ILLICIT DESIRES | 18 +

10: Cl*toris Face

RITA

A Ride from Earth to Hell.

That's how I feel. And I don't know what's worse: sitting behind the wheel, contributing to polluting the Earth with CO2, or the impatient murderer in the passenger seat, acutely aware of every mistake I make while driving.

"Lucifer, please take my soul and let me help you rule Hell!" he exclaims, looking toward the roof of the vehicle as though pleading to the heavens.

A frown creases my face. Shouldn't Hell be below?

"I'm at the end of my bloody patience," he hisses, as the plant on his lap — my poor pot — suffers the consequences of his anger, as his grip tightens hard enough for the ceramic to crack.

"You ruined my pot..." I tell him with a sad pout. "And you're praying in the wrong direction. Hell isn't up there... it's down..." I enlighten him.

"That's all you care about, huh?" he motions toward the pot before opening the window and hurling it outside, making me gasp and glare at him in horror.

I slam on the brakes, stopping the vehicle abruptly as I stare at where my plant now rests by the roadside, while he curses beside me, looking utterly belligerent, like a man surviving a mental breakdown.

"Have you fucking killed the engine again?" he grits out, deadly eyes on me.

I've killed the engine three times already, my inexperience with gears painfully obvious, yet he still refuses to swap places and drive himself.

"No, I want to get my plant!" I bolt from the car before he can press his gun against my temple again. I scoop up my plant carefully and place it onto the backseat, securing it with the seatbelt to prevent further damage.

I smile softly.

Now my plant is safe.

"Get your ass back behind the wheel!" he seethes, making me scramble into my seat again, a pout forming on my lips as I adjust myself.

His madness deeply unsettles me.

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to rescue my plant... it's a domestic one. It cannot survive without me," I explain, starting the car again, determined not to provoke his wrath any further.

Suddenly, with a guttural curse, he snatches the steering wheel, yanking it back on course just as the car swerves dangerously close to the edge of the road.

"Do you want to kill us? Look at the damn street!"

"I'm sorry," I repeat, fingers tightening around the wheel as I try not to drift again. "Why are you so mad? You should feel sad for polluting the air... and forcing me to contribute by putting me behind the wheel..."

He exhales sharply, letting out a frustrated chuckle. His eyes glint with disbelief, as if the answer should be obvious.

"Why am I mad...?" he repeats, checking his phone. "Because your nature crusade is driving me insane! And it's three in the morning. The streets are empty, no one's around, and I'm bleeding out of my ass."

"Wait — are you really shot in your... you know?" I blurt out in shock. "I thought you were bluffing earlier to avoid returning to the mansion. Or is this some scheme to make me do your dirty work... like driving this vehicle?"

"Believe me, I've done nastier work... like decapitating irritants. And if you don't want to become one of them," he threatens, tapping my temple with the cold barrel, "speed up!"

Chewing on my lip, I offer help. "Don't you want me to pull over and treat your wound?"

Maybe treating his wound and mitigating his pain will make him less insufferable?