🜼 ⋆ as if the car ride wasn’t filthy enough, freak choso’s now got his fingers buried deep in you with the whole friend group just feet away. — part 3
you can feel the fire on your face, warm and flickering, but all the heat’s behind you.
not from the campfire—the one everyone’s gathered around, cross-legged on woven mats and camp chairs, passing around cheap wine in tin mugs, laughing too loud at inside jokes that barely land. the heat you’re feeling is the kind that pulses at your core, spreads up your spine, and makes your thighs twitch just to keep still.
because choso’s behind you, thighs spread wide, legs caging you in like a trap—and he’s got his hand buried under the hem of your sweatshorts. fingers inside your panties. slow. deep. moving like he’s got all night and no shame.
you’re sitting in his lap like it’s innocent. like you’re cold and he’s being generous. but your face is too flushed for that, and your breath’s too shallow, and choso’s mouth is right at your ear when he speaks.
“breathe through it,” he whispers, and his voice is thick, almost drunk-sounding. not on alcohol—on you. “don’t let your legs close, sweetheart. let me feel all of it.”
you suck in a shaky breath, pretending to sip from your cup as you nod along to something someone said. you can barely hear them now. it’s all distant, muffled by the thump of your heartbeat in your ears. because choso’s fingers are slow and deep—hooking up every time he pushes back inside, hitting that sweet spot with the kind of precision that says this isn’t his first time making you struggle to stay silent.
he’s not trying to make you come. not yet. this is about control. about power. about watching you twitch in his lap while he presses his middle and ring fingers deep and curls them just so, dragging against your walls, slick sounds muted only by the crackle of the fire and the chatter around you.
you try to shift, but his free hand wraps around your thigh, holding you down—thumb pressing into your inner thigh, skin-to-skin, reminding you exactly who’s in charge.
“don’t squirm,” he says, soft but firm. “you’ll make a mess on the seat.”
his raspy voice makes your pussy clench, hard.
he feels it. laughs under his breath. his lips drag over your ear, breath hot, voice dipping lower.
“god, you’re soaking for me,” he murmurs, almost reverent. “this little pussy loves the risk, huh? you wanna get caught?”
you shake your head, chest rising too fast—but your cunt tells a different story. you’re dripping, panties plastered to your folds, his fingers pumping into you slow but firm, just enough pressure to make your stomach tense, your thighs start to shake.
and he knows. he fucking knows.
you try to breathe evenly, try to pretend like the stretch of his fingers doesn’t make your walls flutter, like you’re not aching for more, like you’re not already clenching every time he says good girl under his breath.
“if i spread these fingers, wanna see how messy you get?” he whispers. “gonna have you leaking all over my hand, and no one will even notice.”
you want to cry. you want to moan. you want to grind back against his palm until it makes a mess so obscene someone has to notice. you want the humiliation. the thrill. the heat.
instead, you nod again. obedient. mouth closed. eyes wide and glassy and full of need.
choso grins. it’s lazy, cocky, filthy. his hand shifts. his palm presses against your clit, fingers still deep inside you, rubbing slow circles like he wants to break you with just two fingers and a mean whisper.
“you take it so well,” he mutters, jaw against your temple. “pussy’s fuckin’ squeezing me. like you’re trying to suck me in.”
your legs jerk and he tightens his hold, his arm now looping around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re damn near molded to his chest. he’s rock hard behind you. you can feel it—thick and heavy and pressed against your ass—but he doesn’t even try to grind. doesn’t need to. this is about you. about watching you squirm and shake and drip while you pretend you’re not five seconds from soaking his entire fucking hand.
you’re right on the edge now—vision hazy, cunt tight, hips twitching in tiny, shameful little thrusts you can’t stop. your stomach’s tensed, thighs trembling, eyes glossy. you need it. and he hears that need in your breath. feels it in the way you arch, the way your walls grip, the way your whole body silently begs him.
his hand rises. not the one inside you—the other. it ghosts over your throat. gentle. careful. until his thumb and fingers rest along your jaw, tilting your face toward the fire again like he’s redirecting your focus.
“smile, baby,” he murmurs. “they’re lookin’.”
you blink. your lashes flutter. and when your eyes finally land on your friend across the fire, they wave at you like nothing’s wrong. like you’re not sitting on choso’s cock with his fingers deep in your soaked little pussy.
you force a smile. small. tight. trembling.
he licks your neck.
and then he hooks his fingers deep, presses down on your clit, and says: “good girl. now come.”
and you do. silently. violently. your cunt clamps down, soaking his fingers, whole body twitching as you shiver in his lap, legs locked, jaw clenched, eyes wet with the effort of not screaming. your orgasm hits like a wave, crashing into you so hard it punches the breath out of your chest. you convulse once, twice—and choso’s got you. whispering praise. licking his lips. rocking his hand just enough to fuck you through it without letting up.
you slump forward, dizzy, thighs slick, brain gone.
and he just wipes his hand on your inner thigh, leans in again, and hums:
“y’did so well.”
part three
