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YOU CAN'T JUST RELY ON THE ROSE, brUH

T immy’s obsession with sex when we first met was new territory for me. And I can’t say I disliked it—far from it, actually. But something in that aspect of our relationship has shifted now, too.

It doesn’t help that we have to share a room with Matty, which limits when we can engage in intimacy. But it’s about more than that.

From the time we first met, it’s obvious Timmy has consumed a lot of porn. I can tell from the way he talks about certain websites, dropping names casually into conversation like they’re common knowledge. His references to specific videos and genres are so offhand, it’s as though everyone has a mental catalog of scenes, plots, and performers. And there’s the way he interacts with me in bed—like someone who’s absorbed years of adult content and brought it all into our bedroom, turning fantasy into something tangible.

Some of it used to be hot, but now I sense that he’s recreating his favorite scenes more than trying to bring me real pleasure.

There’s the way he smacks my pussy—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to surprise me. At first, I flinched, but then I found myself laughing, almost amused by his audacity. He’s unapologetically bold, and that turns me on in a way I didn’t expect. But I have told him before that I don’t find that particularly enjoyable, yet he keeps doing it.

Then there’s how he insists I stick my tongue out when he’s about to come so he can spray his jizz all over my face. I’m not judging that part, but I know where it comes from.

I’ve noticed that he’s obsessed with the idea of covering me—my chest, my face—marking me in a way that feels primal. He mentions it frequently, like it’s not just a desire but a deep-seated need, and the sheer enthusiasm he brings to the idea makes it difficult not to get swept up in it.

There’s no hesitation in him, no shame. If this is his kink, then so be it—I’m more than happy to oblige. There’s a certain freedom in surrendering to his desires, knowing he’s completely consumed by me in these moments.

Because sex with Timmy? It can be really fun.

It’s not just a physical thing—it’s a game, an adventure. With him, sex isn’t something that fades into the background or becomes an afterthought. It’s electric, a core part of our relationship. And compared to past relationships where sex felt like a non-thing—sporadic, awkward, or something we barely discussed—being with Timmy is a revelation.

But slowly, something has shifted. A while ago, I started to notice that what used to feel like a two-way connection—this sensual dance of both of us getting lost in the moment—has become more one-sided. Timmy’s attention, once firmly locked on my body and my pleasure, has started to dwindle.

What was once a shared experience, with whispered praise and guiding hands, has turned into something more routine, something mechanical. It’s been months since he last went down on me, or brought me to orgasm with his fingers.

At first, I brushed it off, thinking it’s maybe just a phase. Relationships evolve, after all. People get comfortable. But now that the pattern has continued—now that he’s begun to skip the foreplay entirely, rushing through the motions—I’ve found myself feeling hollow and disconnected .

He used to care so much about whether I came, and seemed almost obsessed with making sure I got there. Now? His focus is entirely on finishing himself off.

It’s fine, I tell myself. He still loves me. Sex isn't everything, and when we have it, it’s still fun. But I can’t deny the frustration simmering beneath the surface, the subtle disappointment that grows every time he rolls off me, satisfied, without so much as a second thought for whether I was satisfied, too.

Also, he’s kind of stopped getting on top of me, preferring me to be on top or do what he calls a ‘side bang’, bragging that it’s all ‘less work’ for him. I enjoy all the ways, but the fact he wants to get off for the least effort feels a bit unfortunate.

I decide to take matters into my own hands—literally. I order a rose vibrator, determined to reignite my own pleasure without needing to rely on him. When it arrives, I pull it from its sleek packaging, feeling the cool silicone between my fingers. It’s a small, flower-shaped thing—innocent-looking but powerful. In soft lilac, his favorite color, of course, because I figure that way he might be more inclined to use it, and because it’s now become habitual for me to purchase everything in that color.

I show it to Timmy, bracing myself for how he might react. I half-expect him to be defensive, maybe a little offended, like I’m pointing out some deficiency in him. Instead, his face lights up with curiosity. He takes the toy from me and turns it over in his hands as if it’s some kind of ancient artifact, his expression full of childlike fascination.

“Whoa,” he says, grinning. “This is cool.”

Relief washes over me. He’s not offended—if anything, he’s intrigued. And when we’re in bed later in the evening, he eagerly grabs the rose and sets to work, holding it against me with almost scientific precision.

His eyes are glued to my face as if waiting for some grand reveal—like he’s discovered a cheat code to pleasure that requires minimal effort on his part. He watches me intently, his expression a mix of satisfaction and amusement.

And to be fair, it does work. The rose is incredible, a small miracle of technology that brings me to climax faster than I expected. But something about the way he wields it makes me feel… off. It’s as though my orgasm is no longer something he wants to help me achieve—it’s something to tick off a checklist.

“That was good, wasn’t it?” he says with a smug grin, walking off to the bathroom to shower as soon as I’m done. No more lying tangled in each other’s limbs, whispering sweet things to each other.

Instead, I lay here, panting, alone, trying to process the moment.

It’s not that I’m unsatisfied exactly. The orgasm was good. Great, even. But it feels transactional—like he’s more relieved than pleased that he’s managed to get me off without having to engage too deeply.

And there’s a growing awareness that this rose has become a substitute for effort. He now reaches for it almost automatically, like it’s a tool to finish a job he doesn’t feel like doing by hand, cock or tongue. The intimacy that once existed between us feels like it’s slipping away, replaced by something colder, more utilitarian.

And every now and then, I get there without it—like sometimes when I ride him. It’s those moments, the ones where I find my own rhythm on top of him, that make it clear he’s not entirely selfish. He enjoys the way I move, the way I lose myself in the moment. I can tell by the way he watches me with a mixture of hunger and awe, his hands gripping my hips like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.

Sometimes, he even preempts me, asking, “Do you want your toy?” with a grin that’s more sweet than smug. Those little gestures show that he cares, in his own way. He might not be the most intuitive lover anymore, but he’s willing to make the effort, and that counts for something.

So even though the way I get there is often a little anticlimactic compared to the fireworks he seems to experience every time, I still end up feeling satisfied.

Still, being with Timmy makes me feel sexy—alive in a way I didn’t realize I’d been missing. There’s a charge between us, a sense of adventure, even if it’s a little reckless. It’s not perfect, but it’s ours.

I tell myself it’s fine. At least I’m getting what I need, right? He’s open to using the toy. He’s not dismissive or rude about it. But still, there’s a nagging feeling—something quietly eating away at me, whispering that this isn’t quite right.

I try not to dwell on it too much, focusing instead on the moments where things still feel good, where he still feels like us. But I can’t help wondering—is this just the natural evolution of sex in a relationship? Or is it a sign of something deeper—a widening gap between us, one that a tiny soft lilac vibrator can’t quite bridge?

It’s not like he doesn’t care about me. I know he does. But his eagerness to hand off my pleasure to a machine leaves me feeling... lonely. Like I’m slowly becoming a spectator in my own intimate moments. And the worst part? I’m not sure he even notices the difference.

After all, from his perspective, he’s still delivering what he thinks I want. And maybe that’s enough—for now.

But as I lie in bed, listening to his soft snores as he drifts off to sleep, I wonder how long it’ll be before this quiet disconnection becomes something I can’t ignore. Just another thing that started off beautiful, but has very quickly eroded.