A Jail Built for Sinners

March 1

The night was thick with heat, the kind that wrapped around you like a second skin, damp and clinging. The air smelled of pine and sweat, of something rich and primal, something waiting to unfold. The only sound was the slow hum of cicadas and the rustling of Spanish moss in the trees, moving lazily in a breeze that barely touched the skin. The moon hung low, swollen and golden, casting long, dark shadows across the clearing behind the old church, a place where sinners had always come to pray in ways no preacher would ever bless.

And I had come here to be ruined.

They were already waiting, leaning against the massive oak tree, arms crossed over their chest, looking at me like they’d already won. Maybe they had. Maybe the moment I stepped out of my house, wearing something thin and easily removed, my body already tingling with anticipation, it was decided.

Us.

They had studied me, watched me. They knew exactly what lived beneath my carefully controlled demeanor, knew the things I thought about in the darkest hours of the night when no one was watching. The things I had been too afraid to name aloud, to whisper even to myself.

“Come here.”

Their voice was low, rough, a quiet command that sent a shiver racing down my spine. I moved without thinking, each step feeling heavier, weighted with the knowledge that once I crossed that invisible line between hesitation and surrender, there would be no turning back.

Their hand caught my wrist as I reached them, warm, firm, fingers tracing circles over my pulse. “You nervous?”

I was. I was trembling, but not from ***. From anticipation, from need.

“Don’t lie to me,” they murmured, tilting my chin up so I had no choice but to meet their eyes. Their thumb brushed over my lower lip, teasing, waiting for me to break.

“I want this,” I whispered, voice shaking. “I want—”

Their mouth crashed into mine before I could finish. It was not a gentle kiss, not soft or sweet. It was claiming, consuming, their teeth catching my lip, their tongue pushing past the last of my hesitation. Their hands were already on my body, sliding beneath fabric, rough palms against my fevered skin.

I gasped into their mouth as they pushed me back against the tree, the bark rough against my spine, grounding me even as my mind spiraled. Their thigh pressed between mine, just enough friction to make my breath hitch, my hips arching involuntarily.

“So eager,” they murmured against my lips, hands gripping my waist, pulling me tighter against them. “You don’t even know how long I’ve waited to wreck you.”

They didn’t wait for permission. They had already taken it in the way my body responded, in the way my nails dug into their shoulders, in the way my breath came in short, desperate gasps.

Their hands were everywhere—tracing the curve of my waist, slipping beneath my shirt, dragging over my bare skin, fingers grazing sensitive places that made me whimper. My shirt hit the ground, then my bra, cool night air ghosting over my exposed skin, making me shudder.

They took their time, their mouth hot and wet against my throat, teeth grazing, lips teasing, dragging lower, sucking a mark into my collarbone, my chest. Their hands moved with purpose, sliding over my ribs, cupping, squeezing, teasing until I was arching against them, a needy sound escaping my lips.

“Look at you,” they murmured, their breath hot against my skin. “So perfect like this. Open. Desperate.”

I barely had time to register the movement before they were on their knees in front of me, fingers tugging at the button of my jeans, dragging them down, slow and deliberate, teasing me with every inch of exposed skin. Their hands gripped my thighs, fingers digging in just enough to make my pulse hammer in my throat.

Then they looked up at me, eyes dark, wicked. “You’re shaking.”

I was. God help me, I was shaking with need, with hunger so deep it felt like I would collapse if they didn’t touch me.

“Please,” I whispered, my voice breaking.

They smirked. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Their fingers dragged up my inner thigh, teasing, stopping just before where I needed them most. My breath caught, my hips jerking forward, seeking, begging without words.

They chuckled, a slow, sinful sound. “Oh, sweetheart,” they murmured, pressing a kiss to my hip, their tongue flicking out to taste my skin. “I’m gonna take my time with you.”

And they did.

Their hands spread me open, their tongue teasing, tasting, dragging over slick, heated skin until I was moaning, my hands gripping their hair, my body bowing against the tree, the rough bark digging into my shoulders. They licked, sucked, their fingers slipping inside me, curling, stroking, pushing me higher and higher until the world blurred at the edges, until I was gasping, writhing, completely at their mercy.

“More,” I begged, my voice wrecked, desperate.

They gave it to me. They pushed me further, teased me, played me like they had been waiting their whole life for this moment. I came apart in their hands, in their mouth, my body shaking, my cries muffled against the hot summer night.

But they weren’t done.

They rose to their feet, lips wet, eyes burning. “You’re not finished yet,” they murmured, pressing against me again, their hand sliding up my throat, holding me in place, claiming me all over again.

I gave the keys to the jail to the devil, and they used them ruthlessly.

And I don’t want them back.