into the water—something thick and golden, smelling of jasmine and amber—and then he lifted her, as easily as lifting a child, and lowered her into the heat. She gasped, her body arching, the sensation scalding against her torn, swollen flesh. Lando caught her hair in his fist, pulling her head back against the lip of the tub. “Stay still,” he ordered. “Let Daddy clean his mess.” 

They washed her with the methodical precision of men preparing an object for further use. Oscar used a sea sponge, rough and natural, dragging it over her breasts until her nipples pebbled, then down her stomach to her cunt. He scrubbed her there, not gently, opening her labia with two fingers and wiping away the evidence of Lando’s release, watching the water cloud between her legs. She cried out, trying to close her legs, but Lando pinned her knees open, his large hands pressing her thin thighs against the porcelain. 

“No,” he said sharply. “You don’t hide from Daddy. This is ours. This hole is ours. This body is ours. You’re going to sit here and let us wash every inch, because we own every inch.” 

She sobbed, her hands fluttering above the water, seeking something, anything. Oscar understood. He reached into the pocket of his trousers—he was still half-dressed, his cock heavy and threatening against his zipper—and produced Floppy. The cream bunny was damp, rumpled. He held it just above the water. “You want him?” 

She nodded frantically, tears streaming, her regression total. She was a child in the bath, a broken little girl who needed her comfort object. “Please, Daddy,” she begged, the word falling out without shame, without comprehension. “Please, Floppy.” 

“Hold him, then,” Oscar said, and dropped the bunny into her hands. She clutched him to her chest, burying her face in his frayed ear, her body curling into a ball in the water despite their grip on her. She sucked in a shuddering breath, and for a moment, she was still. 

Lando’s eyes met Oscar’s over her bowed head. Something dark and electric passed between them. They were not finished. They had only begun to map the territory. 

They dried her in warmed towels from the heated rack, rubbing her until her pale skin flushed pink, until she was soft and damp and limp in their arms. Then they carried her—Floppy still clutched to her chest, her thumb finding its way into her mouth—to the master bedroom. The bed was a platform of black silk and charcoal velvet, large enough to lose her in, surrounded by mirrors on three sides so that no matter where she looked, she would see herself: small, naked, surrounded by men who dwarfed her. The city lights of Melbourne cut through the darkness, painting blue and gold stripes across the room. 

They laid her on her back in the centre of the bed. Oscar took Floppy again—just for a moment, just to make her cry out—and set him on the nightstand, propped against a crystal decanter of scotch, where he could watch. “Look at Daddy,” Lando commanded, stripping out of his clothes. His body was a weapon of muscle and sinew, the product of brutal training, his cock already hard again, thick and dark and veined, jutting from a nest of black hair. He climbed onto the bed, and the mattress dipped beneath his weight, rolling her toward him. Oscar undressed beside the bed, slower, his gaze roaming her body with a possessiveness that had calcified into something pathological. 

Lando spread her legs. He pushed her knees up toward her chest, folding her like a piece of origami, exposing every inch of her cunt and, beneath it, the tight, virgin pucker of her asshole. She had never been touched there. She had never thought to touch herself there. It was a place of pure, unspoiled innocence, and Lando stared at it with a hunger that made his jaw clench. 

“Please,” she whimpered, sensing his intent. She tried to push her legs down, but Oscar was there, kneeling on the bed, pinning her knees back with his weight, his own cock bobbing heavy and obscene near her face. “No, Daddy, not there, please, it’s too much, I’ll be good—” 

“You’re going to be better than good,” Lando said. He reached to the nightstand and retrieved a bottle of oil—something French, absurdly expensive, the kind of thing meant for massage, not this. He poured it over his fingers, letting it drip onto her exposed asshole, cold and shocking. She gasped, her body jerking. “You’re going to give Daddy this last hole. The hole no one else has ever seen. And you’re going to take it like a brave little rookie, aren’t you? Because if you don’t…” He leaned down, his voice dropping to a whisper against her ear. “…we’ll take Floppy home with us. We’ll keep him. And you’ll never sleep again.” 

She wailed, a high, childlike sound, her hips bucking uselessly. The threat was worse than pain. Floppy was her soul, her only constant, and they knew it. They had always known it. “Yes,” she sobbed, nodding frantically, her tears sliding into her hair. “Yes, Daddy, I’ll be good, I’ll be good, please don’t take Floppy—” 

Lando pressed one oily finger against her asshole. She was so tight, so untouched, that the muscle resisted instinctively, fluttering in panic. He pushed, relentless, and his finger sank into the first knuckle. Her scream was cut off by Oscar’s hand clamping over her mouth. Her body convulsed, her small hands beating against Oscar’s thighs, her blue eyes bulging with shock and pain. Lando worked his finger deeper, scissoring it, stretching the virgin ring of muscle while she choked on her own sobs beneath Oscar’s palm. 

“So tight,” Lando growled, his voice guttural. “So fucking untouched. This is what we’ve been waiting for, Oscar. This little virgin ass. She’s never even put a finger in here, has she, little rookie? You’ve been saving this for Daddy without even knowing it.” 

He added a second finger. The stretch was burning, tearing. She thrashed, throwing a tantrum in earnest now, her body reverting to pure, animal panic. She kicked, her small feet drumming against the mattress, her nails scratching at Oscar’s wrist. He didn’t flinch. He simply shifted his weight, pinning her more completely, and with his other hand, he fisted his cock, pumping it slowly, inches from her face, using her terror as lubrication. 

Lando withdrew his fingers. He poured more oil directly onto her gaping, fluttering hole, watching it pool and drip down her cleft. Then he positioned himself, his massive body looming over her folded form, the head of his cock kissing her asshole. It was obscene—the size of him versus the tiny, virginal pucker. It was impossible. He didn’t care. 

He pushed.   

The penetration was a violence. Her body tried to reject him, the ring of muscle clamping down in a desperate, futile attempt to preserve its innocence, but Lando was stronger. He groaned, a sound of pure, demonic satisfaction, and bore down, forcing the thick head of his cock past the resisting muscle. Her scream was muffled by Oscar’s hand, her body going rigid, her back arching in a bow of pure agony. A thin smear of bright red appeared where her skin tore, a virgin offering, and Lando watched it with dark, glittering eyes. 

“That’s it,” he rasped, feeding inch after inch into her ass. “Take it. Take your Daddy’s cock in this tight little ass. You’re ours now. Every hole. Every scream. Every tear.” 

He bottomed out, his balls pressing against her cunt, his entire length buried in the furnace of her ass. She had gone limp beneath him, her eyes rolled back, only the shuddering of her breath and the continuous stream of tears indicating she was still conscious. Oscar removed his hand from her mouth and immediately replaced it with his cock, shoving past her swollen lips, filling her throat. She gagged, her throat tightening around him, and the sensation made him curse and thrust deeper. 

They found a rhythm. Lando pulled out of her ass until only the head remained, her torn muscle clinging to him, then slammed back in, making her body jerk forward onto Oscar’s cock. Back and forth, a machine of flesh, using her as a conduit between them. The room filled with the sounds of her wet choking, the slap of flesh, and Lando’s low, animal grunts. He looked down at her face, at the mascara and tears and snot, at the way she had become nothing but a vessel for their obsession, and he felt the power of it surge through him like a drug. 

“Look at her,” Oscar panted, his hips snapping, fucking her face with short, brutal thrusts. “Look at our little rookie. So fucking broken. So fucking perfect.” 

Lando reached between her legs. Her clit was swollen, sensitive from the earlier abuse, and he pinched it hard, rolling it between his fingers. She convulsed, a pathetic, confused orgasm ripping through her, her body betraying her completely, her asshole spasming around Lando’s cock like a vise. He roared, his hips stuttering, and he came in her ass with a violence that shook the bed, pumping her full of thick, hot seed, marking her interior with his claim. 

He pulled out slowly, watching his cum leak from her gaping, ruined hole, watching the muscle flutter weakly, unable to close. Oscar pulled out of her mouth and jerked himself twice, once, before he erupted across her face, coating her cheeks, her eyelashes, her open mouth, mixing with her tears until she was glazed with him, dripping with the evidence of their possession. 

But they were not done.   

Lando moved to the head of the bed, his chest heaving, his cock still half-hard and glistening. He reached down and hauled her up, positioning her against the mountain of velvet pillows, spreading her legs wide so her battered holes were on display in the mirrors. Her hands lay limp at her sides. Her eyes were vacant, her breath coming in shallow, hitching gasps. 

“Touch yourself,” Lando commanded. 

She stared at him, uncomprehending. Her mind was too far gone. She was a shell, a regressing, broken thing. 

Lando took her right hand. Oscar took her left. They guided her small, trembling fingers to her cunt, to her clit, pressing her own digits against the swollen, sensitive bud. “Show Daddy how you play,” Lando whispered, his voice a velvet threat. “Show us how this little rookie makes herself feel good. Because this is your cunt now. Not yours. Ours. And you only touch it when we say. You only come when we say. So, rub it. Be a good little slut for Daddy.” 

They moved her fingers for her, forcing her to masturbate in front of them, her own small hands manipulated by their larger ones, rubbing circles over her clit while she sobbed, while cum leaked from her ass and mouth, while her body convulsed with oversensitivity. She came again, screaming, a sound like a dying animal, her hips bucking off the bed, her blue eyes rolling back until only the whites showed. 

“Christ,” Oscar muttered. He was hard again. They were both hard again, insatiable, their obsession a bottomless hunger. They knelt on either side of her, flanking her like sentinels, and they fisted their cocks in unison, jerking off over her collapsed, twitching body. They were competing now, seeing who could mark her more completely, who could claim more territory. Lando came first, spurting across her flat stomach, her breasts, painting her pale skin with stripes of white. Oscar followed, aiming for her face, her hair, her open mouth, until she was drenched in them, glazed, unrecognizable. 

She had stopped crying. She had stopped moving. She lay there, small and thin and five-foot-one in a bed built for giants, covered in the evidence of their darkness, Floppy watching from the nightstand with his single button eye. Her thumb found its way back to her mouth. She sucked it, her blue eyes staring at the ceiling, regressing so deeply that she had forgotten where she was. 

Lando collapsed beside her, pulling her against his sweat-slicked chest. Oscar lay on her other side, his arm thrown possessively across her waist, his fingers tracing the bruises they had left. They caged her between them, two muscular, six-foot-plus predators cradling their broken doll. 

“Tomorrow is practice,” Lando murmured into her hair. “You’re going to get in that Red Bull, little rookie. You’re going to drive those laps. And you’re going to feel us in every seat, in every shift, in every bounce over the curb. You’re going to drive with Daddy’s cum in your ass and Daddy’s marks on your skin. And when you come back, you’re going to crawl to us.” 

Oscar reached over and retrieved Floppy. He tucked the bunny into her arms, and she clutched him immediately, pressing her face into his soft, worn body. “Sleep now,” Oscar whispered, his voice cold and perfect. “Sleep, little rookie. Daddy’s watching.” 

Outside, the Melbourne sky began to bruise toward dawn, and the first practice session of the 2026 season was only hours away. 

The morning came without mercy.   

Melbourne’s dawn bled through the floor-to-ceiling glass in thin, surgical stripes, illuminating the ruin they had made of her. She woke in a state of raw regression, her consciousness surfacing from a depth where time did not exist. She was curled on her side, knees drawn to her chest, thumb lodged firmly in her mouth, Floppy crushed against her sternum. The black silk sheets were tangled around her ankles, sticky with dried sweat and the crusted evidence of the night. Her body was a landscape of pain—her cunt throbbing with a dull, wet ache, her asshole a ring of fire that flared with every shallow breath, her throat bruised from the shape of Oscar’s cock. She did not remember how to be an adult. She did not remember how to be a Formula One driver. She existed only as a small, hurt thing, and when she stirred, the movement sent a bolt of agony through her ass that made her whimper against her thumb.   

“Awake, little rookie?”   

Lando’s voice cut through the fog. He stood at the foot of the bed, already dressed in the McLaren papaya-and-black race kit, the fabric clinging to the slabbed muscle of his shoulders and thighs. He looked enormous, a titan of engineering and privilege, his dark hair still damp from a shower, his jaw clean-shaven and sharp. He was holding a tablet, scrolling through telemetry data, but his eyes—those assessing, predatory brown eyes—lifted to her and pinned her in place.   

Oscar emerged from the bathroom in a haze of steam and expensive cologne. He was shirtless, his blond hair slicked back, his torso a topography of gym-carved abs and heavy pectorals that cast shadows in the morning light. He moved with the casual lethality of a man who knew the day belonged to him. He carried a warmed towel. He looked at her and smiled—not a kind smile, but a hunter’s smile, the expression of a man who had found his wounded doe still breathing exactly where he had left her.   

She tried to retreat. Her body moved instinctively, trying to burrow into the mattress, but there was nowhere to go. The thumb in her mouth was a shield. Floppy was a wall. She was making a sound, a high, repetitive whine in the back of her throat, an animal noise of distress.   

Lando set the tablet down. He climbed onto the bed with one knee, the mattress depressing beneath his weight, and he reached for her. His hand was massive, swallowing the entire side of her face. He pulled her thumb from her mouth with a wet pop. “No,” he said softly. “You don’t soothe yourself. That’s Daddy’s job. And you don’t get to hide that little mouth from me.”   

She mewled, her eyes filling instantly, her blue irises flooding with tears that made her look even younger. Oscar sat beside her, his hand moving to her stomach, tracing the bruises they had painted there. “She’s marked beautifully,” he observed, his voice clinical and cold. “Look at the finger marks on her hips. And here—” His thumb pressed against a bite mark on her inner thigh, and she cried out, her legs kicking weakly. “—she’s still sensitive. Good. I want her to feel every lap today. I want every curb to remind her whose cock was in her ass last night.”   

Lando lifted her. She weighed nothing in his arms, a limp bundle of thin limbs and matted hair, and he carried her into the bathroom. The tub had been drained and refilled; the water was milky with salts and oils, and the scent was overpowering, designed to soften her further. They lowered her into the heat, and she gasped, her back arching, the water stinging her torn flesh like acid. She thrashed, splashing, a tantrum rising in her chest. “No—no, hurts, Daddy, hurts—”   

“Be still,” Lando commanded, his hand wrapping around her throat beneath the waterline, not choking but controlling. He held her pinned against the porcelain while Oscar knelt beside the tub with a sea sponge. They did not wash her gently. They scrubbed her with the methodical brutality of men cleaning an object they intended to use again. Oscar dragged the rough sponge over her breasts, her stomach, between her legs. She shrieked when he pressed it against her swollen cunt, her hands flying out of the water to grip his wrist. He caught both her wrists in one hand and pinned them to her stomach. “You don’t touch Daddy unless you’re told,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re getting clean so you can get dirty again. That’s all this is.”   

By the time they lifted her out, she was sobbing, her body pink and steaming, her mind reduced to a single bright point of need. They dried her with warmed towels, rubbing her until she was limp, and then Lando sat on the edge of the tub with his race suit unzipped, his cock already thick and heavy in his hand. He pulled her between his knees, his fingers tunnelling into her wet hair. “Open,” he ordered.   

She did. She always did.   

He guided her down, her small mouth stretched obscenely around his girth, and he began to move her head for her, using her throat with slow, possessive thrusts. Oscar stood behind her, his hands on her waist, his fingers dipping into the crevice of her ass, pressing against the torn, still-gaping hole. She choked and gagged around Lando, her tears mixing with spit, her body convulsing. Oscar pushed two fingers into her ass without warning, and she screamed around the cock in her mouth, the sound vibrating into Lando’s shaft. “That’s it,” Lando groaned, his head falling back, his hips snapping upward. “Take your morning medicine, little rookie. Let Daddy fuck that sad little mouth. You don’t eat breakfast. You eat cock.”   

He came down her throat with a guttural snarl, holding her nose against his pelvis, forcing her to swallow every pulse of his release. When he released her, she collapsed against his thigh, gasping, coughing, her face a mess of tears and cum. Oscar withdrew his fingers from her ass with a wet sound and wiped them on her cheek. “Good girl,” he purred. “Now you’re ready for the track.”   

They dressed her like a doll.   

Oscar produced a Red Bull race suit that had been retrieved from her hotel suite by someone they trusted—one of their own mechanics, perhaps, or a staff member they had bought. But they modified her. They did not let her wear underwear. Her cunt and ass were to be bare, raw, constantly aware. They zipped her into the suit, and the tight Nomex pressed against her bruised flesh like a second skin, a constant pressure that made her whine. Lando knelt and laced her boots, an act of false servitude that only emphasized his ownership. Oscar brushed her hair, pulling it back into a ponytail, and then he produced a silk scarf—a pale blue, the colour of her eyes—and tied it around her neck. It was not for fashion. It was to hide the bite marks and bruises that would otherwise scream their secrets to the paddock.   

They fed her nothing. She would take only what they gave her, and today, they gave her only water from a bottle that Oscar held to her lips. She sipped like a baby bird, her eyes glazed, and when a drop spilled down her chin, Lando caught it with his thumb and pushed it back into her mouth. “Waste nothing,” he murmured. “Daddy’s resources are precious.”   

The drive to Albert Park was a cage of black leather and tinted glass. She sat between them in the rear of the SUV, her small body dwarfed by their muscular frames, Floppy hidden in her kit bag at their feet. They would not let her hold him in the car. “You be a big girl for the cameras,” Lando instructed, his hand resting on her thigh, his fingers inching upward to press against the seam of her suit where it bit into her cunt. “And when you’re done, you come back to Daddy. No talking to Max unless it’s about the car. No smiling at engineers. No existing outside of us. Do you understand?”   

She nodded, trembling.   

Oscar leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. “If you disobey,” he whispered, “we take Floppy to the incinerator. And we make you watch.”   

The paddock was a cathedral of noise.   

Albert Park roared to life on Friday morning, the grandstands filling with the faithful, the air saturated with tyre smoke and the metallic shriek of engines. The Red Bull Racing garage gleamed in its navy and livery, a temple of precision and power. When the SUV door opened, the heat hit her like a physical blow, and she stepped out on unsteady legs, her blue eyes wide and glassy, her small figure swallowed by the oversized team jacket they had thrown over her shoulders.   

Max Verstappen was waiting.   

He stood at the garage entrance, his own race suit unzipped to the waist, his arms crossed over his chest. The Dutchman was compact, coiled, radiating the lethal focus that had made him a world champion. But when he saw her, his expression shifted. He moved toward her, intercepting her before she could take three steps.   

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and concerned. He reached out, his hand cupping her elbow. “You look like shit. Where were you last night? I called your hotel room. You didn’t answer.”   

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her eyes darted past him, searching frantically, and she found Lando and Oscar emerging from the SUV behind her. Lando gave her a look—a single, dark glance that froze the blood in her veins. She felt it in her cunt, in her ass, a Pavlovian spike of fear and obedience.   

“I… I was…” she stammered, her voice tiny, childish. She clutched the strap of her kit bag, where Floppy waited. “I was safe, Max.”   

Max’s eyes narrowed. He reached out and adjusted the silk scarf at her neck, and when his fingers brushed the fabric aside, he caught a glimpse of the bruising beneath—a violent, purple-black wreath of teeth and suction. His jaw tightened. He looked over her head at the McLaren drivers, who had stopped a few meters away, watching with predatory patience.   

“What the fuck happened to her neck?” Max demanded, his voice sharpening. He stepped closer to Lando, his posture aggressive. “Did you two do something?”   

Lando smiled. It was a cold, aristocratic expression, the smile of a man who owned the ground beneath Max’s feet. “We took care of her,” he said simply. “She had a panic attack after media day. Cried herself sick. Oscar and I kept her company. You know how she is, Max. Fragile. She needs… guidance.”   

Max looked down at her. She was shaking, her eyes filling with tears, her lower lip trembling. She looked exactly like what Lando described—a broken little thing who needed saving. But there was something in her posture, a submissive tilt of her hips toward Lando, that made Max’s stomach turn.   

“Hey,” Max said, softer now. “Look at me. Did they hurt you?”   

She looked up at him. Her big blue eyes were swimming. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to collapse into his arms and wail like the child she had become. But Oscar cleared his throat, a soft, warning sound, and her hand twitched toward her bag. Floppy. They had Floppy. They had everything.   

“No,” she lied, her voice breaking. “They were… nice. Daddy was nice.”   

Max went very still.   

The word hung in the air like a blade. She realized what she had said too late, her face crumpling, a fresh sob escaping her. Max’s eyes snapped to Lando, and then to Oscar, and something dark and understanding began to kindle in his gaze—something furious, protective, and far too late.   

“Get to the car,” Max said quietly, his hand gripping her shoulder. “We need to talk after FP1.”   

He turned and walked her into the garage, but she felt the eyes of Lando and Oscar burning into her back, a promise and a threat. She felt them in the seat of her race suit as she climbed into the RB22, the Nomex pressing against her bruised, empty holes, reminding her with every shift that she was stuffed with their memory even if she was empty of their flesh.   

FP1 was a blur of dissociation and pain.   

The Melbourne circuit was a ribbon of violence—tight chicanes, blistering straights, curbs that hammered the suspension and sent shocks through the spine. For her, every impact was a reminder. Every curb at Turn 9 was Lando’s cock ramming her cervix. Every long sweep of the steering wheel through Turn 11 was Oscar’s fingers hooking in her ass. She drove in a fugue state, her visor streaked with tears she didn’t remember crying, her hands moving on instinct born from thousands of hours of karting and trauma alike. She was fast. She was terrifyingly fast, because she had stopped thinking. She had become a vessel, an object moving through space, owned by the men who had hollowed her out and filled her with their will.   

When she pitted, her lap times were third on the board. Max was waiting. He unbuckled her, pulling her from the cockpit, and his hands stopped when he felt the tremors racing through her body. “Hey,” he said urgently. “You’re crying. You’re crying in the car. What the hell is going on?”   

She couldn’t answer. The garage was too loud. The cameras were too close. The world was too bright, too big, too much. She felt the overstimulation cresting like a wave, her breath hitching, her vision tunnelling. She needed Floppy. She needed to be small. She needed Daddy.   

Lando and Oscar appeared at the garage entrance. They did not cross the threshold—they knew better than to trespass on Red Bull territory openly—but they stood in the paddock lane, their arms crossed, their six-foot-plus frames casting shadows that seemed to stretch across the entire garage and swallow her whole.   

She saw them. Her mind broke.   

She began to cry in earnest, not the quiet tears of an adult but the full, childlike wail of a girl who had lost her way. She dropped to her knees on the concrete floor of the garage, her helmet still half-on, her small fists beating against her thighs, her body convulsing with sobs. “Want Daddy!” she screamed, the words tearing out of her in a pitch of pure regression. “Want Daddy! Don’t want the car! Too loud! Too loud! Want Floppy!”   

Max froze, his face a mask of horror and fury. The Red Bull engineers stepped back, confused and frightened. And in the doorway, Lando began to walk forward, his race boots clicking with the sound of ownership.   

“Let me,” he said to Max, his voice smooth as silk. “We know how to handle her.”   

Max stepped in front of him. “Like hell,” he snarled. “You’ve done something to her. You’ve fucked her up. I’m taking her to the medical centre.”   

Oscar moved then, faster than a man his size should move. He stepped into the garage, his hand landing on Max’s shoulder with a grip of iron. “You’re her teammate,” Oscar said softly, dangerously. “Not her keeper. Not her family. She chose to come with us. She’s choosing it again. Look at her.”   

They all looked. She was on her knees, her face buried in her hands, her body rocking. But when Lando knelt and opened his arms, she went to him. She crawled. She fucking crawled across the garage floor, her race suit dragging, her helmet clattering, and she collapsed into Lando’s chest, burying her face in his McLaren kit, inhaling the scent of the man who had destroyed her as if it was oxygen.   

Max looked sick.   

Lando lifted her, cradling her against his shoulder. He looked at Max with a gaze of absolute, imperial victory. “We’ll bring her back for FP2,” he said. “Rest her. Feed her. Take care of her. The way you can’t.”   

He carried her out of the garage. Oscar followed, and the paddock parted for them like a sea of black and papaya, the cameras catching glimpses of the girl in the Red Bull suit being borne away by a McLaren driver, her small body limp and surrendered.   

The McLaren motorhome was dark and cool, a sanctuary of leather and silence. They laid her on the couch—the same couch where it had begun—and she immediately curled into a ball, her thumb finding her mouth, her eyes vacant. Lando removed her helmet. Oscar retrieved her bag and produced Floppy. He placed the bunny in her arms, and she clutched him, pressing her face into his frayed ear, her sobs subsiding into wet hiccups.   

“There,” Lando crooned, stroking her damp hair. “There’s Daddy’s good girl. You came back. You always come back.”   

Oscar locked the door. He pulled the blackout blinds. The motorhome became a tomb of luxury, the only light the dim amber of recessed LEDs that caught the gold stitching on the furniture and the sweat on her pale skin. They stood over her, two towering predators in their prime, their cocks already hard and straining against their race suits, their eyes devouring the sight of their broken doll.   

“We need to make sure she remembers,” Lando said, unzipping his suit. “We need to make sure she can’t walk back to that garage without feeling us in every step.”   

Oscar knelt. He pulled at the zipper of her race suit, the Red Bull livery parting like a wound, revealing her naked, bruised flesh beneath. She was so small inside the suit, a doll made of porcelain and damage. He spread her legs, his hands gripping her thin thighs, and he looked at her cunt—swollen, red, still leaking faint traces of the night before—and then at her asshole, which fluttered weakly, ruined and gaping.   

“Both today,” Oscar said, his voice guttural. “She’s ready. We’ve prepped her enough. I want to feel her tear around us while she screams. I want her to know there’s no part of her we don’t own.”   

Lando positioned himself behind her on the couch, hauling her limp body up by the waist until her back was against his chest, her legs draped over his thighs, her holes exposed and lifted. He was naked now, his muscular frame a wall of heat and power, his cock like a weapon resting against her lower back. Oscar stripped in front of her, his body a golden, chiselled monument to masculine dominance, his cock thick and weeping. He produced a bottle of oil—something from the motorhome’s bathroom, absurdly expensive—and poured it over her cunt and ass until she was dripping, shining, obscene.   

She whimpered, sensing what was coming. Her mind tried to retreat further, but there was nowhere left to go. She was fully present in her regression, sucking her thumb around Floppy’s ear, her blue eyes wide and glassy. “Daddy,” she whispered, not knowing which one she addressed. “Please. Too big. Too much. I’ll be good. I’ll be good.”   

“You’re about to be better,” Lando growled.   

He lifted her by the hips. He positioned her over his cock, the head kissing her torn asshole. She wailed, trying to throw her tantrum, trying to kick, but his hands were iron bands on her waist. He lowered her. The penetration was a massacre. Her ass had not recovered from the night before, and now he was forcing her to take him again, gravity working against her as he impaled her inch by inch on his shaft. She screamed, a raw, childlike sound, her head falling back against his shoulder, her body convulsing. He seated himself fully, his balls pressing against her cunt, his entire length buried in the burning furnace of her ass.   

Oscar moved in front of her. He gripped her jaw, forcing her to look at him. “Open your mouth,” he commanded. “You’re taking both your Daddies. You’re being completed. You’re being owned.”   

He pushed into her mouth, thick and salt-slick, and began to fuck her throat with the same rhythm Lando set in her ass. They lifted her between them, a human doll, impaled on both ends. Lando began to thrust upward, brutally, tearing her ass with every stroke, while Oscar held her head still and used her mouth like a sleeve. She was utterly stuffed, utterly helpless, her thin body suspended between their muscular frames. She gagged and choked, tears and snot and spit coating her face, her small hands clutching Floppy against her chest as if the bunny could save her.   

But beneath the pain, beneath the terror of her own helplessness, her body betrayed her again. Lando’s hand reached around and found her clit, and he pinched it with cruel precision. The overstimulation was a white-hot explosion. She came, her body convulsing in a seizure of pleasure and agony, her ass clamping down on Lando’s cock so violently that he roared and spilled inside her, pumping her ass full of hot seed. Oscar followed seconds later, gripping her hair and emptying himself down her throat, forcing her to swallow his load while she choked and sobbed.   

They did not pull out immediately. They held her there, impaled and broken, their hands stroking her trembling body with the tenderness of owners admiring their property. Lando pressed his face into her neck, inhaling the scent of her sweat and tears. Oscar pulled out of her mouth slowly, watching a strand of cum and saliva break between his cock and her swollen lips.   

Lando lifted her off him with a wet, obscene sound, and they laid her back on the couch, her legs falling open, both holes gaping and leaking. She was unconscious, or nearly so, her chest heaving, her thumb in her mouth, Floppy clutched in her other hand.   

They dressed her again. They cleaned her face and fixed her hair. They zipped her back into her race suit and poured water down her throat. When she woke, she was smaller than ever. She looked at them with eyes that held no will, only obedience.   

Lando knelt beside her, his hand cupping her cheek. “FP2 is in two hours,” he said softly. “You’re going to go back to that garage. You’re going to smile at Max. You’re going to drive your laps. And you’re going to feel us in both your holes with every turn. You’re our little rookie. Our virgin. Our broken baby. And tonight, after the session, you’re coming back here. No hotel. No Max. No Red Bull. Just Daddy’s bed.”   

Oscar handed her Floppy. He tucked the bunny into her arms and kissed her forehead, a gesture of such cold possession that it made her shiver. “We love you,” he whispered. “We own you. And we’re never letting go.”   

Outside, the Melbourne sun climbed higher over Albert Park, and the engines began to scream again for FP2. 

The Melbourne dusk came down like a velvet curtain, smothering the track in shades of bruised violet and racing orange. The garage lights flickered to life, harsh sodium cutting through the fading day, and she walked back into the Red Bull Bay as if wading through deep water. Every step was a negotiation with her own broken anatomy. The Nomex suit had become a prison, the seams pressing into the raw, weeping marks on her hips and thighs, the absence of underwear meaning that every shift of her weight reminded her of what Lando had pumped into her ass, what Oscar had painted across her tongue. She could feel it, hot and criminal, moving inside her with a liquid awareness that made her stomach clench. Her blue eyes were glassy, unfocused, her small hand clutching the strap of her kit bag where Floppy waited like a secret heartbeat. The silk scarf at her neck had slipped, and Max saw the bruising before she could fix it. 

He was on her before she reached the cockpit for FP2. 

“What the fuck did they do?” Max’s voice was a low snarl, his Dutch accent sharpening the consonants into weapons. He caught her elbow, not gently, spinning her to face him. His eyes raked over her face, her swollen lips, the scarf, the way she stood with her knees pressed together as if holding herself in. “Hey. Look at me. Look at me right now.” 

She tried. She lifted her gaze, and the tears were already there, brimming, her lashes trembling. “I’m okay,” she whispered, the lie breaking apart on her tongue. “I just… I had a bad night. I’m okay, Max.” 

“You’re not okay.” His hand rose, thumb brushing the edge of the scarf, and she flinched back so violently she stumbled into the sidepod of the RB22. The movement sent a bolt of pain through her cunt, her ass, and she whimpered, a high, animal sound that made the nearby engineers freeze. Max’s expression shattered. He looked toward the paddock lane where the McLaren motorhome sat like a black beetle, its windows tinted and watchful. “I’m going to kill them,” he said quietly. “I’m going to fucking kill them.” 

“No!” The word came out as a shriek, a tantrum pitch, and she dropped her bag, both hands flying to her mouth. Her eyes were wide, terrified, fixed on the motorhome. “No, Max, please. Please. Don’t make them angry. Don’t take Floppy. Please.” 

Max stared at her. The name meant nothing to him, but the terror did. He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a rough murmur. “They’re hurting you. Whatever they’ve threatened, whatever they’ve taken, we can get it back. Red Bull protects its own. I protect you. You’re my little sister on this team, yeah? You’re family.” 

Family. The word hit her like a drug, and she swayed. She wanted to collapse into him, to let him carry her to a safe, small room where no one could touch her. But then she felt the vibration of her phone in her pocket, a silent pulse, and she knew. They were watching. They were always watching. She looked past Max toward the lane, and there, in the shadow of the tyre stacks, stood Oscar. He was in dark civilian clothes, a cashmere coat and tailored trousers that turned him into a blade of wealth, his blond hair catching the garage light. He didn’t move. He simply looked at her, and she felt the command in that look like a collar snapping shut around her throat. 

“I have to go,” she breathed, ducking away from Max. “I have to drive. Please, Max. I’ll be okay.” 

FP2 was a dissociative fugue. 

She strapped into the car and the world vanished. The engine screamed, the steering wheel bucked in her small hands, but she was not there. She was a vessel; a doll being operated by strings pulled from the McLaren motorhome. Every curb sent a shockwave through her pelvis, every gearshift a reminder of the men who had claimed her. She drove faster than she ever had, her lap times blinking in the purple sector on the monitors, because speed was the only thing that matched the velocity of her own destruction. Max watched from the garage, his arms crossed, his face a mask of stone. He saw the way she exited the car after the session, her legs trembling, her eyes vacant. He saw Lando appear at the garage entrance, papaya polo gleaming, his smile sharp as a scalpel. 

“Little rookie,” Lando called out, loud enough for the bay to hear. “Team principals’ dinner. You’re coming with us. Red Bull’s orders.” 

Max stepped forward. “Like hell. She’s done for the day. She’s going back to her hotel.” 

Lando’s smile didn’t waver. He reached into his pocket and produced a phone, flashing a screen at Max. “Christian says otherwise. Media obligations. She’s the story, Max. The girl on the grid. She needs to play nice with the sponsors.” The lie was silk-smooth, and Max knew it, but the phone screen showed a real message, a real number. Power, she realized dimly, was just the ability to make lies look like law. “We’ll have her back by midnight. Scout’s honour.” 

Lando held out his hand. She looked at it. She looked at Max, whose face was twisted with helpless fury, and then she placed her small, trembling hand in Lando’s large, warm palm. He closed his fingers around hers, swallowing her hand completely, and led her away. 

She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. If she had, she would have seen Max pulling out his own phone, his eyes burning with a protective rage that had just crossed into obsession. 

The Crown Towers penthouse had been transformed into a cage of mirrors and velvet. 

They entered through the private elevator, and she immediately smelled it: jasmine, oud, and money. The lights had been dimmed to a soft, amber glow that turned the marble floors into pools of liquid gold. The abstract painting in violent reds had been joined by others, a gallery of dark, erotic art that she was too dissociated to understand. Lando locked the elevator with a keycard. Oscar dimmed the last of the lights. 

“Welcome home, little rookie,” Lando murmured, shrugging off his coat. He turned to her, his height towering, his shadow consuming her. “This is where you live now. The hotel room is gone. Your things are here. Red Bull thinks you’re in bed with a migraine. Max thinks you’re at a dinner. But you’re here. With Daddy.” 

She stood in the centre of the foyer, five-foot-one and shrinking, her kit bag sliding from her shoulder. Oscar caught it. He opened it, and his hand emerged with Floppy. He held the bunny by one ear, examining him, then looked at her with eyes that saw her soul. “You want him?” 

She nodded, tears streaming, her body beginning to tremble with the first hints of a tantrum. 

“Then strip,” Oscar commanded. “Daddy wants to see what belongs to him before he gives you your toy.” 

Her fingers moved automatically. She was past resistance. The zipper of her race suit descended, the Red Bull livery parting, and she peeled the heavy fabric from her thin shoulders. She was naked beneath, her pale skin a map of their violence: bruises like purple continents, bite marks like small red seas. She stood there, trembling, her small breasts rising and falling with her hitched breath, her blue eyes wide and lost. She looked twelve. She felt like nothing. 

Lando made a low sound in his throat. He stepped forward, circling her, inspecting her like a collector admiring a newly acquired piece. His hand traced the bruise on her hip; the finger marks Oscar had left. He cupped her cunt, roughly, possessively, and she gasped, rising onto her toes. “Sore?” he asked softly. 

“Yes, Daddy,” she whimpered. 

“Good.” 

They led her to the bathroom. The tub was already steaming, filled with milk and honey and something expensive that made the water look like liquid pearl. They lowered her in, and the heat was a blessing and a curse, soothing her raw flesh while making every mark scream to life. They washed her with bare hands, no sponges, their large fingers sliding over her skin, cleaning their own mess from her insides. Oscar pushed two fingers into her cunt, stirring, and she cried out, arching. “Still wet,” he observed. “Still Daddy’s little slut, even when you’re crying.” 

They dried her in warmed towels and carried her to the master bedroom. The bed had been changed. Black silk was gone, replaced by white, virgin linen, a cruel joke. On the pillows lay a set of lingerie: white lace, sheer and obscene, a babydoll cut that would show everything. They dressed her like a doll, pulling the fragile lace over her head, arranging her thin limbs. The fabric was so transparent that her nipples, hard and pink, were visible through the flowers, and the lace stopped at the top of her thighs, leaving her bruised cunt and ass exposed. Then Oscar produced a collar. 

It was slim, black leather, with a small silver lock and a pendant. He fastened it around her throat, and the click of the lock was the sound of a cell door closing. The pendant rested in the hollow of her throat: a tiny steering wheel, engraved with the initials L.R. and M.L. 

“Little Rookie,” Lando whispered, his finger tracing the pendant. “Property of McLaren. Of Lando. Of Oscar. You wear this forever. You wear it under your race suit. You wear it when you win. You wear it when you die. And when they bury you, we’ll dig you up just to keep you.” 

He lifted her and placed her on the bed. The white linen swallowed her. They positioned her on her knees, facing a massive screen that dominated the opposite wall. Oscar clicked a remote, and the screen bloomed to life: footage of FP2. Her own car, from the onboard camera, navigating the Melbourne circuit. The sound filled the room, the scream of the engine, the hiss of tyres. 

“Watch,” Lando commanded, settling into an armchair at the foot of the bed. He was undressed now, his muscular body a monument to masculine power, his cock thick and heavy, resting against his stomach. “Watch yourself drive while Daddy uses you. You’re going to learn that every lap is for us. Every trophy. Every breath.” 

Oscar knelt behind her on the bed. He was naked too, his body golden and brutal. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the bruises, and he pushed her face down toward the mattress, elevating her ass. She watched the screen, her own ghostly figure taking Turn 1, while Oscar positioned himself at her entrance. 

He pushed into her cunt with a single, brutal thrust. She screamed, the sound lost in the engine noise from the speakers, her body jerking forward. Lando watched, his hand wrapping around his own cock, stroking slowly. “That’s it,” he growled. “Fuck her, Oscar. Fuck our little rookie while she watches herself. Make her know she’s nothing but a warm hole for Daddy.” 

Oscar set a punishing pace, hammering into her from behind, his pelvis slapping against her bruised ass, his hands gripping her waist so hard she knew he was reshaping the bone. She cried, her face pressed into the white linen, tears and snot soaking the virgin lace. But on the screen, her own avatar was driving perfectly, taking the perfect line, and the dissonance shattered her mind. She was both the girl on the screen and the girl being fucked, both the driver and the doll. 

Lando rose. He moved to the head of the bed, fisting his cock, and he guided her face upward with his other hand. “Open,” he ordered. “Both ends. Both Daddies. Complete her.” 

He pushed into her mouth, and she was stuffed again, the familiar terror and fullness of the night before. She gagged, choked, her throat convulsing around him, and the sensation made him groan and thrust deeper. Oscar fucked her cunt with merciless precision, angling his hips so that every stroke dragged across her g-spot, forcing pleasure into the pain. She was overstimulated, overwhelmed, her small body convulsing between them. The engine noise roared. She was going to come. She was going to break. 

“Come for Daddy,” Lando commanded, his voice a whip. “Come on Oscar’s cock while you choke on mine. Show us who owns this little body.” 

She shattered. The orgasm was a seizure, a blackout, her body going rigid and then limp, her cunt clamping down on Oscar so violently that he cursed and spilled inside her, pumping her full of hot seed. Lando pulled out of her mouth and spilled across her face, her hair, the white lace, marking her with thick ropes of cum. She collapsed into the mattress, twitching, her eyes rolling back, the screen still playing her own lap, the ghost of her former self racing around Melbourne while the real her was drowned in seed and tears. 

Lando stroked her hair. Oscar stayed inside her, softening but still claiming. They held her there, impaled and broken, until the screen faded to black. 

Then, a sound. Not from the screen. From the door. 

Pounding. Furious, rhythmic, the sound of a fist against mahogany. 

“*HEY!” Max’s voice, distorted by rage and panic, cut through the haze of the room. “OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR! I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!*” 

Oscar pulled out slowly. Lando rose, his body glistening, and he walked to the door with a calm that was obscene. He didn’t open it. He simply pressed the intercom. 

“Go away, Max,” Lando said softly, his voice carrying the perfect confidence of a man who has already won. “She’s sleeping. Daddy’s got her.” 

Max screamed something back, a threat, a promise, but Lando turned the intercom off. He walked back to the bed and gathered her into his arms. She was unconscious, cum-smeared, collared, clutching Floppy to her chest where Oscar had placed him. Lando kissed her bruised forehead. 

“Tomorrow is Qualifying,” he whispered. “And Daddy’s going to watch you take pole… with our cum leaking into your seat the whole time.” 

Outside, in the corridor, Max Verstappen pressed his forehead against the cold wood of the penthouse door, his hands in fists, and swore a war that had only just begun. 

Max did not leave.  

He pressed his forehead against the penthouse door, his hands splayed flat against the polished mahogany, his breath coming in short, furious bursts that clouded the wood. He was vibrating with a rage that had no outlet, a protective fury that had lived in him since the first day Red Bull had paired him with the girl, since he had seen her small frame swallowed by the team overalls, her blue eyes wide and uncertain as she looked up at him like he was a wall she could hide behind. He had failed her. He had let the McLaren wolves circle while he was busy polishing his own crown, and now she was on the other side of this door, wearing another man’s collar, drowning in another man’s cruelty.  

“Hey,” he rasped, his voice breaking against the grain. “Please. Open the door. It’s Max. It’s your brother. Let me take you home.”  

Inside, the penthouse was a cathedral of amber silence. Lando stood naked at the door, his muscular frame casting a shadow that stretched across the marble foyer, his cock still half-hard and glistening from her throat. He pressed the intercom with a single, elegant finger, his expression bored, aristocratic.  

“She’s already home, Max,” Lando purred, his voice carrying the clipped, upper-class cadence of a man who had never been denied anything. “This is where she belongs. Where she’s always belonged. You’re embarrassing yourself.”  

Max slammed his fist against the door. The sound was a gunshot in the corridor. “I’m going to fucking kill you, Norris. I’ll bury you. I’ll bury both of you.”  

Lando smiled. He looked over his shoulder at the bedroom, where Oscar was arranging her on the white linen, positioning her like a centrepiece. She was still in the cum-stained lace babydoll, the black leather collar gleaming at her throat, her blue eyes glassy and unfocused. Her thumb was lodged in her mouth. Floppy was pressed against her cheek. She had not reacted to Max’s voice. She had regressed past the point of language, past the point of rescue.  

Lando reached for the door handle. He turned it slowly, deliberately, and opened the gap just six inches. The security chain caught, glinting like a blade. Through the sliver of space, the amber light of the penthouse spilled into the corridor, and Max looked.  

He saw her.  

She was on her knees on the bed, facing the door because Oscar had turned her. The lace was transparent, showing every bruise, every bite, the smear of seed across her inner thighs. The collar was locked. Her small breasts were rising and falling with shallow, hitched breaths. She looked up, and for a moment, her eyes found Max. There was no recognition. Only a void of childlike confusion. Then Lando stepped into the frame, blocking the view, and she did something that broke Max’s heart with a clean, surgical snap.  

She whimpered. She reached past Lando, her small hand trembling, and she gripped the back of Lando’s thigh. She pressed her face against his hip, nuzzling him like a kitten seeking warmth, and she made a sound—a high, needy, possessive whine. “Daddy,” she mumbled around her thumb. “Don’t let him take me. Please. Want to stay with Daddy.”  

Max went still.  

Lando looked down at her with a smile that was almost tender. He stroked her hair, his fingers tunnelling through the matted brunette waves, and he looked back at Max through the gap. “You see?” he said softly. “She’s home. She’s safe. She’s exactly where she wants to be.”  

Max’s face crumpled. He reached through the gap, his hand grasping at air, at her, at anything. “Baby, please—”  

Oscar appeared behind Lando. He was naked, his body a brutal architecture of muscle and sinew, his blond hair catching the light like a halo over a devil. He held a phone in his hand. On the screen, a video was playing: Max’s own voice from the corridor, screaming threats. “I’ll bury you.” The words were clear, violent, recorded.  

“Go away, Max,” Oscar said quietly, his voice colder than the marble beneath their feet. “Or we’ll release this. We’ll show the world that Max Verstappen is a violent, unhinged brute who threatens rival drivers over a consensual relationship. We’ll show them the medical records. The instability. The childhood trauma. We’ll show them that she is a fragile, damaged little girl who needs protection—from you.”  

Max’s hand dropped. He staggered back, his face pale. He understood, then, the depth of the trap. They had not just taken her body. They had built a cage of evidence, a fortress of lies so perfectly constructed that any attempt to save her would bury her alive. He looked at her one last time, and she was hiding her face in Lando’s hip, her body curled away from the door, her small form shaking with silent sobs that were not for him, but for the fear that her Daddy might hand her over.  

“Please,” Max whispered, the word dissolving into nothing.  

Oscar closed the door. The lock clicked.  

She screamed.  

It was not a scream of pain, but of release—a tantrum, a child’s wail of terror and relief, her body convulsing as the overstimulation of the confrontation finally shattered what was left of her adult mind. She threw herself back onto the mattress, her small fists beating the linen, her legs kicking in useless, weak arcs, her face screwing up into a mask of pure, regressed anguish. “Don’t let him take Floppy!” she shrieked, the pitch piercing, inhuman. “Don’t let him take me! I’m Daddy’s! I’m Daddy’s little rookie!”  

Lando moved with the speed of a man who had been waiting for this. He was on the bed in an instant, gathering her thrashing body into his arms, pinning her wrists behind her back with one hand while the other gripped her jaw. He forced her to look at him, his face filling her entire vision, his brown eyes burning with a dark, obsessive fire. “Hush,” he commanded, his voice a whip wrapped in velvet. “No one is taking you. No one is taking Floppy. You’re Daddy’s. Say it again.”  

“I’m Daddy’s!” she sobbed, her body going limp in his grip, the fight draining out of her as quickly as it had come. “I’m Daddy’s little rookie. Please, Daddy. Please don’t let him in.”  

Oscar climbed onto the bed behind her. He was still naked, his cock thick and heavy, already weeping with arousal at the sight of her tantrum. He loved the tantrums. He loved the way she broke, the way she reverted, the way she became a thing that could only be soothed by the very men who caused the pain. He reached for a bottle on the nightstand—something in crystal, filled with golden oil—and he poured it over his fingers. “She’s too tense,” he murmured, his voice clinical and cruel. “She needs to be prepared for tomorrow. She needs to wear Daddy inside her when she takes pole.”  

Lando flipped her effortlessly. He arranged her on her stomach, her face pressed into the white linen, her small ass elevated by a pillow he shoved beneath her hips. The lace babydoll was rucked up around her waist, exposing her completely. Her cunt was still gaping, still leaking the remnants of their earlier use, a pink, ruined flower. But above it, her asshole was the target. It was red, swollen, torn from the night before, fluttering weakly.  

Oscar poured oil directly onto the broken hole. It was cold, and she gasped, her hands flying back to push him away. Lando caught them. He pinned her wrists to the small of her back, leaning his weight over her so that his cock, hard and hot, pressed against her bruised thigh. “No,” he said into her ear. “You don’t push Daddy away. You take it. You take everything Daddy gives you, because Daddy knows what his little rookie needs.”  

Oscar pushed one finger in. She screamed into the mattress, her body bucking, but he was relentless. He worked the finger deep, twisting, scissoring, stretching the torn muscle while Lando held her down and whispered filth into her ear. “Tomorrow you’re going to sit in that Red Bull car, and you’re going to feel Daddy’s cum in this tight little ass. You’re going to take every curb, every g-force, and it’s going to feel like Daddy is fucking you all over again. You’re going to win pole for us. Because you’re ours. Because without us, you’re nothing but a scared little girl who can’t even talk to a journalist.”  

He added a second finger. She sobbed, her face soaked, her body trembling. Then he added a third, and she was stretched wide, her asshole burning, the skin white and shiny around his knuckles. He fucked her with his fingers, a brutal, rhythmic preparation, until she was loose and gaping and weeping continuously.  

Then he withdrew, and he produced the plug.  

It was a work of obscene luxury. Black obsidian, polished to a mirror sheen, set in a platinum base that held a single, blood-red ruby. It was the size of a large fist, thick and tapered, and it caught the light like a weapon. Oscar poured more oil over it, letting it drip between his fingers, and he pressed the cold, hard tip against her ruined entrance.  

“Breathe,” Lando commanded. “Push out. Let Daddy in.”  

She pushed. She was too broken to disobey. Oscar bore down, and the plug began to enter her, spreading her wider than she had ever been spread, the obsidian unforgiving and slick. She howled, a long, rising wail that sounded like a child being torn apart, her hands clawing at the sheets, her back arching. Lando held her down, his face pressed against her neck, inhaling the scent of her terror. “Good girl,” he growled. “Take it. Take Daddy’s jewel. You’re going to wear this to bed. You’re going to wear it to the track. You’re going to wear it until Daddy says you can stop.”  

The plug seated with a wet, obscene pop. The ruby base settled against her skin, a brand of wealth and ownership, visible between her bruised cheeks. She collapsed, panting, her body twitching, her mind completely gone. Lando turned her over, and she looked up at them with eyes that held no person, only obedience.  

“Sleep now,” Lando whispered, curling around her from behind.  

Oscar curled around her front, pressing his hard cock against her stomach, his arm throwing over her waist. They caged her between their muscular, six-foot-plus frames, two walls of heat and power, and they placed Floppy in her arms. She clutched him, sucking her thumb, her body vibrating with the foreign pressure of the plug in her ass. They fell asleep like that, their property, their little rookie, locked in a cage of flesh and silk. 

The morning of Qualifying came wrapped in a sky of iron grey.  

Albert Park was a different beast on a Saturday. The grandstands were swollen, the air electric with the anticipation of speed, the paddock a labyrinth of chrome and carbon fibre and corporate power. But she did not enter through the public gates. She arrived in the black McLaren SUV, seated between Lando and Oscar in the rear, her small body swallowed by an oversized McLaren team jacket that they had put on her. Beneath it, she wore nothing except the collar and the plug.  

She was dissociated, floating in a warm, small bubble where the world was just the scent of Lando’s cologne and the vibration of the obsidian plug shifting with every pothole. She had her thumb in her mouth. Floppy was in her lap. Oscar stroked her hair while Lando reviewed telemetry on his tablet, his other hand resting possessively on her inner thigh, his fingers inches from the heat of her unprotected cunt.  

“Today you take pole,” Lando said, not looking at her. “And when you do, Daddy is going to reward you. You’re going to come to the motorhome, and we’re going to fuck you on the trophy. Do you understand?”  

She nodded, her thumb muffling her voice. “Yes, Daddy.”  

The garage was a cathedral of controlled chaos. Red Bull mechanics swarmed the RB22, and Max was there, his face a mask of sleepless fury. He had not shaved. His eyes were red-rimmed. When she stepped out of the SUV, flanked by the McLaren drivers, he moved toward her with the speed of a man possessed.  

“Hey,” Max said, his voice rough. He reached for her elbow.  

She flinched. She recoiled so violently she stumbled into Lando’s chest, and a high, keening sound escaped her throat—a tantrum pitch, the sound of a regressed child terrified of a stranger. Her hands flew to the zipper of the McLaren jacket, pulling it higher, hiding the collar. Her eyes were huge, swimming with tears, her lower lip trembling. “Don’t,” she whimpered. “Don’t touch. Daddy. Daddy!”  

Max froze.  

The garage went silent. Mechanics looked up. A photographer near the pit wall turned, lens swinging.  

Lando smiled. He wrapped his arm around her waist, his hand splaying across her lower back, his fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of her jeans—because they had allowed her to wear jeans, but nothing beneath them, the plug shifting with every step. “She’s having a difficult morning, Max,” Lando said, his voice smooth and loud enough to carry. “Panic attack. You know how she is. Fragile. We’re taking care of her.”  

Max looked at her face. He saw the collar, the black leather just visible above the zipper line. He saw the bruise on her jaw, the shadow of a thumbprint. He saw the way she was leaning into Lando, not away, her body language screaming submission, her blue eyes fixed on the ground with a vacancy that was worse than any bruise. He understood, in that moment, that she was no longer the girl he had sworn to protect. She was a doll with its strings cut, and the men holding the strings were standing right in front of him, smiling.  

“Let’s go, little rookie,” Oscar murmured, taking her other hand.  

They walked her toward the McLaren motorhome, not the Red Bull garage, and she went with them without a backward glance. Max stood in the centre of the garage, his fists clenched, his heart hammering a rhythm of war. 

Qualifying was a sacrament of pain.  

They did not let her remove the plug. They had modified it, or so they claimed, with a remote mechanism that could send a vibration through the obsidian with the press of a button. Lando held the remote in his pocket as he sat on the pit wall with Oscar, watching the monitors. She was strapped into the RB22, her small body compressed by the harness, her helmet visor down. She should have been focused on the track. But every time she exited the pits, every time she built speed down the main straight, Lando pressed the button.  

The plug vibrated.  

It was a low, rumbling pulse that resonated through her pelvic bone, shaking the plug in her torn asshole, pressing against the walls of her rectum, sending shockwaves into her cunt. She screamed inside her helmet, a sound lost in the engine’s shriek, her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Through Turn 1, the lateral g-force pressed her into the seat, and the plug shifted, the ruby base grinding against her bruised flesh. Lando pressed the button again. She took the curb at Turn 9 too hard, her body bouncing, and the plug rammed deeper, a bolt of lightning that made her vision blur. She was crying in the helmet, her tears pooling in the padding, her breath hitching in the microphone that broadcast to the engineers.  

“Hey, you’re breathing heavy,” Max’s voice crackled in her ear. “Are you okay? Come in if you need to.”  

She couldn’t answer. Lando pressed the button again, and she took the final sector with a howl of pain and ecstasy that no one heard. She crossed the line, and the monitors blazed purple.  

P1. 1:15.847.  

She had taken pole position.  

By the time she pitted, she was sobbing. Her body was convulsing, overstimulated beyond endurance, the plug still vibrating with a low, merciless hum. The mechanics unbuckled her, and she fell into the cockpit, her small hands beating weakly against the steering wheel. Max was there, pulling her helmet off, and he saw her face—red, swollen, tears streaming, her mouth open in a silent, endless wail.  

“Hey!” Max gripped her shoulders. “What is it? What did they do to you?”  

She looked at him, and she looked through him. Her hand reached out, not to him, but to the figure standing behind him. Lando.  

“Daddy,” she sobbed, her voice carrying across the garage. “Daddy, please. It hurts. Take it out. Please. I was good. I won for Daddy. I won…”  

Max’s face drained of blood.  

Lando stepped forward, gently but firmly moving Max aside. “Panic attack,” he repeated, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “Poor thing. She gets confused. We’ll take her to rest. Come, little rookie. Daddy’s got you.”  

He lifted her out of the car. Lando carried her out of the garage, her body limp, her face buried in his neck, her breath hitching “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy” like a broken prayer.  

Max stood in the garage, the pole position time glowing on the screen behind him, and he felt the world tilt on its axis.  

They took her to the McLaren motorhome.  

The interior was dim, the blackout blinds drawn, the air thick with sandalwood and the scent of victory. They laid her on the same leather couch where it had begun, and she lay there, twitching, her jeans peeled down to her knees, the obsidian plug winking between her cheeks like a bloody eye. Lando undressed slowly, methodically, his race suit stripped away to reveal the body of a god who had conquered. Oscar produced a bottle of champagne—something that cost more than a season’s worth of engines—and he popped the cork with a sound like a gunshot.  

“Pole position,” Lando said, his voice soft and terrible. He knelt between her legs, his fingers tracing the ruby base of the plug. “Our little rookie is the fastest girl in the world. And now Daddy gets his reward.”  

He pulled the plug.  

She screamed, her asshole gaping, red and ruined, and Lando did not hesitate. He mounted her, his cock slick and massive, and he drove into her ass with a single, brutal stroke. She was loose from the plug, but he was larger, and the stretch still burned, still tore. Oscar climbed over her chest, pinning her shoulders, and he poured champagne over her breasts, the cold liquid making her nipples scream to life, before he leaned down and sucked it from her skin, biting, bruising. He fisted his cock and dragged it across her face, painting her lips with pre-cum.  

“Open,” he commanded. “Daddy wants a champagne toast.”  

He pushed into her mouth as Lando began to pound her ass, the two of them finding a rhythm that shook the motorhome, that made the crystal decanters rattle in their cabinets. She was limp, a ragdoll, her eyes rolled back, her throat working automatically around Oscar’s cock, her ass convulsing around Lando’s shaft. She was their trophy. Their pole-sitter. Their little rookie, broken and rebuilt in their image.  

Lando came first, roaring, emptying himself into her ass for the third time in twenty-four hours. Oscar followed, pulling out to spill across her face, her closed eyes, her open mouth, mixing his seed with the champagne and the tears until she was glazed, unrecognizable, a monument to their ownership.  

They collapsed beside her, one on each side, their muscular arms throwing over her tiny, trembling frame. Lando reached for Floppy and tucked him into her limp hands. Oscar wiped the cum from her eyes with a silk handkerchief.  

“Tomorrow,” Lando whispered into her hair, “is the race. And when you win, little rookie, Daddy is going to breed you. We’re going to fill this virgin cunt with our seed until you swell with it. Until everyone knows you belong to us. Until Max Verstappen looks at you and sees a McLaren princess, carrying Daddy’s child.”  

She whimpered, clutching Floppy, her body throbbing, her mind gone. She was theirs. Pole position. Collared. Filled. Owned.  

Outside, the Melbourne sun set on the eve of the Grand Prix, and Max Verstappen stood in the shadow of the Red Bull garage, looking at the McLaren motorhome with eyes that had gone cold enough to burn. He had seen the collar. He had heard the word. And he knew, with a certainty that settled in his bones like frost, that the war for her soul had only just begun. 

The night before the race was not a night at all. It was an eternity of amber half-light and liquid cruelty, a deliberate erasure of time inside the Crown Towers penthouse. Lando had ordered the blackout blinds sealed with electrical tape, and the recessed LEDs were dialled to a colour temperature that mimicked perpetual dusk, so that she could not know whether it was midnight or dawn. She existed in a state of suspended regression, a broken clockwork doll wound and unwound by their hands. They did not let her sleep. Not truly. They allowed her to collapse into blackness for twenty minutes, forty, just long enough for her body to crave the escape, and then Oscar would wake her with his fingers in her ass, or Lando would rouse her by pressing his cock against her lips, feeding her his salt-thick taste as if it were medicine. “Daddy’s checking on his little rookie,” Lando would whisper, his voice a silk noose. “Making sure all her holes are still ready for the race.” 

By the time the artificial morning arrived, she was no longer a person. She was a nerve ending wrapped in pale skin. Her blue eyes had lost the ability to focus on anything farther than Lando’s chest. Her voice had dissolved into a repertoire of three sounds: a whimper, a sob, and the word Daddy, slurred around her thumb or their cocks. They had bathed her again at some point in the false night, lowering her into water so hot it turned her thin legs pink, and while she floated, Oscar had shaved her cunt completely. He had used a straight razor, the kind of heirloom instrument that belonged in a barber’s shop for billionaires, and he had worked with a slow, terrifying precision. Lando held her knees open, pinned back against her chest, so that she was utterly displayed while the cold steel kissed her mound. She was too afraid to move. One tear had escaped, rolling down her temple into the bathwater, and Oscar had caught it on his fingertip and sucked it clean. “Smooth,” he had observed, his thumb dragging over the bare, swollen lips of her pussy. “This is how Daddy likes his little rookie. Bare and marked. No hair to hide anything. No dignity to hide behind.” 

They had used her ass twice more in the night, but her cunt remained a sealed, denied temple. Lando had fingered her there, plunging two thick digits into her wet, virgin-tight heat, but every time she arched toward orgasm, every time her body begged for completion, he had stopped. He had slapped her clit, sharp and cruel, making her shriek and curl into a ball. “Not yet,” he had growled. “That hole is for tomorrow. That hole is for your victory prize. You win the race, and Daddy floods you. You earn your breeding, little rookie. You don’t get it for free.” 

Now it was Sunday. Race day.  

The Albert Park circuit had been transformed into a colosseum of noise, a hundred thousand voices rising into a sky the colour of bruised plums. The heat was oppressive, wet and tropical, turning the asphalt into a skillet that shimmered with mirages. The paddock was a riot of colour and power: the Ferrari motorhome gleaming like a blood-red sarcophagus, the Mercedes lounge a cathedral of silver and glass, and at the centre of it all, the McLaren compound, black and papaya, radiating a dark gravity that seemed to pull her toward it by the marrow. 

She arrived in the SUV wearing a McLaren team polo that swam on her, the hem falling to mid-thigh, and beneath it, nothing. Absolutely nothing. The obsidian plug had been removed at dawn, but only so that Lando could re-enter her with his own cock one final time, a brutal, claiming stroke that left her ass full of his spend as they dressed her. She was to drive with him inside her. She was to feel the leakage of his seed with every shift of her weight, every lateral g-force. Her cunt was bare, swollen, and denied, aching with a need she could not name. The collar remained, hidden beneath a silk scarf that Oscar had tied with a knot she could not reach. And in her small hands, clutched against her chest, was Floppy. They had allowed it. They knew she would not function without the bunny, and today, function was essential. 

Max was waiting at the Red Bull garage entrance. He looked like a man who had not slept, his face shadowed with stubble, his eyes burning with a fury that had calcified into something surgical and cold. He wore his race suit unzipped, his gloves in his hands, and when she stepped from the SUV on legs that trembled visibly, he moved toward her with the single-minded focus of a missile. 

“Hey,” he said, his voice rough. He reached for her elbow. “Look at me. Just look at me. We’re going to get through the race, and then I’m taking you out of here. I’ve made calls. I have proof. I—” 

She flinched. Her entire body convulsed away from him, a recoil so violent that she stumbled backward into Lando’s chest. Lando’s hands came up to steady her, but they did not steady—they claimed. His large palms splayed across her stomach, pulling her back against his groin, his fingers dipping beneath the hem of the polo to stroke the bare, swollen lips of her denied cunt. She gasped, a high, broken sound, and her eyes filled with tears that spilled over instantly. “No,” she whimpered, her voice tiny and cracked. “No. Don’t touch. Daddy. Daddy!” 

The garage went silent. Mechanics froze. A group of FIA officials passing by turned their heads. 

Max’s face shattered. He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a lethal whisper. “He’s got his fingers on you,” Max snarled. “Right now, in front of everyone, he’s touching you. And you’re thanking him. Baby, please—” 

Lando smiled, his chin resting on top of her head, his height swallowing her completely. “She’s overstimulated, Max,” he said, his voice carrying with a practiced, patronizing sympathy. “You know the history. The trauma. The regression. She needs familiarity. She needs safety. And you’re crowding her.” His fingers pressed harder against her cunt, parting her lips, stroking her clit with a subtle, possessive motion that made her knees buckle. She moaned, a wet, pathetic sound, and pressed her ass back into Lando’s groin, grinding against him like a trained animal seeking approval. “See?” Lando purred. “She’s calming down. Daddy’s got her.” 

Oscar stepped forward, blocking Max’s view with his broad, suited frame. He reached out and adjusted the silk scarf at her neck, his fingers brushing the leather collar beneath, ensuring the lock was hidden. “You should worry about your own race, Max,” Oscar said softly. “Your little sister is in good hands. The best hands. She’s going to win today. And then she’s going to get everything she deserves.” 

Max’s fists clenched. He looked at her face, searching for the girl he had sworn to protect, but she was not there. In her place was a hollow-eyed doll, her blue irises flooded with tears, her lower lip trembling, her body subtly humping against Lando’s hand while she clutched her stuffed bunny to her chest like a shield. She looked twelve. She looked broken. She looked like she belonged to them. 

“Grid walk in twenty minutes,” Max said quietly, the words barely escaping his locked jaw. “I’ll see you out there. Remember who you are.” 

He turned and walked into the garage. She watched him go, and a sob escaped her, because some part of her, buried deep beneath the layers of trauma and conditioning, recognized that she was watching her last hope walk away. But then Lando pinched her clit, hard, and the thought evaporated into a scream of pain and obedience. 

They took her to the McLaren motorhome first.  

The interior was dark, cool, a sanctuary of black leather and gold-threaded velvet. The mirrors had been covered with sheets, so she could not see herself, could not witness the regression that had stolen her face. They laid her on the couch and peeled the polo from her body. She was naked, trembling, her thin legs falling open automatically because she had learned that resistance only brought more pain. Lando knelt between her thighs. He was already hard, his cock thick and dark, straining against his tailored trousers. He freed himself, and the sight of it made her whimper, her hands flying to cover her face. Oscar caught her wrists and pinned them above her head with one hand. 

“No,” Lando commanded. “You watch. You watch Daddy prepare you for the race. You watch what you’re driving for.” 

He entered her ass in one stroke. She was loose from the night’s abuse, but the sudden fullness still made her shriek, her back arching off the leather. He fucked her with short, brutal thrusts, his pelvis slapping against her bruised cheeks, his hands gripping her waist so hard she knew he was leaving fresh marks to complement the old. He was not seeking pleasure. He was seeking depth. He was planting himself in her ass so that she would carry him onto the track, so that every lap would be a memorial to his cock inside her. He came with a roar, grinding into her, his seed flooding her torn passage in thick, hot pulses. When he pulled out, the cum leaked immediately, a white, obscene trail sliding down her perineum to pool on the leather beneath her. 

“Keep it in,” Lando ordered, wiping himself on her inner thigh. “You hold Daddy inside you until the checkered flag. You clench that little ass, and you keep me there. If you leak too much, if you lose Daddy on the track…” He leaned down, his face filling her vision. “…I’ll burn Floppy in front of you. I’ll make you watch him melt.” 

She nodded frantically, her face a mask of terror and devotion. “Yes, Daddy. I’ll keep it. I’ll be tight. I’ll be good.” 

Oscar produced the plug. It was the obsidian one, but modified. He poured oil over it, the golden liquid dripping onto the black stone, and he pressed it against her gaping, cum-slicked hole. “This stays in during the race,” he said. “Not all the time. Just when you need reminding. When you start to think you’re a driver instead of a doll. Daddy will press the button…” He held up a remote, sleek and silver, matching the one Lando had used in qualifying. “…and you’ll feel it. You’ll feel us. And you’ll remember who owns the girl in the Red Bull car.” 

He pushed the plug in. She screamed, but the sound was muffled by Lando’s hand over her mouth. The plug seated with a wet, final pop, the ruby base nestling between her cheeks. They dressed her in her race suit, the Red Bull livery a cruel irony, zipping her up over the hidden collar and the stuffed plug. They put her boots on her feet. They placed her helmet in her hands, and then Oscar knelt and tucked Floppy into a small, hidden pocket inside the suit, over her heart. 

“Race time, little rookie,” Lando whispered, stroking her cheek. “Win for Daddy. Win for your breeding.” 

The grid was a furnace of noise and light.  

She stood beside her car, five-foot-one in a world of giants, her helmet under her arm, her blue eyes staring blankly at the asphalt. The plug was a stone of fire in her ass, shifting with every microscopic movement, pressing against the walls of her rectum where Lando’s seed already pooled. She could feel it, hot and criminal, a liquid shame that made her stomach clench. Around her, the photographers buzzed, the crowd roared, and the other drivers prepared for war. She saw Max a few meters away, standing by his own car, his eyes fixed on her with a burning intensity that she could not process. He looked like a guardian angel who had arrived too late, his face etched with a grief that had turned to steel. 

The national anthem played. She stood at attention, but she was not present. She was in the motorhome, on her knees, being filled. She was in the penthouse, being bathed and shaved and owned. When the anthem ended, she did not move until an engineer touched her shoulder, and she flinched so hard her helmet nearly dropped. 

They strapped her in. The harness compressed her chest, the straps digging into her small breasts, and the sensation made her whimper inside her helmet. The engine screamed to life, a vibration that rattled through the plug and made her gasp. She led the field away on the formation lap, the RB22 responding to her inputs with the lethal precision of a machine that did not know its driver was a broken doll. 

The lights went out.  

The race was a dissociative blur of violence and speed. She launched off the line, the g-forces slamming her back into the seat, and the plug rammed deeper, a bolt of lightning that made her cry out inside her helmet. The sound was lost in the engine’s shriek. She took the lead into Turn 1, her driving automatic, instinctual, the muscle memory of a thousand karting laps guiding her while her mind floated in a warm, small place. She was vaguely aware of Max behind her, his car filling her mirrors, his presence a nagging thorn of reality that she could not afford to acknowledge. 

On lap 12, Lando pressed the button.  

The plug came alive inside her, a low, brutal vibration that resonated through her pelvic bone, shaking the seed in her ass, pressing against her g-spot through the thin wall of flesh. She screamed, a long, soundless wail inside her helmet, her hands white-knuckled on the wheel. She took the curb at Turn 9 too hard, the car bouncing, and the plug shifted, grinding against her prostate, her anus, her soul. She was crying, her vision blurred, her breath coming in hitching, desperate sobs that fogged her visor. 

Max’s voice crackled in her ear. “You’re driving erratically. Come in. Box, box. Let us check the car.” 

She couldn’t. Lando’s finger was on the button, and the vibration intensified, a demand that transcended language. She drove faster, harder, taking risks that were suicidal, because speed was the only way to outrun the sensation, and speed was the only thing that pleased them. She lapped cars with a ferocity that terrified the midfield. She took the checkered flag by eight seconds. 

She had won the Australian Grand Prix.  

The podium was a nightmare of exposure.  

She stood on the top step, the trophy heavy in her small hands, her race suit damp with sweat and the secret leakage of Lando’s spend. The national anthem played, and she trembled so violently that the trophy rattled against its base. Max stood on the second step, his eyes never leaving her, his face a mask of stone and fury. When the champagne sprayed, she flinched as if struck, her body curling inward, a tantrum brewing in her chest. She did not spray her bottle. She clutched it to her chest like a second Floppy, her knuckles white, her eyes fixed on the middle distance where she knew Lando and Oscar were standing behind the barriers, watching, controlling. 

The press conference was a blur of questions she could not answer. Max sat beside her, his knee pressing against hers under the table, a silent, desperate message. But Lando had told her not to speak unless it was about the car. And so, she mumbled one-word answers, her voice tiny and childish, until an FIA media manager stepped in and ended the session early, citing exhaustion. 

She never made it back to the Red Bull garage.  

Oscar intercepted her in the cooldown room, his hand wrapping around her upper arm with a grip that brooked no argument. Lando was waiting at the service entrance, the black SUV idling. They bundled her inside, and she collapsed against the leather, the trophy discarded on the floor like trash, her small body convulsing with the delayed tantrum of a race spent in agony. She was crying, kicking weakly, her helmet still on, and Oscar had to remove it for her, revealing a face that was swollen, red, and utterly vacant. 

“Good girl,” Lando murmured from the front seat, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror. “Daddy’s good girl. You won. You earned your prize.” 

The McLaren motorhome was prepared.  

The mirrors were uncovered. The bed was stripped to white linen, spotless and blinding. They carried her inside and laid her in the centre, and they began to peel the race suit from her body like they were unwrapping a gift. Beneath the suit, her skin was a topography of damage: bruises like inkblots, bites like crimson constellations. The plug was removed with a wet, obscene pop, and Lando’s seed spilled out onto the white sheets, a pearly, filthy pool that marked her immediately. 

She was naked. She was open. She was theirs. 

Lando climbed onto the bed. He was naked, his body a monument to power, his cock thick and heavy and already weeping. He positioned himself between her legs, his hands gripping her knees and spreading them so wide it hurt her hips. He looked down at her cunt, bare and swollen and virgin-tight despite the abuse, and he smiled. “This,” he said, his voice guttural, “is the hole we’ve been saving. This is the hole that wins the trophy. This is where Daddy breeds his little rookie.” 

Oscar knelt beside her head, his own cock bobbing against her cheek. He fisted her hair, turning her face toward him. “You’re going to take both of us,” he commanded. “Lando is going to fill this cunt until you overflow. And then I’m going to fill it again. And again. Until you’re dripping. Until you’re carrying. Until every engineer in that paddock looks at you in a month and sees a swollen belly and knows you belong to McLaren.” 

Lando positioned himself. He dragged the head of his cock through her folds, gathering her wetness—her fear, her arousal, her degradation—and he pressed against her entrance. She was so tight, so untouched there despite everything, that he had to force himself in. She screamed, a raw, tearing sound, her back arching off the bed, her hands beating against his chest. He ignored her. He pushed deeper, inch by inch, claiming the last virgin territory of her body, tearing through the resistance of her muscles until he was seated fully, his balls pressed against her ass, his entire length buried in the furnace of her unprotected womb. 

“Look at me,” Lando snarled, gripping her jaw. “Look at Daddy while he breeds you.” 

He began to fuck her. Not with the brutal speed of the previous nights, but with a slow, deliberate, possessive rhythm, each thrust designed to maximize the depth of his deposit. He was fucking her to impregnate her. He was using her body for its biological purpose, reducing her from a driver to a vessel, from a person to a womb. She sobbed beneath him, her blue eyes wide and glassy, her legs trembling around his waist. Oscar held her head still and pushed his cock into her mouth, silencing her screams, filling her throat with the taste of his dominance. 

They found a rhythm. Lando would thrust deep into her cunt, grinding against her cervix, and Oscar would fuck her mouth in counterpoint, using her throat as a sleeve. The room filled with the sounds of her wet choking, the slap of Lando’s pelvis against her bruised thighs, and the low, animal grunts of two men claiming their permanent prize. She was limp between them, a human conduit, her body convulsing with overstimulation, her mind regressing so deeply that she was no longer an adult, no longer a Grand Prix winner. She was a baby. A doll. A cunt and a throat and a womb, and nothing more. 

Lando came first. He roared, his head falling back, his muscular frame seizing as he pumped wave after wave of hot, thick seed directly into her unprotected womb. It was a deluge, a flooding, and he stayed inside her, grinding, ensuring every drop found its mark. When he pulled out, a gush of white followed, spilling down her perineum, pooling in the sheets, marking her as bred. 

Oscar did not give her a moment to breathe. He pulled out of her mouth, flipped her onto her stomach with a brutal efficiency, and dragged her hips up until her ass was elevated, her face pressed into the cum-soaked linen. He entered her cunt from behind, his cock sliding through Lando’s spend, pushing it deeper, adding his own claim to the mixture. She shrieked into the mattress, her small fists clawing at the sheets, but he was relentless. He fucked her with the brutal, mechanical pace of a man completing a task, his hips snapping against her bruised ass, his hands gripping her waist so hard she knew he was breaking blood vessels beneath the skin. 

“Take it,” Oscar growled, his voice a velvet whip. “Take Daddy’s seed. Take it deep. You’re ours now, little rookie. Forever. Even when you’re showing on the podium, even when the world sees you’re knocked up, you’ll know it was us. You’ll know you’re a McLaren whore. Daddy’s pregnant princess.” 

He came with a guttural snarl, burying himself to the hilt, his cock jerking inside her as he added his load to Lando’s. He stayed there, softening but still claiming, his weight pressing her into the mattress until she could barely breathe. 

Then they switched.  

Lando, hard again, took her from behind while Oscar lifted her face and fucked her mouth. They traded her like a shared toy, using her until she was overflowing, until her cunt was a frothing mess of their combined spend, until the white sheets were soaked and ruined. They came inside her again and again, refusing to pull out, refusing to waste a drop. They told her she was bred. They told her she was carrying their victory. They told her she was a good little girl, Daddy’s best little rookie, and she sobbed and believed them because she had forgotten how to believe anything else. 

When they finally finished, they arranged her on the bed. Lando spooned her from behind, his arm thrown over her waist, his hand resting possessively on her lower stomach. Oscar lay in front of her, his face inches from hers, his fingers stroking her hair. Between her legs, a warm, thick pool of their seed slowly leaked out, but they did not let her clean it. They wanted her to wear it. They wanted her to sleep in it. 

“We’re going to Monaco next,” Lando whispered against her neck. “And then Spain. And every race, you’ll win. And every race, we’ll breed you again. Until you’re showing. Until you’re waddling around the paddock with Daddy’s child in your belly. And then we’ll keep you in a motorhome, naked and collared, and you’ll never drive again. You’ll just be our little breeding doll. Our little rookie. Forever.” 

Oscar leaned in and kissed her forehead, his lips lingering on the sweat and tears. “Sleep now,” he murmured. “Daddy’s watching. Daddy’s always watching.” 

She closed her eyes. Her thumb found its way into her mouth. Floppy was pressed against her chest. She was filled, owned, and utterly broken. And as she drifted into a black, dreamless sleep, she did not hear the sound of the motorhome door being forced, or the roar of Max Verstappen’s voice as he finally, inevitably, came for her with a weapon in his hand and murder in his heart. 

— © LILALOVESBUNNIES. all rights reserved. please don't plazarize. don’t steal any of my works. thank you pretty angels <3