thirty, flirty, and thriving

Leather stuck to his fingers as they gripped the wheel. The pattern, now smudged away from excessive use, is a reminder of yesteryear’s body; the chassis squealed as he drove over another small bump, the suspension calling for Dex to tend to her neglected joints. For a fifty year-old vehicle, she bode well to most forgotten city roads, but they were nothing compared to how she performed in her hay day, tires kicking up the finely ground dirt in the country roads as he fled from his past;

Now it caught up to him, waiting for his transmission to falter at any second, as he couldn’t outrun anymore. The exhaust pipe tremored, the result of a cold humid night awaking her with a jolt, and Dex ignored it as he impatiently waited for the streetlight to turn green.

In his glovebox were his gloves. They collected dust, a relic of his past life and the role to which he committed, a man that no longer exists within him. How could he decide to remove the gloves, blood still staining the cloth fabric of them? How was it, after all of these years, that none of Dex’s blond strands of hair fell onto the gloves?

At the nearby park were a pair of lovers, the tarot card giving him a reading he dreaded; it reminded him of his loneliness, one he convinced himself was a choice rather than pre-determined fate; Dex couldn’t comprehend a higher being, someone who could have more power over his life more than him.

Even after cutting the strings controlling his arms and shooting the man pulling the strings, Dex felt the familiar yet unknown weight of something governing him. As his foot pressed the brake pedal with little resistance (an issue for later, he discerned), Dex contemplated the grievances of burying the needle once more as he cut ties with life and drove the tons of metal into a brick wall or concrete bridge pillar. Would it hurt?

The image of Dex’s body hurled over quickly snapped him back into the present, avoiding confrontation of the question about whether or not the world would notice him gone. Driven, Dex nudged the vehicle with the gas pedal, steady as she allowed it, or else she would shift too early, and slip back into uselessness that would force Dex to push the vehicle along Fifth Ave..

Pulling into a vacant lot near an abandoned warehouse, Dex flicked the switch along the driver’s side control panel to shut off the lights of his vehicle. He maneuvered into a parking space, turning the key and removing it from the ignition.

Knocking came from the window. You appeared, crouching into the window and into Dex’s view. He couldn’t capture all of your figure at once, of course, but he was in awe of what he could already catch: a low-cut wrap top that hugged your curves and teased the bare skin that Dex could potentially access later.

He had seen it already, all quarters of your body, exposed as a secret meant only for Dex, but each time he catches a glimpse of your presence, a peek between the lined blinds at your inner world, his breath hitches.

So when he unlocks your door with the pop of the fasten, and you enter the vehicle, overtaking the stale aroma with notes of clove, allspice, and cinnamon, Dex promised to himself that he couldn’t possibly be happier than he was in that moment, eyes glued to you; he was a lay man, and you the connector to the afterworld, one he never thought to explore in his life until he met you.

Dex didn’t even notice that your wrap top complimented the verde paintcoat of the vehicle, your warm orange against her sparkly leafy metal breathtaking, even for someone as distant as Dex. He drove you two into a getaway point, a familiar place only to heathens like the pair of you, and parked his car. Shut off the ignition. Switched off the lights.

Grasslands were seen from afar, but the uneven, untidied concrete remained underneath your feet when you stepped out from the car and sat on the trunk. Dex would have minded - any careless action could scratch the polished car, add hours of work to his hobby - but when he watched your plush ass flatten against the metal, your thighs doubling in size, he thanked the gods for the dark blue jean shorts you wore, and omitted your actions just this once.

“What?” was the first word you had spoken since you two met in the night. You caught him staring - you were used to this, accustomed to the audience you had when you were around him - but this look was different, one that hadn’t been mentally noted for future reference.

Dex’s response was nigh: rosey vines crept up his neck, poking out at his jawline; his vasto pupils hid behind his eyelashes, which were batting at you, and; Dex’s tongue slithered out to humect his chapped sahara of a bottom lip.

You were accustomed to him being this way, allowing himself to be read for his actions while his larynx rested from a day’s work; however, you yearned for his voice to crackle against the night sky, for him to struggle to form a sentence while you rocked your hips against his length, his self-control wavering.

“You like this?” You crossed your legs nonchalantly, and leaned back to rest your upper body on your forearms against the trunk of the car. “I found it while I was cleaning the other day. I know you don’t usually like orange, but I thought it would look good on me.”

And it did: you practically cackled when you tried on the outfit a day earlier, snapping lewd photos for you to tease Dex with after tonight - a simple reminder of his woman, of course. You were thankful for the pumpkin color, and how it enhanced your cocoa skin, a feature of yourself you grew to be proud of. How could you deny him the simple pleasure of seeing you confident in yourself, after all, when he adored you too? What would a man be if he neglected her so much that she wither away into an empty shell, a dusting of yesterday’s lust conquered and then forgotten?

Not that Poindexter would do this - one week after you left him in a rage from an argument, he was standing outside your rented villa, his body drenched in the hurricane rain, as his eyes stormed for you to open the door and forgive him, and he was just so, so sorry; when you hadn’t accepted the apology until he proved his devotion to you, crawling on the old hardwood floor, and leaving a trail of rainwater from his clothes and hair, he knew then that he couldn’t cross the boundary, and that you were a flame burning as chaotically as his; and when he buried his face in your pussy, your back pressed against the Spanish styled interior and your leg hooked on his shoulder to brace yourself, he breathed a sigh of relief that he found someone to love him, and to love in return.

Ever since then, he learned to express himself in the way he loved best: bodily communication. Nonverbal, no words spoken, except the occasional gruff in frustration, or whimper in heightened emotion. Even tonight, when you dangled yourself before his starved eyes, Dex didn’t bite the hook with a witty comment; instead, he attached his lips to your neck, hands exploring each inch of you that you allowed him to find.

It was you who spoke, with a whine, as Dex’s canines dug into the crook of your neck without breaking skin. He chuckled against you as he continued to work noises out of you, each one more broken than the last. At one point, you pouted at him when his fingers pulled away from your underwear, only to draw your bottom lip between your teeth when Dex sucked on the same fingers that contained your juices.

He loved tasting you in any way he could. When he dragged you by your ankles and lifted your hips so your pussy would be near his mouth, calves and feet dangling in the air behind his back as you used his shoulders to support your lower body, you were breathless, astonished that a man could commit to devouring you in such a quick motion.

Dex loved the way you reacted, so innocently; nobody has taken you like he has, his large palms scouting to find his next favorite place on your body, another excuse for him to taste and touch you. He made a promise after your first encounter with him that he would spoil you, ruin every other person for you to potentially consider, as your body would call for Dex, and Dex alone.

His first sound was a groan against your pussy as he felt your hips rock into him. His cock strained in his pants, and he lowered one hand to rub himself while his tongue flattened against your sensitive button. You fell silent to capture his every sound, swallow and store it in your hidden chest with all of his idiosyncrasies, but Dex sternly slapped your bare ass, causing you to snap back into your trance as your coil tightened.

You came with a silent cry, your crown falling back onto the trunk, hips jerking into Dex’s face, and thighs trembling. He relished in this - your soft body dimly lit by the moon, barely identifying the way your jaw fell open and eyebrows furrowed, and your poor attempt at respecting the wildlife’s silence to prevent your internal fire from spreading too quickly for either of you to extinguish.

Tonight, he was forgiving; Dex guided you gently, wrapping your legs around his waist as he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans. On some nights after separated from you for too long, he studied each way you fell apart, any way he could, which would mean hours of fucking you with his tongue and hand until you sobbed uncontrollably for him to stop (and mean it); the anguish on your face bullied Dex into feeling remorse, and he apologized profusely and asked for forgiveness all while you were barely conscious in exhaustion.

But he learned. He adapted. During times when he called to you and you refused, rolling your eyes and playing hard to get, he trapped you between the nearest wall in his apartment and his body while he fucked you senselessly; when you endured pain - either from menstruation or ailment - Dex was a wound-up ballerina in a music box, dancing for you until you turned his knob, no matter how many times you wanted it.

“I love you.” You confessed, delivered with velvety ribbons to match the walls that trapped his thick cock like a finger trap. He panted when he felt himself fully seated in you, staring at you with eyes drunk with fervor and shame.

There was always shame in his eyes when he looked at you, especially when he was inside you: how else could such a mistake catch your attention, or steal your heart? He washed his hands of the blood that he spilled, desperate to restore his hands to the fleshy color acceptable enough to caress you, yet they were still ruby, shaking as he stared at them.

This was the first time he touched you with his fingers, his palm, his skin on yours. Before, he was too impure, and vocalized how he was afraid of poisoning you; his gloves remained in the glovebox as he thrusted into you, watching his dick disappear inch by inch before pulling it out until only the tip was inside of you.

“I love you too.” Dex moaned as he screwed his eyes shut, careful to spill his seed into you too soon. At this point, you squeezed his waist with your thighs, a sensation too delicious for him to ignore as his breath hitched, and curled into a high-pitched moan.

You enjoyed bringing him close, even if it meant seconds inside of you. Atop his car, he fucked you like this, his pace achingly fast, before slowing down to almost a complete halt, afraid of coming too soon. His voice was broken as if he had spoken too much, terrified of being too much, but you encouraged him in ways you knew he enjoyed.

“You’re doing so well. Fucking me so good.” You breathed, sentence interrupted with a sudden thrust of his hips.

“Oh, fill me with your cum.” You sensed he was close by his erratic thrusts, and the way he choked on his own spit. He waited for your permission always, worried about disappointing you. You knew how much he adored hearing your every thought about him, how you loved him despite his flaws.

It was his turn to speak, the words falling from his lips before he could think twice about them. “Fuck, I love you.” Dex cursed into the humid night air as he released into you, his cum spurting into you with strangled moans.

You watched in admiration as he realized what he allowed himself to do. He blushed, the pink tint suiting him beautifully; it wasn’t the first time he had done this, and you learned to accept it as a normal response at this rate, sitting up on the trunk to cup his cheek to draw him back to Earth.