Archive of Our Own

Women don't get to F1. It is an objective truth. Women and girls interested on it, not just motorsport but specifically in Formula 1, have two options. They can attempt a career in motorsport, which would be maybe fulfilling to a certain degree but also probably never enough to get them there, or they can get into Formula 1 by pursuing a career on it other than being a driver. Accept from the beginning that that would never come and go at it on a different way. Get involved from a different perspective.

That's how Max had always seen it, anyway. She respected greatly her mother's motorsport career, even if it had been cut short by her getting pregnant —because that's how it went with women— and she knew that her mother had been a better driver than her father, it just was that it didn't matter. Ever since she was a young girl she knew skill wasn't that important. It was money, contacts, luck; it was ethnicity, nationality, background; and obviously, it was gender. She was a woman. Attempting to get to Formula 1 on skill would only be a selfish waste of money, she thought ever since she could remember having an interest on it.

And so, she went at it on a different way.

Max loved her job. She had an incredibly high position for a woman, and one that she had actually gotten on skill alone. Not many women got to be team principals, after all; it had happened a few times, but it definitely wasn't common. Thus, Max tried to enjoy every single detail of her job, from the incredibly boring team meetings she had to run, to the smell of gasoline and oil on track and the drawer in the garage with all the tapes. This was F1. Maybe a job greater than that of a driver, maybe a job more fundamental to the sport's history, to winning championships, even if it wasn't written on the cup by the end of the year. She actually kind of liked that. After all, what she had always amounted to was greatness, not fame. In fact, she sort of hated the idea of fame. She guessed that came naturally with her awkwardness.

Max was, objectively, a beautiful woman. Not that she recognized that on a level that was actually significant or conscious, but she guessed she wasn't too bad, the way people had acted around her through her life. About her life, there wasn't much to be said. She had been a happy kid, despite it all. She never felt pressured to pursue a certain career, even though her father was intense and sort of violent and angry at the house sometimes. Even in those moments, Max could swear her father was looking right past her, never at her. There were times in which Max thought her dad was just frustrated he had no sons. He had probably dreamed of a F1 champion son, hadn't he? Someone to torture with his own frustrated dreams. And instead, he was stuck with Victoria and Max. That served him right, she thought on those moments. And luckily, it was what gave her a sort of freedom. She didn't dare to say her father didn't care what she decided to do with her life but, well, she knew he didn't.

She was good looking, yes, but awkward enough to make up for it. She was one of those people that don't quite look comfortable on their own skin. She had what was considered a good figure. She was curvy, way too curvy for her taste. It had always been like that, actually. She had developed from a pretty young age. When she was still a kid, probably eleven or so, terrified and embarrassed; she had started to wear boyish, loose clothes to try and hide how she looked. Apparently, it had worked a little too good, for she had later on been made fun of for it. She had been called a boy. She assumed her attitude, personality and tastes also contributed, not being the most feminine. Her fear of how she looked under her baggy shirts was greater than the fear of being made fun of, so she kept that up until she finished high school, and got to college.

Image is gonna be important now, she thought, and she was right. College was exactly where the contacts started blossoming, where your impact on people started mattering, where a career was actually going to be built. And so, from one day to the other, she started to make up for all the years of looking like one unspecific amalgam of fabric and limbs and got the job done. Skinny jeans, tight shirts, and long tied up hair had to do the trick, right? That was what she always saw on the girls around her. At least that's what she guessed. She couldn't care less about make up or dresses, so that's as far as her effort got. Again, with how different people were treating her now, it certainly seemed to be enough. She didn't feel as comfortable, though. Always making up for some long overlooked, long lost, long forgotten femininity. I'm not a boy. I'm not a boy. I'm not a boy. She could still hear her high school girl voice on her head sometimes, on some quiet nights, when she was right about to fall asleep.

There was someone at work who didn't seem to have a problem with that at all, she had observed. And she had observed her because it was impossible not to. One of Mercedes' race engineers, George Russell, also one of the few women that had ever occupied that position, was an annoying presence at the paddock to say the least. She was smart, technical, incredibly good at what she did, like all women that got that far. But she was also nice, happy, bubbly, and incredibly gorgeous in a way that made you get mad. It made Max get incredibly mad. It made Max get incredibly jealous.

George was what Max would call 'a natural'. She was effortlessly feminine, with her tall, athletic figure, tanned to the point of perfection. She wore makeup, Max was sure, but it was never quite noticeable, unless they had a big event. She was slim and fit and everything was where it had to be. She posted photos on her Instagram looking professional, accomplished, perfect, then maybe a picture on a swimsuit in the winter break, following summer across the world, on a Caribbean beach or something. She had a perfect life, and she had the balance: she was respected and desired on equal parts. Max could imagine everybody would want to be with a girl like her. In a male dominated field, she must get offers all the time, as men are irresponsible and stupid. She must have had her beautiful, absurdly long hair ran through many fingers, manly fingers, and then she would have probably left the morning after with a perfect excuse, something good enough so that those men would still love her and think she's the nicest person alive and then leave her alone for the rest of her life at the same time. She hadn't probably slept with that many men, though; for she was elegant, never a slut, never too easy, never for business. She was just a free woman that enjoyed to have fun in her free time, measured, never messy. Max had already fantasized with all of her life, from beginning to end: She had probably been that perfect her whole life. From what Max had gathered from interviews and a few brief conversations, most of them overheard or in which she had limitedly participated just by awkwardly standing around, she had also had quite a normal childhood. Lonely, Max had read on a note George did for a magazine over and over without believing it, —How could someone like her ever be lonely? Who in their right mind would leave her alone?— But normal, unlike her brother Benjy, whom she thanked endlessly for taking the burden of their father's expectations; even though after thousands of pounds spent on him, he had never been good enough for an actual, serious motorsport career, breaking under their father's pressure. George was the real prodigy. And she seemed to have noticed the same Max had, and to arrive at the same conclusion. You have to go at it another way.

She had probably also been perfect in high school. Prom queen and all, one of the popular girls that had for years made Max shiver with envy, fear and something else. In college she had probably decided for her current look, just like Max had. Of course, George had the opposite problem than Max. She didn't have to make up for non-existent femininity, she had to make up for how overbearing it was. She had been a perfect fairytale-princess-doll her whole life, without trying. How could someone like her be taken seriously in her short dresses and skirts, makeup and high pony tail? How could she be heard with her long, eternal legs getting in the way of her words and her audience? And so she had toned it down, toned herself down, at some point. A true tragedy. George then wore only formal clothes, only pantsuits and blazers for the rest of her college pictures. And then, she was probably comfortably the smartest, best scored student, graduating with honors. Max's online stalking didn't get her far enough as to know her grades, but she was pretty sure of it anyway. Then a few shitty jobs until someone realized she was actually smart, actually good at what she did, and actually necessary, and some years later, she was a race engineer. Her clothes now consisted of Mercedes team loose black shirts and some also pretty loose brown pants, along with some white ones she alternated. She wore that with sneakers and her hair loose. Max only got to see her on dresses and heels on end of the year events. It was worth waiting all season. Not that she was obsessed or anything, but she could use any extra incentive she could get to go to those parties, and getting to see George's tanned legs in person was a pretty good one.

In Max's imagined tale, only one thing was missing. Why on earth was this perfect, incredibly good looking and charming woman not fucking married. Why was she single? Why didn't she at least have a boyfriend? There weren't any known of, historically, either. Even Max had had a couple college boyfriends, one of them that had posted about it on Reddit, Jesus. It was normal. Where were George's? There were rumors, of course. That she slept with Toto to get her job, that she slept with Shov before replacing him so she could steal his job, but there were shitty rumors about everybody. Where were the confirmations? More importantly, on her perfect life, where was her perfect boyfriend? Always family and friends on her Instagram pictures, that was it. How on earth could that be?

Okay, maybe Max was a little bit obsessed. The charming bombshell hidden under a boyish shell was good enough of a fantasy as any. And Max was easily obsessed with the most random things, the most random people. She had always been like that, morbidly curious, full of obsessive thoughts that nearly disgusted her. And this George thing was particularly annoying. In fact, Max truly, whole-heartedly thought that George was an annoying person herself. They didn't really talk —as Max constantly ran away from people with her personality—, and from Max's observant point of view; her presence was annoying, her personality sometimes didn't match her looks, and smiling all the time even when there was nothing to smile about was stupid and fake, just like getting excited over the smallest things, and constantly making jokes even with people she didn't know. But even more so, Max had to know. She had to get this unbearable presence out of her mind already. She had to get under the cracks. Because if George was single, there was probably something wrong with her. And it wasn't just the fact that she was incredibly annoying.

Max was on a mission. The mission was simple, or it ought to be. She would get George alone, she would get her comfortable, make her think they were friends for the night, something easy given George's personality, and then, she would just ask her. Hey, so how come you're single? It was as easy as that. Once she had her answer, —Oh, I'm a pathological liar. Oh, I'm a sex addict. Oh, I'm afraid of commitment. Oh, I'm a vampire.— she would take it, accept it, whatever it was, and then get over her stupid fucking obsession with this woman. She knew it was that: what had her so obsessed was the missing piece on the puzzle. The fact that there was a mystery to be solved. The oldest attractor in the book: mere curiosity.

Luckily, even to the most awkward person in the world, George was very easy to talk to. Las Vegas was over, thank fucking god. Max considered it, for some reason, an exhausting race weekend. Both of their teams had done well. It wasn't like there was actually something to celebrate though; the championship was closed and it was Mclaren's already, with their golden boys reminding everyone of their success through a 1-2 this weekend. Still, they had been kind enough to leave a third place for one of the Mercedes drivers, the young Kimi, George's pilot. And any excuse to drink on Las Vegas was as good as any.

"Hey." Max started. It was a weird place to chat, this hallway connecting the paddock and the press circle to the outside world. But people were going back and forth and she was there. It made sense they were both there.

"Hey! What a weekend, huh?" Whatever that meant. George was smiling already, about nothing. Max thought she'd reciprocate. Her smile wasn't as warm as George's, though. It probably looked forced.

"Yeah, totally. Listen, congrats on the kid's podium, he was great today."

"Yeah, well, you know how it is with prodigies. All this on his second year… He's just… gifted. At this point I think I'm sure of it." It was incredibly irrelevant for Max, this whole conversation. But George's smile had gotten even warmer, even more genuine, and her look had gotten dreamy, like her mind was just wondering away from here. Max decided it was a perfect moment to strike.

"Do you wanna have a drink with me?"

"Come again?" George laughed a little. Max could almost swear she looked nervous for a second. That was a stupid thought. She discarded it.

"We should have a drink. You know, we're the only women along the big dogs in here. I don't think we commemorate that enough. We should be closer. Don't you think? Allies."

"Well…" George's high cheekbones were almost blushing. "You know, a team principal and an engineer from different teams having dinner together near the end of the season… That can look… That can probably start some weird rumours. Like you're trying to… I don't know. Steal me or something." So that was what the nervousness was about. George laughed again. It really wasn't funny, what she was saying. Not at all.

"I didn't say dinner, I said drinks. And listen, it's just an innocent thing. So what if there's rumors? They'll go through the drain! You're not leaving Mercedes. That's the important part. Come on, lets have a little toast for your wonder boy."

A moment of silence. Consideration.

"Ah, you know what? Screw it, you're right. Besides, I don't think any of my teammates will go have a drink tonight, everyone said 'they were too tired'…" George used a mocking tone for this last part. Max thought instantly how annoying the whole 'teammate' thing that Mercedes used was. What teammates? Only drivers are teammates to each other. The rest are just all of your boring coworkers. Still, she didn't say anything about it, as George seemed to just having gotten comfortable again. Thank god, she was back to smiling confidently. "A Cosmopolitan has never hurt anyone, has it?" Ha. Of course she drinks that shit.

The bar was normal. Nothing too fancy. Although it wasn't a club, it had that Vegas atmosphere, with the low lights and the music playing a little too loud, even though it wasn't a place for dancing and everybody was sitting down. Max thought it was tacky, and that it looked like a strip club without the strippers. As it was George's pick, she decided to say nothing.

"Here's where we usually come to celebrate with the team, you know, before hitting a Vegas club if it was a good night," George spoke, apparently trying to be… funny? cool? nice?

"Right." Max had no idea of what that life was like. She hadn't been really allowed to party as a teen, she had enjoyed it in college, but college was college, and then she had been a team principal, someone who isn't supposed to party hard, specially not being a woman. She had gotten serious, she guessed. There were prices to pay for being on her place, and she was willing to pay all of them. Even if she died to go clubbing sometimes, and all she got were those formal, boring, eternal parties, in which people just stood up inhabiting a space with way too much light and talked and talked about money and business, swaying their arms and hips around a little from time to time, sipping champagne offered in big silver trays, instead of just getting wasted and actually dancing.

They sat on these little stupid fucking bar stools that made George look like a long and elegant bird posed on a tree branch, waiting for a picture to be taken, and made Max look like… well, she didn't know what she looked like. She just knew her feet couldn't quite reach the ground from there.

They ordered their drinks —a Cosmopolitan and a gin-tonic, of course— and started chatting. It was alright, Max thought; it was comfortable. She had thought she would enjoy this situation way less, but somehow it wasn't too bad. After all, George was insanely good at conversation, so that wasn't hard, and alcohol helped Max be a little bit more loose, as it always had. An hour into conversation, already drunk enough to build up the necessary courage, Max thought it was the moment to ask. George's rosy cheeks also told her she was drunk enough not to get mad at her meddling. Besides, she had been asking some things about George's life already, and sharing some of her own. It wasn't too out of pocket.

"So…" Max started, and George took a second but then turned her whole attention to her. She was finishing laughing at some joke Max couldn't even remember.

"Yes…?" George smiled.

"How come you're single?" There. It was out. The spell was about to break, finally.

"Oh." Max got ready to hear it. To finally have her answer. Whatever it was, she would take it and hold on to it to be able to let go. George's fatal flaw would save her. Hm. George wasn't speaking. Her smile had dropped. Her back had straightened even more, if that was even possible. "I don't— well,"

"Come on. It can't be that bad. It'll be our secret." Well. Max was way too drunk, apparently. She just couldn't help it. She had gotten this far. She needed to know.

"I'm a lesbian." George's face was flushing furiously, but she was serious. She was full on defense mode, ready for whatever Max could throw at her after such confession.

Max only thought was What the actual fuck. Apparently a thought that lasted too long, for George's taste.

"Okay." George spoke again, getting Max out of her trance. "I think I'll just leave."

"No!" Max blurted out. She was now speaking without thinking. "Please don't. I'm sorry, I… It's just unexpected. I'm not— I'm not homophobic or anything. Please sit down."

George, who was already getting up and grabbing her jacket from the back of the stool, sat down again. She seemed to have lowered her guard a little. "Alright…" She laughed nervously, clearly fake. "Sorry. Your reaction was a bit disconcerting."

Of course it was. Because how the fuck would Max get over her obsession with this information. She was in total panic. At the same time, she suddenly felt her chest warming up from the alcohol. It was as if all she had drunk just physically hit her at once. Millions of morbid thoughts ran through her head. She had a tendency for that, morbidity. She had a million new questions, accompanying those thoughts. She figured she'd take them one at a time. "Sorry. It's just surprise. And curiosity I guess… I mean, do you— do you feel comfortable talking about it? We can just drop it."

"No, no, it's fine. I can talk about it once the air is clear, you know…" Max gave her a confused look. "I mean, some people really hate dykes, that's all."

"Oh. No, I mean sure. But really, I don't— I'm not. I'm just not." Whatever that meant. I'm not a homophobe. I would never. I have been curious about women myself, but too terrified to try. That didn't come out just yet.

"Alright… Alright." George smiled in return. This wasn't like her typical euphoric smiles, it was way softer. Perhaps a little sad, or a little comprehensive, it looked like it was among those lines. It wasn't something normally talked about, way less on the environment they moved in. Maybe George thought Max's curiosity was normal, and so she added: "You can ask me about it. If… if you want. You said you were curious. So yeah, let's talk about it." Guard completely down. That was great.

"Okay…" Max organized the questions on her head. "Okay. So, my question still stands, I guess. How come you don't have a girlfriend?"

George laughed a little. "Well… I've had some." Of course. "Not many, really. Just two. You may know my latest ex, actually." What the fuck. "Alex Albon. She was in karting for some years and she did some work in Red bull. Then she was in Williams for some time—"

"I know who Alex Albon is. I remember her from her time on Red Bull. Your best friend, right?" For a second Max thought the stalking slipped, and blamed the gin-tonics. Then, she remembered that was common fucking information. They used to be together all the time, and then they had suddenly stopped. Now it made sense.

And again George was laughing. "Yes! Her. She's still my friend. Just… motorsport broke her heart too many times, I guess. So she left it."

"Did you break her heart too?"

A pause. George got sort of serious again. "No I didn't. As I said… we're still very good friends."

"Is it recent?"

"I didn't take you for the curious type." That caught Max off guard.

"Oh. Well…" It was her turn to be nervous. "You know, we don't know each other that much and I'm… I'm surprised—"

"I know. What I mean is that I'm surprised I intrigue you, I guess. I didn't take Max Verstappen for the type of girl to invite you to a bar and start asking personal questions. Just thought you didn't care about people's lives, that's all." This sneaky bitch. She had noticed something, and she would never say. But there it was, George's signature 'I got you' look, looking right at Max's eyes. Max was just thinking what she could possibly answer to that when George spoke again. "It was about a year ago." Her gaze had softened again. "The breakup. So not so recent,"

"Right." Max was blushing now. She felt caught, although she didn't know on what. "And you have… never been with a man?" It only got more morbid from here, her doubts. The thought of George only having been with women added something to her character which made Max feel insane. Like sanctity. Was that offensive? Whatever. Somehow, it was hot. Max felt that heat in her chest again, like air burned her lungs as it went through.

"Have you ever been with a woman?" Max definitely flinched. She hoped it wasn't noticeable. It was embarrassing, how very few of these conversations she had had on her life. How much she had swept these thoughts under a rug deep on her mind. How much the way in which she had grown up had limited her. She wondered how George had gotten to this point of open-mindedness, being raised by a strict father just like hers. Do they know? Your parents. That one was probably too much. "Hey…" Again, Max had made too long of a silence.

"I haven't. I've thought about it, but I haven't." Ha. So that just came out. It was the alcohol. It was the classic Max bluntness. Those explanations would save her from regret; from thinking she just said too much, of course. Convincing herself that she had no reasons to lie.

"…Okay," That seemed to take George by surprise, who considered what she had just heard for a second before, for some reason, leaning on her seat so she was a bit closer to Max. Or was it Max's imagination? "Well, I have been with both." Damn it. Wait, what? "Brief experiences with men at a somewhat young age told me enough…" She was laughing again. Max had forgotten how beautiful her laughter was, with how serious their conversation had gotten. "It was not for me, let me tell you. It just never felt right. Not that I tried too hard, honestly. After my first encounter with a woman I knew how it was supposed to feel."

Hm. Max could relate to that. "I can relate to that, I think." Okay, now this was probably too much honesty. It sort of came out before she could even ask herself wether it was a normal thing to say for a so called 'straight woman'. It was too late for that already, anyway.

When Max looked up from her drink, she found something sort of dangerous on George's look. It lasted a second, then she was her normal charming self again. What the fuck. "You can… relate to that?"

"Yeah."

"Okay," George laughed one of those soft fake laughs in which she briefly closes her eyes, before looking at you smiling again. "Could you maybe elaborate on that?"

Elaborate. That was a good one. Max looked at her life for a second and… no, the answer was no: she had never in her life thought about this in depth. So she looked on her mind for an answer, sort of made up on the spot but real, just a new idea to consider. A new question. Unlike to other people, Max didn't ask a lot of questions to herself. "I don't know. I haven't thought about it much but I guess I have never in my life actually enjoyed having sex with a man. I have always guessed some people just aren't made for it, or interested on it, or… you know—" Now that was a string of words with a lot of information. Max looked up and the room looked funny. She was properly drunk. "Like some others are. It's not like I have an elaborate conclusion, though. I'm really thinking about this just now,"

"So you…" This one —the laughter— was just a sarcastic way of saying I don't believe what I'm hearing. "You, right, Max Verstappen." Max nodded vigorously, as if showing George that was a stupid fucking way to start a sentence. "You have never, in your life, enjoyed a sexual experience? Ever?"

"Well, define sexual experience. It's not that I don't think about it… That's… No, I do think about it. I think about sex a lot, actually." Too much information. Well, fuck it. It kind of turned Max on, the thought of making George a little uncomfortable. Did this polished girl think about sex too? "I just manage quite well on my own on that sense, I believe. As of sleeping with men," She actually thought for a second, trying to recall something tolerable. Anything. "No. I think it has been just disappointing every time."

George was no longer laughing. "And you've considered being with women. As in you're attracted to them." Emphasis on the last few words, spoken slowly.

"Yes."

George was now even closer. Max couldn't figure out when the fuck that had happened, or how, or why, but when she heard George speak again, she clearly heard her voice over the music without effort and could just as clearly see her eyes, her long, eternal eyelashes, staring her down. "And you haven't done it… Why?"

The heat on Max's chest had extended to her neck, her face, her hands, and her heart was beating loud and clear, just like when a race is about to start, for some reason. She was probably already sweating the alcohol she had drunk in those past hours. Still, her face was serious. "It just hasn't come up." She had tried to speak on a normal volume, but it had came out way softer than intended. Just above a whisper.

George nodded and moved away. Max breathed again, free of the weight of the other woman's gaze for a moment. "It hasn't come up." She echoed, and ran a hand through her hair. "Max…" for a second she also looked at the ceiling, apparently checking how drunk she was, too. Then, she looked back at Max suddenly. She was smiling widely, and a single drop of sweat was falling down her cheekbone, down to her chin, down to her neck, down to— "You're a very attractive woman." Her eyes were very open. It was kind of scary. Scary equaled hot, apparently, as Max's body reacted as if she had just been offered to be jerked off by a PlayBoy magazine model on a public bathroom when hearing those words. Well, not really. But she did squirm on her seat, and become more aware of her sweat and body temperature. Which was… pretty much the same. "I can't believe what you're telling me." That scary expression —wide smile, wide open eyes— was still there. It was unnerving. It was extremely attractive.

"Well, not everyone has it as easy as you. We're not all supermodels doing super… jobs… what? No, what I mean is, you're like, perfect." Fuck. Horniness does crazy things to a weak woman's mind. That was definitely too much.

And apparently, Max was spot on. It had been too much. George had dropped the smile completely. "What did you just say?"

"I—" How does one solve something like this? I'm sorry, I know we don't know each other like this and like any of the things I've told you but I really meant that, but really if you think I'm ugly and disgusting I get it, don't worry, I can just go home and kill myself? "I'm sorr—"

"Do you wanna come back to my hotel room?"

The door closed with a soft thud. George's hotel room, number 2135, Max tried to remember, was nicer than Max's, even though it was in the same hotel. Probably only because it was hers. She had that effect. Or maybe it just looked good in the semi-dark it was, as George for some reason hadn't turn on the lights but instead opened up the blinds of the gigantic floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked what apparently was a small balcony —did Max have a balcony on her room?—, letting the only light in the room be the crazy city lights from Vegas pouring in, and a shy but almost full moon high on the sky, overlooking the scene. Max didn't complain, even though she was about to, for she could still somehow see her pretty well. Instinctively, they both sat on the bed. George was staring with her crazy eyes. For some reason, all of Max's previous confidence was completely gone. She didn't look at George, but could hear her breathe next to her. George was sort of agitated. She spoke first.

"You don't know how this goes, do you?" Max's pride was the only thing that could make her overcome embarrassment or nervousness.

"Shut up." Funnily enough, George obliged. Max didn't even think that was possible, getting George to stop talking. Seems like she just had to ask. That was interesting. "Just… You start." She thought she'd follow up with another command, see if it worked.

It did. George moved closer to her, and, with a shy hand on Max's waist, started kissing her. It was hesitant at first, but it quickly got a little more intimate, more intense. Max couldn't believe how good that felt. She wondered how many orders she could get in before George sent her to hell.

"Relax… you're stiff" George was talking between kisses. It was hot, but again, sort of annoying.

"I said shut up. And don't tell me what to do." That would probably clear the air. Apparently, it got George a little excited, that, as she only did a little noise in return, and kept kissing Max fervently.

This girl is into not being treated well. A flying thought. At least a little. It ought to have a limit, like all things do, but Max couldn't really resist the idea of seeing how far it could get, how much she could tease, where it would go.

George pulled apart and put a lazy hand on Max's cheek. She was apparently trying to get some air into her lungs. "I don't…" A concerned look, suddenly. "Can I speak?" Oh my fucking god. Oh fuck.

"Yes." Max laughed a little, but she could feel herself shake a bit on that laughter, too. She was nervous, she realized. She had just never been to where this was going. It was like she was getting drunk on it. Had she been this thirsty, desperate, ecstatic for authority her whole life? For a little bit of power someone could give her? Yes, of course she had. She was a team principal, for Christ's sake.

"Could I please ask you… to please lie on bed. Please." She also looked drunk on it, the dynamic. And on alcohol, which was also true for both.

"Yes…" Max was giggling again. "You don't have to say please like, ten times every time." It was stupid, but she felt almost like a school girl, with that feeling of anxiety that's between good and bad that gets on your gut, and shakes you all over the place, and makes you say and do crazy stuff. She guessed if she had been with a woman when she was a teenager, she would already have experienced this stupidity, and would be well over it, like George probably was. That was a pretty gay fucking thought.

You know what's gayer?

Max lay down on bed and George just sort of… put her weight on top of her, and hugged her. She had stopped kissing her and just when Max was about to complain, she got her face on the crook of Max's neck and started kissing it. It felt amazing, and so Max kept quiet.

Still, Max's mind kept racing, of course. She tried to fight it, but so many different questions ran through it. George… liked her, apparently. She was attracted to her, at least. How on earth had that happened? When? Why? How much did she want it to happen? Was it casual? Had it been a random thing? Was it premeditated? Did that matter? Could desire be measured? Her whole train of thought only led her to one possible, relatively easy to answer question.

"How…" The feeling, if Max were to describe it, was as if electricity was going through her fingertips. She had never done this with anyone, this sort of power play. That's what she guessed was going on. A million possible scenarios went through her head. She tried to focus. "How bad… do you want me?"

"Oh," George said, and it sounded practically like a whimper. God, she was into this. "Oh, so bad, Max…" She inhaled deeply, as if trying to inhale Max herself. She exhaled, also loudly, as she tightened her grip around Max's waist. "You have no idea… I think about you all the time…" Max wondered how George could always sound as if she just didn't think twice before speaking. Like she just said whatever went through her head, immediately, without second guessing it and without any form embarrassment. As for herself, Max thought she always went through what she was about to say two or three times before saying it, and still, afterwards it always felt like it had been the wrong thing to say. "I want you so much… I need you…" Her lips brushed against Max's neck as she said this last part. Max felt almost dizzy. A shiver went through her whole body because of the sensation.

"Do you think you deserve this?" Well, Max was kind of dumbfounded, she guesses, at the reaction the previous question had gotten. She had made a list of follow-ups in her mind but they were all sort of gone at the moment. This was the best she could improvise.

George got her head out of the crook of her neck, and Max immediately felt her neck was cold and empty. Something that belonged there was suddenly missing. She shoved the thought aside, as George was now looking at her right in the eyes, with her beautiful brown hair falling as a cascade down the sides of her face, some of it brushing against Max's face, tingling her chin. God, she was so incredibly beautiful. It was so unfair. "I don't know. But I will do whatever it takes to deserve it…" Her face was determined. Her eyes jumped between Max's eyes and her lips, and her breathing was agitated. "You just… tell me what to do. I will do anything you tell me to."

Ha. That was it. Max's head just started spinning. She tried to keep her cool, but she could feel how hot her face was. The feeling was excitement, anticipation. She hoped George couldn't see her very well now, with those piercing eyes of hers.

The possible answers, the possible options, the possible things to ask for went through her head at a concerningly fast speed, it felt like one per second. The amount was kind of overwhelming. And still, still the only prevailing thought, the only one that was known and easy and so, so recognizable, the only thought that was actual words rather than images, was a little voice in her head pointing out that admitting her own desire was just so fucking vulnerable. Voicing her desire would immediately put her on a disadvantage. She felt giving George any of the answers in her mind would be like giving her her head so that she could cut it. Here, here I am, I want you and I want you to do things to me—

Her thoughts were interrupted by George getting her head on the crook of her neck again. Her desperate breathing against the sensitive skin of Max's neck felt soothing. That. That was a good start. "You don't have to think about it if you don't want to… I can just start and we can… figure it out, what you like," It was merely above a whisper. Max felt so incredibly mad. How had she known it was getting too much for her to think about? Was Max so pathetically readable? So predictable? How much sex had she had to know exactly what to say and do in moments like these? Or was she just a natural at this too, like she seemed to be at everything else? Was this not the fruit of her experience, but just instinct, that instinct for human connection everyone seemed to have but Max?

A slow kiss on her neck made her mind shut the fuck up. Oh, right. This whole thing was still incredibly hot. Max forced her head to come back to the situation again. She didn't have to do much, really, with how George started kissing her neck, up and down, from right below her ear to her clavicles, with what she almost allowed herself to think felt like worship. It was mesmerizing. Max felt as if she was getting dizzy again. Without even noticing, she got her hand in George's hair, near her scalp. She started tugging it, just slightly. And, oh, that got a reaction. The sounds coming from George's mouth couldn't quite qualify as moans yet, after all, that would just have been insane. It was pretty much humming, if it ought to be given a name, and Max could feel it vibrating through her neck, through her own throat, as it came out. "Hmm…" There it was again, louder this time. Max kept staring at the ceiling, thanking whatever was up there that George couldn't see her expression right now. How her eyes almost closed when she relaxed, then opened again suddenly in surprise when George sucked on her skin like she was trying to ruin her, to taste her already, how her breath kept getting caught in her throat, lips parted, lower lip almost shaking.

Just when Max was starting to get desperate about it being a little too slow, a little to gentle, George got a knee in between her legs, started pressing slightly, and, fuck, "Ah!" Was all she managed to get out, a reaction of genuine surprise. George seemed to like that; she could feel her smiling against her neck. And that breathy fucking laugh, almost not a laugh at all, but still there, that made her want you to punch her in the face. And then, "Fuck," she pressed a little harder, got closer, and Max was sensitive there, if anything could be said. She cursed at herself for being so fucking easy. When George's hand started getting up her waist, under her shirt, she remembered she was still fully fucking dressed. She felt incredibly stupid in her navy blue skinny jeans.

George got a little further from her neck again, to that distance in which she could lock eyes with Max, and staring her down and pulling up Max's shirt a little, just asked: "Can I?" to which Max just nodded, and got her body up just slightly so the shirt would come off.

"You too." She propped herself up with her elbows and watched as George straightened up on top of her —with perfect posture, of course,— and took her own shirt off, without hesitating. She was so quickly on her again that Max almost didn't get to see it, but she did: George was wearing a white bra, simple but very pretty, one of the fancy feminine ones that have a little lace hem and a metal hoop around the edge. For a second, she felt kind of dumb for her own bra, a black sports one. Even this girl, which dressed like a boy pretty much every day, had out-femmed her on the details. It was so annoying. But she also felt morbidly aroused by the knowledge. This tall, gorgeous but sort of boyish, lanky woman, with her little white lace underwear.

Again, just George doing stuff got her mind out of what she was thinking. It was her hand this time, this gigantic, tan hand going up and up her waist, her side, her ribs, up to her tits, and resting there, softly squeezing but not really. "Is this alright?"

"Shut up. I mean, yes," Third 'shut up' of the night. It meant something else, really. Don't ruin it by making me think about it. But that part didn't come out. George just laughed a little. This wasn't like that other laugh, this one was actually audible.

"Alright. If you really don't want to talk I'll just…" And she kind of yanked Max's bra off. It wasn't really all that easy, it was a sports bra, if you remember. So, like her shirt, it had to come out passing through her shoulders, —which were wide enough to make it a tight fit— and her head. Still, she got it off pretty quickly. Before Max's You too came out again, she took her own bra off. A normal one, just a millisecond of her hands behind her back and it popped off beautifully. Ha. That was a pretty accurate metaphor for their personalities, wasn't it? There wasn't a lot of time for that idea to form clearly on Max's head. She was looking at George's tits for the first time on her life, mind you.

Well fuck. Now that was fucking perfection. Of course it was. Max had looked at George's bikini photos on different Italian beaches and random yachts enough to kind of imagine them already. She had imagined the shape just right, she realized; not too big but a lot of muscle, fit, like the rest of her incredibly toned body. Honestly they looked a little bigger like this. Maybe it was the nakedness, maybe the tan, maybe the fact that George was, once again, towering over her. Max was so horny she felt like blowing up on the spot. Not blowing up like, from coming or anything; just exploding into a million pieces, filling the room with blood and guts and becoming a specter so she could watch a horrified George, all wet, covered in red, dark, thick liquid. Her hair would be ruined. The blood would slide off her tits and drip onto the sheets, between her thighs… even that fantasy was horny? Wow, that was telling.

"Wow." Hm? Oh, right, Max was naked too. For a second, she stared down at her own softness, then back at George. After following where George's gaze lead, it was pretty certain that it was that pink softness in her chest which had gotten that reaction. "You're… fuck. You're perfect." And before Max could argue that that claim was unfair, George's mouth was already on her right tit, her long hand on the left one. From this angle, she had to remove her knee from where it was pressing, which was a real fucking shame. But still, complaints were so hard to get to the front desk right now, as if her mind were suddenly covered by a fog. All she could get out were little noises, as George toyed with her nipples, licking, sucking, fiddling with her long, awkward fingers, which were for some reason really good at this. Still, Max really wanted to try and say something. She was supposed to be in charge. She had forgotten that.

Okay, she really couldn't say anything, even if she tried. Scared that if she kept trying, the little sounds she was failing to keep inside of her would get out of control, she thought physicality would just have to do. Her hands went again on George's hair, again, near her scalp, so as not to cause any harm, and she actually pulled this time. It was short tugs at a time, and she immediately knew the feeling must be pleasant, at least for this absolute dog of a girl, who was whimpering against her left nipple this time —she had switched, at some point—, as if she was actually getting touched in a way that mattered. It was probably the slight pain that did it for her. Thinking back to her personality, that made sense.

Suddenly, George's mouth left her tit with a barely audible pop sound. That was funny. George's face wasn't: it was that determination again. She was suddenly getting Max's jeans off. Shoes, socks, the whole deal. Only her underwear was left. And now she was licking her stomach. Full on licking, that was by no means a kiss. It was desperate. Still, George wanted to taste her. Her legs were keeping Max trapped between them, knees at the sides of her thighs, leaving her with not a lot of possibility to move. The weight of George on top of her, holding her in place, was a fascinating sensation. She felt like she had to do nothing also because she could do nothing. Just feel every sensation and be in the moment, which kind of was enough of an effort for her. And a tug on her black seamless panties let her know sensations were about to take a step up.

"Can I…?" Again with the fucking questions.

"Just shut the fuck up and blow me." There you go.

"Yes ma'am." This British imbecile.

George pulled her panties down in one swift movement, and they were out. Max stared down for a second at her own blondish pubes. George's cunt is probably shaved spotless, was the loudest thought to cross Max's mind. Apparently, this was comparison night for Max, or at least her subconscious had made that decision. George hasn't touched herself in this whole time, not once, was the close second loudest thought. She also hadn't made Max do anything, apparently she was all for service. Better. After all, Max was lazy.

She got right on with it, just as Max had ordered. And now, this was a problem.

George's tongue was right on her clit, just sucking her off, pressing up and down. Max couldn't pretend to keep her cool anymore as she just started full on moaning this time, from time to time managing to get a few words out, such as fuck, oh god, yes, right there, oh my god right fucking there, and some other extremely eloquent phrases you can imagine. Never George though, not quite yet. She didn't deserve it.

Amidst loosing her mind, feeling those gorgeous lips and that long tongue just going frantic on her, to the point where she could feel her clit already getting swollen and herself getting higher and higher off of it, her mind completely subjugated by the fog; she felt something else. She didn't even notice at first —being so completely out of it and probably so dilated, open and ready for it,— that there was a finger getting inside of her. Max's only possible reaction was moaning louder, deeper. That, of course, had George making little noises in reciprocity again, now against her cunt, which caused a vibration that felt pretty fucking funny, to choose a word. Quickly one finger became two, and with those huge ass hands that did make a difference in terms of sensation. Max's hands flew to George's hair again, almost instinctively. She didn't know what she was trying to achieve with that: Grounding herself by grabbing something? Showing who's boss by pulling her hair again, even if that didn't fucking matter at all anymore? Getting George to go in harder? Getting George to slow down because, fuck, she was actually maybe about to come? Wait—

The feeling of tingling in the pit of her stomach got stronger, alongside with her shaking, and well. That was surprising, even for Max. She arched her back and bent herself forward, lifting her head off the pillow in which it was resting, and came with a loud moan. More than a moan, it was more like a guttural sound, one she didn't even know she was capable of making. As she pulled George's hair pretty firmly, without really even realizing, she swore she could hear George moan alongside her at that very moment. It really, really didn't get any time to linger on her mind though, as she quickly noticed that that scene was not enough to get George to stop or even slow down. She just kept going. Fuck. She kept going.

It was too much, at first. Max got a million new thoughts that raced through her mind in one second, as always. After another second, they came down to two main questions. Had George not noticed she came? Possible, clumsy and dumb, but common. The other alternative was something scarier to consider.

Is she torturing me?

After a bit of shaking and squirming, Max rode off her own orgasm by herself. Good. After some suffering, it now was an amusing sensation again. George had gotten a little bit up, climbing on the bed —or climbing Max— to be more comfortable and keep going with the task at hand. She was way too good at this. Her fingers were moving back and forth, getting out just slightly then right back in deep, scissoring a little inside of Max, making her way through; and her tongue just kept licking and pressing on the exact spot where it had to. Max, taking a second to appreciate it all, but specially the fingers inside of her, had another fleeting thought: maybe she had never actually enjoyed penetration until this. Actually, nothing had really ever felt as good as this. It was like her cunt was made for George's fingers to fuck it. That was a disgusting thought. Max put that one quickly away, not wanting to savor it.

The thought she did want to savor, suddenly, was the one of why George had kept going. Already having gotten into a pretty good pace, Max was probably about to come again. It was way too quick for a second one, but it didn't matter. The morbidity of the question going around her head made everything even hotter. George had her knowledge about sex. She knew her way around a woman, it was pretty obvious. Even worse, she had that instinct for sex Max had always envied. It wasn't even studied, it was given. Still, the only possible answer for what had went on was intention. She knew Max had came. Actually, she probably knew it was about to happen again.

All of Max's thoughts became shapeless and abstract and wordless again, and as she opened her eyes to look at the ceiling for the first time in what felt like forever and gasped loudly, she came a second time. Somehow, this one felt like it was even more intense than the first one, as if the feeling had built up. She could feel herself salivating, her whole body tingling as if it had been shocked by electricity.

This time, she could feel George smiling against her before she kept going at the same pace, that fucking psycho. This one was harder to get through than the last, as it had been stronger. Max squirmed on the bed and whimpered pathetically. "Hngh…" She bit her lip strongly enough for it to get sore and tried to remain sane. Her breathing was irregular and choppy, loud, and tears had already started coming down the sides of her face. She was getting properly ruined. Little cries kept coming out of her mouth as she tried to get over the overwhelming feeling. It was so fucking intense and uncomfortable. This was a challenge, she understood immediately. It was a competition. Max didn't know how she could possibly win, she just knew that she had to. And so, eventually, she got over it. and it was good again.

The third one took longer to get to, of course. Both of them were moaning like lunatics. Max had started rocking her hips a little to accompany George's fingers penetrating her. Alongside with how steamy and hot the air she was breathing was, Max could also feel how her sweat was getting the sheets wet. It was disgusting. She had a salty taste in her mouth, and, for once, no thoughts on her mind. Finally, she had managed to shut it up. Or George had managed to shut it up, with how she was fucking her. Whichever it was, it felt great. Just a physical sensation exceeding everything else, just surrendering control completely and giving in, giving in to the fog, giving in to the moment, giving in to somebody. After a while of that magnificent state, Max came for a third time. It wasn't as strong as the previous one, but longer. She smiled at the ceiling, and actually laughed a little. And just when she thought she was ready to go for four, George got off her. No warning, no gradualness, no nothing, just straight off. Max felt almost offended. Frowning, she looked down.

Hm. She looked down to see nothing but George's full head of hair instead of her face, which was what she expected. For some reason, her face was pressed against the mattress in the space between Max's thighs. Max squinted to try and see better in the dark, and George was… shaking? Max popped herself on her shoulders, with the little strength she could gather.

Oh.

George had her right hand in her pants. She was violently shaking, in fact, as she jerked herself off desperately. She turned her head a little to the side, to breathe, Max guessed. Now Max could finally see her face. She was drooling all over the sheets with her mouth ajar and her eyes wide shut. Cheeks flushed and lips swollen. She was breathing loudly. Oh my god. It was so insanely fucking hot. All of the sudden, she bent her back and got her knees near to her chest, holding her weight with her forehead against the mattress, apparently slowing her hand down. Max had sat to watch the show. Then, George just straightened up, perfect posture again, sitting on top of her heels, with her knees bent. She looked at Max and her piercing blue eyes just looked like she had done every drug in the world together. Her pupils were blown. Her hands were off her jeans now, one resting on her lap, the other on the bed.

"Sorry… Ha…" George spoke smiling lazily and laughed softly. She really looked like she was high. She ran the hand that had been on her lap though her face, her forehead, her hair, probably getting a bit of sweat —and some other fluids— out. For a moment, they just stared at each other. "I… couldn't really take it anymore. Sorry." She laughed again, softly.

Max just couldn't fucking believe any of what had just happened. She couldn't believe she had to get back to earth and figure out something to say right now, after that. She tried her best. Honesty was the only thing at hand. "Don't worry. I was fucking dying already anyway…"

"That was the idea." For some reason, that answer made Max laugh a bit too. They both laughed a soft chuckle.

"Don't you dare get cocky."

"Right. Sorry, m'lady. Come here."

Before Max could let her know how fucking cheesy that had been, George was kissing her again. This girl really had an oral fixation. It was like she was addicted to it, kissing, liking, sucking, tasting, eating, consuming. Max felt consumed. It didn't feel bad.

The kiss, although deep, was incredibly slow and deliberate, intimate. Max tasted herself in George's mouth. She thought that would disgust her more than it did. She felt disgusted at her own lack of disgust. Now that was fucking stupid.

They separated. "Shower?" George asked. "It doesn't have to include sex, if you're dying." She was really, really getting way too cocky with it.

"Shut the fuck up." Max said as she started to get up to go the bathroom. Her legs were wobbly and weak. She tried hard not to shake.

"There's my girl. I missed that." My…what? And now Max was getting lifted off the bed, carried to the bathroom. Well, that's just too much information to process.

"I can walk." Dry and daring.

"Doesn't look like it. Just take it. You took everything so well, now you can't deal with being carried somewhere?"

Now that's enough. Max got off George's arms, just by the bathroom door, and slapped George across the face.

"I said don't get cocky. Did you just not fucking hear me?" Max felt instantly regretful for having followed her impulse. At the same time, she felt kind of good. She couldn't let it get out of hand.

And George was… well, a dog. She understood the corrective. The crazy part was she looked, for a brief second, almost happy, wagging an invisible tail. It was as if she enjoyed it. A dog that felt cared for when being hit, for at least someone was giving it some sort of attention, worrying about its behavior enough to try and correct it. Or maybe, a beast yearning for someone to tame it. In any case, this was new information. Max took mental note of it.

Now George had a serious expression, after the joy washed off her face. It looked deliberate. She seemed to have noticed she looked way too happy for the situation. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again." With how happy she looked when being corrected, it probably would happen again, Max thought. But that was unimportant right now.

They got into the shower. Max let herself be held and washed. It was tender and slow, soft, like all aftercare should be. The fog overcame her mind again. The water was way too hot, just like she liked it. George didn't really let the water fully hit her own body, even when she washed herself, so Max guessed she probably preferred it colder. Still, neither did anything about it. It wasn't like George had complained.

What the fuck was in George's mind? That was a good one. Max had no idea. She looked at her, from time to time, actually made an effort to watch George while the water ran through her face. She looked calm. Obliging. Again, determined. So Max guessed they were good. She guessed this was fine. That was all she could allow herself to think anyway, or she would start regretting it before it was even over. She let herself get dried by a soft towel, head to toe.

When they went back to bed, the sheets were somehow almost dry but still disgusting. Max tried not to think about it as she lied on them, supposing it was the only sensible thing to do next. Apparently, she was right. George had lied next to her. Max realized they hadn't spoken since George had apologized. The silence was so comfortable she hadn't even noticed.

"You're good at this." Max figured George deserved a compliment. She also figured she could continue to be honest. This night couldn't possibly get more embarrassing, or intimate, or unreal. Her guts were spilled out in the bed, they had been since she first had given in to any of what she was feeling. So what harm could that do? "And insanely beautiful. It drives me mad."

"Oh my god." George laughed. Max looked at her and she really looked like she couldn't believe her fucking ears, like any of what Max had said was news. "Thank you. I… well. I suppose it's not even necessary to tell you that you're beautiful too. Incredibly beautiful. You're the most perfect thing I have ever seen."

"I'm not a thing."

"I'm sorry. You're perfect."

Max thought for a second. She evaluated how she felt about that.

"It actually is pretty necessary for you to tell me that." She decided.

"Really?"

"Yes. So keep doing that."

"Alright. You're gorgeous."

"Not now, you idiot." Max fought a laugh. "Just… in the future. Keep doing that."

"Sure. Not hard when you look like that."

Max actually laughed this time. "Okay, that's enough." She got under the sheets. George joined her. They stared at each other, each lying on their sides.

"You really think I'm good at this? That's big coming from you." George blurted out.

Max frowned in confusion. "What do you mean? You know you're good at this."

"Well, no I don't." Ah, so it definitely was the instinct. "I just—"

"Do what feels right? A natural then?"

George blushed. "I… I guess…" Max just looked at her like she was stupid. Apparently, it was entirely transparent. "Hey, don't look at me like that. It's like when you say you don't know you're pretty."

"It's not like that at all."

"It is— oh my god. I really don't get it. I mean, I could look at you for hours." She extended the vowels of that last word, like Brits do sometimes. For some reason, this once it wasn't annoying.

"Alright. I was trying to give you a compliment but you got really sidetracked. Let's talk about something else." Max's raspy voice came out peaceful but decisive.

"Alright. How about the sticky part of the fitted sheet that I'm feeling in my leg. I think—"

"You really should kill yourself."

George's smile dropped. "Don't say stuff like that." Max felt the shadow of guilt creep in the back of her neck. Finally too much? Finally, a limit? Until George smiled again. "Not if you don't want me to fuck you again."