Sitting in his car, the windows tinted, Julian places his sunglasses on the dashboard and takes his time admiring his new acquisition: You. The laid-back indie rocker has a '70s style shag falling around his youthful face. His dark, dopey eyes roll over you as you're turned about in his pale fingers, but he never makes eye contact with you. You're a collector's item to him, nothing more. You're starting to squirm because of how roughly he's handling you when he lifts you up to his calmly cocky face and sticks out his tongue, licking your front from toes to forhead. There's nothing affectionate about the move that leaves you warm and dripping wet.
The smirk on his face tells you he was doing it to freak you out more than anything, maybe to claim you as his property, like an obnoxious kid licking food to ruin it for everyone else. But there's something so raw and sexual about it, you can't help but feel a little stir of conflicting desire as you stare shyly up. When he finally places his hand on the steering wheel, still holding onto you while he starts the car, you try to wipe away the saliva drying on your face without him seeing. It smells of stale beer, food and nicotine. But Julian spots you, and remarks in his mellow voice, "You don't like the smell of my breath?" He says it in a sort of unaffected deadpan voice, but as he does it he takes out a packet of cigarettes from his jacket and pulls one with his lips, lighting it and breathing a long stream of noxious white smoke onto you. You choke frantically, and the sarcasm in the cocky giant's words impacts upon you. "Poor baby." He mumbles smugly.
He drives home with you clutched in his smelly hand, but parks outside a small business before arriving at his house, explaining that he needs to pick up a couple of thing. You realise that Mr Casablancas isn't going to carry you to the store in plain view, but when he announces where you'll be deposited for the detour you let out a small squeak of horror.
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