Archive of Our Own ^beta

The FIA’s idea of “generosity” was almost offensive. A suite bigger than either of them needed, its sleek minimalism ruined by a carefully curated buffet of debauchery laid out on a glass table by the window. Rows of toys gleamed under the lamplight—glass cocks lined like art pieces, vibrators humming faintly as if aching to be touched, bottles of lube with their labels almost too chic to be real. It wasn’t a room so much as a dare.

Max stood at the edge of the bed, arms folded, blond hair falling over her cheek as she sneered. “They think we’re… what? Too uptight? Need help relaxing?” The Dutch bluntness snapped out sharp, but her eyes kept flicking toward the table like she couldn’t stop herself.

George, perched in an armchair with her long legs crossed, looked infuriatingly composed. Her dark hair was tousled just enough to look deliberate, blue eyes narrowing. “You look tempted already,” she said smoothly. “Careful—you’ll trip over your own stubbornness trying not to grab one.”

The room swallowed their words, its silence pressing. Every bottle and toy glittered like bait. The air smelled faintly of polish and latex, like the walls themselves were waiting for the first crack in control.

Max barked a laugh, too loud. “Tempted? Please. I’d sooner—” She cut herself off, jaw tight, because George had leaned forward, fingers ghosting over the slick black casing of a vibrator. Not turning it on. Just… stroking it, lazy, like she knew Max was watching.

“Sooner what?” George murmured, almost bored, but the corner of her mouth curled.

It was infuriating. The kind of smugness that made Max want to throw something—or someone—against the wall.

The hotel room seemed to close in, toys waiting like patient spectators.

George didn’t wait for an answer. She stood in one smooth motion, taller even in this new body, shadow falling over Max where she lingered by the bed. The air shifted—less about words now, more about who would flinch first.

Then George’s hand closed around Max’s arm, sharp but not cruel, yanking her up onto her feet. The sudden closeness jolted through Max’s body like static, and before she could get a word out, George’s mouth was on hers.

Thin lips, insistent, almost punishing in their control. Max shoved against her shoulder, not really trying to break it, just making it messy—biting back at her lower lip, letting out a low, furious sound that could have been anger, could have been want.

George only smirked against her, hands roaming fast, greedy. One slid down Max’s spine, palm pressing at the small of her back until their bodies were flush; the other skimmed boldly across her hip, fingers curling like they had every right to claim the territory.

“Thought you’d taste bitter,” George muttered against her mouth between kisses, “but no—sweet. Figures.”

Max snapped her head back just enough to glare, cheeks flushed, breath uneven. “Don’t—don’t think this means you’re winning.” Her voice cracked with defiance, but her nails dug into George’s arm instead of pushing her away.

The pristine hotel around them felt like it was leaning in, the untouched bed too neat, the toys still glittering like an audience. Every unclaimed inch of satin and glass hummed with possibility, daring them to see how far they’d let this go.

George’s mouth tore away from Max’s, leaving her gasping, furious at the loss and at herself for wanting it back. Max’s lips were swollen, her glare sharper for it, though her chest rose and fell too fast to match the bravado.

George stepped back just enough to survey the spread laid out on the table. Her fingers skimmed past glass and steel, toys that hummed faintly with promise, before curling around something deceptively simple: a coil of soft rope, white and pristine against her hand.

She let it dangle loose, swinging casually, her eyes never leaving Max’s. “Tell me to stop,” George said, voice smooth, not taunting now—measured, serious, grounding the electricity between them. “If you really don’t want this, say it.”

Max’s jaw flexed, words caught somewhere between pride and need. She should say it—should laugh it off, throw some barbed Dutch bluntness back in George’s face. But George was watching her too closely, like she could read every flicker across her expression, every tremor under her skin.

And George knew. She could tell, even before Max’s silence stretched, even before her body betrayed her by leaning a fraction closer.

George’s smirk returned, slower this time, sinking deep. She looped the rope once around her palm, the quiet rasp of fiber loud in the charged air. “That’s what I thought.”

The toys gleamed brighter under the lamplight, as if the room itself had been waiting for the first real choice to be made.

George let the rope hang from her fingers like a warning, then dropped it onto the bed as though to say: Later. Her other hand found the hem of her Mercedes t-shirt, tugging it up and over her head in one fluid motion. Pale skin caught the lamplight, her collarbones sharp, her new form lean but still tall enough to look down on Max like she owned the space.

Next came the loose pants, sliding down her hips without ceremony. She didn’t tease, didn’t preen—it was businesslike, efficient, a queen shedding armor before battle. When she stood in her underwear, she leveled that ice-blue stare at Max.

“Your turn.”

The words weren’t barked, but they didn’t need to be. Command wrapped into two syllables.

Max’s chin lifted, lips curling into something smug. “You think I’m going to jump just because you said so?” Her accent made it harsher, sharp consonants like teeth. She stayed rooted, arms folded over her chest, pretending not to feel her skin buzzing under George’s gaze.

George’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment she said nothing—just looked at her, flat and unyielding, like she had all the time in the world to wait. The silence dragged, oppressive, as if the pristine room itself leaned in, siding with George.

When George finally spoke, her voice was low, even. “You will. You want to.”

And the way Max’s stomach dropped told her George wasn’t wrong.

Max’s glare lingered, her arms still crossed, a final act of defiance. But George didn’t move, didn’t blink, just stood there in her stripped-down confidence, waiting. The silence burned hotter than any taunt could have.

With a sharp exhale, Max finally tugged at the hem of her Red Bull polo, peeling it off in one rough motion like she was shedding skin she didn’t want anyone to see. The logo crumpled on the floor, discarded without care. Her skinny jeans followed, denim stubborn against her hips until she kicked them free with something close to violence.

She stood there in a navy bra, the straps snug against her shoulders, her skin flushed from more than the effort. For a heartbeat, she froze under George’s gaze, and then—bratty as ever—she dropped back onto the bed, crossing her legs neatly at the knee. A shield. A smirk. She leaned back on her hands, pretending relaxed, hiding the little detail George was straining to glimpse.

“Happy now?” Max bit out, eyes glittering, voice low with something between spite and challenge.

George’s expression didn’t crack. That flat look again, colder this time, though the rope lying on the bed between them seemed to pulse louder in its silence, promising exactly how that rebellion would be answered.

George finally moved, deliberate, unhurried. She picked the rope back up, letting it slip through her fingers, the fibers whispering against her skin. She tested its weight, its give, then glanced at Max like she was already hers.

Max sat straighter, a flicker of unease crossing her face before she smoothed it into a sneer. “You think you’re clever, huh?”

George didn’t answer. She just climbed onto the bed with an easy grace, knees sinking into the mattress as she caught Max’s wrist. The first loop of rope went around smooth, firm, practiced—tight enough to hold, not enough to bite. Max jerked instinctively, but George adjusted, fingers quick and sure, keeping the knot flush against her skin.

“You’ve done this before,” Max muttered, breath catching as the rope cinched. It wasn’t a question.

George gave a little half-smile, not denying it, not confirming either. “Relax. If I wanted to hurt you, you’d already know.”

She guided Max’s bound wrist to the bedframe, the rope snaking through the polished metal with a rasp that made Max’s pulse jump. Another knot—efficient, unyielding. Then the other wrist, just as tight, just as safe, just as inescapable.

Max’s chest heaved, the reality sinking in. Her arms stretched, her body open, pinned by nothing more than George’s skill and nerve. Vulnerable. Exposed. To George of all people. Every instinct screamed at her to fight, to twist, to spit something cruel.

And yet—shivers traced her spine, heat pooling low, shameful and undeniable. The thought of George using this against her later, of never living it down, made her skin prickle. But the rope around her wrists made her clench, panties damp with a want she refused to voice.

George leaned back to admire her work, eyes glinting. “Looks good on you,” she murmured, tugging one knot just enough to remind Max of how helpless she was.

Max bared her teeth in a smirk that didn’t quite hide her flush. “Don’t get cocky.”

But her body betrayed her with every trembling breath.

She eased forward, the mattress sighing under her as if the room itself approved, and sat at Max’s knees like she belonged there. Her fingers hovered for a breath above Max’s skin, not touching—just a threat of contact that made Max’s breath hitch and her jaw go rigid.

“Look at you,” George said softly, the compliment edged with something sharper. “Too pretty to be this stubborn.”

Max spat a retort that dissolved halfway out of her mouth. Her hands strained against the rope with useless, theatrical fury; it was a motion for the audience now, the play of a prideful warrior who’d been bested and was not yet willing to admit it.

George didn’t rush. She relished the control—slow, methodical. One hand flattened to Max’s thigh, fingers splaying, the weight more claiming than gentle. The contact was clinical, testing: how Max flinched, where she tensed, the little involuntary tremor under her palm. Max tried to twist away, to turn indignation into action, but the knots and the bedframe held their truth.

Her other hand reached for a toy on the table—only to hover, then change her mind, letting it sit like a forbidden plea. George let the objects on the glass look at them instead; the vibrators, the glass pieces, the bottles of lube like silent conspirators. They were props in a scene that George was directing now, and she was taking her time with the mise-en-scène.

“You can tell me to stop,” George murmured, close enough that Max could feel the warmth of her breath on the inside of her wrist. “If you want me to.”

Max’s answer was a sound that wasn’t a word—half protest, half plea—pressed into the pillow. Her face flushed, not from exertion but from the sharp, dangerous clarity of being so completely at someone else’s mercy. The fact that it was George—George, who could be petty and precise in ways that cut—made the thrill sour-sweet. The idea that this could be turned into ammunition later sent a hot spike of humiliation and something else she didn’t have the name for down between her legs.

George smiled, satisfied and a little wicked. She let her hands roam a fraction further, mapping the territory she’d already staked. Fingers trailed up Max’s inner thigh in measured, maddening strokes—never crossing a line, always implying the next step. Each pass was deliberate, an arithmetic of temptation. Max’s breath hitched with each one; her body answered even as her mouth crafted sharp, embarrassed insults.

George dipped her head, not to cross the line but to whisper into Max’s ear, her voice low and intimate. “You’re not the only one who can take advantage of this,” she said. “But I’m not careless.”

Max swallowed, the defiant posture finally cracking into something rawer. The room hummed around them—lamps, the city beyond the windows, the toys like quiet gallery pieces. George’s hands paused, hovering on the brink of claiming more, the rope a neat, righteous circle of restraint.

She left it there—pulled taut by intent, not by force—because sometimes the true hold of power is the ability to wait. The edge of the moment buzzed electric; everything in the suite seemed to hold its breath.

George finally reached out, choosing carefully from the glittering spread on the table. A sleek vibrator, jet-black and elegant, fit snug in her hand. She rolled it over her palm like it was an extension of herself, then brought it to the bed with deliberate slowness.

She pressed the cool toy against Max’s thigh, dragging it in a slow, cruel path upward, never quite where Max wanted it—or dreaded it. The touch left goosebumps in its wake, and Max jerked instinctively, rope creaking at the bedframe.

“These thighs,” George murmured, voice dipping low, almost reverent. Her thumb traced lazy circles with the toy just above Max’s knee. “Do you have any idea how many times I caught myself staring at them in the paddock? Those damn skinny jeans, hugging like they were painted on.”

Max let out a breathless scoff, trying for arrogance, but it trembled at the edges. “You’re pathetic.”

George smirked, unbothered. “Pathetic was Carmen catching me more than once—watching interviews of you. You. And it wasn’t your words I cared about. It was these.” She dragged the toy higher, along the inside of Max’s thigh, heat blooming in its path. “Every time you crossed your legs, every time you leaned back like you didn’t give a fuck who was looking…”

Her free hand pressed lightly to the top of Max’s thigh, pinning it still. She stopped the toy just short of the lace edge of her panties, pausing there, wickedly close.

Max twisted in the ropes, fury and arousal tangling in her chest. “You’re disgusting,” she hissed, but her hips betrayed her, shifting ever so slightly into the space George’s toy had carved out.

George only smiled, slow and sharp, and pressed her thumb to the button.

The toy buzzed to life with a low, hungry hum. The vibration thrummed against Max’s skin where it kissed her thigh, and she jerked as though electrocuted, a sharp gasp breaking through her teeth. Her whole body bowed in the ropes, straining away from it even as her thighs trembled with the effort of resisting.

George leaned down, voice velvet and cutting. “Disgusting, maybe. But you’re the one tied up under me, trembling for it.”

George shifted her weight, climbing higher onto the bed until she was straddling Max’s hips. The rope creaked as Max instinctively tried to twist away, but with George perched over her like that—tall, smug, in control—there was nowhere to go. The vibrator still hummed in George’s hand, resting wickedly against Max’s thigh, a constant reminder of what hadn’t yet been given.

George’s eyes flicked down to Max’s chest, the navy bra snug against flushed skin. Her smirk deepened, her free hand sliding up to trace the curve of Max’s side, fingertips grazing the lace edge.

“These tits,” George said, almost like a confession, though her tone was laced with mockery. “Do you know how many times they haunted me? Even before all of this—” her other hand gestured vaguely between their new forms, “—they were there. Bulging under your suit, pressed up against those fireproof undershirts. I used to hate myself for noticing.”

Max’s breath hitched, and she tried to laugh it off, sharp and derisive, but it cracked on the edges. “You’re insane.”

George ignored it. She leaned lower, close enough that her breath fanned over Max’s bra, the heat of her body pinning Max more thoroughly than the rope. Her tongue flicked out, darting against the thin lace, just enough to make Max’s back arch instinctively before she snapped her spine flat again. The tiniest contact, gone too quickly, leaving heat and shame burning in its wake.

Max tugged at the ropes, furious at the way her nipples hardened under the lace. “That’s pathetic,” she spat, though her voice was hoarse.

George only chuckled low in her throat, her lips ghosting over the covered swell. “Pathetic? No, Max. Honest.” She let the vibrator buzz higher along Max’s inner thigh, close enough that the hum resonated through her hips without touching where it would undo her completely.

She dragged her tongue once more, a teasing flick, before sitting up just enough to meet Max’s eyes. “You haunted me before. And now?” Her grin turned wolfish. “Now you’re mine to haunt.”

George’s smirk widened as she watched Max’s chest heave, every shallow breath caught somewhere between fury and arousal. She let the vibrator wander higher, higher, tracing the line of lace that hid what Max was desperately trying to protect.

Then—without warning—she shifted her thumb, clicking the button all the way up. The toy roared to life, vibrations deep and insistent, and George pressed it flush against the damp heat of Max’s panties.

Max seized. Her whole body arched hard against the ropes, wrists twisting uselessly in their binds, legs jerking despite being tied open. A sharp gasp tore out of her throat, broken halfway into a moan she couldn’t swallow back.

George’s eyes gleamed, victorious. She leaned down, lips grazing Max’s ear as the toy thrummed mercilessly between them. “There it is,” she murmured, smug and low, the sound almost drowned by the vibrator’s buzz. “The sound I knew you’d make.”

Max shook her head, denial spilling out in fractured syllables, but her hips betrayed her—buckling against the toy, chasing the unbearable rush even as she cursed under her breath.

George only pressed it harder, steady, relentless, her smirk cutting sharp. “Pathetic, huh? Then why does it sound like you’ve been waiting for this?”

The toy thrummed harder against Max’s panties, each pulse rattling through her body until her thighs trembled against the restraints. She bit down hard on her lip, trying to smother the noises spilling out, but George was too close, too sharp not to hear every fractured gasp.

George tilted her head, watching Max unravel, then let out a low, amused hum. “Tell me, Max… you gonna come?” The words were slow, deliberate, digging under Max’s skin. “Gonna come first again?”

Max’s eyes snapped open, wild with fury, but she couldn’t get words out—not with the way her hips jolted helplessly against the toy.

George leaned closer, voice dripping with venomous sweetness. “Just like 2023. The ‘world champion.’ ‘The best in the world.’ Even now—” she pressed the toy harder, angling it cruelly against the spot that made Max’s breath break into ragged moans, “—you still have to finish first, don’t you?”

Max groaned through clenched teeth, shaking her head, as if denial could undo the way her body strained toward release.

George’s smirk sharpened into something merciless. “Seems a bit pathetic,” she whispered against Max’s mouth. “Winning’s the only thing you know how to do—even when it’s losing.”

The words seared deeper than the toy, humiliation twining tight with the unbearable pleasure tearing through her. Max’s wrists twisted desperately in the rope, her moans breaking into something raw and involuntary.

Max’s whole body was taut as a bowstring, rope straining, thighs trembling with the effort of resisting. The vibrator’s relentless hum against her panties had already cracked her pride, every ragged gasp spilling past her clenched teeth betraying her.

And then George made it worse. She shoved the toy aside at the perfect moment, slipping her hand down and dragging damp lace out of the way. Her fingers slid in, slick and hot, burying into Max’s heat with merciless ease.

Max choked on a sound that was half-snarl, half-moan, her head snapping back against the pillow. “F-fuck—” The word ripped out of her, strangled and raw, nothing like her usual sharp control.

George’s grin was feral as she drove her fingers in deep, curling them just right, finding the spot that made Max seize around her. She worked fast, ruthless, her palm pressing hard against Max’s clit with every thrust. The wet sounds filled the pristine room, obscene against the hum of the vibrator still buzzing faintly in her other hand.

“God, listen to you,” George panted, her mouth at Max’s throat now, tongue darting to taste the salt of her skin. “The world champion—” her fingers slammed harder, faster, Max’s back arching helplessly—“can’t even hold out long enough to prove me wrong.”

Max’s eyes rolled back, her chest heaving under the navy bra, rope cutting into her wrists as she writhed. “Fuck, fuck, I—” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t stop the way her body clenched hard around George’s fingers, the way her moans broke open into something loud and desperate.

Her orgasm tore through her, messy and unwilling, a white-hot rush that left her shuddering in the ropes, gasping, eyes glassy and lost.

George didn’t stop immediately. She kept her fingers moving, dragging out every twitch, every aftershock, her smirk wicked as she felt Max squeeze and shake around her.

When she finally pulled back, her fingers glistened, her expression smug as ever. “First again,” she murmured, voice almost fond, almost cruel.

Max could only pant, wrists straining weakly, body limp in the aftermath, shame and bliss tangled in every breath.

Max sagged into the ropes, body trembling, breath coming in ragged bursts. Her orgasm should have left her floating, undone, but George wasn’t finished.

Before Max could catch herself, George drove her fingers back in, slick and merciless, the vibrator pressed tight against her clit this time. The overstimulation hit like fire, Max jerking hard against the restraints, a strangled cry ripping out of her throat.

“N-no—” Max gasped, eyes squeezing shut, tears pricking at the corners. Her hips bucked wildly, desperate to get away, but George only pinned her harder, pace ruthless, precise.

“Yes,” George hissed, her mouth hot at Max’s ear. “You think you get to quit before I say so? Not a chance.”

Each thrust, each buzzing pulse tore through Max’s raw nerves, dragging out broken moans that dissolved into cries. Her body betrayed her again, clenching down around George’s fingers, another orgasm slamming into her so hard her legs shook violently against the restraints.

“God, look at you,” George muttered, sweat beading at her temple, her smirk still sharp even as her hand worked fast and cruel. “Falling apart, soaking my hand, begging without words.”

Max tried to bite down on a scream and failed—her whole body seizing again, the ropes creaking with the force of it, her voice shattering in the pristine suite.

George finally pulled her hand away, letting Max collapse boneless into the sheets, trembling, wrecked. For a long moment, the only sound was Max’s ragged breathing.

And then George’s palm came down, sharp and deliberate, against Max’s soaked heat.

The slap cracked through the silence. Max gasped, body jolting off the bed, a sharp, guttural sound breaking free before she could choke it down. Her thighs twitched, instinctively trying to close even though the rope held them wide.

George sat back on her heels, gaze devouring, fingers still glistening. She smirked down at the mess she’d made, utterly satisfied. “Pathetic,” she murmured, voice soft but cutting. “And so fucking hot.”

George sat back, chest rising and falling, fingers still sticky, her thighs pressed together tight with need. The high from ruining Max clung to her skin, but it wasn’t enough—not yet. The damn curse wouldn’t lift until she got hers too, and she was already teetering close.

She looked down at Max: flushed, wrecked, trembling in the ropes, chest heaving under her bra, mouth parted around ragged breaths. Every sound spilling out of her—those gasps, those broken curses—stabbed through George like a live wire.

That voice. That voice. It had haunted her for years—sharp over the radio, smug in press conferences, cutting in interviews. George had spent seasons fantasizing about ways to silence it. Now, with Max tied beneath her, she finally had the perfect solution.

George smirked, wicked and bright. She crawled up Max’s body with feline ease, straddling her chest, angling herself down until her thighs bracketed Max’s face. From there, the position was obvious—69, intimate and indecent, a power play disguised as practicality.

She leaned down, pressing her mouth against Max’s soaked heat, tongue darting out eagerly to taste. The flavor was sharp and sweet, and George groaned low against her, hunger shuddering through her. Her hand reached back to press insistently at Max’s head, forcing her in.

“Shut up for once,” George gasped, her voice muffled against Max but still dripping with smugness. “Use that mouth for something useful.”

Max jerked under her, a muffled sound vibrating against George’s slick skin—half protest, half surrender. The vibration shot up George’s spine, ripping a groan from her throat. She ground down harder, tongue working mercilessly at Max in return, her own hips rocking against Max’s face with growing desperation.

The suite seemed to close in, thick with heat and sound: the obscene wet of George’s tongue plunging, the muffled, furious noises Max made into her cunt, the creak of rope and sheets.

George was close—so close—her thighs trembling, the taste of Max only spurring her higher. She’d dreamed of this a hundred times, ways to shut Max Verstappen up. None of them came close to this.

George’s tongue worked in deep, messy strokes, lapping at Max’s slick heat with no pretense of patience now. Every muffled groan Max made into her cunt sent another jolt of pleasure ripping through her, almost unbearable.

She broke away for a second just to catch her breath, her lips wet, her chest heaving. And then—sharp, deliberate—her hand came down against Max’s cunt with a wet smack.

Max bucked hard, ropes straining, a hoarse cry vibrating right into George’s flesh. The sensation made George’s thighs shake.

“God, you’re loud even like this,” George panted, smirking down at the wreck beneath her. She brought her hand down again—smack, smack—each spank drawing out another desperate, muffled sound from Max’s mouth. Each one went straight to George’s core, winding her tighter.

Then she bent again, greedy, tongue lapping through the sting she’d left behind, savoring the way Max jolted with every flick. Her hips rolled against Max’s mouth, and—oh. Fuck.

George’s eyes fluttered half-shut, her smirk faltering for the first time. Because Max was good. Better than she’d ever have admitted possible. Max’s tongue was focused, sharp, relentless—mirroring the way she drove cars, the way she fought tooth and nail for dominance. Precise and merciless, even now, even tied down.

“F-fuck,” George gasped, fingers tangling hard in Max’s hair, her hips grinding helplessly against that infuriating mouth. “You—goddamn—you’re better at this than you should be—”

Her words dissolved into a moan as she slapped Max’s cunt again, almost reflexive now, trying to keep control as it slipped through her fingers. The wet heat, the muffled sounds, the sting and the lap of her own tongue—it was too much, building fast.

George was on the knife’s edge, shuddering, desperate, refusing to let herself tip just yet.

George couldn’t hold herself back anymore. Every drag of Max’s tongue had her nerves sparking white-hot, every muffled moan into her cunt made her thighs tremble harder. Her hand came down one last time—sharp, stinging against Max’s slick heat—before she collapsed forward, mouth pressing back against Max with desperate force.

Her tongue worked frantically, lapping, plunging, sucking at Max’s clit like she could drink her down. Her hips rolled helplessly against Max’s face, chasing the pressure, chasing that unbearable peak.

“God—fuck, Max—” George’s voice cracked, her grip tight in Max’s hair, her thighs shaking around her. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare stop—”

And then it hit her.

The orgasm ripped through her in violent waves, her whole body seizing, her cry muffled against Max’s soaked cunt. She ground down hard, riding Max’s tongue shamelessly as pleasure tore her apart, every nerve burning.

She writhed against her, trembling and gasping, her mouth still locked between Max’s thighs, tongue sloppy now but still moving, still determined to drag Max down with her. The overstimulation had Max keening, jerking against the ropes, her muffled noises vibrating straight into George’s cunt and drawing the climax out until she thought she’d lose her mind.

George finally sagged, chest heaving, her mouth wet and messy with Max’s slick, thighs trembling as aftershocks shuddered through her. For a moment, she stayed there, half-collapsed on top of Max, breathless, wrecked.

But then she pulled back just enough to smirk down at her rival’s ruined face, her own lips still glistening. “Guess the curse is broken,” George panted, voice hoarse but smug. “And looks like I finished on top.”