She jerks like she’s been shocked.
Then moans despite herself.
Low and humiliated.
Turned the fuck on.
“That’s better,” I whisper, mouth close to her ear. “Keep your legs open like a good little liar.”
“Go to hell,” she chokes, even as her legs stay wide, even as her hips roll up for more contact, even as her soaked knickers stick to her like a fucking invitation.
I hook two fingers beneath the fabric of her jeans.
Tear at the button.
Rip it open.
Just enough to get access.
She gasps again, but I don’t give her time to think or protest.
I rub slow against her through cotton, then hard, then cruel, dragging the pressure along her clit until her spine bows and her mouth drops open and the first real cry slips from her throat like a sob she didn’t mean to make.
“You going to cum, baby?” I murmur against her neck. “You going to soak my hand and cry whilst you do it?”
She shakes her head in denial but her hips betray her completely.
They beg without words.
I slide two fingers inside again, pushing past the cotton.
Tighter this time, her body resisting and welcoming simultaneously.
Deeper than before.
Her body welcomes them—squeezes like it missed them, like it was made to be filled and fucked and used exactly like this.
She claws at the seat, nails scraping leather.
Gasps for air.
Eyes squeeze shut against what she’s feeling.
And then—right there, I feel it building.
That moment of suspension.
The build towards release.
The break that’s coming.
The exact second she’s about to fall over the edge?—
And I pull away again with deliberate cruelty.
Her whole body screams silently but her mouth stays silent because she’s choking on it—the need, the shame, the begging that wants to pour out.
I lean in, fingers soaked with her her desire, lips against her flushed cheek, and whisper:
