𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲, 𝐛𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢

𝟸𝟿. 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕

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

Relaxing your tense muscles, which had coiled with painful resistance, you grab 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? Play stupid? 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.

The immediate reconnection between his thick-skinned hand and your heady cunt instantly makes you whine out beneath him, broken and watery.

Jean attempts to choke back a raspy grunt of surprise but fails drastically. 

"Ahh, fu-uck," he curses rashly to himself, making your head rush with god-like satisfaction.

It's laughable, you and him. How the contact made between a piece of his hand and your beating clit has you both losing your minds so badly that you lack the ability to rein yourselves in from the expression of pleasure that is unapologetically consuming the entirety of your beings.

Trembling at the friction, head nearly spinning right off your rested shoulders, you begin to roll your hips in slow, fluid movements against him while forcing his two fingers to create smalls, tight circles against your throbbing nub.

"J—oh—" you sever the tie of your own brittle words with a breathy moan of satisfaction towards this unholy action of grinding into him that feels more too much like heaven to be deemed such a nasty sin.

You're drowning in it. In him. In the abundance of need and pleasure encompassing you, and you're unapologetic about it. "F-fuck, Jean. C'mon. You k-know," you pant. "You know exactly what I want. S-stop playing—god—stop playing stupid."

Saying his name with your indignant tone, followed up with sheer mockery, counters your original intention of breaking his decomposing resolve completely. Instead, it becomes the very thing that snaps him out of his addiction to you, teetering on the cusp of a relapse, and back into the sobriety of himself.

Realizing that he was starting to give in to you the way you had evilly calculated, Jean painfully withdraws his hand from your sloppy cunt, his bitter punishment for your act of complete rebellion. 

You let your extended arms fall to your tangled stomach, your fingers twitching, your insides wallowing in grief over his touch. It's harrowing, the way you ache not just physically but emotionally at the loss of stimulation you've been receiving. It feels like savage withdrawal.

Fuck. You truly are an addict for him already.

Jean makes a sound, not of satisfaction but of clear disapproval, the corners of his lips pulled down into a criticizing frown. "Uh huh," he chides, giving his head of tousled hair a slow shake. "Look at you being so damn needy, trying to get yourself off before answering me."