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It had started the second he’d killed the engine.
Helmet off, gloves thrown aside, the roar of the crowd fading to a muffled, meaningless hum behind the pounding in his ears. He’d climbed out of the car and the world had narrowed to heat — the sting of sweat, the burn of frustration, the relentless thrum of almost that chased him from the paddock to the garage to the waiting cameras.
He’d smiled. He’d played the part. He’d laughed at the right jokes, answered the right questions, let the adrenaline paint him golden for everyone to see. But underneath?
Underneath he was seething.
Because Oscar hadn’t moved.
Hadn’t blinked.
Hadn’t done a damn thing when that smug bastard of a team principal — who didn’t even belong to their garage — had sidled up behind him, hand low, too low, fingers brushing the small of his back like he had a right. Like Lando was something on offer. Like Oscar wasn’t right there.
Lando had felt it. The heat of that touch. The smirk that came with it. The audacity. And he’d felt Oscar’s gaze, too — steady, unflinching, as if nothing had happened at all.
And that?
That burned worse than the hand on his back.
The rest of the media duties passed in a blur, his smile stretched too tight, his laugh pitched too high. He wanted it over. Wanted the cameras gone, the questions silenced, the world reduced to a room where he could let the storm inside him out.
And now —
Now he was here.
The door hadn’t even finished closing before Lando’s voice cracked through the air like a whip.
“You just stood there today.”
Not hello. Not a glance. Not even a breath of acknowledgment for the man standing behind him. Just that—sharp, fast, slicing the air with razor-edge attitude, every word riding on post-race adrenaline and reckless, wounded ego.
Lando was pacing already. Race suit still tied around his waist, the fireproof undershirt soaked and clinging to his chest, curls damp against his forehead. His neck gleamed with sweat, the kind Oscar recognized instantly: heat not just from the car or the track, but from tension. Ego. Want.
“You didn’t even blink when he put his hand on my back,” Lando snapped, still pacing, arms gesturing sharp, aggressive. “Lower back, Oscar. Fucking lingering.”
Oscar said nothing.
He stood inside the door, still. Calm. His shirt was buttoned neatly, collar open just enough to reveal a hint of gold chain and smooth, clean skin. His hair was still damp from the shower, drying perfectly without effort. He looked like control personified. Like ice forged into man.
And yet — behind his stillness, there was a hum.
Because he was watching Lando. Watching every twitch of his fingers, every flex of his jaw, every way his legs moved too fast for the space they were in. He’d watched Lando race — smooth, graceful, commanding.
But this?
This was his real performance.
“That’s what you have to say?” Lando whirled on him. “You’re just going to stand there like—what, like you didn’t see it?”
Oscar’s gaze swept him once. From the flushed face, to the way his chest rose and fell with every furious inhale, to the low knot of his race suit hanging sinfully at his hips. Sweat beaded down his neck and dipped into the hollow of his collarbone. Oscar memorized it.
“You’re here now, aren’t you?” Oscar replied, voice soft. Unbothered.
That only made Lando laugh — breathless and mean. “Wow,” he said, tone sharp and high and manic. “That’s your defense? That’s what you’re going with?”
He stepped in, reckless, close. Close enough that Oscar could feel the heat of his breath.
“You’re pathetic sometimes,” Lando hissed. “Soft. Boring. Watching instead of acting.”
Oscar didn’t blink.
He didn’t have to.
Because in this moment, the silence between them wasn’t passive.
It was a blade.
And Lando — beautiful, bratty, overconfident Lando — had just asked to be cut.
“You want to own me?” Lando demanded. “Then fucking act like it.”
He didn’t know what he expected. Maybe another soft deflection. Maybe that same maddening calm. Maybe nothing at all.
But Oscar didn’t move. Not yet.
And that silence? That stillness? It cracked something wide open inside Lando — something he hadn’t planned to share, something raw and aching and too real.
So he said it.
Voice low now. Shaky at the edges.
“You don’t get it, do you?” Lando’s laugh came bitter, small. He dropped his gaze for half a breath, swallowed, then looked back up — eyes bright, cheeks flushed, desperate in a way he didn’t want to admit. “I don’t want soft. I don’t want careful. I want you to—”
The words tumbled out, faster now, tripping over themselves.
“I want you to tie me up. I want you to mess me up. I want you to throw me around, not care where I land. I want you to use me, Oscar. Like a doll. Like a thing you can move however you want. I want to feel it tomorrow. I want to feel it for days.”
His breath hitched. His hands clenched at his sides.
“I want to know I’m yours. Really yours. Not just watched. Not just loved in that sweet, safe way you do.” His voice broke on it. “I want to be owned.”
The air between them went still. Heavy.
And then Lando laughed again — sharp, self-deprecating, cutting the truth down before Oscar could.
“But you won’t.” His gaze darted away, embarrassed now, the vulnerability burning too hot. “You’re too soft. Too good. You won’t do it. Not really. Not the way I want.”
The room held its breath.
And then —
Oscar’s head tilted.
That smile came slow. Dark. Dangerous. The kind of smile that promised nothing soft, nothing safe, nothing merciful.
The kind of smile Lando had only seen in dreams.
“Strip,” Oscar said.
Voice like silk over steel.
“Now.”
~~~~
Lando didn’t move at first.
His chest was still rising and falling too fast, caught halfway between outrage and arousal. His mouth was parted like he had another insult ready, something cruel, something sharp—but the look in Oscar’s eyes stole it from his tongue. There was no threat in Oscar’s voice when he said it. No warning. No anger.
Just inevitability.
“Strip. Now.”
That was it. Not a shout. Not a command barked in rage.
Just… fact.
Like gravity. Like death.
And Lando—proud, bratty, too-clever-for-his-own-good Lando—paused.
His chin stayed high, but something in him flickered. Some sliver of instinct that said, You’ve gone too far now, haven’t you, baby?
He stepped back.
Slow. Not retreating. Just giving himself space. Space to perform.
Because Lando always performed, especially when he was terrified of what he was about to enjoy.
He started with the fireproof shirt. Tugged it over his head with practiced ease, tossing it to the floor like he didn’t care that Oscar’s eyes devoured every inch of new skin. Sweat clung to him in patches—neck, chest, lower back, the crease where his abs met his hips. A glistening trail rolled from beneath his collarbone down over one nipple, catching the light before it disappeared into the band of his tied suit.
Oscar watched it the whole way down like a starving man watches a single drop of honey fall.
His lips parted.
He didn’t say a word. He just stepped forward.
One pace. Two.
And then he was in front of Lando, close enough to breathe him in. Close enough that he could smell the ghost of gasoline and hot rubber and leather that clung to Lando’s skin beneath the sweat.
Oscar leaned in—deliberate, reverent—and dragged the tip of his tongue up the trail of sweat from sternum to throat. Lando jolted. Not from fear.
From want.
Oscar moaned.
Soft. Just under his breath. Just enough for Lando to hear it.
And it was filthy.
A low, breathless sound of worship, like Lando’s skin was something sacred and his sweat something worth bottling. Oscar pulled back just enough to breathe against Lando’s ear and whisper:
“You smell like sin.”
He didn’t touch him further. Didn’t order more.
Just waited.
And Lando—undid the knot at his hips and let the race suit fall. Slowly. Smoothly. Like a man preparing for a sacrifice.
It puddled at his feet. And still, Oscar didn’t blink.
Lando stepped out of it, leaving only his briefs—white, tight, soaked through with sweat and the beginning of slick leaking from his hole.
Oscar watched a single drop roll down the inside of Lando’s thigh.
He followed it with his eyes. Then his fingers.
Down. Down. Slow as honey.
He caught it just before it hit Lando’s knee. Rubbed it between two fingers. Brought it to his lips.
Sucked.
Lando’s knees almost buckled.
Oscar smiled.
“Off,” he murmured. “All of it.”
Lando peeled the briefs down, and Oscar watched. Not passively. Not politely.
Like a freak.
Like a man documenting every new inch of skin to memory.
The way Lando’s ass flexed as he bent. The stretch of his hole, still twitching from the leftover adrenaline of the race. The slick already welling up between his folds like she knew what was coming. The fact that Lando was already shaking and hadn’t even been touched yet.
“Turn around,” Oscar said softly. “Face the bed.”
Lando obeyed. Something in him already beginning to give.
Oscar crossed the room with silent efficiency and opened the drawer. Pulled out the black velvet bag with the same care most people would handle an altar cloth.
Inside: the sacred tools.
The plug. Heavy. Wide. Perfectly molded to stretch and remind.
The clamps — thin, sharp little devils that left just the right sting.
The crop — leather. Slim. Fast. Already softened from use.
The belt — Oscar’s own. The one Lando had torn off of him in the Monaco suite four months ago. It still smelled like memory.
And the tie — silk, navy, crested with a tiny emblem that only Lando noticed the first time. His.
Oscar laid them out one by one on the bed, parallel, ceremonial. As if he were preparing for mass.
“Come here,” he said without looking back.
Lando stepped forward.
Oscar met him halfway. Slipped behind him, still clothed, still untouched. His hands moved with terrifying calm.
First, the tie.
He caught Lando’s wrists behind his back and wrapped the silk tight, looping the ends with a silent, practiced pull. Lando hissed through his teeth.
“Too tight?”
Lando shook his head. Of course not.
Oscar pressed a kiss to his shoulder, gentle as a prayer.
“Good.”
Next: the ankles.
Oscar dropped to his knees and tied Lando open — spread wide, immobile. There would be no squirming. No running. No crossing his legs for mercy.
Then the plug.
Oscar held it up between Lando’s thighs, admired the twitch of his hole.
“She’s hungry,” he said with a grin. “We’ll feed her.”
And he didn’t warm him.
Just spit — thick, slow, obscene — and slid the plug in with one steady push.
Lando shouted.
His back arched. His toes curled. His cunt fluttered and clenched around the girth of it, forced wide in one stroke.
Oscar groaned low in his throat.
“You feel that?” he whispered against the back of Lando’s neck. “That stretch? That fullness? That’s mine.”
Lando whimpered.
Oscar slid one hand between his legs, dragged a finger through the slick now spilling freely. Coated it. Tasted it.
And moaned again.
“She’s crying already,” he murmured. “Sensitive little thing. But that’s not pain, is it? That’s what she likes.”
Lando said nothing.
He couldn’t.
He was already trembling.
Oscar reached for the gag next. Slid it between Lando’s lips but didn’t tie it.
Not yet.
He leaned close, mouth brushing the shell of Lando’s ear. Voice a whisper.
“She’ll stay plugged until I say.”
A slap — sudden, sharp — to the inside of Lando’s thigh.
“You wanted me to act like I own you?”
Another slap. Closer to the cunt. The sound of slick echoing.
“You’re going to regret that.”
Oscar stepped back.
Just a pace. Two.
Enough to see him. Really see him.
And Lando—arms bound behind him, ankles spread, plug buried deep, slick glistening between his thighs—was trembling already. Chest heaving. Breaths shallow. His hair clung damp to his temples, curls plastered to the nape of his neck.
Oscar let his gaze drag over him.
Slow. Hungry. Memorizing every detail like it was the last time he’d see him like this. He didn’t move fast. Didn’t touch. Just watched. Circled. Stalked.
Lando swallowed hard. His lips were parted around the gag, eyes wide, blinking slow like he was trying not to cry. And that only made Oscar’s cock throb harder behind his zipper.
“Look at you,” Oscar said, voice low, soft, dangerous. His shoes moved soundlessly on the carpet as he prowled around him. “Fucking dripping. I haven’t even done anything yet.”
He stopped behind Lando. Bent slightly. Let his fingers hover just over that fat, swollen, shameless cunt. The lips were puffy, slick shining in the dim light. Darker at the edges. The kind of pink that came from being edged too long. The kind that begged for a hand. A mouth. A slap.
Oscar’s mouth watered.
“God, your cunt’s a mess,” he murmured. “Look at it. Look how fucking fat you are down here. Can’t even keep your slick in—you’re leaking all over my floor.”
Lando made a noise behind the gag. Embarrassment. Want. Both. His cheeks burned. His thighs trembled harder.
Oscar ran a single knuckle down the seam of him, slow enough that it made Lando’s knees buckle slightly. He didn’t press in. Just traced.
“Slutty little lips all puffed up and shining like you’re ready to be fucked in front of a crowd. You want that, don’t you?”
Lando’s head shook fast, but it was a lie. His hole clenched around the plug as if begging.
Oscar laughed. The sound was dark. Filthy.
“Your cunt says otherwise. Look at you. Plugged full, spread open, showing me that messy little hole like you want me to ruin it. And you do want that. That’s why you’re dripping. That’s why you’re shaking.”
He moved in closer. His nose almost touched the curve of Lando’s ass, breathing in the heat of him. The sweat. The tang of slick. His tongue darted out—just once—to taste the salt of his skin.
“Fuck,” Oscar groaned under his breath, voice cracked with hunger. “You smell like filth. Like sweat and slick and need. I could come just from licking you clean.”
And he did. He licked a long, slow stripe from the inside of Lando’s thigh up to the plug. Tasted the slick, the salt, the shame of it. Moaned like it was his favorite meal.
Lando whimpered. His eyes wet now, humiliation catching up to him, prickling hot behind his lashes. The filth Oscar was spewing—no one had ever described him like this. Not in daylight. Not sober. Not in this voice. This low, reverent, cruel voice that made him feel like the dirtiest whore on earth.
Oscar rose again, breath hot against the back of his neck. His hands still hadn’t touched anything but the barest trace.
“That fat pussy of yours,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of Lando’s ear. “God, I could stare at it for hours. Watch it drip. Watch it twitch. It’s obscene. You’re obscene.”
Lando’s breath hitched. His eyes squeezed shut. His face burned.
Oscar stepped back, slow, deliberate, dragging his gaze over him like a physical touch.
“Spread wider.”
Lando hesitated.
Oscar’s palm cracked across his ass. Loud. Sharp. The sound echoed.
“Now.”
Lando widened his knees as far as the bindings allowed, shaking, exposed so wide it felt impossible.
Oscar crouched again, eye-level with that soaked, swollen cunt.
“Look at you,” he hissed. “So fucking wet it’s disgusting. You’re a walking porno, Lando. A dripping, twitching, begging mess. I could slap this sloppy little pussy until you cry and it wouldn’t be enough. You want that, don’t you?”
Another noise behind the gag. A sob. A moan. The line between them was gone.
Oscar’s fingers ghosted over him. Close enough to feel the heat, the pulse, the desperation. But no contact.
“You’ll thank me when I do. You’ll thank me for hurting it. Because that’s what this fat little cunt’s good for, isn’t it? Getting slapped. Getting stuffed. Getting punished until you can’t think straight.”
Lando’s thighs quivered violently. His slick was dripping in strings now, painting the inside of his thighs, the carpet below. His head dropped, unable to hold Oscar’s gaze if he’d even dared to look.
Oscar rose to his feet. His cock was hard enough to ache. His breath was shaky with want. But he didn’t touch himself.
Not yet.
He wasn’t done drinking him in.
“You don’t even need me to fuck you,” Oscar said, voice wrecked with need. “You could come from this, couldn’t you? From me standing here, telling you how filthy you are. From knowing how fucking wrecked you look. I should make you look at yourself in the mirror. Make you see what I see.”
Lando shuddered. Blinked a tear loose.
Oscar smiled like the devil himself.
“Good,” he whispered. “You’re ready.”
And with that, he reached for the crop. The belt. The clamps. Lined them up with precise care. No rush. No mercy.
“Time to remind that fat pussy who it belongs to.”
Oscar didn’t speak as he reached for him.
Didn’t warn, didn’t ask. His hand curled around Lando’s waist, firm, unrelenting, and with a single pull, he lifted him like he weighed nothing. Lando gasped — half from shock, half from how easily Oscar did it, as if he were made to handle him, as if his body existed to be moved by Oscar’s hands.
Oscar carried him a step, two — Lando’s toes barely brushing the carpet — and bent him forward over the edge of the bed. The tie binding Lando’s wrists dug into his lower back as his cheek hit the cool sheets.
Oscar stepped back. Tilted his head.
“No,” he muttered to himself. “Not enough. I want to see all of it.”
He gripped Lando’s hips and lifted him again, turned him, moved him like a doll until Lando was standing on trembling legs, ankles still bound wide, and bent him forward, hands still tied behind him, face flushed and slick and helpless.
Oscar’s eyes raked over him. His lips parted, breath catching like he couldn’t believe the view in front of him.
But still — not enough.
Without a word, he straightened Lando, hauled him against his chest, his arm a band of steel around his waist. Lando could feel the press of Oscar’s cock, hard and straining through his clothes, could hear the roughness of his breathing at his ear.
Oscar turned him again, slow and deliberate, as if inspecting him from all angles. A hand slid up the back of Lando’s thigh, over the curve of his ass, up his spine — possessive, measuring, hungry.
And then Oscar found it. The angle that made Lando’s plug-stretched hole and his slick, puffy lips spread just right. Exposed and obscene. The view that made his cock throb behind his zipper.
Oscar hissed between his teeth.
“Perfect,” he said, voice thick, low, wrecked with want. “Now you’re ready to be fucking punished.”
He bent low, eye-level with that dripping cunt, breath ghosting over it, watching Lando’s whole body twitch with anticipation and shame. His hand hovered at the ready. The crop lay beside him. The belt uncoiled, waiting.
And Lando — wide open, blushing, trembling — had nowhere to go, nothing to say, no escape from the storm about to break over him.
Oscar straightened, rolled his shoulders like a man about to work, and smiled that slow, terrifying smile. The one Lando would dream about later, long after the bruises had faded.
“Let’s begin.”
~~~~
Oscar’s hand lingered at Lando’s hip, grip tight enough to leave fingerprints. He stepped back to admire him — the way his thighs trembled, the way his ass clenched reflexively around the plug buried deep inside him, the way his swollen cunt glistened with slick that wouldn’t stop dripping.
And Lando was still running his mouth.
Breathless, flushed, heart beating wild, but still pushing.
“You gonna stand there all day, or are you actually gonna do something?” he sneered, voice wobbling just enough to betray him. His hair clung damp to his forehead, cheeks stained red from humiliation and heat.
Oscar’s jaw ticked once. But the smile that curved his lips was slow, dark, terrifying.
“Oh, baby. You’ll regret that,” he said softly. “But you’ll be grateful for it, too.”
The first slap landed sharp across his cunt — palm flat, loud enough to echo in the quiet room.
Lando gasped, his knees dipping, but he didn’t stop.
“That all you’ve got?” he bit out.
Oscar’s hand cracked down again. And again. The wet sound of it filled the air — palm meeting slick, swollen skin, over and over. Lando’s head dropped with a choked whimper as the sting began to build.
Oscar counted under his breath.
One.
Two.
Three.
By five, Lando’s knees were buckling with every hit, his breathing ragged, but his mouth still ran.
“Could’ve—could’ve done this before the race, y’know,” he panted, trying for cocky but falling into desperate. “Maybe I’d have driven faster.”
Oscar’s palm came down harder.
Six.
Seven.
“Don’t worry, baby. Next time, I’ll have you plugged before you even get in the car,” Oscar hissed, voice thick with hunger. “We’ll see how fast you drive when you’re dripping all over your seat.”
Lando groaned — humiliated, turned on, confused by how much he wanted this. The burn between his legs was growing sharper now, the wet slaps more obscene with every hit.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
By eleven, his whole body was shaking, sweat mingling with tears at the corners of his eyes. His cunt was throbbing, puffy, aching, so wet it sounded like porn every time Oscar’s palm connected.
Twelve.
The belt snapped through the air before Lando could process it. The first kiss of leather across his cunt made him scream into the gag — loud, raw, shocked by the sudden intensity.
Thirteen.
That one broke him.
The second crack of the belt hit directly across his clit and lips, the pain white-hot, the shame overwhelming, and Lando sobbed. His knees gave out, only the bindings at his ankles keeping him upright. Tears spilled fast down his cheeks, snot dripping past his lips as his body quivered, mind reeling from the shock of it.
Oscar dropped the belt to his side and crouched, eye-level again with that ruined, dripping cunt. His eyes burned with obsession — freakish in their hunger, their reverence for what he’d made.
“Oh, baby,” he cooed, breath ghosting over the abused skin, making Lando shudder. “Look at this mess. Look at what your big mouth gets you. You want me to be mean? I can be fucking mean, I can destroy this pussy, then drink your juices right from the source, would you like that? Me slurping on your lips like they’re dessert?”
His fingers slid between Lando’s thighs, spreading him wider, thumbing at his swollen lips, at the trembling hole stretched around the plug.
“Look how fat you are,” Oscar whispered, voice wrecked. “Look how puffy, how used, how fucked. You’ll feel this for a week. Every time you dress yourself, sit down, take a piss — you’ll remember me. Every fucking hour.”
Lando sobbed harder, humiliated, wrecked, but his body betrayed him. His cunt clenched around the plug, slick leaking down his thighs in messy strings.
Oscar’s cock throbbed behind his zipper. He leaned in and dragged his tongue over the length of Lando’s abused cunt — tasted the salt of sweat, the shame, the rawness. Moaned like it was his first drink in years.
“You’ll thank me for this,” Oscar muttered against his skin. “You’ll beg for it again. Because you love it. You love being my disobedient little cunt. But don’t worry. I’ll train you. I’ll make you better.”
Lando shook his head, sobbing, but the fight was draining out of him, replaced by raw, aching need.
And yet.
A spark. The last bratty glimmer. He found it, somehow, somewhere deep inside the wrecked, trembling ruin of himself, and he mumbled around the gag — defiant, breathless:
“Is… that all?”
Oscar froze.
Then laughed — low, dark, and delighted.
“Oh, baby,” he said, voice a growl. “You don’t learn, do you?”
He stood. Picked up the belt again. Smirked down at him.
“You’re going to feel this for a week. I’m going to make sure you remember who owns that mouth. That cunt. That smart little brain of yours.”
The belt whistled through the air again, and Lando’s eyes went wide, shaking his head fast, terror and arousal mingling, but Oscar’s hand was steady. His control unshakable.
“Every time you dress. Every time you sit. Every time you think.”
Oscar’s mind was a blur of images — Lando in the shower, washing between his legs, wincing at the soreness, biting his lip against the memory. Lando dressing, feeling the sting of his bruises as he pulls on his jeans, cock hard because of it. Lando on the plane, shifting in his seat, face burning because he knows Oscar did this to him.
Because Oscar could. Because Oscar would. Because Lando asked for it.
And Lando — broken down, blushing, sobbing, snotty — couldn’t hide the way his cunt clenched around the plug, the way his slick kept leaking, the way he wanted more even as his body cried for mercy.
Oscar saw it all. Memorized it. Burned it into his mind.
And he smirked.
“Time to remind you what happens when you mouth off to me, baby. You wanted mean? Let’s see if you can take it.”
The belt cracked through the air again. The sound split the room — loud, brutal, final. It landed across Lando’s cunt with a wet, sharp snap that echoed off the walls, the sting instant and searing. Lando screamed into the gag, body jolting, legs giving out entirely. Only the ties at his ankles kept him from crumpling to the floor, held there like a puppet with its strings cut.
His whole body shook. Tears and snot ran freely down his flushed, wrecked face. His cunt—God, his cunt—was a masterpiece of ruin. Fat, red, glistening with slick that wouldn’t stop dripping. The lips so puffy they looked obscene, almost too swollen to close. His clit throbbed, angry and stiff, the little bud peeking out from its hood, begging for mercy and more in the same breath.
Oscar crouched again, breath ragged, eyes wide, devouring him with his gaze. His hands shook — not from hesitation, but from the sheer, overwhelming need to touch, to taste, to own every inch of what he’d made.
“Look at this,” Oscar whispered, voice hoarse, wrecked with hunger. “Look at that fat, red cunt. You’re beautiful like this. Fucking perfect. My perfect mess. I could stare at you all night. Watch you drip. Watch you twitch. Watch that swollen little clit beg for my mouth.”
Lando sobbed, humiliated, ruined, but his body betrayed him again — his cunt clenched around the plug, another gush of slick painting his thighs, dripping down his legs in messy strings.
Oscar moaned. Actually moaned — low, filthy, hungry.
And then he reached into the ice bucket.
The sound of cubes clinking together made Lando’s eyes go wide, terror and arousal mingling in his glassy stare. He shook his head weakly, but Oscar was already holding the first cube between his fingers, cold water dripping onto Lando’s abused skin, making him shudder.
Oscar grinned. Dark. Terrifying.
“Oh, baby,” he murmured. “Let’s cool you down.”
He pressed the ice cube to Lando’s clit — slow, deliberate — and circled it. The hiss of the melt, the sudden shock of cold on hot, swollen flesh made Lando squeal into the gag, body jerking, thighs shaking so violently Oscar had to steady him with one strong arm.
“Fuck, look at that,” Oscar groaned, watching the little pink bud stiffen harder under the ice, peeking out, needy, obscene. “Your clit’s so swollen, it looks like a little cock. That’s what it is, isn’t it? Your pretty little cock. And it’s mine.”
He leaned in and bit it — gentle, careful, but enough to make Lando wail, enough to make him shake like he was going to fall apart. He sucked the ice melt from his skin, lips cold, tongue hot, the contrast making Lando dizzy.
Oscar didn’t stop. He grabbed another cube, held it to those puffy lips, watched the melt trickle down, watched slick and water mix, drip in slow streams down Lando’s thighs.
“Beautiful,” he whispered. “Fucking beautiful.”
And then he pulled out the plug.
Slow. So slow. Dragging every ridge of it over Lando’s sensitive hole, making him sob, making his wrecked little entrance spasm uselessly around nothing, trying to stay full, desperate, empty, humiliated.
Oscar’s cock throbbed so hard it hurt. His mouth watered. His eyes devoured that clenching, twitching hole like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever seen.
“God, look at that,” he moaned. “You’re gaping for me. Still trying to cling to the plug like the desperate little hole you are. I could watch you spasm around nothing all night.”
And he did. For a moment, he just watched. Let Lando feel it — the emptiness, the ache, the shame.
Then he took another ice cube and slid it against that ruined hole.
Lando tried to protest, tried to shake his head, but Oscar was stronger, steadier, and he pushed the ice inside — just the tip, just enough to make Lando jolt and sob — then let it melt there, cool water dripping out around his spasming entrance, down his thighs, mixing with slick, making him feel every inch of what Oscar was doing to him.
And that’s what broke him.
Lando came.
Hard.
Harder than he ever had without a cock or fingers or anything filling him.
His body seized up, eyes rolling back, mouth open around the gag in a silent cry. His thighs trembled, his cunt gushed fresh slick down his legs in messy, humiliating spurts. His mind blanked out, vision white, panting like a bitch in heat, cross-eyed, ruined.
Oscar watched it all. Memorized it. Burned it into his mind. His perfect boy, broken, wrecked, fucked out by nothing but ice and shame and his own desperate need to belong.
He leaned in, kissed that twitching hole, that swollen cunt, those trembling thighs, and whispered:
“There’s my good boy. My perfect little mess. All mine. All fucked up for me.”
And Lando sobbed, wrecked, grateful, finally, finally still.
~~~~
Oscar didn’t touch him.
Not right away.
He knelt there for a breathless second, watching Lando pant — red-faced, cross-eyed, sweat-drenched, still trembling from the force of the orgasm that had torn him apart. His hole spasmed uselessly around nothing, cunt still gushing slick in slow, shameful drips, fat lips puffy, swollen, so wet it glistened like it had been oiled.
Oscar didn’t move. Didn’t say a word.
Then he stood, slow and deliberate, and turned away.
He didn’t look at Lando as he began to clean up. The belt, the crop, the plug, the clamps — he gathered them with meticulous care, laying each item back in its case as if they were precious instruments rather than the tools he’d used to ruin his boy.
His movements were unhurried. Precise. Controlled.
Exactly what Lando needed.
Exactly what made Lando ache.
Behind him, Lando whined.
Low at first — a soft, pathetic little noise. Then louder. A whimper, a grunt, a desperate, wrecked sound trying to form his name through the gag. His head thrashed weakly, his bound wrists flexing, legs twitching, cunt leaking all over the carpet in sticky, messy strings.
Oscar smirked, unseen.
He knew. Of course he knew.
Lando hated this — hated being ignored, hated not having Oscar’s eyes, Oscar’s hands, Oscar’s attention. It made him burn. Made him whimper and pant like the needy little bitch in heat he was.
Oscar let him stew in it. Let him struggle, let him beg without words, let him want.
And then, at last, he turned.
Calm. Dangerous. The storm behind his eyes promising more.
“You didn’t think I was finished with you, did you?” Oscar asked, voice soft, cruel, amused. He crossed the room slow, boots heavy on the floor, towering over where Lando sagged against his bonds. “My little doll. Dolls don’t demand. Dolls don’t have thoughts. Dolls only have holes. And my dick?”
He grinned — dark, terrifying, hungry.
“Still dry. Let’s rectify that, shall we?”
Lando sobbed, body sagging in relief and dread all at once.
Oscar untied him with steady hands. The moment the restraints fell away, Lando collapsed like a ragdoll, legs trembling too hard to hold him up, face flushed and damp, hair stuck to his wet cheeks.
Oscar caught him. Slung him over his shoulder like he weighed nothing.
Like an object.
Like a sack of potatoes.
Like a thing to be used, moved, positioned as he pleased.
Lando whimpered — humiliated, degraded, burning with the shame of it. His ruined cunt, swollen and red, leaked down Oscar’s chest, leaving wet marks on his shirt, and Oscar moaned low at the feel of it.
He dumped him on the table, rough, careless, letting him land in a heap of useless limbs.
And then he stepped back to admire the wreckage.
Lando panted, blinking up at him, mind fogged, body destroyed, hole still spasming, cunt still leaking like it didn’t know how to stop.
Oscar tilted his head.
Not good enough.
He grabbed one leg, lifted it high, bent Lando in half — surveyed the angle.
No.
He dropped it again, watched it flop uselessly to the side.
He grabbed the other, tested the weight, bent him sideways — no. Still not right.
Oscar’s mouth curled in a smile that made Lando’s breath catch.
Then the cruel glint hit his eyes.
Oscar dragged two chairs over. Tied one leg to one. The other to the opposite. Spread Lando wide — wider than wide — forced his trembling, ruined body into a split so deep and taut his muscles screamed, thighs shaking, the stretch so brutal it stole his breath.
Oscar stood back. Admired his work.
Lando was splayed open on the table, legs tied to the chairs, cunt on perfect display: fat, red, so swollen it looked unnatural, obscene, lips so engorged they parted wetly, hole twitching around nothing, leaking slick down the edge of the table.
Oscar ran a palm over the mess, slow, almost gentle, collecting slick and meltwater, smearing it over Lando’s trembling thighs, his sore lips, his quivering entrance.
“What?” he said softly, voice dark, dangerous, delighted. “Can’t play with my favourite toy?”
He crouched, breath warm against the mess he’d made. His fingers spread Lando wider, thumbs pressing into that fat, swollen cunt, making him see, making him feel how wrecked he was.
“You look like you’ve been fucked by a whole team,” Oscar whispered, voice thick with hunger. “So fat. So puffy. So used. God, you’re gonna feel me for a week. Maybe two. And you’ll thank me for it every fucking time you sit down.”
Lando whined, trembling, tears leaking fresh down his cheeks as he felt Oscar’s gaze burn into him, felt the humiliating weight of being treated like a doll, like a thing, like nothing but holes for Oscar’s use.
Oscar’s cock throbbed, hard and untouched, aching to finally take what was his.
And this time?
He wouldn’t be gentle.
Oscar didn’t rush.
No — he savored it.
He tore the gag from Lando’s mouth and the first thing he did was shove two fingers between those swollen lips, making Lando taste himself — the salt of his tears, the spit, the filth. Smearing it across his cheeks, across his chin, marking him with his own wreckage. Then Oscar kissed him. Filthy. Desperate. Tongue fucking his mouth like he wanted to swallow him whole, tasting the shame, the heat, the surrender.
And then he moved.
He gripped his cock, hard and leaking, lined it up with that fat, swollen cunt — red and ruined, still gaping from the plug, lips so puffy it looked obscene. And in one brutal, claiming thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.
Lando screamed.
Oscar groaned — deep, guttural, like it broke him apart just to be inside him. The stretch was brutal, even ruined as Lando was, the fat lips straining to take him, the slick so much it squelched loud and wet, echoing in the room with every thrust.
“God,” Oscar hissed, voice cracked, hands tight on Lando’s hips, holding him still as he fucked in hard, deep, messy. “God, listen to that. My favorite fucking sound. That sloppy, ruined pussy sucking me in. You were made for this, baby. Made for my cock.”
Every thrust forced more slick out, splashing wetly down Oscar’s balls, down his thighs, onto the table. Lando was dripping everywhere, messy, perfect, exactly what Oscar loved — and he told him.
“Look at you. So fucking wet. So full of me. So perfect. That fat little cunt’s swallowing me whole, baby. Taking every inch, just like it’s supposed to.”
Lando was sobbing, moaning, gasping, eyes glassy, mouth open in a wrecked, desperate expression. And still — he begged.
“Please, Oscar, harder — ruin me, fuck me up, I deserve it, I don’t wanna stand tomorrow, please—”
Oscar’s heart clenched. His cock throbbed harder, impossibly harder. He grabbed Lando’s face, forced him to look at the mirror.
“Say it,” Oscar growled, voice shaking. “Say it’s mine. Say that ruined little cunt belongs to me.”
Lando sobbed, panting, voice cracking but loud:
“It’s yours, it’s yours — please, Oscar, it’s all yours, just fuck me, ruin me, I need it, please—”
And Oscar lost it.
He slammed in harder. Rough. Brutal. His hips smacked against Lando’s ass, loud, wet, slick flying with every thrust. The sound was pornographic, constant, endless — the squelch of ruined cunt, the slap of skin, the whimpering, sobbing mess of Lando’s voice.
“Mine,” Oscar snarled. “You’re mine. Every inch. Every hole. Every fucking sound you make. You don’t walk tomorrow. You don’t think tomorrow. All you do is remember how I split you open tonight.”
Lando gasped, legs shaking, tied wide, stretched until his muscles burned. His cunt took it — took it all — the fat lips gripping Oscar’s cock every time, swallowing him deep, leaking slick down both of them in messy, sticky streams.
Oscar fucked him like he was made for it. Like the world would end if he didn’t. Like this was worship — and it was.
He dragged out slow, watched the gape, the mess, the slick that dripped in strings to the table. Spat on it. Slammed back in hard, making Lando scream, making them both shake.
“You were made for this,” Oscar groaned, breath ragged, sweat dripping down his spine. “Made to be filled. Made to be fucked. Made to be owned.”
Lando’s mind shattered. His cunt clenched again and again, leaking more, begging without words, gasping for breath, his moans high and whorish, pure need.
Oscar didn’t stop. He kept going. Hard. Messy. Possessive. His cock claimed every inch, his hands left bruises, his voice filled Lando’s head with filth and love in the same breath.
“Look at this mess. Your juices, your tears, your drool — you’re beautiful like this, baby. Perfect. My good boy. My everything.”
And when he came — God, when he came — it was deep, hard, his cock throbbing as he filled Lando up, as he groaned Lando’s name like a prayer, as he trembled with the force of it.
But he didn’t stop.
He kept fucking him slow, working his cum deep, watching it leak out around his cock, watching that ruined pussy take it all, watching the drips and dribbles as he pulled out and shoved back in.
He cradled Lando when it was over. Kissed his face. Licked the tears. Held him like he was sacred.
“You’re mine,” Oscar whispered, voice soft now, full of wrecked love. “My good boy. My perfect mess. I’ll ruin you every night if it means I get to see you like this.”
And Lando, too broken to speak, too wrecked to move, sobbed and clung to him — exactly where he belonged.
Oscar’s hands never stopped moving.
Even as the last echoes of their ruin faded into the quiet, even as his own body trembled from the force of what they’d done, he held Lando like he was something fragile and sacred. His arms cradled him, one hand stroking slow over his sweat-damp curls, the other splayed warm and protective over the curve of his back.
He kissed him everywhere — temple, cheeks, sticky with tears; the corner of his mouth, soft and parted; the curve of his jaw, trembling beneath his lips.
“Baby,” Oscar whispered, voice hoarse, raw with love. “Was that too much? I need to know. Are you okay? Please, talk to me, sweetheart.”
Lando breathed against his neck — warm, shaky — but for a heartbeat he didn’t speak, too wrecked, too deep in the softness of it all. And then he managed it — a whisper, broken and small, but sure.
“It’s what I dreamed of,” Lando said, voice barely audible, every word a gift. “It’s what I wanted. I’m safe. I’m with you.”
Oscar’s chest squeezed so tight it hurt.
He kissed Lando’s forehead, again and again, rocking him gently like he could tuck those words inside his bones, like he could keep them forever.
“Thank you,” Oscar breathed, like Lando had handed him the universe. “Thank you for trusting me. I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.”
Lando melted further — breath hitching, body so loose now he felt like water in Oscar’s arms. His eyes fluttered closed, a soft sigh leaving him, and he went completely limp, boneless, surrendering everything to Oscar’s care.
Oscar felt the shift, felt the way Lando gave himself over, and his heart broke with the sweetness of it.
“My good boy,” he murmured, voice wrecked with love. “My perfect boy. I’ll take care of everything. Just rest, baby. Just float. Let me do it all.”
And he did.
Oscar moved like a man on a mission — cradling Lando close as he carried him to the bed, stripping the messy sheets with one hand, never letting him go, never letting him feel cold or alone for even a second. He laid fresh sheets, fluffed pillows, created a soft nest just for him.
Lando didn’t stir. Didn’t lift his head. His arms hung loose, his body pliant, trusting. He let Oscar move him, position him, tuck him in like a doll, like he knew Oscar would place him just right, would protect him from everything.
Oscar wiped him down with a warm cloth — slow, careful, reverent. He cleaned the tears from Lando’s cheeks, the sweat from his chest, the slick from between his legs, murmuring soft, loving things with every stroke.
“You’re so beautiful,” Oscar whispered, voice thick with emotion. “So good. So mine.”
When he was clean, Oscar lifted him again, arranged him over the softest pillows so his muscles wouldn’t ache more than they had to, so every inch of him was cradled and cushioned. Lando sighed, a soft, contented sound, head rolling to the side, lips parted, the faintest smile at the corners.
Oscar slipped into bed beside him at last, gathered him up, wrapped both arms around him tight. He nuzzled into his hair, kissed him everywhere he could reach, rocked him gently, as if the world had narrowed down to this — the steady thump of his heart, the soft rise and fall of Lando’s breath.
“You did so good for me, baby,” Oscar whispered, voice shaking with how much he meant it. “I’m so proud of you. So lucky. You’re safe now. You’re everything to me.”
Lando made the smallest, happiest sound — a soft hum, a warm breath against Oscar’s neck — and then dropped so deep it was like sleep, but sweeter. His body went even looser, if possible, boneless in Oscar’s arms, trusting him to think, to breathe, to be the world for both of them for now.
Oscar stayed awake.
He didn’t move except to kiss him, stroke him, whisper to him — endless little promises, endless gratitude, endless love.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Always. Thank you for letting me love you like this. Thank you for being mine.”
And when Lando finally, truly slept, safe and sound, Oscar stayed awake just to hold him.
Just to keep him warm.
Just to make sure the world stayed soft for him a little longer.
~~~~
Morning crept into the room like a blessing.
The first rays of sun painted soft gold across the tangled sheets, across Oscar’s bare shoulder, across Lando’s messy curls where they spilled over his brow. The world outside was quiet, the city not yet awake — just the sound of their breaths, slow and steady, filling the space between them.
Oscar had stayed awake for so long, just watching him sleep. His fingers traced gentle patterns down Lando’s back, smoothing over his spine, memorizing the curve of him in the warm hush of dawn. His heart ached with how beautiful he was like this — loose, soft, safe in his arms.
At last, Lando stirred.
A slow inhale, a tiny shift, his nose nuzzling against Oscar’s throat like he was burrowing deeper into the warmth. His eyes fluttered open — still heavy-lidded, still hazy — and the first thing he saw was Oscar’s face, close and full of the kind of love that made his chest ache.
“Hey, baby,” Oscar whispered, voice thick with affection, with sleep, with wonder.
Lando smiled — small, sweet, soft. His voice was rough at the edges when he spoke, but sure.
“Hi.”
Oscar leaned in, kissed his forehead, then his temple, then the corner of his mouth.
“Did I go too far?” he asked, voice gentle but urgent. His eyes searched Lando’s, needing to know. “Last night — was it too much?”
Lando shook his head, slow, sure, his smile widening just a little, lazy and content.
“It was perfect,” he said softly, truth in every word. “It’s what I dreamed of. I felt so safe, Oscar. I still do.”
Oscar exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours. His arms tightened around Lando, pulling him closer, burying his face in his hair. He kissed him there, at the crown of his head, again and again, as if he could press his love into him through sheer will.
“Thank you,” Oscar murmured, voice cracked with emotion. “Thank you for trusting me. Thank you for letting me have you like that.”
Lando hummed, content, tucking his face into Oscar’s neck, breathing him in.
They lay like that for a long while — just holding each other, sharing the softest kisses. Oscar brushed Lando’s curls back from his face, kissed his cheeks, his nose, the line of his jaw. Lando’s fingers played lazily at the edge of Oscar’s collarbone, tracing the shape of him, grounding himself in his warmth.
“You’re so beautiful,” Oscar whispered between kisses. “My good boy. My perfect boy.”
Lando blushed, but didn’t look away. His heart felt too full, his body too soft, his mind too at peace.
“I love you,” he whispered back, voice small, but certain.
Oscar smiled like the sun itself lived behind his lips.
“I love you more,” he said. And he meant it.
The morning light grew brighter, and at last, Lando shifted, stretching a little, feeling the pleasant soreness in his muscles, the sweet, dull ache between his thighs that reminded him of how thoroughly he’d been loved. He sighed, satisfied, and then — with the kind of reckless bravery only someone freshly wrecked could muster — he tried to sit up.
At first, it seemed fine.
And then his legs didn’t quite work.
The throbbing between them — sharp, sweet, deep — stole his strength, and as he tried to swing them over the side of the bed, his knees buckled. His body tipped forward, and he would have fallen face-first onto the floor if not for Oscar’s quick hands.
Oscar caught him instantly, laughing soft, warm, and full of delight as he hauled him back against his chest.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa — easy, baby,” Oscar said, grinning as he steadied him. “You okay?”
Lando groaned, face buried against Oscar’s shoulder, cheeks flaming red. “I’m fine,” he muttered, mortified. “God, I can’t feel my legs.”
Oscar kissed his hair, still laughing gently, his heart light with love for this boy who couldn’t stop being perfect, even when he was falling apart.
“You just fell for me,” Oscar teased, his grin wicked but his touch tender.
Lando blushed harder, if that was even possible. “Shut up,” he grumbled, but the warmth in his voice betrayed him.
Oscar’s arms tightened around him. “Oh no, baby,” he said, pressing another kiss to his cheek. “You’re mine. You don’t get to shut me up when you’re this cute.”
Lando, ever the brat, lifted his head enough to give Oscar a look — one that was more fond than fierce. And then, with a little smirk despite himself, he declared:
“Well. Your fault. So you’re carrying me everywhere today. Like a king. My legs are jelly. Your problem now.”
Oscar’s grin softened into something so tender it almost hurt to hold.
“Anything for my king,” he said, and he meant it. Every word.
Without hesitation, he scooped Lando up into his arms, holding him close, heart full to bursting. He kissed him again, slow and sweet.
“Where to, baby? The kitchen? The couch? The ends of the earth? Just point. I’ll carry you wherever you want to go.”
And Lando, content, safe, loved, wrapped his arms around Oscar’s neck and let himself be spoiled, knowing that in Oscar’s arms, he’d always have everything he needed.
Oscar carried him into the kitchen as if he weighed nothing. The morning sun streamed through the windows, casting everything in gold, but it was Lando’s soft smile, hidden against Oscar’s neck, that lit the room.
He set Lando down gently on the counter, hands lingering at his waist like he couldn’t quite bear to let him go. His thumb stroked slow over the curve of his hip, his other hand brushing curls back from Lando’s still-flushed face.
“You comfortable, baby?” Oscar asked, voice warm as a blanket.
Lando smirked, the brat twinkle back in his eyes despite the softness of the moment.
“Well, it’s not my throne, but it’ll do,” he said, legs dangling, sore and useless but content. His voice was teasing, but his eyes were pure affection.
Oscar laughed — that soft, helpless sound that always escaped him when Lando was like this. He kissed him, slow and sweet, lips lingering as if he had nowhere else to be, as if the rest of the world could wait.
“It’s your throne if you want it,” he murmured against Lando’s mouth. “I’ll build you one. I’ll carry you to it. I’ll do anything for you.”
Lando blushed again — that soft, pink glow Oscar loved so much — and rolled his eyes like he wasn’t melting inside.
“Make me breakfast, and we’ll call it even,” Lando said, trying for casual, but the fondness in his voice gave him away.
Oscar grinned.
“You’re so easy to please,” he said, turning to the stove, hands already busy, knowing exactly how Lando liked his eggs, his toast, his tea. He moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, every so often glancing back just to see Lando sitting there — hair messy, cheeks pink, legs swinging slightly, looking so beautiful it almost hurt.
Lando watched him with soft eyes, arms wrapped loosely around himself, feeling safer than he ever had.
“You don’t have to spoil me,” Lando said after a while, voice quiet but sure.
Oscar turned, toast in one hand, eyes full of love.
“I want to spoil you,” he said simply. “You let me have you last night. You let me break you down and put you back together. Let me take care of you, too. Please.”
Lando’s heart squeezed. He nodded, words lost, but his smile said it all.
Oscar plated the food, brought it over, and without asking, settled Lando onto his lap on one of the chairs, arms around him, chin on his shoulder.
“Eat, baby,” Oscar said, nuzzling his cheek, feeding him little bites, delighting in every shy grin, every playful nudge.
Lando teased him between mouthfuls, calling him “housewife” and “butler” and “royal servant,” but every word was soaked in affection. Oscar took it all in stride, kissing his neck, his cheek, the tip of his nose, happy just to have him there.
They stayed like that long after the plates were empty — tangled together, sharing soft kisses, whispering silly things that made them both laugh.
And when Lando’s eyelids grew heavy again, when his head rested fully against Oscar’s shoulder, when the weight of the night and the morning settled into sweet exhaustion, Oscar just held him tighter.
“My king,” he whispered, lips brushing Lando’s hair. “My love. My everything.”
And Lando, safe and warm and wholly his, let himself drift, knowing Oscar would always be there to catch him.