Erotic Tale: Never Let You Go

By: Victoria Bleu

"Bae, be honest...do you enjoy having sex with me?" Sunshine asked.

Tyson slightly swerved off the road when he heard that question. "Of course, where did that come from?"

"I don't know. I just feel like....you're not...like...you're not completely satisfied. When you're finished. You run to the shower! I don't know." Sunshine continued.

"You know I hate having your pussy juice on me once we finish. I mean, don't get me wrong, I like that thang being wet, but afterwards, I need it off," Tyson laughed off to lighten the mood.

Fuck! Am I that obvious? he thought. Sex with Sunshine was like dipping your finger in a cup of room temp water. There's no depth, it get wet, but there's no grip. She barely moves her hips, I do all the damn work. It's like fucking a starfish. A damn corpse! Tyson thought as he reminiscence.

"Hello! Earth to Tyson!" Sunshine called out.

"My bad babe, I got lost in my thoughts for a second." Tyson announced.

"I see! Why are you swirling your finger in this cup of water?" Sunshine questioned.

Laughter

"Because I'm thinking about how I'm going to be swirling in that pussy later," Tyson recovered.

Sunshine smiled as Tyson pulled into the gas station. The moment he stepped into the crowded store, the blast of cool air felt like a reset. He adored Sunshine—truly. She had an athletic build and wore her hair in a neat bob that framed her round face perfectly. Her skin was a rich, warm brown, like it had been gently kissed by the sun itself. She was cute as hell, a little funny, and smart in a way that snuck up on you.

And yet.

Sexually, Tyson felt nothing.

Everything about intimacy with her felt mechanical—too predictable, too rehearsed. No spark. No edge. Just motions he already knew by heart.

How the hell am I supposed to play this off when we have sex tonight? he thought. She’s going to be on high alert. I know it.

The cool air no longer helped.

As Tyson exited the gas station, he slid back into place beside the car and started pumping gas. The nozzle clicked into the tank, the numbers rolling as the fuel climbed. He leaned against the car, mind drifting, eyes fixed on the rising total.

Then he heard it.

A low, faint sound—rhythmic. Breath catching. A soft grunt.

Sex.

Tyson blinked, his jaw tightening as he listened again, trying to place it. The sound barely carried over the hum of traffic, but it was there. Clear enough to pull him deeper into his thoughts.

Damn, I need to get out of my head, he told himself.

The pump clicked off, snapping him back to reality. He pulled the nozzle free, secured the cap, and shut the gas tank with a dull thud. Exhaling, Tyson opened the driver’s door, the weight of the night—and what was coming—settling heavier on his chest.

"What the fuck is this Tyson?" Sunshine yelled!

As Tyson was getting in the car, he's met with a video of a woman shoving a chocolate man's dick down her throat.

"You're watching porn right now? Bae, we're almost home." Tyson said.

“Don’t fucking play with me!” Sunshine snapped. “I’m not watching no damn porn. I’m watching a bitch suck my man’s dick.”

"WHAT! You're watching what?" Tyson asked as he grabbed the phone....his phone.

“Yo, where did you get this?” Tyson asked, staring at the screen.

As the video played, recognition hit him hard.

Before Sunshine, there was Layla.

They used to have the wildest sex together like something straight out of channel 14 in the 90s—nothing scripted, nothing off limits. Layla lived to please, and a pleaser was she––damn good at it.

Slouched back in the driver’s seat, phone glowing in his hand, Tyson felt his body remember the night before his mind fully caught up. In the clip, Layla pulled him up from the bed, her hands gripping his bare ass with intention, guiding him where she wanted him––down her esophagus. The camera was set at her profile, catching the unmistakable outline of him as she took control.

Anyone watching could see exactly what was happening—how deep it went, how raw it was.

You could hear it too: his breath, the moment he lost control, him spilling out everything he and mixing with her saliva.

Sunshine had never taken him in like that.

And worse—he’d never reacted to her the way he did in that video. Not once.

"Is your fucking dick getting hard watching that nasty ass shit? So that's what you like? You like nasty ass hoes! That's why I'm not enough for you because I'm not a fucking slut like that bitch? You still fucking that hoe?" Sunshine questioned.

Fuck! I ain't realized I got lost in this video and my dick got hard! Sunshine snapping on him bought Tyson back to reality.

“Fuck no, I ain’t messing with this damn girl,” Tyson said quickly. “She sent me this shit out the blue.”

He turned the phone toward Sunshine, scrolling with his thumb. “Look at our text thread!”

“She’s been talking to herself for weeks.”

The screen filled with unanswered messages.

“The last thing you’ll see,” Tyson continued, his voice firm, “six weeks ago I told her I was in a committed relationship.”

He looked at Sunshine then, searching her face, needing her to believe him.

"So why didn't you tell me nasty ass bitches was at you 6 weeks ago?" Sunshine asked.

“Because I deaded communication with her,” Tyson said, his voice tight. “I didn’t know—didn’t realize—you knowing about it was that important to you. Baby, I’m sorry. I swear we don’t have nothing going on. Nothing.”

He pulled off, easing the car back onto the road, then handed her his phone. “Go through it if you want.”

Even though his sex life with Sunshine didn’t ignite him the way it should, she had his heart. And that mattered more than anything. He would never jeopardize what they had. Not over a memory. Not over Layla.

He just hoped Sunshine trusted him enough to see that.

Sunshine cut her eyes at him, then let out a sharp breath. “Damn… I’m tripping.” She glanced back at the phone. “You’re right. You haven’t been talking to her.”

She paused, her voice softer but edged with truth. “It’s just—seeing how you used to respond to her, and how you don’t give me that same energy? I got jealous.”

Her tone hardened again, “Block that bitch.”

“With time, our sex will get better,” Tyson said, already tapping the screen. “Don’t stress. I’m not stressing. I enjoy you. I enjoy us.”

The garage door lifted as he pulled in. Tyson turned the phone toward her, Layla’s name sitting clearly on the blocked list.

“See?” he said quietly.

And for the moment, that was enough.

Five weeks later

Sunshine and Tyson were curled up on the sofa, bodies tangled, a movie playing low in the background. Laughter, drinks, comfort. Too much comfort. Eventually, Tyson sprang up, racing to the bathroom to relieve himself of all the drinks they've shared.

He had barely started when—

Knock. Knock.

The bathroom door creaked open.

“Babe,” Sunshine said casually, almost bored, “Layla’s at the door.”

Tyson couldn’t finish fast enough. He zipped up, barely splashed water on his hands, and bolted down the stairs. He yanked the front door open so fast he nearly collided with Layla standing on the porch.

“What are you doing?” he hissed. “I never brought you to my house. Why are you here?” His words tripped over each other. “Actually—none of that matters. You gotta go. Now.”

Layla’s face crumpled. “Why did you block me, Tyson? I miss you.”

“LAYLA,” he snapped, voice sharp and final. “LEAVE. NOW.”

He didn’t wait for her response. Tyson turned and walked back inside, shutting the door behind him with a heavy click.

His heart pounded so hard it felt like it traveled all the way down to his feet. Sweat rolled down his face, droplets hitting the carpet like pearls slipping from a broken necklace. He moved slowly now, dread settling in his chest as he made his way toward the kitchen.

Sunshine stood at the counter, calm as ever—chopping vegetables, water boiling, a skillet warming. Dinner in motion.

“Baby, I swear,” Tyson said quickly, breath uneven, “I haven’t been talking to her.”

“Oh, I’m not worried,” Sunshine replied smoothly.

She didn’t look up.

Ding.

A text notification lit up Sunshine’s phone. She glanced at the screen and smiled.

“Hey, we’re out of chicken stock. Can you run to the store?” she asked lightly.

Tyson swallowed. “Yeah… okay. But—we good? You’re scaring me.”

Sunshine laughed softly.

“We’re just fine,” she said. “Now go, so I can finish.”

Her knife continued its steady rhythm against the cutting board as Tyson grabbed his keys.

And walked back out into the night.

Moments Later

Tyson drove to the store, confused on the events that just played out. Eight minutes later he's parked in the back of parking lot, unsure on how he got there. He was deep into his thoughts he didn't realize he was driving.

Tap Tap

He looked out of his driver's window to Layla tapping the glass.

"Tyson, I need your help! Please!" Layla pleaded.

"Layla what the fuck! It's over. Move the fuck on. Why are you doing this?" Tyson questioned as he got out of his car.

"You're right! I'm sorry just look at the back of my sun roof. Remember last time you fixed it? I need you to do it again." Layla asked.

I know damn well she didn't damn near ruin my life about a sunroof, he thought.

"I swear I'll leave you alone." Layla said.

Reluctantly, Tyson opened the back door on the driver’s side. The parking lot lights hummed overhead, casting a dull glow across the car as he stepped onto the ledge, stretching up to inspect the sunroof like he actually had a reason to be there.

Then—

Warmth.

Immediate. Familiar.

His body reacted before his mind could catch up.

Without warning, Layla had slipped into the back seat from the passenger’s side, moving fast and quiet. By the time Tyson looked down, she was already there, already working, already undoing his resolve.

He froze.

Guilt hit him hard and fast, rushing through his chest. This was wrong. He knew it the second it started. But it had been a long time since his body had felt anything like this—since it remembered what it was like to lose control.

Layla didn’t hesitate.

One hand found the bare skin at his hips while the other tugged his black basketball shorts lower, just enough. Her movements were quick, practiced. She worked with purpose, her rhythm accelerating as his body responded despite himself.

Tyson’s breath hitched. “Fuck… Layla,” he muttered, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “Suck that shit.”

She went harder.

Needing balance—needing leverage—Tyson dropped one foot off the ledge, grounding himself. His hand slid to the back of her head, instinct taking over as he guided the motion, faster now, rougher, all restraint slipping.

“This what you wanted?” he asked, his voice low, almost unrecognizable.

The question lingered in the air, heavy with everything he shouldn’t have been doing—and everything he couldn’t seem to stop.

All that could be heard was Layla struggling to breathe, the wet, broken sounds filling the back seat as she kept pace with him. She knew his time was limited—and she moved like it.

Tyson rolled himself deeper, guiding the motion, feeling the tight pull as she adjusted around him.

Her mouth tightened, pressure increasing as her throat worked reflexively. The sensation pulled a groan from him. “Keep squeezing,” he demanded, voice rough.

“Mmm—hold it right there,” Tyson said, stopping his thrusts the moment he felt the deepest point. He shifted his hips slowly, deliberately, drawing tight circles instead of pumping. His head fell back, breath unsteady, while tears streamed from Layla’s eyes as she struggled to hold him there.

Five seconds felt like forever.

Then Tyson snapped back into motion, driving forward again, faster now, rougher. He lifted his left foot onto the center console for leverage, the car rocking slightly with the force as control completely slipped from his hands.

Grunting

"You better not throw up! Swallow my shit!" Tyson directed pumping in and out of her mouth.

"AHH AHH," Layla choked.

Moving her hands to Tyson's ass, she squeezed his cheeks and push him as deep as she could. Finally feeling his warm cream ooze down her throat.

"LAY! LAY! DAMN GIRL!" Tyson cried out still holding a firm grip on her head.

Layla stayed with him until the very end, swallowing as his body tensed and released. Slowly, she loosened her grip on his hips. One hand slid forward, guiding him out with care, her tongue extended just long enough to catch the last of him before she pulled back.

Tyson collapsed onto the floor of the car, chest heaving as reality rushed in. With shaky hands, he dragged his shorts back up, the moment already curdling in his stomach. When he finally looked up, Layla’s face told the whole story—eyes glassy, makeup ruined, tears mixing with saliva and the aftermath of him.

“Please,” Tyson said hoarsely, unable to meet her gaze. “Stay the fuck away from me, Layla.”

Thirty minutes later

Tyson walked back into the house carrying the chicken stock, shoulders tense, mind loud. Sunshine had finished dinner. The table was set. Everything looked normal—too normal.

She served him a plate, her movements calm, measured.

“I trust everything is over between you and Layla,” Sunshine said evenly.

Tyson didn’t hesitate. “You’ll never hear from her again, babe. Or see her.”

Sunshine nodded, satisfied, and returned to her seat.

And Tyson ate, trying not to taste the lie sitting heavy on his tongue.

Until Next Spill,

Victoria Bleu