1. Relentless | Amaya
Amaya loves D(s)ex.
Waiting for him to cum felt obnoxious.
I licked and sucked and glided my hands — soft, warm, sure — up and down his shaft like a dumbwaiter in a semi-upscale hotel restaurant. At least 3.9 stars. It’d be spilling from my mouth by now, but this new kink of his, the self-appointed withholding, gifted a one-sided pleasure. His.
Dexter’s drizzle always ignited my own. His cum – sticky and sweet, a direct result of inhaling flavored sea moss from the Grand Rising guy at the gym like it’s going out of style – rushes my euphoric mind and vulva. I need it. I almost crave it.
We’re testing out this new therapy shit, where I am consciously more attentive to his sexual needs. That’s not to be confused with us not having sex regularly. No. My problem, as explained by Dex (in front of our new couples’ professional, Dr. Rogers) last month, is that I am too sexually aggressive. That my relentless need for world-rocking sexual attention is “a lot to compete with.”
Me: a sex fiend.
So, sex with Dex lately has been slow. Foreplay now lasts longer than him. Between the extended time used for dry rub downs (he has an unfounded aversion to organic oils, and I refuse to waft in Johnson’s Baby Oil) and his abridged orgasms, I reminisce about our love life of yesteryear.
“Dex, are you close?” I ask, cupping his firmness in my left hand.
“Mmm, baby, why do you have to ask? You should know,” Dex moaned.
“I’m being attentive, Dexter,” I replied with a deadpan look. His eyes remained closed, with his head hovering backward over the chair. I wondered if it was because he was in Almost There Land or if he didn’t want to look at me. It wasn’t always clear these days.
“My bad. I appreciate you trying. Just keep going. I’m almost there.”
At least one of us was, I thought.
I juiced the inside of my mouth again, anxious to return to his dick. After all these years, I still found it disturbingly righteous. Many silly arguments have been settled by him stroking me wildly in the kitchen, on the balcony, and even in the nursing home that one time. I missed those days, that Dex who rivaled my spontaneity and prowess lick by lick.
Hungrily, I stuffed his perfect swelling into my mouth. He winced in pleasure and roughly pushed my head further down. The hypocritical nature of this moment didn’t miss me. For someone who suddenly (constantly) needed delicate tending, Dex didn’t always return the same energy to me. I love good, rough sex, so throat-stretching is normal in my world. The troubling part is riding the seesaw between New, Dex-appropriate versus Dex-completed.
It's OK when he does it. It’s a problem when I do it. Hmph.
We’d caught a push-pull rhythm. Dex’s hairy thighs urged their way to the edge of the seat, filling my mouth deeper and harder. He and the chair vibrated in unison as I sucked harder and gently tugged on his balls. With my free hand, I massaged my clitoris, it pulsating and equally hungry as me. When Dex’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, I rammed two fingers inside of me. I was wet as fuck, and desperate for him to taste me.
“Fuck, Amaya,” Dex moaned.
He was close, and so was I.
I quickly took my wet fingers out of my pussy and held his dick with the same hand. In case he didn’t have time to taste me, I would do the honor myself.
“Ohhhhhhhh, shit,” he cried.
“Nut. Now.”
“OK, baby,” he obliged.
Dex tightly gripped the back of my neck, holding me steady. His heaving chest caused the Figaro gold chain I’d gotten him for Valentine’s Day four years ago to jiggle around his neck. His walnut-colored body, otherwise smooth except for its nappy, patchy hair, stilled. I sped up and watched him become undone, his cum soaking my cheeks, neck, and, ultimately, my pussy.
Swallowing was a sacred act that deserved quiet, so I demanded it.
“Shhhh.” It was my turn now.
Freeing my lips from Dex, I relaxed my head on my shoulders and stuffed my fingers inside of me. Slowing, grinding in the squat, I slowly licked my tongue around the perimeter of my mouth to lap up the Fruit Loopy excess. The sea moss was working, and I couldn’t get enough. I might have to try some of that, I thought.
I felt Dex watching me as I pleasure myself inches above the floor. Grinding into power gear, my ass cheeks grazed the floor, the sensation sending me into a frenzy.
“Aaah, yes,” I moaned. This build-up was earned and hard-fought.
The last time we got remotely close to nakedness, Dex started a conversation that he must’ve known would result in an argument. Back in the day, huffing and puffing the way we were would’ve been the aftermath of a syrupy, no-holds-barred session. But this encounter, laced with ludicrous accusations, was at the brink of Dex’s “awakening.” And my “ridiculously revealing” ensemble – a black blazer knee-length dress with patent leather pumps and matching briefcase, all items he’d purchased, no less – disrupted New Dex’s new flow.
Where the girls at the office met me with snaps, body rolls, and colloquial yaaaasssss, you better werk, Boss Lady, my man hit me with the vomit emoji. And I, well, I just hit him. Then again, when he accused me of intentionally arousing everyone at work with my suit and fat ass while he was grabbing it.
Landing in a therapist’s office wasn’t how I would have envisioned making up for this fight. Desperately, I agreed to meet with someone to help us navigate the backroads we’d taken to our current destination and have been trying (still desperately) ever since.
So, yeah, this moment, this orgasm, and pending hard fuck is mine.
“I’m about to cum. I want you next,” I squealed.
My legs shook, my heart raced, and my eyes squinted. Achieving this alone was a beautiful precursor to my immediate future.
“Mmmm! Come on, babe,” my cooing interrupted by faint grumbling. Dexter slept unbothered, holding my self-esteem and his flaccid dick in his hands.
Wait til I tell Dr. Rogers about this shit.