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ctimenefic · 3 days ago

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Strap? 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀

A (belated) response to this very silly prompt game. Er, there's about 4k of this for some reason. As always, eternal gratitude to LP for looking over this and spotting the clangers

“Are they red?”

Fernando Alonso’s breath smells like whisky.

Carmen imagines kneeling in front of a little girl crammed between her parents on their small sofa, all of them whooping and hollering as their countryman, their driver, becomes the youngest champion of all time, and telling her one day she’ll be sitting thigh to thigh with him as the new year rings in around them.

It’s such a dazzling absurdity she completely forgets the question. “Pardon?”

Alonso’s fingers flick down with his gaze. Down to her crotch. “Your underwear,” he says, baldly. “Are they red?”

He’s speaking Spanish, of course. He’s asking because she’s Spanish, because it’s tradition. Red, on New Year’s, for luck.

That doesn’t stop her toes curling in her heels. Mindgames, they say about him. Well. She can play. Carmen raises an eyebrow. “Of course.”

Alonso leans back, satisfied. “Good. For luck in love, isn’t it?”

His knee nudges against hers as he opens his legs.

George is a hot line up against her other side, sweaty from dancing and gesticulating as he chats expansively to one of his English mates – John or Jack or James, does something with land management. He’s oblivious, of course; she can’t tell if the white coal of indignation burning under her sternum is on his behalf or her own.

She lets Alonso watch as she adjusts a damp curl over an ear. George catches her hand, presses a kiss against the inside of her wrist without breaking stride in his conversation. When she turns back to Alonso, she barely has to tweak the wattage of her smile; she loves George best when he’s slightly ridiculous. “I’ve been lucky already.”

“Mm,” Alonso replies, neither agreement nor dissent. It rankles; reminds her of the kind of disinterest too many people in the paddock show her, when they call her sweet or helpful or picture-perfect. But then his crooked grin is back, all teeth, much more dangerous. “He must look good when you fuck him.”

Her mind stutters, once at the crudeness and again at the specifics. Not- not when you fuck. Not when he fucks you. When you fuck him.

Sometimes, she doesn’t let George touch her. He’s so much bigger than her; it changes her, something thick and warm fermenting in her belly, to see all of him stretched out and corded with need, jerking into her touch. Afterwards, she can pass a mirror and not recognise herself, the way she can’t bring her teeth together for a smile, jaw slack.

When you fuck him. Alonso’s right. George’d be so good for it. For her.

Her face must be as red as her knickers – maybe she couldn’t challenge the master after all. But Alonso’s still looking past her, where George is rubbing his fingertips against his collarbones, his whole hand easily accommodated by the gape in his unbuttoned shirt.

She can see it, suddenly; that neck straining under the span of a smaller hand. She hears Alonso’s breath rumble out of him.

George catches their looks then, starts extracting himself from John/Jack/James. It’s then that Alonso catches her, face still flaming. “Oh, you haven’t. Pity.” His mouth turns rueful. The hot glint in his eye dims.

Carmen shakes her head, just a little. It’s the truth, sure, but not for long, not now the idea’s culturing in her gut. Alonso looks like he might laugh, as he reaches for his drink; she catches his wrist and lets her nails sink in, just enough for emphasis. George is only inches away; she should be more concerned about appearances. But she can’t let this one go easy, slide off her skin like she’s varnished.

“I could,” she says, steady and low. “I will, when I know how.”

“What’s all this then?” George’s stranger vowels come out when he drinks, his accent thicker than hers. He twists round, squints at them. His buttons are mismatched; Carmen can see one brown nipple through the bulge of fabric.

Alonso gives him a shark’s smile, but his answer’s all for Carmen. Still Spanish. “I could teach you.”

“Are you flirting with my girlfriend, Fernando?” George is sloppy-drunk, heavy with emphasis and innuendo as he sways in his seat. Carmen knows better than to let it embarrass her. He doesn’t like it, in company. No, it’s better to tell him the morning after how messy he got; watch him at the breakfast bar twitching in his boxers at each mild word until he slinks between her legs to apologise, spells out his sorries with his tongue.

“Learn Spanish and you’ll find out, George.” Alonso leans past her to pinch George’s chin between his finger and thumb. His other hand lands on her upper thigh, hidden under the shadow of his torso.

His fingernails score a line down her gossamer-thin tights, just at the hem of her dress. Not a hole, not quite a run, but a snag against the soft skin there that lingers when he leans back, lets his hand run down to her knee and stay there, grip steady and sure. “But,” he adds, back to Spanish, and Carmen feels her gut clench before he even gets the words out, “I do not have to flirt. She is already wet in her lucky red panties, mm?”

He’s right.

George laughs, too relaxed to be uncomfortable. “A fair cop, I’m trying.” He’s not. It’s a small thoughtlessness she can forgive, when he’s so willing to apologise. “But what were you talking about?”

“New Year’s traditions in Spain,” she offers, smile fixed.

“And making new ones,” Alonso adds.

It only takes a few seconds after that. George’s hand lands on her knee, the curve of his palm fitted to her kneecap before he slides up, the way he always does, so his fingertips will graze the ticklish spot on the underside and make her squirm into him. The instant his knuckles knock against Alonso’s he freezes, and Carmen has one of those swooping moments when she remembers all the drivers live or die in microseconds; an entire conversation happens in front of her in miniscule expressions, the smallest grunts and hums, before she even has time to open her mouth.

George squeezes, and her knees fall open, and two sets of fingers drag rucks in her tights up and up and up.

And at midnight, when she crams George’s face between her hands and lets him hoist her off the ground for a kiss far too spit-sloppy for Instagram, it’s Fernando’s hand on her hip that steadies her, his stubble that grazes against the bare skin of her shoulder, and his address that they give to the driver that whisks them away from air soaked with whisky, sweat and the drifting smoke of fireworks.

-----

Sobriety hits with the pound of black silicone Fernando presses into her hand.

He has three of them, three strap-ons, lined up in a drawer on top of cream satin sheets. If George were two or three drinks more either way, sober enough for sarcasm or drunk enough to let his tongue slip, he’d probably call it a bit much. Instead, Carmen just hears him swallow where he’s tucked up behind her, chin pressed against her scalp.

Fernando drums his finger against the blue one, still nestled in the drawer. “This is what you should get for him, yes? Start small.” He wags his finger at the red monster. “Not for beginners. Work up to this.”

“Crikey,” George mutters. Carmen bites her tongue. It’s not that much larger than he is, but she supposes no one’s ever invited him to sit on his own dick.

There’s probably a service for that, though. Custom-made. The kind of narcissism that would make him spasm. At some point he’d spill the beans to a friend, let them tease him mercilessly, come home humiliated and hard and desperate. She could-

Carmen forces herself to breathe slower, uncurls her fingers from the dildo. She’s getting ahead of herself. She can’t even be sure he’ll like it. That she’ll be good at it.

“Shouldn’t I have the blue then?”

“Oh, but little George wants that to be private, no? He is not getting involved.”

Ah. This is what George gets for laughing at her, at them, in the cab. For coming over all British, spine stiff and blinking slowly, mechanically, as Fernando and Carmen had to search for the word for it, a stream of rapid Spanish and halting English.

“Wait, so-”

Fernando is getting impatient. “You think I am going to teach you by fucking you in the arse? Any man could fuck you in the arse, you will not learn shit that way. You will fuck me and I will coach, hm? And little George can find out if he likes it from the corner.”

There’s a chair there, in Fernando’s spare room. An armchair, tight and cushy. He might as well have embroidered CUCK on the throw pillow. Still, it’s better than the dining chair they’d had to drag in from the kitchen the last time Daniel had stopped by. George had kept slipping off whenever his hips jumped.

“I am going to get the good lubricant,” Fernando announces, “And then I will get you ready. Don’t get naked, I want to see those panties.”

George makes a choking noise behind her; when Carmen turns to face him, the dildo in her hand nudges him in the side, where his waist yields. He shivers at the touch of her and Carmen has to smooth a palm up his front, round his neck, and tug his forehead down to touch hers. With his ludicrous torso bent to hers, it makes a private space for them, a familiar room.

“We don’t-” she starts, but he’s already shaking his head, tiny twists that rock his skin against hers. His eyes are shut and she can’t tell if he’s avoiding her face or picturing it, picturing her, harness and all. “Or-”

He kisses her, pushy with it, feeding his tongue into her mouth like that’ll work better than saying what he wants out loud. His clever fingers find the zip on the side of her dress, the button at the halter; he has it sliding down her legs before he breaks off, spins her around and steps back. She’s left in her underwear and heels, standing in the circle of her crumpled LBD. When she looks back over her shoulder, he’s retreated to the chair, folds himself into it, knees crammed together. But he’s watching her, blue eyes wide and open and determined, like he’s staring through a visor.

Fernando’s in the doorway, shirt unbuttoned, a lube bottle the length of her forearm in his hands. His grin widens. “Lucky, lucky girl. Time to strap in.”

When he drags her pants down, he holds them to his mouth and nose for three long inhales before he chucks them across to George. He lays them over his knee, neat and flat, like she might want them later, even though the gusset’s soaked a deep maroon. His thumb strokes over the damp patch, though, and her cunt pulses. Fernando must hear the wet sound of it as he buckles on the harness; he licks a stripe up to her clit before he sorts the other leg, hides her away. He smacks his lips around the taste of her; she clenches so hard her arse twitches under his hands.

When she steps out her heels, the dildo bobs between her legs, thick and heavy. Her balance is off, ever so slightly. Fernando runs a proprietary hand over the head, down the shaft - no lube, so the skin of his fingers catches and drags with the friction. Carmen feels drunk again, watching herself be touched and not touched.

Fernando’s face is all mouth now, wide enough to swallow her. When he kisses her, one hand on her bum and one, immediately, on her tit, she tries to give as good as she gets. But a tug on his hair earns her a warning swat to the arse. “Ah ah. You are still learning, yes? I am the teacher. Be a good girl.”

It’s not really her thing, good girl, but she hears George inhale behind her, and that- the reminder of her audience, that’s enough to send a pulse of heat to her knees. Her hips twitch. The black dildo rubs against Fernando’s stomach. When he pulls back far enough for her to see him clearly, he’s all grin and teeth.

He strips quickly. Not the foreplay type, evidently. On the bed, he cracks the top of the lube open at once, slathers his fingers, and gets on all his knees to open himself up. Carmen bites back a comment on his flexibility.

“Pay attention, yes? If you have not-” She scoffs, and he stops. “Oh, yourself, of course. But it is different for a man. I would have you do it, but your nails, ridiculous. Cut them and get fake ones. There are no uses for those.”

She scrapes the line of them down Fernando’s back, over the ridiculous tattoo, and he pauses. Inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Some uses.”

If watching Fernando finger himself open is supposed to be educational, it’s something of a failure. Barely a minute in, and she can tell he’s chasing pleasure, stretching fast and hissing round the burn. He’s not careful about it, not gentle; George would go quiet if she went this fast, and bear it, and pretend it was his fault he was soft and damp-eyed.

She can’t deny it’s hot, though. The way the eagerness sneaks out of Fernando; all that cleverness dropping off his face when he gets the angle right and just has to feel it, even if he’s smug about it a fraction of a second later. It builds inside her, the want to do it, make him slack and stupid with her-

With her cock.

George is watching too. Rapt. When she turns to look at him, her hair a whisper over her shoulder, he drags his gaze away from Nando’s hole, and she gets to watch how his gaze stutters on the leather straps, the hulk of the dick between her legs. She cups it and he swallows. He’s pulled his shirt out of his trousers, but the drape of it can’t hide how hard he’s got in his slacks.

She feels hard too. Her clit is throbbing where the harness, slightly too tight, pulls it against her body.

“Pay attention,” Fernando chides again and, fuck, he’s up to three. He draws his fingers out with a flourish, wipes them on the sheets as he shifts to all fours. Carmen avoids the spot when she repositions her knees and reaches for the lube. It glides on differently across the toy, everything cold except her palm.

She takes a moment to catalogue the differences between Fernando and George. The corded rise and fall of older muscle. The force of him, compact as a spring. On all fours, Fernando keeps his head up; it makes her think of a jungle cat on the hunt.

When she nudges the flared head against the furl of his hole, it slips around, up; there’s very little slack in the harness, but enough to remind her the dildo’s not rooted to her. She has to work for the angle, grip it with a fist to hold it against herself and find the tension, the shift, that turns a press into a push.

The tattoo on Fernando’s back ripples. “Not too slow,” he coaches. He’s dropped back into Spanish; George whines, but it’s the good sort, high and needy like a purse dog. Carmen answers in kind; only slightly plays up the innocence, her Sunday school accent.

“Like this?” There’s a trick to it, getting her hips aligned behind and below where the base presses hard into her flesh and bone, so she can keep the movement smooth, firm. She curls one hand over Fernando’s hip, lets her nails bite a little, and he likes it just as much as he did the first time, a little grunt falling out of his mouth before he can catch it, turn it patronising and sly. She lets her other hand wander up his back, the spectacle of him stretched out like a map on a table for her.

“Down, more. Your aim is off.”

His voice hitches, though, when she moves. It’s starting to feel like hers again, her cock, in him; she draws it back until just the tip is left inside, admires the gleaming wet length of it before she drives back in, and George whimpers. There’s an ache, an emptiness, building between her legs, where the straps of the harness press against the lips of her pussy hard enough that she can feel how swollen and wet she’s getting, but not enough to satisfy. Not enough to feel.

She wishes she could have Fernando on his back, so she could lean down and shove her tits in his mouth. Or that he’d let George play, so she could tell him to put his talented fingers on her stomach, trace teasing paths around her navel until she was ready to come from a flick of her clit.

But it’s all on her. She’s in control.

Going faster doesn’t help, but once she starts she can’t stop. Not when Fernando starts panting, and his little coaching comments fall away into groans. One fist comes up to grip the headboard, then the other, until he’s pushing himself back against her, onto his knees, rising and falling with her hips.

“Is it good?” she asks him, only slightly smug. In Spanish, of course.

“Hah. The girl has teeth,” he answers her. “Your pretty girlfriend is very good, George,” he adds. English again. “I think maybe I should steal her, except,” and he laughs, the fucker, he laughs as Carmen’s hips stutter, and George moans, high and needy “-except I think you will like it even more, yes? When she fucks you. You will need it all the time-” Her knee slips, just an inch, but it makes a shallow thrust deep and he hisses in pleasure around it and still, unbelievably, keeps talking. “You will need it even before races, and you will be driving and feeling where she has fucked you. Drive slow to keep it going. Hit every kerb to feel it. And that will be better for me, I think.”

“Carmen,” George gasps, and she can hear how desperate he sounds, keeps her eyes on Fernando and the slide of her dick through sheer force of will alone, “Carmen, will you? Please? Will you fuck-”

“Yes,” and she can see it, wants it, her ribs white hot inside her chest, “yes, yes, yes I will.”

Fernando has his head flung back now, panting against her neck. The whole line of him is tensed, muscles straining. Each roll of her hips rattles the headboard.

“What do good girls say to the men who teach them, eh?”

But she’s too dizzy to think, to grasp what cheap porn-brained trick Fernando wants from her. Her thighs are burning, her hips moving so fluidly, instinctively, sweat streaming down her back, down the line of her spine, gathering thick and wet above her arse. She’s so hot. She’s so turned on. But there’s maddeningly little pressure on her clit; her cunt keeps clenching on nothing. She’d rip the room apart with her teeth for a bullet vibe right now, for George to slide it gently across her tits and down her stomach and then hard where she’s wet and hot and achy and-

“What do good girls say, eh?” Fernando growls, and she shakes her head, can’t think, can’t speak, only aware that she’s grinding into the spot that makes him bite, mindless, and-

“Papi.” George sounds wrecked, hoarse. “He wants you to call him papi.”

Of all the words he could know. It doesn’t do anything for her. Quite the opposite. And she’s ready to tell him as much, but: “No, no, no, little George,” Fernando is saying. “You’ll do.” Carmen can feel his grin against the side of her cheek. “You have a girl’s mouth, mm? Use it.”

There’s a thump. Plastered against Fernando’s back, Carmen can only twist her head to watch as George falls out of the chair to his knees - his bare knees, trousers and shoes and socks and boxers abandoned, the two sides of his white shirt framing the lurid red of his cock where it curves back towards the dramatic lines of his stomach. He walks on his knees to the bed; Carmen thinks Fernando would’ve preferred him to crawl.

She might have preferred that too.

It doesn’t matter though, because when she lets go of Fernando’s hips with one hand, steady enough in her stance now to risk it, and reaches for his face, he presses it into her palm and sucks her thumb into the heat of his mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She doesn’t realise she’s stopped moving, dumbstruck, until Fernando starts shimmying against her. His own cock looks livid where the purpling head emerges from the thick grip of his fist. “Move, or share,” he grunts.

“Up you get, George,” she tells him. Her thumb is drenched shiny when he releases it, clambers onto the bed between Fernando and the headboard. He’s lucky it’s wider than it is long, and even so his feet hang off the edge as he curls himself into the space that’s left for him.

One of Fernando’s hands drops down, out of her sight. She has to crane her chin over his shoulder, push the whole sweat-soaked length of her torso even closer against his back, to see. Fernando’s got George’s chin in his finger and thumb again, but this time George’s mouth is dropped open, tongue lax against his bottom teeth.

“Papi,” he says. Carmen shivers. Nando twitches. “Papi.”

And then George is taking Fernando’s cock in his mouth, his hands fisted by his sides and his own dickdrooling on his stomach and the damp tails of his shirt. Carmen grinds into Fernando almost without thinking; his hips shift away from her and back, chasing pleasure in both directions, and the jarring, awkward rhythm of it is somehow closer to making her come than everything before it.

The rhythm, and the naked, desperate want on George’s face as he sucks, eyes locked on her.

Fernando, unfortunately, is driving for a different laptime. He gives no warning before he grabs behind him for Carmen’s hip, grinds backwards for three fervid seconds and comes with a roar, straight into George’s mouth.

When he pats George’s bulging cheek, cum spills out down his chin and throat. A cry rips out of Carmen without her say so.

He lifts himself off Carmen’s dick and falls sideways, to the empty side of the bed, with the self-satisfied grace of a big cat, seemingly unaware the rest of the party haven’t finished yet. Carmen gapes at him, and he lifts an eyebrow. “I figured you two knew how this bit went, mm?”

Her hand drops, automatically, to her clit – and hits the dildo, still there. The harness gets in the way, dulls the sensation, even if George is gulping as he watches her, trying to get his legs underneath him to move. It makes her feel like a fumbling teenager, abruptly unfamiliar with her own body, even as she can feel her orgasm getting closer, almost there, almost enough-

Fernando, indulgently, leans over to unfasten the left hand buckles. He gestures like he’d do the other side, but it’s enough for Carmen. She tugs the panel covering her cunt to the side, lets the dildo press into her stomach as George slides over her, around her, panting and mewling and as needy as she feels.

Then George is sinking into her, thick and deep and everything her cunt’s been crying out for. He doesn’t even have the coordination to kiss her, his mouth wet at her temple, her cheek, her jaw, but it doesn’t matter because she’s coming, naked and soaking and clinging to him like armour. One shaking thrust, two, and he’s coming too, shivering through it, but loud, all his deliberation peeled away for a series of “fuck”s that have Fernando snorting from his side of the bed.

George collapses on top of her, but not inconsiderately. She likes it, after, the press, squeezing the last lingering shocks from her body as her mind slowly ebbs back from the edges of the room. When she has the wherewithal, she strokes down his back, fingers dipping into the gully where his shoulder muscles bulge either side of his spine. He takes a while to soften inside her.

Fernando yawns. “I will call you a car.”

“After we shower,” Carmen says, sharply.

George snorts half a laugh. “The romance is dead. Happy New Year, mate.” He rolls off the bed fluidly, suddenly back to the man everyone else sees, as awkward as he is charming, but all that wicked need hidden away.

Carmen’s still on the bed, waiting for her knees to solidify, when the shower starts running. Fernando clucks his tongue, and she rolls her eyes. As soon as she stands, the harness drops away to the floor with a jangle. She has to keep her thighs together as she makes her way to the ensuite; George’s cum starts leaking out of her well before she reaches the loo.

Under the water, George kisses her with his eyes open, his thumb tracing between two of her ribs.

George takes longer than her to wash; to be fair, there is a lot more of him. She ends up at the doorway to the bedroom again, wrapped in one of Fernando’s towels.

His eyes are closed, but his brow is furrowed. When she clears her throat, his face goes blank.

She has a thought.

“Help me on with these?” she asks, nudging her clothes with her toes.

Fernando goes to his knees to help her step into her dress and tugs it up into place. His fingers are quick and clever on the zip. He goes back down to help her step into her shoes, steady and firm when she puts a hand on his shoulder for balance.

“Good boy,” she says quietly, in Spanish. The shiver is almost imperceptible.

“Er, Carmen?” George, clean and dressed, is holding up her red panties from where he neatly stowed them with his own clothes. “Missing something?”

When he chucks them over, she snatches them out of the air and pushes them into Fernando’s open hand. “Keep them,” she smiles. “For good luck. And as a thank you.”

Fernando sees them to the door, still not a stitch on him. One palm on George’s shoulder, the other at the small of her back. He’s smiling.

“Thank you,” she says again. He’s one of the shortest drivers on the grid, but Carmen still has to reach up to press her lips to his cheek.

It’s soft, past the stubble.

#prompt fic #my fic #god what should i call this nightmare ship #the spanish armada?#no one expects the spanish inquisistion?#f1 rpf fic #answered asks

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