7. Chapter 7
Chapter seven
D on’t be discouraged,” Dr. D says, in what is probably a normal voice, but to my depressed ears sounds overly enthusiastic. “Most couples require several times before they achieve success.”
T groans into my chest, not the seductive noises he made earlier, but a sound of annoyance, of defeat.
Unfazed, Dr. D. continues, “In the personality tests you completed, both of you measure strongly as people pleasers, willing to sacrifice yourself for others. This is a common trait we see in patients with your particular challenge. I suspect you both have trouble communicating your desires to your partners and, thus, are often left unsatisfied.”
Those words strike way too close to home for me. Judging by the exaggerated flinch T just gave, he feels the same.
“I’d like to bolster your interpersonal communication skills in this area by performing an exercise. Would the two of you be open to that?”
Silent nods from T and myself.
“Wonderful!” says Dr. D. “Please, both of you lie on the bed and face each other.”
We shuffle ourselves until I have my head on one pillow and T has the other. This is such an intimate position, lying here with no choice but to stare into T’s eyes, which are fixed on me, intense and unblinking. A strange kind of shyness settles over me, prickling at my skin. I carefully tuck the sheet under my arm, making sure it covers my chest. T mirrors me, pulling the blanket up as well.
“Good. Good,” calls out Dr. D. “Now, without looking away I want you to take turns telling the other person one sexual act you would like performed on you. Please be as detailed, as explicit, as possible.”
T’s eyes widen at that, at the same time that my stomach drops. I’m not good at this, at articulating my thoughts, especially when it comes to something so vulnerable.
“Well?” prompts Dr. D after a beat of drawn-out silence.
Nothing from us. We’re playing a silent game of chicken, daring the other to go first with our eyes.
Dr. D lets out an exasperated sigh. “T. Why don’t you start?”
T opens his mouth like he wants to protest, but he snaps it shut. His eyes dart away, and he stutters out, “Uh…I like it when I—I’m,” he winces, squishing his face together. Then, super-fast, he rushes out, “on the bottom.”
“Yes,” says Dr. D patiently. “Tell us some more. Why, exactly, do you enjoy that?”
T grimaces, like this conversation is causing him physical pain. “I don’t know. I just do.”
“There’s always a reason. Look deeper,” says Dr. D.
I have to give the doctor credit. He’s persistent, not falling for T’s stonewalling.
T bites his lip. “I guess it’s because I’m tired of being in charge. Of always having to think ahead, take control.” He looks at me, his expression earnest. “It’s not that I’m lazy. I won’t lie there and make you do all the work. It’s just that sometimes I want to shut my brain off. Let someone else take the lead. That way, I don’t have to overthink every movement. I don’t have to wonder if I’m going too fast, too slow, too hard, too soft. It takes the pressure off.” He hesitates. “Does that make sense?”
I nod, a smile pulling at the corners of my lips.
T notices. “What? Is that funny?” His jaw tenses like he’s bracing for judgment.
A tiny giggle escapes. “It’s only funny because I love to be on top. I was going to say that as my answer.”
“No way! You do?” His face brightens, splits into a brilliant smile, then slowly fades. “Or are you just saying that so you don’t have to come up with something original?” he asks, his voice heavy with suspicion.
I roll my eyes, annoyed he’s not taking my word for it. “ Really ? You think I’d lie about that ?”
T drops his gaze. A guilty flush climbs his neck as he mumbles, “Sorry.”
“Please elaborate, K,” breaks in Dr. D. I look at the mirror, almost expecting to see him, but only my reflection stares back. “Why do you prefer that position over others?”
“Well, I like it for all the same reasons you don’t,” I tell T. “ I want to be in charge. That way no one can hurt me. No one can go too hard or too fast. See? Like you, but the opposite.”
A shadow moves over T’s face. “Why would you be hurt? It’s sex. You shouldn’t worry about that.”
For a minute, I want to snap at him, tell him to stop being so ignorant. Of course you can be hurt during sex. You can be hurt any time you open up to another person. Not everyone is gentle. Not every touch feels good. Experience has taught me that lesson, many times over.
I don’t tell him any of that. It’s too personal to share with this stranger, even if I did just have him inside me. Instead, I pull the covers higher, up to my neck. “I like that I get to make the call, that’s all.”
T watches me for a long moment, like he’s searching for something just out of reach.
“Great,” Dr. D says, his voice bright, almost cheerful. “Since you’re both in agreement, let’s go ahead and try that position.”
I tense, my fingers tightening on the sheets.
“But this time,” he continues, “I want to hear you communicate. No holding back. No worrying that you’re being too demanding. I want full honesty.”
T shifts beside me. “Like…out loud?”
Dr. D chuckles. “Yes, out loud.” A pause. “I need to hear exactly what you want. Every detail. Every command.”
A shiver of dread runs through me. I’m not sure I can do this. Having sex with a stranger is one thing. Having to talk my way through it is another.
T scoots closer, reaching for me under the sheets. “What—where do you want me to touch you?” he asks in a low, whispery voice.
“I—um—” The words stick in my throat, refusing to come out.
“How about between your legs?” T supplies helpfully.
I nod, grateful he came to my rescue.
“Words, please,” Dr. D. commands loudly. I jump, guiltily, like I got caught cheating on my homework assignment.
“I want you to stroke my—my clit. Do it until I’m wet, dripping for you,” I whisper, unable to look T in the eye, but I hear it. The way he gusts out a whispered fuck that’s full of desire.
“That was hot,” T says, as his fingers land exactly where I told them to go.
I moan, throwing my head back. T’s right there, licking and kissing my neck, making butterflies swoop low in my stomach.
“Tell T how that feels,” Dr. D instructs, but I barely hear him because T is matching the roll of my hips perfectly.
“Good,” I groan out.
“More detailed, please,” Dr. D corrects.
“It feels—it feels…”
Work, brain. Work .
“It feels like you’re made of lightning, T, and you’re electrocuting me, but in a good way.”
Oh, my God. I internally wince.
My brain is so weird.
T snickers. “That was descriptive.”
“What do you want T to do next?” Dr. D’s voice is clinical, detached.
I’m panting, my breath coming in quick, short bursts. “I w—want him—to put his fingers in me, but don’t stop touching my clit. I want him to flick it, rub it harder.”
“Jesus,” T growls out. He’s practically salivating next to me. He’s quick to comply with my demands.
I cry out when he penetrates me with not just one but two fingers. The stretch of it is delicious.
“Okay, T,” interrupts Dr. D. “It’s your turn. What would you like right now?”
T doesn’t even hesitate. His voice hoarse, he says, “I want to fuck her. With her on top, riding me.”
Those words send arousal stabbing into me, low in my belly, so sharp it almost hurts. “Yes,” I say. “I want that, too.”
We scramble, tripping over each other, as T shifts onto his back and I rise above him. I fling my leg over him, straddling his erection, which stands tall, pointing straight up to the ceiling. I sink down on him with a sigh, taking him slowly, inch by inch. He’s already bucking by the time I reach the bottom. T digs his fingers into my hips. With gentle pressure, he guides me up and down.
“Communicate, T. What do you want?” Dr. D’s voice is a drone in the background.
“I want to fuck K hard and fast,” T grits out.
“Hey!” I tease, grinning down at him. “You said I was the one in charge.” I give him a playful smack on the shoulder.
He pauses at that. Chuckling, T smiles up at me in an open, amused way, so disarming with his cheeks tinged pink, his hair tousled, his eyes glazed with lust, and— damn —if he’s not the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Fucking with me, while you’re fucking me,” he murmurs lazily, his eyes half-lidded, as he resumes the pump of his hips. “I like it, K.”
Warmth bubbles up, but not from my core— no —this is in my chest. Affection, not just attraction. The last emotion I ever thought I’d feel in this cold, white room. Stunned, I halt mid-thrust. T grips me harder, yanks me down, and we both groan.
“I can’t wait to make you come, K.” Apparently, he’s in a talking mood now. His hands urge me on, faster and faster, building the friction between us. “It’s going to feel so good. It’s going to be so good to watch you unravel on my cock.”
His words travel straight to my core, slickening it, making it ache for him. It occurs to me that he’s not just thinking about his pleasure, but about mine . Before I almost saw him as my opponent. Like we were on opposite sides of a chess board, but now I see we’re playing on the same side. If I win, he wins, and vice versa.
What happens when you put two people pleasers together?
They want to please each other.
That might not be a bad thing.
There’s the crackle of the microphone turning on, but before Dr. D can speak, T waves his hand, a shooing motion to the mirror, like Dr. D is a pest right now.
“I know, I know. Tell her what I want.” T beats Dr. D to the punch. His eyes are glued to my breasts, which sway with each thrust. In a calm, clear voice, he says, “K, I want to suck on your tits while you bounce on my dick until we both come screaming.”
Wow. That was…wow.
T sits up, wrapping his arms around my back, and folds me close to him. He takes my breast into his mouth, sucking on my nipple, swirling his tongue over the tip, while I move up and down on his shaft. The sensation of his warm, wet mouth on my breast and his dick in my pussy combine into one large pulse of desire. I wind my arms around his head and hold him to me.
“Oh, yes,” I gasp. Gathering the things we learned about communication, I tell T, “I want you to squeeze my other breast. Hard.”
“Mmm.” He nuzzles the breast he’s been working on, then goes back to sucking on it while his other hand comes to clasp the unoccupied one. A pinch to that nipple turns me on even more. We move together, our hands growing bolder, our voices steadier. The more we talk, the easier it gets. A whispered request. A quiet moan in response.
It’s working. God , it feels like it’s actually working. For a moment, I forget about Dr. D, forget about the sterile walls, the lack of windows, and the clinical lights glowing dimly above us. It’s just T and me, warmth spreading between us like an ember catching flame.
T moves his lips from my breast to my shoulder, his breath hot against my skin. “That good?” he murmurs. His fingers are back on my clit, just like I told him.
“Yeah,” I whisper, almost surprised by how much I mean it. “Really good.”
We keep going, following the rhythm we’ve fallen into, and I’m almost there. Almost . But then—
Something shifts.
T changes the angle, just slightly, and suddenly the heat fizzles. I try to ignore it, try to focus on the way his hands feel on me, but the moment is slipping, like trying to hold onto water. I grab for that feeling once more, that slow climb to orgasm, but my hands come up empty.
T’s breathing changes too. Hesitates. Quiets.
The pressure that was building between us fades. When T lets out a deep sigh, I know he feels it too.
Finally, we slow down. He presses his forehead to my chest, his breath shaky. “It’s not working, is it?”
I want to lie to him, to spare him, to keep this fragile thing we almost had from falling to pieces completely. But this exercise was all about communication, so I force myself to shake my head. “I’m sorry.”
T’s body stiffens. His fingers go slack, fall away from my body and into his lap.
I pull off of him, exhausted, and collapse onto my back, draping a hand over my eyes.
Neither of us speaks. The room is too quiet. The absence of our gasping breaths makes the silence oppressive. I turn my head, searching his expression. T stares at the ceiling, his jaw clenched, his lips parted like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how. A muscle in his cheek ticks.
I reach for him, but my hand stalls inches from his skin.
When he doesn’t look at me, I let my hand fall away.
That’s when I hear it—his small, barely-there whisper of defeat.
“ Shit .”