"What are you watching?"
I pry my gaze away from the screen, where Painkiller has captured my attention. My boyfriend stands at the living room door with a serious expression on his face.
"It's a series that delves into a drug-induced crisis surpassing even crack cocaine's impact,” I say flatly.
"Uh-huh. What's the matter?" he asks.
I pause the show and turn to face him, noticing the concern in his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"Don't get me wrong, I'm relieved it's not one of those frivolous shows you enjoy, like Too Hot to Handle, but I've noticed you tend to gravitate towards heavier shows when you're, well, not feeling your best. Lately, you've been avoiding me, and I can't help but wonder if there's something going on that you're not telling me. Is everything okay?"
In my defense, who doesn't enjoy looking at beautiful, horny men and women flirting and more? But I'll admit he's onto something. My mood hasn't been the brightest lately, and I've been keeping to myself, not wanting to add to his plate with all his work projects. I've had my hands full at my job too. We've both been working overtime this week, and on one night, I even went to bed before he wrapped up work, faking sleep to avoid conversation.
"Yes. Everything is fine," I say, trying to shrug it off. I'm aware of how much he supported me during my last bout of depression, and I don't want him to carry unnecessary concern, reassuring myself that it's just a passing phase, reminding myself of how far I've come since my last episode.
He's been my rock, standing by me through thick and thin. But deep down, I know he can sense when something's not right. He settles beside me on the couch, his gaze unwavering.
"Now look me in the eye and say that lie again," he says firmly.
It's difficult to hide my feelings from someone who knows me so well. As much as I want to protect him from my struggles, I know he won't let it go. I take a deep breath, letting the façade I've been maintaining crumble.
"Actually, I've been struggling lately. The workload, the stress—it's been taking its toll on me."
As the weight of my confession hangs in the air, his hand finds mine, a silent affirmation that he's here, ready to share the burden once more.
"How do you feel?"
Tears well up in my eyes as I pour out my feelings. "I feel lost," I admit, my voice quivering. "The weight of sadness is suffocating, and the constant onslaught of bad news leaves me overwhelmed. I'm consumed by anxiety, unable to find a moment of calm." As I speak, I can sense his empathy, his grip on my hand tightening, reassuring me that I'm not alone in this tumultuous sea of emotions.
"Do you want to have sex?" The question catches me off guard, causing my tears to momentarily cease. Confusion fills my mind as I try to process his unexpected proposition. "I know you need to reset your overthinking brain," he continues.
My entire life, I've abused masturbation and sex to escape my overwhelming thoughts and emotions, but I didn't realize it until he pointed it out, explaining that feeling like an object, a means of getting high from an orgasm, doesn't feel good to him, so I'm not sure how to respond to his offer.
I lock my gaze on him, torn between two emotions. The depression weighs heavily on my chest, suffocating me with its relentless grip, whispering "no," urging me to withdraw, while my desires remain buried beneath layers of uncertainty, but anxiety longs for the sweet relief that orgasm promises.
"Are you sure?" I ask, my voice trembling with uncertainty.
"Yes," he replies firmly, his eyes filled with concern and sincerity.
"But I am not sure if I can cum," I whisper, my voice barely audible, as I'm worried that my tension will prevent me from fully letting go.
"Leave it to me," he says softly.
"Mmmhm," I hum as his lips press against mine.
He leans in closer, his hands tracing a path down my body, igniting a fire within me that pushes aside any lingering doubts. With each touch, the weight of my emotions begins to lift, replaced by a growing sense of trust and anticipation. He tugs at my dress and pulls it over my head, revealing my bare skin to his hungry gaze.
"No underwear? You're such a slut," he murmurs. His fingers trail lightly along the exposed flesh, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. "Imagine your Lush friends not only reading your story but also seeing you naked like this."
"What?" I gasp, my heart pounding in my chest.
"Play with me," he dares me with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
It's a thrilling thought, the idea of being vulnerable and exposed to others who know me intimately through my writing. The anticipation of their reactions fuels my fire, the heat slowly rising as I am filled with embarrassment and excitement, my cheeks turning pink from the intensity, and my body throbs with insatiable want.
His lips brush against my neck, his teeth grazing lightly over my skin, as his fingers find their way into my pussy. With each thrust, I surrender myself to his skilled hands, feeling a rush of desire course through my body. His thumb presses against my bud, intensifying the pleasure and causing me to moan uncontrollably. I arch my back, pressing myself closer to him, craving more.
As his touch becomes more fervent, I find myself losing control, my mind consumed by the overwhelming sensations coursing through me. He looks deep into my eyes and I can't help but whimper as he slowly pulls out his fingers and brings them to his lips, tasting the evidence of my arousal. His eyes darken with hunger as he smirks, knowing the effect he has on me.
"Why are you so wet?" he teases. "You enjoy them watching us, seeing what a horny slut you are, don't you?"
Fantasizing about being observed—naked and vulnerable like this, gazing into a tantalizing sea of eyes hungry for the raw passion between us—heightens the electricity coursing through my veins. I bite my lip, unable to form a coherent response as he unbuttons his pants and steps out of them, revealing his hard, throbbing length. My breath hitches at the sight, anticipation coursing through me as I eagerly await what's to come next.