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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
âś“ Live Streamingâś“ Interactive Chatâś“ Private Showsâś“ HD Qualityâś“ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
creator's note: hi! based on another request. ive been suuuper busy for the past few days so i wont be posting as much things as before. but, again, i will try my best to finish all the requests.
warnings: explicit sexual content, porn w/not much plot, mentions of injuries, brief depictions of cuts and minor physical pain, HEAVY sexual tension, awkward but desperate Dex, not proofread.
word count: 2.1k
The mission had left your body aching in ways you didn’t want to think too hard about—adrenaline had carried you through the last few hours, but now, under the dim light of Dex’s apartment, every bruise, every scrape was announcing itself. Your hands were a mess, shallow cuts lining your fingers and palms, stinging with each small movement. The rest of you wasn’t much better. The black tactical shirt you’d been wearing clung uncomfortably to sweat and grime, and the muscles in your back were drawn tight, screaming for relief.
Dex had been quiet since you both got in, as he usually was, moving around the apartment in precise, measured steps—putting away weapons, locking the door twice, triple-checking the blinds. You sat at his kitchen table, watching his silhouette in the low light.
When he finally sat across from you, setting down two glasses of water, you flexed your hands instinctively and hissed at the pull of the cuts. You hated asking for help. But oiling down your own back with shredded palms? Not happening.
“Hey,” you said, voice quieter than you meant it to be.
Dex looked up at you, head tilting slightly. “Mm?”
“My hands…” You showed him your palms. He studied them for a beat, eyes darting over the small but angry-looking wounds.
“I can handle those,” he murmured, already reaching for the first-aid kit he kept within arm’s reach.
“That’s not it,” you interrupted, and his brows drew together faintly. “My back’s a wreck. I was gonna rub some oil into it, but…” You lifted your hands again pointedly. “You mind?”
For a moment, he didn’t move. You could almost hear the way his brain was sorting through a dozen silent protests—boundaries, proximity, the unfamiliar weight of touching someone without violence in mind.
“I don’t—” He stopped, jaw flexing. “You’re asking me to…”
“Dex. It’s just my back,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips despite your exhaustion. “I’m not gonna bite.”
He finally sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Okay.”
You stood and moved to the couch, perching on the edge as you shrugged your shirt off over your head. The apartment’s air felt cool against your skin. You heard his breath hitch—quiet, but not quiet enough—and he rose to stand behind you.
He took the bottle of oil you’d left on the table, unscrewed the cap, and poured a small amount into his palm. His hands were warm, calloused. The first touch made you exhale, your shoulders slumping forward instinctively.
He was hesitant at first, fingertips barely pressing, working in slow, methodical strokes. The smell of the oil—a faint, herbal scent—mixed with the steady rhythm of his hands. You could feel the tension in him slowly loosening with each pass.
“Harder,” you murmured, your voice slipping out low, almost involuntary.
His fingers pressed deeper into the muscles between your shoulder blades, and you couldn’t stop the soft sound that escaped you. His breath shifted, a little heavier now, and you could feel him adjusting his stance behind you.
“You okay back there?” you asked without looking over your shoulder.
He made a quiet noise in reply—something between a hum and a grunt—and his thumbs dug in just enough to make you gasp. The sound made his hands pause for half a beat before continuing, slower now, almost deliberate.
Your body was melting under his touch, but the air between you had changed. His palms smoothed over the dip of your spine, fingertips brushing the side of your ribs.
“Dex…”
The way you said his name seemed to catch him off guard; you could hear the sharp inhale behind you. But his hands didn’t leave. If anything, they lingered, skimming the bare curve of your waist before sliding upward again.
The strokes grew slower, less clinical. He was closer now—you could feel the faint heat of his chest near your back, the ghost of his breath against your hair.
When his fingers swept low again, the tips just grazing the waistband of your pants, you shifted against the couch cushions, arching slightly into his touch. The small, involuntary movement drew a low, barely-there sound from him—a sound you weren’t sure you’d ever heard before.
“You’re not… making this easy,” he murmured, voice rougher than you’d expected.
You turned your head just enough to catch his profile in the corner of your vision. His eyes were darker, fixed on where his hands rested against you.
“Wasn’t supposed to be hard,” you murmured softly.
He didn’t answer right away, but you felt the way his fingertips tightened their hold on your hips, how his body leaned that fraction closer until his knees brushed the couch. And then, slow, deliberate, one hand slid up your side while the other stayed low, anchoring you in place.
The oil made his touch glide, but it was the way he lingered—half-massage, half-exploration—that had your breath catching in your throat. You didn’t know which of you was going to break first, but the tension had already tipped into something you couldn’t call innocent anymore.
He hovered there like he was waiting for permission you’d already given, heat radiating from him, the weight of his stare heavier than his touch.
“Dex,” you said again, quieter this time, and that was what made him move.
His palm slid up the slope of your back, fingertips ghosting over your shoulder before curling to steady you. The other hand was still low—too low for the excuse of a massage anymore—thumb brushing just under the waistband of your pants. He was warm everywhere he touched, and warmer where he hesitated.
“You should—” He cut himself off with a breath, like he’d realized halfway through he didn’t want to finish the thought.
You tipped forward slightly, arching into his hands. “You’re overthinking.”
A shaky sound left him—half laugh, half groan—and then his thumbs pressed harder, dragging oil-slick circles into your lower back while his hips stayed a careful, almost comical inch away from you.
It didn’t last.
The couch dipped as he finally let himself lean in, chest brushing your shoulder blades. You could feel how hard he was breathing now, the way he swallowed against the quiet. His knuckles brushed the sides of your ribs, up and down, like he couldn’t decide if he was allowed.
“You’re—” His voice caught, rough and low. “You’re making me—”
“I know.” You looked at him over your shoulder, catching the faint flush creeping high on his cheeks, the unfocused, glassy way he was watching his own hands.
That was all it took—one moment of meeting your eyes and his restraint frayed. His palms flattened against your sides, sliding forward until his fingers splayed over your stomach, pulling you back into him.
The heat between you was undeniable now, pressed against the small of your back. He made a quiet, broken noise when you shifted just enough to feel him, forehead lowering until it nearly touched your shoulder.
“I—” His voice cracked, and he shook his head like he couldn’t find the words. “Feels… too good.”
You reached back, catching his wrist to guide his hand lower, your own breath hitching when his fingertips traced the edge of your waistband again—this time with no hesitation.
He froze for a split second, a soft, startled sound leaving him, before his thumb slid under the fabric, slow and trembling, his other hand gripping your hip like he needed something to hold on to.
It was clumsy, almost painfully careful—awkward golden retriever Dex trying to navigate something he wanted badly enough to make his hands shake. But he was close now, close enough that you could feel every shiver running through him, the tension that had nothing to do with sore muscles anymore.
His hand under the waistband was tentative at first, fingers curling just enough to skim bare skin before retreating, like he had to convince himself you weren’t going to stop him.
You glanced over your shoulder. “Dex,” you murmured, low, coaxing.
That single word seemed to short-circuit whatever flimsy self-control he had left. His hand slid lower with a shaky exhale, fingertips tracing over you in slow, cautious sweeps before cupping properly, his palm hot and certain now.
You arched into him, and the choked sound that escaped him was worth every bruise on your body. His hips twitched forward involuntarily, the press of him against your back firmer now—no denying the shape, the heat.
“F—” The word died in his throat, turning into a ragged groan when you shifted again, pushing back into him deliberately.
He tried—God, he tried—to keep his movements slow, but you could feel the tension winding tighter in him with every stroke of his fingers, every brush of your skin against him.
You reached behind blindly, catching the back of his thigh and tugging him closer until there was no space left. The gasp he let out—soft, startled, almost hurt with how much he wanted—went straight to your spine.
“You—don’t know—” he rasped, breaking the sentence up with shallow breaths, forehead pressing to the back of your neck now. “Been… thinking about this—too much—”
He was trembling, not from fear but from holding himself back.
“Then stop thinking,” you murmured.
That did it.
The hand at your hip slid down, tugging your pants lower just enough, his other hand already tracing between your thighs with slow, oil-slick strokes. His breathing turned uneven, like every little noise you made was something he wanted to memorize.
You tilted your hips to guide him, and he made a desperate, strangled sound—half whimper, half moan—before pushing your pants down further, the drag of fabric over your skin loud in the quiet room.
He was pressed flush to you now, his hardness an unignorable line against you, his hands clumsy with urgency. One slipped between your thighs again, fingers sliding easily now, exploring with soft, reverent touches that had you shuddering forward.
The way he breathed—sharp in, slow out—told you he was as close to unraveling as you were. Every time you gasped, he twitched against you, muttering something low and broken under his breath.
You reached back and found the waistband of his sweats. He froze—not to stop you, but because the touch alone nearly buckled his knees.
“Please,” he breathed, so quietly you almost missed it.
And when you pushed his sweats down enough for him to press bare against you, the moan that left him was unrestrained, needy, and almost shy with how raw it sounded.
“Dex…”
The way you said his name again made his hips move without thought, just a slow, experimental roll that had both of you shuddering.
You shifted and positioned him between you.
Then, you sunk onto his cock slowly—so slow that you swore you could feel him hold back—but when you squeezed around him, his head dropped to your shoulder with a strangled whimper, hands gripping your hips so tightly you’d feel it tomorrow.
“God—” His voice broke. “So—warm—”
From there, restraint was a lost cause.
His hips moved in slow, deep thrusts, each one punctuated by a soft, involuntary noise he seemed powerless to stop—breathy gasps, low moans, the occasional shaky “fuck” when you clenched around him. His chest was pressed to your back, the heat of him enveloping you, his breath spilling hot against your ear.
You reached up to cup the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, and he melted, thrusts growing messier, more desperate. Every squeeze of your hand on him drew another noise—high, choked, almost boyish in its lack of control.
“Fuck, so good f’me, Dex,” you hummed.
He whimpered—quiet but sharp, his hips stuttering before he pushed in deeper, holding there like he didn’t trust himself to move.
“Gonna—” His voice cracked again, the rest lost in a moan.
You tightened around him deliberately, and he broke—hips snapping forward in quick, uneven thrusts, his mouth spilling little, breathless sounds into your neck until he groaned and came hard, gripping you like you were the only thing keeping him upright.
His breath hitched, thrusts faltering by the second. He stayed pressed to you, chest heaving, his breath trembling against your skin.
“…Sorry,” he mumbled after a long beat, the word muffled and uncertain.
You smiled faintly, still catching your breath. “Don’t be. You did so good, Dex.”
He finally pulled back, looking flushed and dazed, hair mussed, eyes dark but soft—and so clearly yours in that moment you almost forgot about every bruise and ache from the mission.
Dex cleared his throat, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “…You should sit. I’ll—uh—get you water. And… I’ll clean your hands after.”
You smiled, leaning back just enough to catch his gaze. “You can do that in a minute.”
He gulped, throat bobbing as he nodded behind you.
“Okay,” he leaned into you, “thank you.”
With that, he pressed a small kiss onto your temple, letting the night unravel by the second.
