Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
The night was long, unusually so. Well, it was an unusual night. They hung around the paddock waiting for the McLaren news, yes and no and maybe and then yes, definitely. Geroge was P2. Kimi was P3. Lando was P-nothing.
George found himself outside Max's hotel room, lightly knocking on the door. That wasn't related to the McLaren DSQ at all, or maybe it was, or maybe it was the podium, Max gasping at George's touch. Maybe it was the press conference later when Max showed up late, a flush to his cheek, sat down next to Lando and clung onto him all night, his hands roaming Lando's shoulders, his mouth whispering hotly against his left ear, a pleased smirk painted on his features.
What was George even here for? He didn't know, but his hand raised and knocked nonetheless.
The door unlocked, revealing not Max but Lando, his hair fussed, his expression set in annoyance that melted into angry confusion when he saw George. Lando was still wearing a McLaren T-shirt that was folded and disheveled on his form, tanned forearm holding the door open.
“What,” Lando said, deadpan, more statement than question.
George didn't really have an answer, opening his mouth and closing it and then opening it again to speak before he was interrupted by Max's voice coming from the bedroom.
“Who is it?” Max called out, voice loud but almost sweet, and Lando's expression immediately softened.
“George.”
There was a pregnant pause, like consideration, like Max was rolling George's name around his mouth and deciding if it was tasty enough to bite down.
“Invite him in,” Max said, finally, “He can watch.”
Watch what? George bit back, but it wasn't like he didn't know.
Lando hid a scowl but pushed the door further open to let George in, slamming it shut as soon as Geroge had stepped into the small hallway of the hotel room. Lando didn't make eye-contact with George, just ignored him and walked down the corridor to the bedroom with an open door, letting George follow Lando on auto-pilot. Max was in the bedroom, his legs spread and his face flushed, perched on the end edge of the large bed. His eyes were glazed and wandering, and he visibly perked up when Lando entered the room.
Lando still refused to acknowledge George's presence, just walked forward towards Max and grabbed his chin roughly, pulling him into a bruising kiss. Lando's eyes were shut, and he kissed with the same ferocity and undeniable jealousy Lando raced Max on track. Max let out a short soft noise of surprise before he reciprocated quickly, hand sliding down to grab at Lando's arse as Lando slipped into the space between Max's thighs, sitting on his right leg. Lando’s shorts were riding up on his leg, bronzed skin that Max immediately covered with his hand, pale fingers splayed over Lando’s thigh, gripping it tightly.
George couldn’t tell who was in charge here. Lando was perched on Max’s leg, Max’s hand possessively over his thigh and yet— Lando’s hand was carding roughly through Max’s thin dirty blond strands, and from the angle George could see, Lando was controlling the kiss, biting and nibbling and dirty in the way it made Max gasp and squirm against Lando’s hold. George also wasn’t sure what his role was, but he was pretty content to just watch, back against the wall, twisting a bit of the fabric of his shirt between his fingers.
George couldn’t tell who was in charge here until he could, until Lando pushed himself off Max, stood up as Max made an annoyed pleading noise, hands wrapped around nothing, four time world champion reduced to a flushed and needy mess.
“Lando,” Max whined, as Lando stood up, his eyes dark.
Lando slanted a glance towards George before he walked away towards the minifridge, opening the tiny compartment and pulling out a four-pack of water bottles, his lips in a thin determined line. Max’s eyes widened with both arousal and surprise, and he nodded his head ever so slightly at George’s direction, an unspoken question towards Lando. Lando ignored Max, holding out a chilled water bottle towards Max, resting the base of the plastic bottle on Max’s cheek, the one facing towards George who could see a thin line of condensation trickle down Max’s neck and disappear into his collar.
Lando held eye contact with Max as he swiped the bottle across Max’s cheek, condensation leaving droplets that George longed to lick off, wetness that Max left staining his face, left dripping off his cheekbone. Lando glanced briefly in George’s direction before he uncapped the water bottle and held it out towards Max, and unspoken demand.
And Max? He drank it all.
Fingers wrapped around the base of the water bottle, head tipped back slightly to expose the bobbing column of his throat towards George, his adam’s apple catching the light of the desk-lamp as Max drank, gulped down the entire bottle in one smooth go, his eyes fluttering shut as he did so, as if drinking water itself was a sexual experience Lando and George could only watch. It might as well have been, George thought, by the way Max cradled the base of the bottle, hand slick with condensation, his pretty pink lips wrapped around the cork of the water bottle, shining with spit and water. Max crushed the water bottle when he was done in record time, the water disappeared in an instant, the crushed water bottle chucked on the ground somewhere.
“Happy?” Max asked Lando, voice mocking, but it wavered and came out as more of a plea than a slight. Lando pursed his lips.
“Maybe.”
He leaned forward and captured Max in a kiss again, and George could see Lando’s palm wandering up Max’s clothed thigh, running over Max’s god forsaken skinny jeans, the contact making Max gasp, but no, not as much at before, not in that overstimulated way Max whined on the podium.
Lando seemed to sense that George had recognised it too, and he threw George a smirk, and oh Lando’s expression was hungry.
He watched Max finish the next two bottles, standing over him, eyes dark. Drunk on the power, George thought, drunk on the power of Max’s own addiction and his own perverse hold over Max’s unusual compliance.
Lando was silent before, though he wasn’t now, teasing Max as he drank, as the bottle crushed and Max’s pace slowed, squirming from where he was perched on the bed.
“How d’you feel?”
“Full,” Max admitted, voice soft, “Really full.”
“Mmm, yeah.”
Lando dragged a hand across Max’s chest through his T-shirt and Max gasped, that full bodied squirm that gave George sympathetic goosebumps at the sound. Max was completely red now, from his ears to his neck, and George would bet despite the three bottles Max had already drunk, he would be hot to the touch.
“Do you think you can get the last bottle down?” Lando asked, and there was an edge to his voice, half arousal, half pure demand, a hand still on Max’s shoulder.
The contact alone seemed to drive Max mad, his leg trembling, and Max shook his head ever so slightly.
Lando made a disbelieving noise, and turned towards George.
“Do you think he can get the last bottle down?”
George froze, his eyes widening, surprised at finally being addressed after he was treated as if part of the furniture for the last half an hour. The surprise quickly faded into a strong desire that George didn’t know he even had.
“He can, obviously,” George replied, and because he was feeling a little over-eager and confident, George added, “He’s gagging for it, can’t you see?”
Max’s face was flushed, but not in anger, and his eyes were unfocused, staring down in the vague direction of Lando’s face, barely any reaction to George’s comment. That wouldn’t do.
George wandered a little closer until he was sitting on the deskchair near the bed, watching Max sip and choke and drink down the last bottle that Lando had handed him. His eyes were watering a smidge now, glazed and glassy, and Max pulled off the bottle, breathless.
His chest was rising and falling rapidly as Lando and George watched, the bottle trembling in his fingers before it crashed to the ground, spilling all over Lando’s shoes. Lando didn’t even seem to notice the wetness, his eyes fixated on one thing and one thing only — Max’s flushed expression, the slight hint of tears leaking from his eyes, and his reddened lips.
God, did George have to do everything around here?
George got up from his chair and slotted himself in between Max’s spread thighs, taking the spot Lando had vacated. He could hear a sharp intake of air from Lando at George’s action, though he didn’t make any move to stop him. Max looked up at George, eyes glassy, and George couldn’t’ve been any more turned on.
Well. He could be, if persuaded. If Max—
George pressed two fingers against Max’s swollen abdomen, making him gasp, a full bodied shiver.
“Fuck,” Max groaned, “Don’t do that, I’m too oversensitive right now, I can’t—”
George ignored him, his other hand dragging over Max’s shoulder, loud shudders collapsing out of Max’s lips as George touched him, squirming and shivering. George pressed his fingers harder against Max’s abdomen, and he groaned, a loud needy sound that went straight to George’s cock.
Max was crying now, proper fat tears trickling down his face. He was wrecked, a fucked-out expression from just drinking water, and George’s touch, George’s presence. The tears leaking out of Max’s eyes, small trickles of water compared to the wetness in the divot of his throat, droplets that Max had failed to swallow up, was unfairly hot.
“Lando,” George called out, no, demanded, “Fill up the water bottle that Max didn’t finish.”
Max’s eyes widened slightly, though he didn’t say anything, and George could hear Lando behind him picking up the fallen bottle and walking over towards the water-tap.
“You’re so pretty like this,” George cooed, demeaning. Where did this come from? George couldn’t care less right now. He pressed his thumbs into the sensitive skin underneath Max’s jawline and Max flushed, his thighs clenching to press against George’s leg. A few tears slipped out and trickled onto George’s hand, and he brought it to his mouth, relishing the salty coolness.
George pressed a hand against Max’s abdomen before letting go, Max gasping in its absence.
“So perfect like this, the great Max Verstappen, foiled by a bit of water.”
Max blinked, like he was trying to formulate a response to George’s teasing, but nothing came out. The tears were trickling down and George leaned forward to lick them off Max’s face, dragging his tongue against Max’s sharp cheekbone.
Max gasped, loudly. It seemed like the sensation of George’s hot wet tongue against his oversenstitive skin was a lot. Though, not too much, not yet.
“George, please, I need to—”
George knew what Max needed. George also didn’t feel much like giving Max what he needed.
“Hey,” Lando interrupted, handing George the water-bottle, filled to the brim. His eyes were dark with desire, but he seemed to be content with just doing what George wanted him to do, as long as Max was still a squirming gasping mess. Interesting.
George grabbed the back of Max’s neck, not gently, and pressed his thumb against the divot at the back of his neck, making him gasp. Making him open his lips for George to tip the water down his throat. Max reflectively wrapped his lips around the nose of the bottle, and George tried and failed not to groan at the scene. The tears were drying on Max’s cheeks, and that just wouldn’t do.
“Fuck, George, is that even—?”
Max was still drinking, little kitten sips as George held the bottle tipped upwards, resting against Max’s leg, His palm was splayed over Max’s abdomen, rubbing soft soothing circles against the cotton shirt that was decisively not soothing, not by the way Max’s breathing became choppy and shallow, and definitely not by the way Max was grinding into George’s thigh, rotating his hips softly in a way that looked half painful and half deliciously pleasureful.
Lando was still standing in the background. George had nearly forgotten him in his haste, in his obsession with the noises Max was making, the sounds that seemed to vibrate from his throat to his thigh.
Lando made a choked noise as Max finished the waterbottle, somehow, the last drip slipping out of the corner of his mouth and down his neck which George pounced on, immediately, his tongue sticking out to lick a hot stripe up Max’s throat, another finger hooking into the hollow of his collarbone, then sucking, swallowing, kissing hard against Max’s hot skin enough to bruise. Max was still now, so still except for the minuscule jerks and movement he made as George sucked harder, his hips stuttering as George pressed closer against him. He was crying again, and George happily lapped up Max’s tears, happily drank it down as he littered Max’s skin with hickeys. Something about the taste of Max’s tears, salty yet clear and something so incredible Max went straight to George’s cock. No wonder Max loved drinking water.
In George’s grasp, Max seemed to be overstimulated and struck dumb simultaneously, his skin hot with goosebumps, his reactions slow, but electric.
“Fuck, George,” Lando said, his voice far away, drowned out by the sound of Max’s hot gasps against George’s ear, his hand scratching at George’s back, “That’s so hot, fuck.”
George made a noise in approval, Max breath falling out choked as George dragged his teeth over Max’s wet cheeks and onto his mouth, Max’s hips bucking up against George as he kissed Max, properly, sticking his tongue and dragging it along the inside of Max’s cheek. That, somehow, was Max’s breaking point.
“Fuck—”
Max pushed George off him with a ferocity George hadn’t seen since the podium, dashing out of the bedroom. George watched him go, breathing heavily, the last shadow of Max’s foot disappearing from the doorway and the door to the bathroom banging open.
George turned around to share a glance with Lando, who opened his mouth to speak when they were suddenly interrupted by the sound of water hitting porcelain.
Lando shut his mouth.
George couldn’t help but listen, throat dry, his dick hardening in his shorts as they heard Max piss, the steady stream that just seemed to carry on and on and on until it stopped. There wasn’t a sound of a zipper, though, not until Max let out a low groan, loud enough to be heard from the other room, and they could hear a liquid hitting the back of the urinal again.
“Fuck,” Lando sighed, his cheeks flushed, eyes dark, and dragged a hand over his hair, “He’s going to be the death of me.”
George couldn’t reply, his own body hot and tingly all over as they finally heard the sound of Max zipping up, and the toilet flushing. He wasn’t ready for the night to end yet.
Max looked so pretty like this, post-race, a pretty sheen over his features, his hair ruffled, sweat-damp. He was drinking from his water bottle, the elongated straw wrapped around one hand, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked, nodding absently to something Lando was saying beside them, waiting for the podium ceremony to start. Vegas was always a bit of a long wait, waiting to get to places, waiting for things to start.
Max throat worked as he drank, his adam’s apple bobbing as he sucked rapidly, his eyes concentrated on what Lando was saying, one hand tightly gripping the Red Bull branded water bottle.
“Yeah, the deg was okay, I was surprised,” Max said, pulling his mouth off the straw. It left a pretty light sheen over his lips, as if he didn’t look delicious enough under the lights. Well, the lights before, they were just standing in a random hallway somewhere waiting for the podium to be set-up.
Max licked his lips, darting out a red tongue, and swallowed. The chewed straw was out of his mouth now, drooping over as Max put the presumably empty water bottle on the ground, an annoyed expression on his face.
“They’re taking forever,” Max complained, slanting the staff around them a look who ignored him in favour of talking into their headsets.
George made a compassionate noise, but Lando was looking at Max with an interesting glint in his eye, expression unreadable. Max didn’t seem to notice as he sighed, annoyed, dragging a hand through his damp hair, making it stick up on its ends, a bit like a ruffled kitten.
“Thirsty?” Lando asked, a weird edge to his voice.
If Max noticed, he didn’t say anything, just nodded, throat bobbing as he swallowed around nothing.
“Here, you can have mine,” Lando offered, handing his water bottle to Max, green Monster branding stark on the sides.
Max hesitated.
“I haven’t drank from it,” Lando said, nudging it at Max, who took it reluctantly.
Max muttered, “You know that that’s not what I’m worried about.”
He twisted the cap off the bottle and drank from it, holding it at a tilted angle and drank greedily, his throat bobbling, the muscles of his neck moving as he drank. Max had undone the collar of his racesuit and unzipped it halfway, and George could see the faint outlines of his chest rising and falling as he drank.
Lando was openly watching Max now, chewing on his bottom lip slightly as Max drank, his long fingers wrapped around the graphic of Lando’s iconic blobs, a pinkie hooked at the base of the water bottle. George could admit he himself was also watching Max, entranced, and he turned away, staring at a patch of the wall instead.
“What’s the deficit now?” George asked, waiting for something to say.
“He means me,” Max said, giving Lando a look that George couldn’t understand, handing the water bottle back to Lando, wiping his mouth with the back of his left hand, “You’re going to win anyways, stop worrying.”
Lando ignored Max’s statement in lieu of recapping his water bottle, hand stilling as he inspected the contents.
“You finished all the water.”
“You didn’t say I couldn’t,” Max shot back, “Steal George’s if you’re thirsty."
“I’m not thirsty,” Lando replied, his voice off, “Are you?”
Max gave Lando a knowing look, to which Lando rolled his eyes in response, but there was a weird charged energy between them. George felt like he was intruding.
“Yeah,” Max conceded finally, pulling his arms over his head in a stretch, bending his elbow over and letting out a low noise at the stretch of muscle. George tried to ignore it.
“You can have my water, if you want,” George offered, the words coming out without his brain registering it.
Max visibly perked up, his eyes sparkling, “Really? Thanks.”
His hand brushed against George’s briefly as he took the Mercedes branded water bottle from George, and George tried not to shiver. This time, Max didn’t seem too fussed, almost impatient, and he took the straw George was absently chewing on earlier and closed his lips around it, drinking rapidly. Something passed over Lando’s gaze that George couldn’t catch before he had quickly launched into conversation about the MotoGP season, Max nodding enthusiastically in response, but barely pulling his lips off George’s straw to say anything actual in reply.
A staff member tapped George’s shoulder, getting their attention. The podium was finally ready.
George was supposed to leave first, the person taking third, and he brushed past Max to walk out to the crispy LA night. As he squeezed past Max in the tight hallway, his arm lightly brushed up against Max’s front torso, making him gasp suddenly, jerking backwards and turning away from George. Before he left for the podium, he could see the back of Max’s ears turning red, speaking quickly and lowly to Lando, words George couldn’t catch.
Max was radiant on the podium. He usually was, but sparkling bright under the night and completely sopping wet, George couldn’t keep his eyes off Max. He was drinking greedily from the champagne bottle, his eyes shut almost in an image of ecstasy as his throat bobbed. George forced himself to pull his gaze away, taking a long drag from his own bottle, but when he diverted his eyes he found Lando also watching Max, chewing on his lips.
Max was flushed as he clinked his champagne bottle against George’s, a pleased smile on his face.
“Still thirsty?” George teased, and Max rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, actually,” Max confessed, “But I shouldn’t’ve, because now—”
What happened now, George wouldn’t know because Lando reached over suddenly with an intentional glint in his eye and clapped Max heavily on the shoulder, his hand lingering on Max’s bicep and rubbing slightly before he removed his hand. And Max, oh Max, the moment Lando touched him Max gasped, a quick intake of breath as he shuddered, a blush quickly crawling onto his face. He turned away from George to give Lando a Look, and his eyes were dark and shaded.
Max didn’t usually act like this, touchy Max Verstappen who loved to clap people on the shoulder and knock ankles in press conferences. Touchy Max Verstappen who was reduced to a heavily breathing mess at a brief swipe of Lando’s hand, and Lando seemed to know that keenly.
Oh.
Max moved onto the podium gingerly, his face still flushed as they crowded around the top step for the picture-taking. George edged closer on the small step, reaching behind GP to press his hand against the small of Max’s back, the fabric damp with champagne. Leaving his hand there, George smiled perfunctorily for the camera, and felt Max squirm and shudder against his palm.
