I had a panic attack during sex last night.
Yeah, not the sexiest thing that’s ever happened to me. And by “during sex” I mean “as he was poised to thrust his cock into my body.”
We’d flirted back and forth (yes, people in relationships flirt) earlier in the day, and he’d promised to “taste” me, as he put it. If you follow John Brownstone on Tumblr, you know that Tuesdays are “Taste-Her-Tuesday.” After all the smutty pictures he’d posted, he was fired up. He’d sent dirty emails filled with exactly what his tongue was going to do. It gave me the good shivers to read it, but since my libido has been low, that was about it.
I admit that I had high hopes for the orgasms I was about to receive. They were supposed to cure whatever was sucking up all of my sexual desire because, in case you didn’t know, it’s very difficult to think of, write, or imagine anything smutty and kinky when you’re running low on desire.
From the first lick, I knew something wasn’t right. Each touch on my clit was like a jolt of electricity through my body – and not a good one. For the first time in probably ever, my reaction was to scoot away, close my legs, anything to make the overwhelming feelings stop. (No, I didn’t use my safeword – I really thought I could relax and get into it.)
My body took over a few times, and orgasms pulsed through me. They were good, but the panic had already set in. When he lifted my legs back over my chest and readied himself for the first thrust, I realized I couldn’t breathe.
Which is when I started hyperventilating.
Nothing will kill a hard-on quicker than your partner gasping for breath – and it’s not part of your kinky fuckery.
He switched positions, but it was too late. I was gone. I’d become a shaking, gasping mess. I wasn’t sobbing – I didn’t have enough air for all that – but tears streamed down my face. When I caught my breath, I mumbled an “I’m sorry” to which he shushed me.
Gathering me into his arms, he stroked my hair and simply held me, in an attempt to soothe me. My mind was racing with incoherent thoughts. Every time I thought I might be okay, an errant thought would cut through the mental fog, and I’d panic again, struggling to breathe, shaking like a leaf, mumbling apologies.
What made me freak out?
I have a few guesses. I’m still sorting it all out in my head.
When I woke up this morning, I felt hung over and drained. I’m fine now and I’ll be fine later, but I promise you, that moment wasn’t music to anyone’s ears.
Welcome to Wicked Wednesday! This week’s prompt is about the music that moves you. Go find out what kind of sensual, erotic goodness the other writers have for you this week. I have no doubt someone is making better music than I am right now.