𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲, 𝐛𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢

𝟸𝟿. 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕

❥ 18+. nsfw. mdni. pls remember to vote if you fw ob.
___

You understand now, that you truly are no better than the ones who brought the curse of sin into this world, with nothing to blame but their own selfish desires, as you feel your eyes turn as dark and devilish as Jean's.

He is sturdy, mounting you, while you lay supine with your head bent against the door's armrest of his Mercedes, quite the mess. Your pupils are blown wide, eyes trembling in saturated pulses, your bottom lip distended and your chest heaving from your short-circuited breaths. You've become such a massive wreck because your cravings that you can barely even recognize yourself.

Jean sees your disheveled state of frustration as you gaze upward at him, eyes the size of moons at their fullest, hums tantalizingly at the sight. He can't help but revel in your condition, just a little bit. "Come on baby, use your words," he encourages, dark and sweetly husky. "Can tell you need it bad. Make it easier on yourself. Just tell me what you want."

His coaxing doesn't do anything but push you further off the deep end of waters you shouldn't even be treading. Tucking your bottom lip between your teeth, you bite down hard in vexation, your ravening eyes turning sharp and threatening in a single blink. 

That little rope of sanity you had left, which you tied around your hastening heart in a desperate effort to maintain your ailing stability, has officially slipped from its place, forsaking you. Fragile and fragmented as it was, that tether meant to keep you centered wants absolutely nothing to do with you anymore. It has died out, disintegrated, gone far, far away—lost in perpetuity.

In its place, as if awaiting for the perfect moment to prey on the part of you that seems to weaken for no other soul but the one dwelling within the flawed vessel of Jean, emerges a sharp form of desire. It's an intensity you never imagined harboring until now. The weight of it is so much that you can physically feel yourself coming apart by at your very core, splitting into two clean halves:

one side being the picture-perfect angel you used to be, and the other made of the fallen one you are becoming.

The dark side of you wins.

There's simply no fighting it. Losing in every one of your lackluster efforts to hold back and obey Jean's wish for you to construct a viable sentence and tell him what you want him to do so he can regrant you the electric feel of his touch upon your pussy—the very place you want him the most—you chose to seize control instead.

What he's asking of you isn't complex. It's rather simple, really. A task that could be easily done. But the wait he's forcing you to endure is far too painful, and well...

Not only are you stubborn to a fault, you also can't take his stupid shit anymore.

Weather it's a good idea or your worst one yet, you are more than ready to sink your teeth—canine heavy—into the fruit you had once forbidden as it's held out, right under your sniffling nose.

Relaxing your tense muscles, which had coiled with painful resistance, you untwine your fingers from his left hand that has been holding you steady at the interior of your right thigh. All the pragmatic thinking you've always deemed your specialty abandons you the second you make this choice.

With swift movements, giving Jean no time to process, you relocate your hold on him by grabbing onto the wrist of his right hand, which he still is hovering over your throbbing cunt as punishment for your blatant incoherence and utter failure to form an answer to his question.

He wants to know what it is that you want? Fine.

Then, you're going to fucking show him.

Grip dominating, making sure the plane of his palm is facing down, and aligned just the way you want it to be, you thrust your elevated hips the rest of the way upward, closing the painful gap he forcefully wedged between, reuniting yourself to him, driving the roots of his middle and ring finger to push against the swollen nerves of your clit.