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meuchellexandra · 1 month ago

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F1 Head Cannons

Sex Chocolate!

Drivers Included: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Max Verstappen, Lewis Hamilton, Charles Leclerc, George Russell, Carlos Sainz and Franco Colapinto.

Lando Norris:

He didn’t believe you.

“Swear down,” he laughed, turning the heart-shaped piece of chocolate over in his fingers. “It’s just a stupid TikTok sex trend.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Fine. Don’t take it. But I hope you can handle being edged for three hours when I’m the one who takes it and begs for more.”

That did it.

He popped it in his mouth with a smug little chew. “Tastes like a Cadbury. Bit of mint. Not bad.”

It hit twelve minutes later.

One second he was giggling through a movie with his legs draped over yours on the couch.

The next?

He was straddling your thighs on the living room rug, shirt off, pupils huge, hips grinding down against your clothed core as he moaned—actually moaned—into your neck.

“I feel,” he breathed, pulling his mouth away from your collarbone, “so fucking horny I could die.”

You were still laughing when he ripped your top clean in half.

“Lando—!”

“No, no, no,” he whined. “Need it. Right now. I don’t care. Gimme.”

He dragged your panties down with his teeth.

This Lando? This was feral.

He didn’t even prep you. Just spit, aligned himself, and pushed in with a desperate grunt.

“FUCK—you’re warm, you’re warm, you’re warm—”

He set a pace like he was possessed. Messy, frantic, hips slapping, hands everywhere—your wrists pinned, your thighs shaking, his forehead pressed against yours with insane eye contact the whole time.

Kink unlocked: Overstimulation and begging.

Because once you came the first time, it was like a switch flipped.

“No, no, don’t stop—don’t stop, baby, come on, be good for me, again, again—please again, I swear I’ll die—”*

When he came, it was with a whimper, his whole body shaking like he’d never felt it before. But the worst part?

He stayed hard.

“What the fuck was in that?” he gasped, laughing while flipping you onto your stomach. “Round two, yeah?”

…You didn’t walk for two days.

Charles Leclerc:

You left it on the kitchen counter.

Just a silly little heart-shaped chocolate in pink foil with a note next to it that read:

“⚠️ DO NOT TOUCH — SEX CHOCOLATE. For later. I’m serious.”

You figured he’d laugh.

He’s always teasing you for getting things off TikTok.

You never in a million years thought Charles “Mr. Control” Leclerc would eat it without asking.

So when you come home and find him shirtless, sweat beading at his temples, sprawled across your bed like a painting in distress, hand fisting the sheets while his boxers tent aggressively…

You drop your fucking keys.

“Charles?!”

His head lifts slowly, neck flushed red, pupils dilated to hell.

His voice is wrecked. “Ma chérie… I—what the fuck was in that chocolate?”

You freeze. “You ate it?!”

“I thought you were joking!” he groans, grabbing his cock through his boxers with a desperate, strangled sound. “You left a snack! On the counter! What was I supposed to do?!”

You laugh. You shouldn’t laugh.

But your boyfriend—the stoic, calm, always-in-control Charles—is quite literally bent in half by horniness.

And then he moves.

He gets up slowly, like his own body is too much to handle.

And he stalks toward you—hungry, trembling, growling.

Eyes locked on yours. Lips parted. Breathing like he’s run a marathon.

“You did this,” he rasps, trapping you against the wall. “You put that in the house. You—*fuck—*you knew I wouldn’t resist chocolate. You did this on purpose.”

He grabs your jaw. Tilts your face to his. Licks into your mouth like he wants to taste the sin before he sinks into it.

“Tu vas me laisser te baiser comme j’en ai besoin, n’est-ce pas?”

(You’re going to let me fuck you the way I need to, aren’t you?)

You nod. You whimper.

It’s all he needs.

He rips your leggings down, slides your panties off, then lifts you like nothing.

Holds you up against the wall with one hand on your ass, the other wrapped around your neck—gently, but firmly—and sinks in raw.

You scream.

He growls.

“Tais-toi… Don’t speak. Just feel me. Just take it.”

KINK UNLOCKED:

• Breath play

• French degradation/praise

• Wall sex + size kink

• Delayed orgasm control + possessive dom energy

His thrusts are hard, precise—a rhythm sent from the gods and delivered through Monaco’s most beloved slut.

He’s cursing in French, biting your shoulder, saying things like:

“Tu m’as manqué. Cette petite chatte—putain, elle m’a manqué.”

(I missed you. This little pussy—fuck, I missed it.)

You can’t think. You can’t breathe.

Every stroke is deep and perfect and made to destroy you.

When you cry out—because it’s too much, too full, too fast—he smilesagainst your neck.

“You’re crying?” he pants. “*Mais non, ma chérie—*don’t cry. It’s good for you. It’s supposed to feel like this.”

And then he starts thrusting even harder.

You come with a scream, legs trembling, body writhing—and he doesn’t stop.

Not until he’s filled you twice, not until your tears stain his shoulder, and definitely not until you beg him in French to let you rest.

“S’il te plaît—Charles—je peux plus—”

(Please—Charles—I can’t anymore—)

He kisses your forehead sweetly. Carries you to bed. Tucks your hair behind your ears.

Then pulls the vibrator out of the drawer.

“Non, non,” he murmurs. “The chocolate hasn’t worn off yet, bébé.

Let’s see how many more you can take.”

Oscar Piastri:

He took it as a joke.

Deadpan expression. Lazy shrug. Calm, quiet voice.

“So it’s like a… horny gummy bear?”

You held the foil heart out with a smirk. “It’s stronger than a gummy bear.”

Oscar rolled his eyes but popped the chocolate into his mouth anyway.

He kissed your cheek after. “I’ll let you know if I feel anything.”

Seventeen minutes later.

He’s pacing the room like a caged animal.

Hands flexing. Brow furrowed. Sweating, shirt discarded. Fully hard.

“…I don’t think I’m okay.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you feel sick?”

He stopped. Turned to you slowly. Eyes wild.

“No. I feel like I need to fuck you until you cry.”

You didn’t even get a full breath in before he grabbed you.

Clothes? Gone. Logic? Gone. Oscar’s whole soul? Possessed.

He didn’t even take you to bed.

He bent you over the counter, dragged your panties to the side, and shoved himself in with a desperate groan that vibrated down your spine.

He started pounding—deep and filthy—his chest pressed to your back, his hand tangled in your hair, his voice shaky and low.

“You gonna take it? Huh? Take it like my good girl?”

You choked. His pace got rougher.

“You’re gonna let me fuck you like this—use you, ruin you—”

KINK UNLOCKED:

• Corruption kink + degradation

• Choking + hair pulling + public risk (open blinds)

• Silent edging/overstimulation

• Possessive virginity-core flipped

He manhandled you like he couldn’t stop.

Thrusting so hard your hands were slipping on the counter, and when you whimpered, he let go of your hair—just to slap your ass so hard your knees buckled.

“Don’t go weak on me now, baby. Not until I say we’re done.”

You came once. Then again. And again.

He refused to stop. Didn’t even slow down.

He came inside you, moaning low and guttural—but stayed rock hard.

Oscar Piastri after sex chocolate is not quiet.

He’s sweaty. Messy. Loud. Obsessed.

When he finally collapsed on top of you, breathless and shaky, he murmured:

“You’re not going anywhere. We’re doing that again. And again. And again.”

Lewis Hamilton:

Lewis knew what he was doing.

He lit candles. Put on a playlist. Set out satin sheets and massage oil like it was a full ceremony.

You placed the little chocolate on his tongue and kissed him slow.

“Think it’s gonna hit hard?” you teased.

Lewis just gave you that smug little smirk. “I don’t need the chocolate to ruin you, baby. But I’ll let it enhance the experience.”

Ten minutes in, he was already kissing down your stomach.

Fifteen minutes in, he was eating you out so slowly you were shaking from restraint.

But at the twenty minute mark?

He flipped.

His calm, sensual energy turned into dirty spiritual chaos.

He was fucking you with two fingers, mouth on your clit, grinding his hips into the mattress like he was the one being touched.

“Feel that?” he rasped. “That’s me inside you already—and I haven’t even started.”

When he finally pushed his cock into you, he did it with a slow, intentional roll of his hips that made you see stars.

“Let me make you transcend, love. I wanna fuck you into another plane.”

KINK UNLOCKED:

• Tantric edging + praise kink

• Mirror sex + nipple play + temperature play (warm oils, cool fingers)

• Throat fucking (gentle but deep)

• Long, slow, multiple orgasms

• High-intensity eye contact and spiritual daddy energy

He had you in positions you’ve never even seen before.

He lifted your legs, curved your back, laid you out with a vibe pressed to your clit while he drilled into you at a luxurious pace—stretching you out until your brain short-circuited.

“You’re shaking. That’s beautiful,” he whispered. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

You came hard. Then again. Then again with his tongue between your thighs and his fingers inside you.

He licked every drop of his own come off your stomach with deep reverence.

And just when you thought he was done?

He rolled you onto your side. Bit your shoulder. And whispered:

“You’re not going to sleep tonight, sweetheart. I’ve got plans.”

Max Verstappen:

You were warned.

Max took the chocolate without even asking what it was. Just bit into it, eyes still on the sim rig screen, and said:

“Tastes kinda bitter. What is it?”

You froze.

“…Max. That was sex chocolate.”

He blinked once. “Like Viagra?”

“Worse.”

He smirked. Shrugged. “Good.”

**Fifteen minutes later—**he was already twitching with tension.

He stalked into the bedroom shirtless, flushed, jaw tight, arms flexing as he stared you down.

“Take your fucking clothes off.”

“Max—”

“Now.”

You did. You didn’t question it.

Because whatever was in that chocolate had turned Max into a full-blown, primal predator.

He shoved you onto the bed, yanked your thighs apart, and stared at your pussy like it was his next podium finish.

“You’re wet already?” he scoffed. “Didn’t even touch you yet. That’s pathetic.”

Then he spit on it. And ate you out like a punishment.

Fast. Rough. Zero mercy.

You came screaming. He didn’t stop.

When he finally slid in, it was brutal—deep thrusts, rough grip on your hips, his voice ragged in your ear as he pounded into you like he was trying to break the bed.

“You wanted to fuck a world champion? You better act like it.”

KINK UNLOCKED:

• Degradation + primal dom + forced overstimulation

• Spit play + spanking + rough grip marks

• Breath play and crying kink (because he wants you to sob)

• Edging + fearplay light (you like the threat of him, even when he’s gentle afterward)

He flipped you face down. Pressed his palm between your shoulder blades. Fucked you so hard your arms gave out.

And when you whimpered?

“No. Take it. I’m not done yet.”

He came with a low growl—then slapped your ass so hard it echoed.

But he didn’t go soft. Not even close.

“You’re not leaving this bed tonight.”

You came six times.

He didn’t even kiss you until round three.

Just whispered: “Mine.”

Carlos Sainz:

You dared him.

“I bet you couldn’t handle the chocolate. You’re all talk.”

Carlos looked offended. Deeply.

He snatched the foil heart, unwrapped it slowly, and popped it in his mouth—with eye contact.

“You’ll regret saying that.”

And you absolutely did.

Because twenty minutes later?

Carlos dragged you back to bed with fire in his eyes and a hard-on that looked medically dangerous.

He didn’t even give you time to catch your breath.

Shoved your panties aside. Sucked your clit into his mouth and held your hips down while you screamed.

You begged him to stop.

He laughed. “We’re just getting started, mi vida.”

He threw you onto all fours, gripped your ass like a vice, and fucked you from behind deep and controlled—one hand tangled in your hair, the other smacking your thigh.

“That’s it. That’s how I like it. Let them hear you.”

KINK UNLOCKED:

• Praise in Spanish + breeding kink energy + DDLG softness layered under filth

• Hair pulling + spanking + body worship (he still calls you beautiful while railing you)

• Choking + mirror play (he makes you watch)

• “You’re mine” possessiveness in both languages

He bit your shoulder. Told you to keep your hands flat on the mattress.

If you moved? He started over.

You came once? He wanted two more.

“No lloriquees ahora. Tú querías esto.”

(Don’t whine now. You wanted this.)

He came inside you, held it there, then started rubbing your clit again while still inside.

“Otra vez, baby. Dámelo otra vez.”

(Again, baby. Give it to me again.)

You were crying and shaking by the end.

He kissed your forehead.

“Good girl. Now flip over—I’m not done loving you.”

George Russell:

George didn’t rush into the sex chocolate.

He researched it. Read the label. Looked up the reviews.

“I just want to know what I’m putting in my body,” he said with a perfectly reasonable smile. “Don’t want to lose control.”

…And then he took it anyway.

Fifteen minutes later, he had you lying back on silk sheets, completely naked and trembling, your wrists tied to the headboard with his Hermes tie.

George Russell was gone.

All that British elegance? Now poured into filthy, dominating, perfectionist-level sex.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low and firm. “You do not come until I say so.”

You nodded quickly. He smiled and kissed your forehead—then spread your legs and slipped two fingers inside you while keeping eye contact.

Slow. Deep. Precise.

He worked your body like a symphony, fingers curling just right, while his other hand trailed up to your throat.

“You’re dripping. Can you feel how desperate you are? Pathetic, darling.”

You whimpered.

He laughed softly.

Then the chocolate hit full force.

His expression shifted.

Suddenly he was flipping you over, arching your back with one strong arm under your waist, and sliding his cock into you with a grunt so deep it vibrated your spine.

KINK UNLOCKED:

• Bondage (tie kink) + obedient praise kink

• Degradation mixed with gentle dominance (“You’re my good girl, aren’t you?”)

• Precision edging—he makes you beg like you’re praying

• Mirror play. “Watch how I ruin you.”

He’d go so slow, you’d think he was being soft—until he gripped your jaw and whispered:

“You move without permission, I’ll start over. Are we clear?”

When you finally came—shaking, screaming, gasping—he didn’t even stop.

He gave you a look and said, “Count how many you can give me. Let’s make it a personal best.”

Then he came on your stomach, wiped it up with a towel, and kissed your hand like a gentleman.

You were tied up for two hours.

Aftercare included feeding you chocolate strawberries… and then round two.

Franco Colapinto:

You left it on his pillow. Wrapped in red foil. A silly little heart.

“One piece = one hour of nasty.”

Franco held it up, smirked, and raised an eyebrow.

He didn’t even ask. Just ripped the foil open with his teeth and ate the whole thing.

“Ojalá no llores luego, mi amor.”

(Hope you don’t cry later, baby.)

You thought he was being dramatic.

But fifteen minutes later, Franco was shirtless. Eyes blown wide. Breath shaky. Hands trembling.

He was standing at the edge of the bed, staring at you like you were dessert—naked, sprawled out for him, waiting.

His voice was low. Like a growl, but prettier.

“Don’t say a word. I want to see you cry before you say a single fucking word.”

And then he pounced.

Mouth on your neck. Teeth. Tongue. Fingers in your hair.

He yanked you up by the throat—not hard, just enough for your head to tilt back—and kissed you like he was starving.

Groaned into your mouth. Licked into it. Breathed, “open, bebé.”

You did.

Spit. Tongue. Heat.

He kissed like he fucked—hungry and dangerous.

And when he finally broke the kiss, he had that glint in his eye. That sinister spark.

“Let’s see if this chocolate’s as crazy as people say, huh?”

“Let’s see if I can break you.”

You didn’t even get a second to process it.

He spun you around, shoved you onto the mattress, and ripped your panties off like they offended him.

Then dropped to his knees.

Tongue on your pussy. Hands holding you wide. No warning.

“Ay, mierda… You’re already dripping for me?” he purred against your skin.

Licked a stripe up your center, then did it again. Sloppier. Wetter.

Moaned into you like it was for him.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this, mi chanchita. Look at you. Moaning like a whore and I haven’t even put my cock in yet.”

You came on his tongue. Fast. Hard. Shaking.

He didn’t stop.

He laughed.

“One. C’mon. You can give me seven.”

He spit on your clit. Slapped it once. Twice. You jolted—gasps turning into sobs.

Then he stood up, eyes dark and lips soaked.

And slid in. Raw.

No foreplay. No prep. Just dominance.

He pushed in slow and deep, watching your face twist, until he bottomed out.

Your hands gripped the sheets. He grabbed your wrists. Pushed them above your head.

“No touching. Just take it.”

And then he started fucking you.

No rhythm. Just chaos. Animalistic, deep, punishing.

Every thrust hit a spot you didn’t know existed. And the chocolate? Had him insatiable.

His mouth was right by your ear.

“¿Querías esto, no? Una noche conmigo.”

(You wanted this, right? One night with me.)

“Pues, prepárate, puta. No vas a caminar mañana.”

(Well, get ready, slut. You won’t walk tomorrow.)

⸻

KINKS ON DISPLAY:

• Spit play (in mouth, on pussy, on dick)

• Hair pulling, choking, wrist pinning

• Bilingual filth (“rich slut,” “my obsession,” “fucktoy,” “my girl”)

• Overstimulation (he keeps fucking you through your orgasms)

• Mirror sex (he drags you to the mirror just to watch)

• Breeding kink (“Gonna fill you up. Want it dripping down your thighs.”)

• Crying kink + degradation + praise mix

• Mindfuck dirty talk (“I want you to forget what your name is and only remember mine.”)

⸻

He flipped you halfway through. Dragged you to the mirror. Bent you over the bathroom sink.

“Look at yourself. Look what I do to you. Qué rica te ves toda destruida.”

(You look so good all ruined.)

He fucked you like that, from behind—deep and steady, one hand around your throat, the other rubbing your clit just to watch your face as you sobbed through another orgasm.

“You love it. Admit it. Say it.”

You choked.

He slapped your ass, hard. “Say it.”

“I—I love it.”

“Mírame cuando lo digas.”

(Look at me when you say it.)

You came so hard your knees gave out.

He held you up. Kept fucking.

You sobbed. He moaned. Bit your shoulder and whispered every nasty word you’d ever wanted to hear.

Then he pulled out. Came on your back.

“That’s not the last one.”

Dragged you to the bed. Cleaned you with his shirt.