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Sebastian Vettel’s self-control has always been . . . iffy, at the very least.
While of course intelligent under the surface, he’s been known to be a bit brash at times, the words coming out of his mouth oftentimes snarky and just a little dumb. He’s never been one to shy away from what he wants; if Seb wants it, he won’t give up until he gets it. It’s safe to say, then, that keeping himself at bay is difficult sometimes.
No matter how bad his self-control might be, though, Seb has never peed himself in his car. Ever.
Most Formula One drivers do, they say. In interviews and press conferences, it’s not uncommon to hear a driver confess to wetting themselves during a race. Even the likes of Michael Schumacher, arguably the greatest driver to ever drive, have done it.
That’s what Seb reminds himself in his head, over and over, teeth clenched so hard he worries they might break, as he floors it in his car and tries to shakily steer through the last few laps of this race. He has to pee, and he has to pee bad. Seb isn’t sure what it is—he’d made sure to use the bathroom before getting in the car, but he did drink a lot of water beforehand and—well, no matter. He’s tensing nearly every muscle in his body, resisting the urge to twist and press his thighs together to relieve some of the ache on his bladder. Seb’s practically bursting with it, and right now he’s heavily considering the option of joining the vast ranks of drivers who have wet themselves during a race.
It would be wrong, Seb tells himself, taking a deep breath in and letting it out in a frustrated groan as he drives along a straight. He wouldn’t leave the mechanics with that mess, and he certainly wouldn’t want to climb out of the car with a half-soaked race suit and expose his accident to the world. That would just be humiliating.
One more lap now.
Climbing out of the car will be a different story, Seb thinks. It’s hard to hold it now, when he’s practically rendered immobile by his car, but—Seb shudders as he imagines it—he’ll have to climb out of it, push his knees to his chest to get out, then jump out onto the track, jostling his bladder even further, and what if he loses control then? He’ll be standing out on the track beside his parked car, hundreds of cameras on him, and he’ll be wetting himself in front of the entire world. Seb winces, bottom lip caught between his teeth under his balaclava, as he realises just how dire this situation is.
Half a lap, he yells at himself in his head, then a quarter lap. He’s gripping the steering wheel so tight that he’s amazed it’s not crumpling in his hands. The final straight now—Seb sees the chequered flag waving out in front of him, even hears the thrilled cheers from the crowd over the scream of his car’s engine. His overwhelming urge to pee ebbs for just a moment once he crosses the finish line, winning yet again, shouting over the radio in victory.
During the cooldown lap, the adrenaline runs through Seb’s veins like liquid gold. As he navigates the twists and turns of the track, though, his seatbelt digs into his overfilled bladder, making him wince yet again, hissing through his teeth. He tries to squirm, shy away from the seatbelt stretched tight across his lower stomach, but to no avail; he pants as he struggles to keep himself under control, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily.
Seb turns into parc fermé and breathes a soft sigh of relief. He’s so close to the bathroom, now—he nearly wants to moan at how good he knows it’ll feel to let it all go and relieve the ache. He parks his car, kills the engine, and immediately fumbles to get the seatbelt undone, twisting free from the restraints. It hurts to bend his knees to his chest to get out of the car—he nearly has to hold his breath as he does it—but it’s surprisingly manageable once Seb has his feet on asphalt, stretched to his full height. Seb’s growing increasingly desperate by the second, however, so after exchanging handshakes and hugs with Jenson and Lewis, who finished second and third, he makes a beeline indoors, seeking out the relief he’s been craving.
Much to Seb’s absolute horror, when he finally reaches the door of the nearest single-stall bathroom, it is decidedly locked. Seb jiggles the handle, growing desperate, still holding his helmet in one arm. “Shit,” he whispers, a frustrated whine emitting from the back of his throat. He’ll have to go to the other bathroom, then, the one that’s nearly on the other side of the goddamn building.
Seb takes a deep breath, twists to press his free hand between his thighs for a moment, sets his helmet onto the floor, then takes off for the other bathroom, quick on his feet as he traverses the corridors. He can’t be late to his own podium ceremony, either—that would be just as embarrassing as what he was trying to avoid here in the first place.
“Seb?” A voice sounds from behind him—a very low, a very annoying, and a very Aussie voice. Seb turns slowly, mortified to see his teammate standing at the junction of two hallways, dark eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “The hell are you doing, mate? Didn’t you just win?”
Seriously, Seb doesn’t think a worse person could have found him in this state. Mark’s still angry with him over the majority of last year’s season, after all, and the feeling is certainly mutual. He moves to glare, opens his mouth to tell Mark to fuck off, or something of a similar nature, but a sudden pang of desperation hits Seb’s bladder and all that comes out is a pathetic little squeak. Heat rushes to his cheeks and he manages to form words despite his internal battle. “I—I was just, ah, you know,” Seb says, gesturing wildly in hopes that Mark understands.
He doesn’t. Mark merely raises an eyebrow.
Shame burns Seb’s cheeks. He’s itching to just take off again, find the bathroom before the podium ceremony starts without him, but now he’s stuck struggling to explain himself. “The, uh, bathroom,” he forces out, twisting to cross his thighs over one another. “The other one was locked.”
“Mate,” Mark says, stepping towards Seb with that patronising little smile on his handsome face, “you’re not making it all the way to the other one in time. What if that one’s locked, anyway?”
Shit. Seb hadn’t thought that far ahead. He squeezes his eyes shut, emitting another frustrated groan. It’s clear that he’s running out of options. “What am I—” he tries, only to be cut off by a short burst of liquid heat escaping his cock, quickly soaking into the thin fabric of his boxers. He gasps, bringing one hand down to squeeze his cock, a shiver wracking his body. “What am I supposed to do then?” Seb’s question sounds a lot more whiny and desperate than he intended.
Mark steps closer, gets one hand around Seb’s bicep, and roughly tugs him down a secluded, dead-ended section of hallway. Seb gasps again, yanks his arm away from Mark, and presses his hand between his thighs, his bladder throbbing at the pressure.
“Stop, I—I can’t—” Seb whimpers, his twitching muscles threatening to give out again. He squeezes desperately at his cock, cheeks burning with embarrassment because Mark is here and looking at him when he’s like this. “I don’t—I don’t know what to—” Panicked, Seb’s gaze flits up to meet Mark’s, and his stomach twists at what he sees. Mark’s eyes look dark and hungry, as if he wants to see this scene unfold before him.
“Do you really think you can make it?” Mark asks, his tone just condescending enough to boil Seb’s blood a little. He steps closer to Seb, towering over him, crowding him against the wall. If anyone stumbled upon them like this, they’d certainly have some explaining to do.
Tears gather in Seb’s pretty blue eyes. His hope of making it to a bathroom rapidly deteriorates and it becomes clear to him what he’ll be made to do. “No,” he chokes out. “I can’t, but—” he gasps again when his twitching cock releases another hot wash of pee out into his clothes, and this time, he feels it run down his thigh before soaking into his fireproofs. He looks anywhere except for at Mark, his plush bottom lip caught tightly between his teeth.
“Seb,” Mark says, his voice uncharacteristically low and firm, prompting Seb to look up at him, eyes wet with tears. “Wouldn’t it feel so nice to let go, hmm?”
Seb’s lips part as he considers the thought. He doesn’t have much of a choice, anyway; it’s either piss his pants right here in front of his teammate, or piss his pants in front of potentially a lot more watching eyes. Mark is right, as much as Seb doesn’t want to admit it—it would feel awfully nice to let go, feel the warmth spread over the fabric. Slowly, Seb pulls his hand out from between his thighs, and Mark takes it into one of his—Seb lets him keep it there. That hot tingling feeling spreads out from Seb’s core into each of his limbs, coiling warm and needy right in Seb’s cock, and he’s close, he’s so close.
With a choked little sob, Seb squeezes his eyes shut and relaxes, letting it come. A thin, hot stream trickles down over his cock before soaking through his boxers and running down his thighs. Seb pants, chest heaving as he wills himself to relax further, let it all out, and that’s when his body finally seems to get the message.
His eyes fly open and he gasps at the downright dizzying, full-body rush that rips through him in an instant as his bladder lets go completely, emptying itself into his clothes. It all feels so hot and wet and delicious as that liquid heat floods his crotch and the wet patch on his race suit blooms bigger and bigger. He can feel it everywhere; hot piss runs down his thighs and pools at his ass and even seeps up into the thin fireproof undershirt he’s wearing underneath.
Seb lets out a drawn-out moan at the surprising relief of it all, squirming with a long, high whimper. He’s peeing so hard he can just about hear the hiss of it against his boxers, spilling out into his clothes and thoroughly soaking his lower half. If his race suit was just a touch lighter, he thinks, it would be a lot prettier to look at, but unfortunately dark navy blue leaves a lot up to the imagination. It still feels fantastic, though, the hot wet rush, and with each movement Seb makes, the wet fabric of his boxers drags over his oversensitive cock and makes his back arch.
“There you go, sweetheart,” Mark murmurs as he watches Seb wet himself. He looks so pretty like this, Mark thinks, with his flushed cheeks and bitten lips and his long eyelashes clumped together with unshed tears. He brings his free hand, the one not holding one of Seb’s, to Seb’s front, gently cupping his still-pissing cock through his clothes. The warmth of it is nearly dizzying, washing continuously over the thick fabric of Seb’s race suit.
Seb jolts at Mark’s touch, instinctively trying to pull away, but he’s rather trapped between Mark and the wall and he just lets it happen with a defeated whine. He’s embarrassed, beyond humiliated to have Mark watching him while he’s doing this, not to mention touching his cock while he’s still pissing. “Mark,” he tries to protest, but it comes out as a moan just as Mark squeezes his cock, the drag of the wet fabric against it making his legs feel like jelly.
He just keeps peeing, too, all rushing out of him in an endless torrent of bliss. Hot pee continues spilling down his thighs, completely soaking the seat of his race suit. Slowly bringing his eyes up to meet Mark’s, Seb lets his hips move a little, beginning a slow, filthy grind forward against Mark’s warm palm. His breaths quicken, becoming shorter and needier as the flow tapers off and his cock rapidly hardens in wake of the overwhelming relief.
“F—fuck,” Seb curses under his breath as his hips twitch forward of their own accord, his cock positively throbbing at the delicious friction. He squeezes Mark’s hand tightly, fisting at the fabric on Mark’s bicep with his other hand for some leverage. This is dirty and he knows it—he’s soaked practically from waist to toe and rutting into his teammate’s hand like he’s a fucking animal in heat—but he can’t force himself to hate it no matter what he does.
Mark leans closer, his lips grazing the soft stubble on the side of Seb’s jaw. He sucks a bruise into the skin there, grinning into it when Seb whines and bucks into Mark’s palm. Pulling back to take a good look at Seb’s wrecked face, Mark smiles and murmurs, “Depraved little thing, aren’t you, Sebi? Getting off on not being able to control yourself?”
Seb hisses and moans in response, panting as he feels himself draw closer and closer to an orgasm. “You—” his fingertips dig into Mark’s arm as his grinding becomes more desperate, his hips stuttering with it— “you liked watching it, fuck off.” He tries to glare at Mark, tries to arrange his eyebrows into some semblance of a scowl, but Mark gives his cock another little squeeze and he can’t help but toss his head back, letting it thump against the wall as he chases his own pleasure.
“I did,” Mark says, chuckling all low and rumbly, bringing their tangled hands up to pin Seb’s hand to the wall. “You’re a lot less annoying when you’re pissing yourself in front of me, sweetheart.”
Seb’s too lost in his own pleasure to form words anymore. He’s panting and moaning, unabashed and whorish, as he grinds his soaked, aching cock up against Mark’s palm. The unmistakable hot coil of his orgasm builds and tightens, sending hot waves of delicious pleasure spreading throughout his muscles, before snapping, making his back arch against the wall yet again as he comes in his clothes with a gasping cry. Slick ropes of his come spurt out against his wet cockhead, the sticky warmth adding to the overwhelming friction.
As Seb comes down from his high, his exhausted bladder gives no resistance against the last few spurts of pee Seb lets out, straight into his dripping wet clothes. He gives one last soft moan, chest heaving as he recovers from it all.
“Fucking Christ,” Mark mutters in a whisper, utterly incredulous at what he just witnessed. With his dry hand, he lets go of Seb’s hand before gently brushing away the tears that had spilled out onto his blood-hot cheeks. Seb looks utterly ruined, and he’ll have to go out in front of the world and pretend like this never happened in a matter of moments.
“Fuck,” Seb whines, peeling his eyes open, his legs threatening to give out with how much they’re shaking. He lets himself float dazedly over cloud nine for another few seconds before he stiffens and straightens up against the wall. “Fuck. Fuck. The podium,” he says, voice cracking on the last word. “I have to—”
Mark wipes his wet hand on a section of dry fabric just above Seb’s waist, then guides Seb out from where he’s pressed against the wall, his hand resting on the small of Seb’s back. “Come on,” he urges. “We’ll have time to clean up. If the bathroom isn’t locked, that is.” He flashes a devilish grin at Seb, realising he may just be a little sick in the head for enjoying every second of this.
Seb curses under his breath and swats Mark’s shoulder, sticking his bitten bottom lip out in a pout. His cheeks still burn with embarrassment, but the knowledge that Mark liked watching him mitigates his shame a little. “You dick,” he whines, forcing his shaky legs to carry him down the corridor side by side with Mark.
“Ah-ah, Sebi. Was just being objective.”
Right, Seb thinks, letting out an exasperated scoff. He totally had that planned from the beginning.