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I wanted to plan our future last night. Sit down, talk it through, make big scary plans. Scary being the optimal word.
Within moments of listening to John Brownstone tell me his big scary dreams, my throat closed up. I couldn’t breathe. My nerves were on edge. I felt irritable and irrational.
We got a hotel room for the night, wanting privacy and no distractions. This was the big planning session, something that all the resources I’d been surrounding myself with had said we should do. Of course, none of those resources ever mentioned what to do when anxiety gets you in its teeth.
I made notes as we talked, even though all I could think about was the room service menu. Eating my feelings sounded pretty good. So did watching a movie.
What did not sound good was the task we were there to complete — talking, planning, note-taking, dreaming. But we tried. I swallowed down the anxiety, pushing the feelings past my throat into my stomach, where nausea soon took over. The plans flowed from us. Once we’d set aside the rest of the world, they were all there on the edge, waiting to break free.
Seeing our plans written down only sent the panic flying higher than before. I tugged at the collar of my shirt and necklace, feeling choked. Pretending I wore too many clothes was easier than admitting I was a mess.
Once room service arrived, we gave up the pretense. Notes were pushed to the side, and we turned the TV on. Slowly my body calmed down and eventually my mind followed.
We watched ridiculous movies on SyFy and ate foods that we never eat anymore. And John Brownstone had other ideas. It was a hotel room with a king-sized bed. Of course he had ideas.
Try telling that to my brain, though.
I couldn’t bear to be touched at first. Each stroke against my labia sent me scuttling away. Any push and pull on my body made me cringe.
I took deep breaths, reminding myself that if we couldn’t get work done, we should be able to enjoy ourselves. This was our one opportunity this week. Maybe a good fuck would calm me down.
He stood at the edge of the bed as I backed up to his cock. Holding onto my hips, I listened to the slap-slap-slap of his pelvis against my ass. When he slowed down, we heard the thick sucking sound of my cunt taking his cock.
Maybe he wanted to fuck the anxiety out of me, fuck the fun back into me. We both knew I wasn’t myself, but maybe this would help.
I don’t know how long he fucked me or all the positions he threw me into. When he didn’t come at the end, I cried, blaming myself for it, anxiety pouring onto anxiety. He shushed me and wrapped himself around my body.
We watched more movies, and I began to doze off. I woke up every so often, startled out of sleep, determined to stay awake and enjoy our time together.
I remember him taking my glasses off, and then I slept through the night. He woke up in the pre-dawn hours by sliding his cock into my body. In a few strokes, he buried his face in the pillow and groaned.
I fell back asleep. Hours later, it was time to shower and leave, to get back to real life. The thick feeling in my throat was gone, replaced by guilt and cravings. I wanted to eat and eat and eat. But I was also desperately tired. Hours later, I would curl back up into bed and sleep for a few more hours. Only then, a full day after the panic hit me would I begin to feel normal.