she who writes

“Are you fucking kidding me with this?” You shoved the garage door shut and yanked the lanyard from around Charles’s neck before he could even speak.

He blinked. “What did I-”

You spun him around and grabbed his hips. Grabbed. “Wha- baby?”

“You know what you’re doing,” you growled, pulling him back against your front. “Walking around all fucking smug with this tight little racing suit clinging to your ass like it’s made for it.”

He stuttered. “It’s not my fault-”

“You wore the white one.”

His breath hitched.

“You knew what that would do to me.”

“I didn’t-”

You smacked his ass. Hard. He gasped. “Get in the car,” you ordered, voice dark. “Now.”

Charles obeyed so fucking fast it was almost embarrassing. Almost. But when you slid into the backseat behind him, slammed the door, and saw him sitting there flushed and wide-eyed, chest heaving in that branded Nomex top, curls messy and lips bitten.

All you felt was hunger. “You gonna be good?” you asked, spreading your thighs.

He nodded. You smirked. “On your knees, pretty boy.”

He slid down instantly, kneeling on the floor of his own fucking car while you yanked him forward and kissed him like you were trying to swallow his soul. You pulled at the zip. Dragged the fireproofs halfway down. Left him in his briefs, his cock already hard, leaking, twitching in his underwear.

But you weren’t looking at that. Not yet. No. You shoved him forward and grabbed his ass with both hands.

“Jesus Christ,” you hissed, kneading it. “This is what you do to me. You wear this suit and walk around the paddock like it’s not criminal how good your ass looks in it.”

Charles whimpered. You slid a hand between his legs and palmed his cock through the fabric. “Such a desperate little thing, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he gasped. “Please-”

“Please what?”

“Touch me.”

You dragged his briefs down and stared at the way his ass bounced back into your grip.

Perfect. Full. Smooth.

You spit into your hand and rubbed between his cheeks, sliding a finger down to tease him open.

He moaned. Loud.

“Keep your voice down, baby,” you whispered in his ear, pressing him against the seat. “Unless you want the whole fucking team to hear what I do to you.”

He nodded, breathless.

You pushed one finger in.

Then another.

His hips bucked.

“Greedy little thing,” you muttered, fucking him slow with your fingers. “You like this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he gasped. “Fuck, yes-”

“You like being my little toy? Letting me bend you over and fuck you open?”

“Yes, please- please, more-”

You curled your fingers just right and Charles screamed into the seat. You stroked his cock with your other hand, slow and cruel, until he was dripping onto the leather.

“Look at you,” you growled. “Getting off just from this. What would the fans think?”

He moaned, wrecked. “Famous, pretty Charles Leclerc, begging to be finger-fucked in the backseat by his partner like a whore.”

“Please- please let me cum-”

You twisted your fingers. Charles broke. He came hard, full body shaking, cum spilling over your hand, thighs trembling.

You didn’t stop. Not until he was sobbing into the upholstery, muttering your name, whispering thank you.

He’s already shaking when he knocks on your apartment door. Not because he’s scared. Not really. But because it’s been two weeks, two brutal, teasing, torturous fucking weeks, since the last time you let him come. Two weeks of voice notes you sent just to torment him. Two weeks of FaceTimes where you told him exactly what you’d do to him next time he stepped foot into your space. Two weeks of seeing your name light up his phone and having to excuse himself from the Ferrari sim room to bite back sounds he didn’t want Charles to hear.

And now you’ve finally told him to come over. No emoji. No kiss. Just: “My place. 8pm. Don’t be late.”

He wasn’t. He’s standing there in that black hoodie you like, hands clasped in front of him, eyes wide and waiting like he doesn’t know if you’ll let him inside. You do, of course. But you don’t speak. Not right away.

You just open the door, step back slowly, and look at him. He flushes immediately. Because you’re already in control. Because you’re standing there in black lace underwear and nothing else, one hand on your hip, a bored expression on your face like you’ve kept me waiting. His mouth goes dry.

“I-I came like you said,” he stammers.

You raise an eyebrow. “I know. I said 8pm. And it’s 7:58.”

He flinches. His brain short-circuits trying to decide whether that’s praise or punishment. You smile, cruel and slow. “Take your shoes off. Then kneel.”

The shoes hit the floor in record time. He drops to his knees on the entryway tile like it’s instinct. Like his body’s been trained for this. And maybe it has, you’ve made him kneel for hours before. In front of your bed. At the end of your bathtub. In front of the mirror with your fingers around his throat, whispering, look at what you are for me.

Tonight you circle him slowly. Bare feet on cold tile, each step slow and deliberate like you’re hunting something. And he is prey. All nervous breath and flushed skin, kneeling in front of you like a boy begging to be touched. You drag one finger along the nape of his neck and he flinches. The sound he makes is barely audible, but you hear it. Of course you do.

“Hands behind your back.”

He obeys immediately.

“Good boy.”

You hear the way his breath hitches. How his spine straightens. He’s already leaking, probably. You wouldn’t be surprised if his boxers were damp by now — desperate little thing, always soaking through fabric before you’ve even touched him. You run one hand through his hair and tug, slow and hard, tilting his head back until he’s staring up at you. “You want to speak?”

He nods. You press your thumb against his bottom lip. “Use your words.”

“Please,” he breathes. “Please let me be good for you.”

“Oh, baby,” you sigh, dragging him by the hair as you pull him to his feet, “you’re going to be.”

You don’t let him touch you. Not at first. He’s stripped and collared before he ever sees your bedroom, bare and flushed and panting softly as you lead him down the hall by a black leather leash clipped to the ring at his throat. You make him wait while you pick the toy you’ll use first. He watches you with wide eyes as you choose the black silk restraints and the vibrator you know will break him.

“Lie down,” you murmur. “Back against the pillows. Hands above your head.”

He does it like he’s trained. Like this is all he’s ever wanted to be. A body to be used. A boy to be ruined.

You tie his wrists to the headboard and straddle him slowly, the lace of your underwear brushing against his thighs. He jerks forward, desperate to feel skin on skin, but you press your hand against his chest and shove him flat against the mattress.

“Did I say you could move?”

“No,” he gasps.

“No, what?”

“No, ma’am.”

That makes you smile.

You kiss him then, once, slow and deep, just enough to taste the need leaking off his tongue. Then you sit back and start teasing. Fingertips down his chest. Your mouth on his neck. Kisses on his hip bones. You trail kisses down until you’re between his thighs, and fuck, he’s gorgeous like this. Long legs trembling. Head thrown back. Wrists bound. Lips parted. Chest heaving.

He whines when you run the tip of the vibrator up his inner thigh. His whole body jerks. You laugh softly. “So sensitive already,” you whisper. “You really missed me that much?”

He nods frantically. “So much. Please. I can’t-”

You click the vibrator on and press it lightly to the base of his cock. He screams. It’s all over from there. You don’t stop. Not even when he’s shaking. Not even when he begs. You kiss him sweetly while the vibrator pulses against the head of his cock, your fingers curled around his throat like a threat and a promise all at once. You whisper filth into his ear — about how pretty he is like this, how weak he is for you, how ruined he’ll be by the time you’re finished. “You like this?” you ask, stroking him slowly. “Being my fucktoy?”

“Yes-yes-fuck, yes.”

“You want to come for me?”

He nods so hard it looks painful. “Please-I’ve been so good, I swear, I haven’t touched myself, I haven’t-fuck-please-”

You pull the vibrator away. He sobs. Not dramatically. Not performative. Real. A broken little sound from the back of his throat as his body jerks and his hips buck uselessly in the air. You’re the only one who gets to see him like this, completely undone, pink-faced and teary-eyed, desperate and aching and beautiful.

“Shhh,” you whisper, pressing your palm flat over his heart. “You’ll come when I say so. And not a second before.”

He nods, eyes shining. You kiss his temple. Then his mouth. Then slide down his chest again.

You fuck him with your mouth until he’s shaking. Then your hand. Then you sit on his face, just because you can, and ride him until he’s crying from overstimulation, his cock twitching uselessly, leaking onto his own stomach while you moan above him like a goddess claiming her sacrifice. You don’t let him come until your second orgasm. And even then, only after you’ve made him beg with tears in his eyes.

“Now,” you whisper. “Be a good boy. Let it go.”

He comes with a cry that almost sounds like a prayer.

Aftercare with Arthur is sacred. He curls into you like he’s never known another safe place. Head on your chest. Arms around your waist. Whispering over and over again how much he loves you, how safe he feels, how badly he needs you. You untie him gently. Rub his wrists. Wipe his face. Stroke his hair until he calms.

You kiss his shoulder. Then his nose. Then his lips. “You did so good for me,” you whisper. “My perfect boy.”

he cut another piece, promising himself it would be the last.

then another.

and finally, a fourth piece was swallowed down.

he sat on the couch in the living room, letting his head fall backwards onto the frame of the couch. the room blurred around him when he lifted his head back up, a wave of heat overtaking his body. he peeled his shirt off in an attempt to cool down.

his pants tented more and more around his crotch with every heavy breath out. he rested a hand over his clothed cock, feeling it twitch behind his sweatpants.

the sound of keys jingling in the door echoed through the apartment. he hurriedly grabbed a pillow, placing it over his crotch.

“hi, baby!” you called, closing the door behind you. you slipped your sneakers off, putting your belongings away, then sat beside him.

“hi,” he whispered.

you tilted your head at him. “you ate the brownie, didn't you?”

he paused. “um . . . yeah, but before you get mad—”

you threw your head back and laughed. his eyes travelled downwards, landing on your tits. they moved when you laughed, and he had to refrain from reaching out to touch you.

“oh, i’m not mad,” you reassured him. “my baby must be feeling needy by now, huh? you hard for me under that cushion?”

he whimpered, his hand gripping the pillow impossibly tighter.

“words, arthur.”

“yes,” he moaned out.

“mm, i can help with that. you're gonna be a good boy for mommy, yeah?”

“yes, yes, fuck—i’ll be your good boy, mommy, i promise.”

you reached over to him, practically clawing the pillow out of his grasp while his eyes were shut tight. with the pillow out of his hands and nothing to hold onto, he began to claw at the edges of the couch. you traced a finger over his hands, drawing them up into his lap.

“show me what you want me to do to you,” you said.

he opened his eyes wide, staring right back at you. “like, touch myself?”

you smiled at his nervousness. “yes, baby, touch yourself for me—just like when i’m not home.”

he tentatively reached a hand down below the waistband of his shorts, tugging them down as he did. his cock sprung up against his bare stomach, already leaking precum. his hand was wrapped around the base, slowly moving upwards until he was thumbing at the tip. moans tumbled from his lips and his eyes shut tight once again.

the air was heavy around the two of you as his moans filled the silence. you could feel slick sticking to your panties between your thighs, crossing one over the other in the hopes to ease some of the pressure.

his hand pumped feverishly at his cock, abdomen twitching as he got closer to climaxing.

you reached one of your hands out slowly, grabbing his wrist. his eyes shot open.

“no, no, y/n, please,” he begged. “please, i’ll be good next time, i promise.”

you simply hummed in response, dragging his hand further away from his cock. he knew not to touch with the other—that would only result in more consequences.

“i told you not to eat the brownie, hm? it was going to be for us, later tonight—but you didn’t listen to me.”

he couldn’t find the words to answer.

“go shower, arthur. and no touching yourself. you’re my good boy, yes?”

he nodded, then pulled his boxers and sweatpants back up over his waist, stumbling into your shared bathroom.

The first time it happens, it’s not even intentional. You’re not trying to flip the dynamic. You’re not trying to break him. You’re just sucking him off like you always do, slow, messy, tongue deep in your throat, the way he likes it. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, thighs wide, one hand clenched on the back of your neck, the other gripping the sheet like he’s holding himself together. There’s a tightness to his voice that always turns you on.

“Fuck. Baby, wait- wait- I’m gonna come-”

But he doesn’t. You pull off at the last second, hand replacing your mouth with a firm stroke, spit shining your fingers. His head falls back. And you realise something. It’s not the orgasm he needs. It’s you. Your voice. Your body. Your command.

You lean up, kiss his hipbone, and whisper, “Not yet. Be good.”

The noise he makes is soft. Breathless. Almost broken. And when you glance up, his mouth is parted, lashes low, the furrow between his brows tight with restraint.

Oscar Piastri, cool, calm, collected, is struggling. And he likes it.

You clock it instantly. The way his abs flutter. The way his hips twitch forward like they’re chasing your mouth. The way his voice drops when he says, “Please.”

So you slow your hand. Just enough to tease. “Such a good boy,” you murmur, watching his cock jump in your hand. “So polite for me.”

His eyes snap open. And it’s game over.

The second time, you do it on purpose.

He’s above you, like always. One hand braced on the headboard, the other gripping your thigh as he fucks into you in deep, precise strokes that scream Olympic-level control. That’s the thing about Oscar, he never gets lost in it. Never fucks wildly or sloppily. Every thrust is calculated. Every touch designed to pull you apart.

He loves how messy you get. Loves watching you beg. But this time, you decide to turn the mirror on him.

You wait until he’s close. Until you know his rhythm by heart, the way you’ve memorised every single part of him, the twitch of his jaw, the deeper breaths, the way he bites his lip and slows down like he’s dragging it out just to be good to you.

Then you lock your ankles behind his back. And flip him. He gasps as his back hits the mattress, his eyes wide, mouth parted, stunned. But he doesn’t stop you.

You climb over him, straddle his hips, and sink down in one slow, steady push. His hands fly to your thighs. “Fucking hell,” he whispers.

You set the pace, slow, deliberate, all grind, no bounce. You ride him with purpose. Watch him fall apart with every single motion. His neck arches. His hands tighten. He’s never been this quiet before. “Oscar.”

He opens his eyes.

“Tell me what you need.”

You see it. The war in his face. The want to stay in control, and the deeper, darker ache to give it up. “You,” he chokes out. “Just- keep going-”

You lean down, kiss him hard. “You’re such a good boy,” you whisper against his mouth. “So good for me. Let me take care of you.”

He moans. High and desperate and needy. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him truly lose it. He comes with your name on his lips, the praise echoing in his ears. And you don’t stop. You fuck him through it. Ride every twitch and shudder. His hands scrabble at your thighs like he doesn’t know what to do with the feeling.

Afterward, he doesn’t say much. Just lies there, blinking at the ceiling, chest heaving, heart racing. But the way he kisses you? It’s grateful. Deep. Submissive in the quietest, purest way.

The third time, he asks. You’re in the shower. Late night, post-race exhaustion, the kind where your bones ache and your skin feels tight with adrenaline. He’s washing your hair like always, gentle and focused, fingers tracing your scalp like it’s a language only he speaks.

And then he says it. “Can we… do that again?”

You look up through the steam. “Do what again?”

He swallows. Pink-cheeked. Barely meeting your eye. “The thing. From last time. When you…”

You tilt your head. Wait. 

“When you said I was a good boy.” There’s a flush in his chest now. He’s not even hard. Just… shy.

“You liked that?”

He nods. Barely. “I liked… all of it.”

You step into him. Press your wet body against his. Drag your fingers down his ribs, lower, until you reach his cock and stroke him once. Slow. His mouth parts. “You like when I tell you what to do?”

Another nod.

“Use my voice?”

He closes his eyes. Breath catches.

“You like being taken care of?”

A breath. A whisper. “Yes.”

And just like that, he’s yours.

After that, it becomes a game. You edge him. You tease him. You build him up slowly over hours. Some nights he doesn’t even get to touch you, he just lies back, legs spread, wrists in silk restraints as you suck him soft, then hard, then soft again.

“You’re doing so well,” you whisper. “So patient.”

He’s pink-cheeked, eyes glassy, whispering your name like a prayer.

Other nights you fuck him until he’s shaking. Until he’s begging. Until he comes and then begs to come again.

“You’re allowed,” you whisper, right at the edge. “Come for me.”

And he does. Instantly. It becomes a language. You tell him what a good boy he is. He gives you every part of himself in return. No control. No performance. No act. Just Oscar, raw and wrecked and yours.

But the real moment , the breaking moment, happens in the middle of the day. You’re on the sofa. Lazy, post-practice energy. Oscar’s in sweats, hoodie bunched up at the sleeves, one leg hooked over the couch. You climb into his lap, kiss his jaw, nuzzle into his neck like it’s innocent.

It’s not.

You kiss your way down his throat, open his sweats, and wrap your hand around his cock without a word.  He gasps. You stroke him slow. “You look so pretty like this,” you whisper.

“O-okay.” He swallows hard.

You fist his cock tighter. Drag your lips up to his ear. “You want to be good for me, baby?”

“Yes,” he whispers.

“You want me to ruin you?”

“Please.”

You shift your position, knees on either side of his hips, and sink down onto him with one smooth roll of your hips. His eyes fly open. You put a hand on his chest.

“Don’t move.”

And he doesn’t. He stays frozen beneath you as you ride him with slow, grinding control, your nails dragging across his chest, your praise spilling into his ears like honey.

“You’re doing so well.” “You feel so good inside me.” “You always take care of me. Let me take care of you.”

His mouth drops open.

You lean in. Brush your lips against his. “Come for me.”

He shatters. Quietly. Violently. With every part of his body twitching beneath yours. You stay right there. Keep moving through it. Keep kissing him.

And when it’s over, he doesn’t say a word. Just pulls you down onto his chest and holds you like you just saved his life.

Charles Leclerc

on your knees pretty boy

your turn to beg

tie me up

vigilante pose

good boy

Franco Colapinto

take it

no secret at all

kinktober fic — day 20

George Russell

good boy

Kimi Antonelli

first time for everything

kinktober fic — day 12

Lando Norris

be my good boy

teach him manners

good baby boy

Lewis Hamilton

let me take care of you

control shift

Max Verstappen

the real boss

let me ride

soon to be mine

yes ma'am

Oscar Piastri

soft control

break him

down boy

surrender

latch on, baby

poly fics/threesomes/orgies

you're both so pretty when you beg — OP81 & LN4

teacher — LN4 & OP81 || part 2

double booked — AL & OP81

thought you could keep me — LN4 & MC

the middle man — LN4 & OP81