Earlier this week, I got creative with a message to Mr. Digs— a flirty nudge in a car metaphor.
“My car needs servicing, and as far as I know, you’re the mechanic on staff. Unless you want me to hire a new one, you need to make an appointment to service my engine. Please and thanks.”
It got the reaction I was hoping for. He found it hilarious. With both our schedules being ridiculous, we settled on Friday evening.
He was on my mind all day. I hadn’t seen him in a bit, and I felt the pull.
My last meeting ended at 9:30 p.m., and instead of heading home, I drove straight to our enclave.
As I arrived, I rang his phone so he could let me in. When I pulled into the yard, there he was — standing in front of his door, hands behind his back like some sexy, off-duty cop. I parked, hopped out, and ran into his arms, breathing him in.
“What’s up, stranger?” I smiled into his neck.
Inside, he was about to make some green tea and offered me some. I accepted. I teased, “You should try some marijuana tea — that’s green too,” and he was amused.
While the kettle boiled, I enquired as to the other car in the driveway his retort was "That's my undercover ride". We both beamed knowingly
Before showering, I asked for a quick smoke. He came back with a half-joint I’d left during my last visit. Perfect.
After a few puffs, I stepped into the bathroom. As usual, I had to detach the tall-ass showerhead and use the hose by hand. The last couple of times, I turned the stream upward — let it spray between my thighs. It tickled in the best way. I’d told him about it before. He just smirked and shook his head.
When I got out, he handed me a pair of white boxers. I grabbed one of his shirts from the laundry basket. The room was dark — lights off, but he lit a new vanilla-scented candle. Soft glow. Sweet warmth. The air shifted.
He’d mentioned how long and exhausting his workdays had been lately — mental burnout. I offered a back and shoulder massage — partly because I’m thoughtful, partly because I knew what it would unlock in both of us. 😏
I searched “jazz massage music” on YouTube. First track? Perfect.
Coconut oil — always his favorite.
I set a timer. My hands moved slowly and deliberately. He melted.
Then came the kind of foreplay you feel for days after. Soft kisses. Lips to neck. Neck to chest. Slow-burning, patient, and precise.
Lately, his favorite position is ironically my favorite number. He told me he has to “get creative” in bed to keep up with someone 15 years his junior and carnality. I laughed. “If you weren’t performing, I wouldn’t be coming back here like this.”
And that’s the truth.
He took me slowly, Deliberate. Savoring every stroke.
When I was beneath him — legs open, breath shallow — he flipped me over, pulled me on top. That’s his sweet spot. Me, grinding slow. His hands steady. His eyes locked in.
He says it gives him a better feel of my G-spot.
Judging by the way my body responded — pulsing, tightening, releasing — I believe him.
I came hard.
He stayed still beneath me, letting me ride the wave.
I’m so glad he did.
But he wasn’t done.
Even after I climaxed, he stayed solid. I looked at him, completely spent, but still craving.
I took control — slow grinding, barely moving, keeping him inside me.
We both moaned from the depths of it.
It wasn’t about performance anymore.
It was a connection.
Pulse to pulse.
When the final climax hit, my mouth opened in a silent scream. My body trembled.
We collapsed into each other.
Still.
Breath syncing.
Heartbeats humming the same rhythm.
Eventually, his soft snores told me he was at peace.
So I let go, too — head on his chest, wrapped in candlelight and silence.
Final Thought:
I didn’t plan on writing this.
It just flowed.
Maybe it’s the vanilla still clinging to my skin.
Maybe it’s the jazz still echoing in my mind.
Or maybe it’s the memory of our slow grind — like a song we both knew by heart but never rehearsed.
Whatever it is — it’s real.
It’s raw.
And I wanted to remember it this way.
For now, this is our secret tune-up.
Until the next appointment. 💫
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