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Charles ran his fingers lightly over the shining red halo of the SF-26, the metal cool against his skin, each raised sponsor decal a tiny ridge beneath his fingertips. The paint danced in the late-afternoon Monaco sun streaming through the open French doors on his balcony, scattering soft red reflections across the marble floor.
It was almost New Year's, chilled air filling his penthouse.
It looked less like a racing machine and more like a work of art. A sculpture carved by speed, sweat and tears, hundreds of man hours honing the final design.
A rush of emotions welled up, tangled and unsteady, but joy and pride rose above the rest like clear notes in his favorite composition.
He’d done it.
Finally.
The crown jewel of silver and gold was his, weighty and shining in his display case, forever tethering his name to the sport’s highest echelons.
Pierre had told him he was ridiculous, and maybe he was—but ridiculous felt exactly right for this.
A life’s work deserved spectacle.
So, he’d signed the papers, transferred the obscene sum, and arranged the most dramatic Christmas present to himself possible: a full crane delivery into the living room of his penthouse, high above the port.
Sacrificed without hesitation, the Steinway had been nudged into a corner like a politely demoted monarch, making way for the new ruler of the room. His Ferrari now sat proudly in the center, a splash of adrenaline in an otherwise pristine, cream-and-chrome space.
Silence settled around him, not the restless kind but a deeper, reverent quiet. Only the soft tick of the wall clock marked the passing of time as he paced slowly around his old partner.
The season had been long—twenty-four races over nine relentless months—a grueling test of heat, travel, pressure, and precision. Now, in this cocoon of stillness, the memory of each circuit, duel, each narrow escape hummed in the air between them.
Unable to resist now that they were alone, Charles eased himself down into the cockpit, the familiar snugness closing around him like a memory. He slid his legs into position, calves brushing the inner panels, sweats riding low on his hips as the molded seat cupped him in that perfect fit. Not bothering to fasten the belts, he reached for the wheel, clicking it into place with a satisfying thunk.
Eyes closed, he let the outside world dissolve.
Abu Dhabi. Final lap.
It had been weeks now, but in his mind the moment was still sharp. The roar of the Tifosi, thousands of voices layered into one relentless wall of sound, merged with the deep, savage howl of the Ferrari’s engine. His hands tightened on the wheel, guiding himself through the chicanes, feeling the weight transfer, the phantom G-forces pulling at him. The smell of hot brakes, the sting of sweat in his eyes, the vibration through his forearms—it all came rushing back, unfiltered.
Nerves. Adrenaline. Joy . . . Pleasure.
Getting hard, much like he had then, Charles groaned a little bit as he settled a palm over the subtle tent in his sweats. It didn’t happen every time he won, but those special moments like taking the top step of the podium in Monaco and Monza, and now winning his first World Drivers’ Championship, got his blood flowing in all the right places.
Giving himself a firm squeeze, he decided he could live there forever. In that instant where time stretched and victory was inevitable, where every muscle and thought moved in perfect harmony.
He kept his eyes closed long after his mental lap ended, letting the echo fade slowly. The silence of the penthouse felt strange after the deafening memory, like stepping from sunlight into shadow.
Maybe he should finally give it a name, he thought, absently stroking a hand along the wheel’s grip, a damp patch growing over the gray fabric of his sweats.
Tradition had always steered him toward feminine names like Lilia in 2022 and Giovanna in 2019, but the SF-26 had been different. He’d kept her nameless all year, telling himself it was to break his own superstitions, to invite a change in fortune.
And maybe . . . it had worked.
Still, now that she sat here with him, strong and patient, it felt almost impolite not to christen her properly.
Now that he thought about it, it didn’t really feel like a her. Sure, the SF-26 still curved in all the usual places, those sculpted flanks and impossible lines that only a Ferrari could wear. But there was something else beneath the beauty. Something heavier.
Powerful.
Strong and commanding beneath his hands on the wheel. This one wasn’t a dancer. He was a fighter.
He, Charles decided.
A slow smile tugged at his lips as he leaned closer to the wheel.
“Max,” he murmured, almost testing how the name felt in his mouth. It was a strong name, indicative of how they’d driven to the limit all year. “We had a good year, baby.”
A rush, light but unmistakable, surged through the underside of his seat, like a deep vibration that rippled up his spine. Metal groaned somewhere beneath him, a low, resonant sound that didn’t belong in a car that wasn’t powered on.
Charles’ brows drew together. The penthouse was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning, the distant cry of gulls outside. The Ferrari looked perfectly still in the warm spill of sunlight, a trophy on display.
He shifted, planting his hands on the halo to pull himself out—only to rise an inch before stopping dead. Resistance bit into his middle.
Charles glanced down.
The waist belts were latched. Not just latched but cinched tight, the webbing pressing snug into his hips.
Odd.
He knew for a fact he hadn’t done up any of the six safety belts. He hadn’t even touched them.
Charles reached for the quick-release buckle, fingers curling around the latch. He gave it a sharp tug and . . . Nothing.
No satisfying clunk, no smooth slide of metal on metal. Just an unyielding, stubborn resistance.
He frowned and tried again, harder this time. Still nothing. Twisting his legs to gain leverage, he felt their housings in the snug cockpit mold tighter around him until he couldn’t move his legs at all.
“What the—?”
Bracing his hands on the halo, he pushed up, trying to lift himself free, but stopped dead as the shoulder belts stirred like living things. They uncoiled from their resting positions and slithered up around his arms, tightening with intent until his elbows were pinned fast to his sides.
A jolt of panic shot through him. His phone—across the room, perched uselessly on top of the piano.
He opened his mouth to yell, but one of the belts whipped upward with startling speed, wrapping across his lips and locking behind his head. The pressure was firm, cutting off his shout before it even left his throat.
Hot and shallow, Charles panted against the belt gag, the scent of oil and fabric filling his nose. He twisted hard from side to side, muscles straining, but the more he fought, the more the harness constricted, its grip firm and unsettlingly precise.
Then he felt movement lower down.
One of the free belts that usually sat snug against his groin, shifted between his legs—not in the rigid, locked position he knew so well, but sliding, testing . . . exploring. Charles’ eyes widened as the strap brushed against the front of his sweats, pressing with a slow rhythm. Heat flared low in his belly, confusion and shock warring in his chest.
Breath catching, Charles watched on in shock as the belt slowly worked its way up and down on his most sensitive area, sliding diligently over gray sweats, his lashes fluttering with the odd friction.
Before he could fully process it, cool air ghosted over his skin, the lap belt having worked its way under his waistband, tugging the fabric down with mechanical certainty. His cock sprang free, fully hard and slick at the tip, his whole body jolting against the confines of the seat. A muffled, desperate sound escaped him, half whimper, half gasp—under the belt stretched firm across his mouth.
This was a dream. A strange, lucid dream. It had to be.
His foggy, reeling mind couldn’t come up with any other explanation as rational thought bled away, replaced by sensation. Somewhere in the haze, he became aware of a change, the belt working him up and down felt warm, like there was something coating the woven material. A smooth, almost liquid slickness made each pass glide over him with indecent ease.
Every stroke sharpened the pleasure, his muscles loosening as he sank back into the deep mold of the seat. His eyes fluttered half-shut, lashes brushing his cheeks, the room tilting until there was nothing but the car’s touch and the pounding of his pulse in his ears.
What an incredible dream. Maybe he should stay up late more often?
Breathing deep through his nose, he gave an involuntary thrust upward, hips chasing the friction as pressure wound tight in his gut, hot and insistent.
Around him, new sounds stirred in the stillness—mechanical murmurs that didn’t belong in a dormant machine, almost like whispers. The steering wheel gave a slow turn all on its own, and beneath him, through the seat and his spine, came a deep thrumming vibration.
It was the unmistakable growl of an engine.
Except . . . the car wasn’t even on.
He couldn’t even turn it on if he wanted to, not without an entire team of engineers, laptops, and heating rigs just to coax the engine into life and keep it there. That was the reality of the car, the reality of his more than ten years in F1. Which meant whatever he was feeling now, wasn’t supposed to be possible.
His attention snapped downward again as more of his sweats were tugged lower, the waistband rolling under itself before his underwear followed suit. Another belt—one he hadn’t even noticed moving—slipped beneath him.
A muffled string of no's poured from him behind the strap, panic rearing back to life. He'd never had anything there before, certainly not any part of his fucking car.
Charles squirmed in the seat, a startled sound escaping him as the slickened strap glided along under his balls like some oversized tongue. His head tipped back against the headrest with a muted thunk.
When the belt slid between his cheeks, a shiver tore through him, every nerve tuned to the contact. What was happening? How was he going to stop this? Or more importantly, why did it feel so good?
He twisted and wriggled and pulled hard against the belts until he felt that wet slide start a more insistent rhythm against his hole and Charles gasped. The firm confinement around his calves relented just enough for him to shift, knees parting as far as the cockpit allowed, silently inviting more of the car’s impossible exploration.
He was losing it.
Utterly and irretrievably losing it.
Mad enough to not only imagine what the car was doing to him, but to welcome it, to lean into the insanity. His muffled moan vibrated against the gag strap when the belt traced firmly around him again, the sound unrestrained, shameless as he felt the pressure against his hole.
It wasn’t as if he’d been starved for attention. Quite the opposite, really. Ever since clinching the Championship, his life had been a blur of afterparties, champagne toasts, and flashing cameras. Men and women alike had thrown themselves at him, the thrill of victory making him magnetic in a way that was almost exhausting.
There had been plenty of dates, and more than a few hookups. But none of those fleeting, feverish nights came close to this.
A new sensation made him jolt, the seat under him splitting apart and stopping just before he fell through. He was barely sitting on the edges now, held up by the straps around his waist. Something firm and blunt, pressed against his rim and Charles’ breath stuttered in his nose, eyes blowing wide as the slick, mysterious object began to breach him slowly.
It was warm. How was it warm?
The belt at his front never paused, working his dripping length with unrelenting pressure, the two sensations colliding in a dizzying, perfect storm.
Madness. Absolute, glorious madness.
And yet . . . Charles had never felt more in sync, in complete communion with the scarlet Ferrari. He felt phantom movements beneath him through his spine, subtle shifts that made it seem like they were in motion—cornering, accelerating—despite still being planted firmly in the middle of his penthouse living room.
Reaching tentatively, Charles put a hand on the wheel, thumb caressing along the dark screen in the middle. It lit up, sparking with a vibrant blue color as Charles stroked it again.
The object below him pushed deeper, Charles squeezing his eyes shut. What was that? He couldn't think of anything that could reach him below the seat. Not giving him much time to think about it, he felt a gush of liquid enter him while, whatever it was, filled him till he thought he would burst.
A stilted cry left him when the object retreated and then slammed in again.
It was weird and uncomfortable, tears pricking behind his eyes until the shaft brushed up against something inside him that sent lightning through his toes.
Charles cried out behind his gag when the blunt tip of the object found that devastating spot inside him again and his whole body shivered, legs trembling against the cockpit sides, every nerve alight.
The belt’s pace increased, each stroke more insistent, more demanding and Charles whined, hips twitching helplessly. His chest heaved, lungs straining as pleasure and overstimulation tangled together. His limbs quaked, the fight gone from his muscles, leaving only surrender to the car’s impossible touch.
From out of nowhere, the engine roared to life, a deep, thunderous snarl that filled the room and rattled in his chest. The sound was everywhere at once, flooding his ears, vibrating through his back, through his bones, until his entire body felt caught in its power.
Charles broke, utterly helpless, spilling across the dash and wheel, the hot mess streaking the belt strap around him. Some even stained the red of his Ferrari shirt, almost as red as the flush over his face from getting fucked by his car.
The gag strap over his mouth slackened just enough for him to drag in a desperate gulp of air, his head tipping back as a soundless cry tore through him, his spine arching in a sharp bow as he came again, the blunt object pummeling his insides reshaping them into just another part of the SF-26.
He was shaking, tremors rolling through every muscle, limbs loose and boneless while his hand slipped off the wheel. His eyelids fluttered, struggling to stay open as the apartment tilted around him.
He felt movement, himself being lifted from the cockpit, the once-restrictive straps melting away, replaced by something impossibly gentle. Not cold metal, but the sensation of arms, firm and steady, cradling him like he weighed nothing.
The room swayed in his vision as he was carried away from the living room, heavy steps echoing down the hall behind him. The air in the hallway was cooler, brushing over his damp skin as his head lolled slightly to the side.
Through the haze, a pair of vivid blue eyes came into focus above him—intense, almost luminous—set in features that seemed carved from pale marble. Maybe even metal? Cool skin pressed briefly against his own as he was lowered onto his bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.
“We had a good year, Charlie.”
“Max?” Charles breathed, the name barely more than a whisper.
“Relax,” came the reply, deep and smooth with an electric undertone that hummed right into his bones. “Now we can properly celebrate.”
Charles let his eyes fall shut, surrendering completely.