The thought tips me over the edge, and I descend into swirling pleasure, a deeper, more satisfying depth than I’ve ever felt in real life. I linger in my bliss, keeping my finger pressed down to prolong it for as long as possible. I pulse, my walls clutching at nothing. Even though this is far more intense than I’ve ever hadbefore, I can still feel that something is missing. I’ve never been able to stimulate my clit and stick fingers inside myself at the same time, maybe my arms are too short or my belly is too round. I should have grabbed a toy before I started, but I really thought… I thought he’d join me… or I wouldn’t come.
Now that it’s over…my eyes dart around, searching for him at the edge of my vision… but there’s nothing. As Holly Jolly Christmas winds down, the voice of my speaker assaults me.
“It’s December 7th. The weather today will be sunny with a high of 34 degrees. There are no local alerts.”
It shifts to playing holiday-themed lofi, and I find that I can’t move. I squeeze my eyes shut, expecting to wake up. My heart, which had slowed in the aftermath of my searing orgasm, speeds up when I don’t. I pinch myself.
Nothing. Because I’m already awake.
This freaky holiday wake-up isreal, and I seriously just got myself off imagining my nightmare.
Jesus Christ.
I must have changed the settings in the app.
Imusthave.
It’s the only explanation. Because the alternative? That someone hacked into my app and changed them… to scare me… I can’t even let myself truly think of it. All at once, the idea that I am losing time, that I am doing things in my sleep is vastly preferable to the remote possibility that someone isdoingthistome.
No, nope, nope, nope. I’m just so tired, so overworked, so entirely traumatized from my attack that it’s finally coming to a head. I need to see a therapist. All of this is totally treatable.
Normal therapists don’t try to root through their patients’ memories and try to implant things that never happened. It’s not going to happen again, and if itdid,I’d know immediately. Sarah was abadtherapist. I know this. I do. Mynexttherapist will be amazing. I’ll take the time and make sure.
I can go to therapy.
I can get better.
I am going to be fine.
“I am going to be fine!” I yell out the affirmation, using it to launch myself out of bed before the tears and hollowness growing in my chest can keep me trapped here.
Hours later, I’ve done my morning routine, given Henry lots of pets for both our benefit, and gotten all of my clients squared away for the day.
Am I staying busy to avoid thinking about everything? Absolutely. Still, the realization that I’m teetering on the edge of breakdown has been oddly comforting, because there are clear, actionable steps that I can take to fix my problem.
I haven’ttakenany of them yet, but they are there.
I’m working through buying presents for my family when my phone dings with a notification.
My old phone number sent me another message.
(603)555-3327: You didn’t get your lights up yesterday. Do you need my help?
Wow. This person is such a dick. I’m so glad I’m fielding these messages for Person B because I can’t imagine how annoying Person A must be to them.
A: I’ll get them up when I have a chance.
I change the number in my phone to “Person A” and stick my tongue out at it. HopefullyI’ve bought Person B some time.
Person A: You need to get them up. It’s important.
A: K. Thanks.
Being snotty to them lifts my spirits further, because I’m doing a good deedandgetting to be mean on someone else’s behalf. I’m not good at sticking up for myself. If Person A wasactuallytexting me, I’d be outside right now on a ladder and texting apologies. But for Person B? I can stick up for them just fine.
I place a few orders before deciding that it’s the perfect time for an afternoon tea. I love making myself a cuppa and arranging little cookies on a plate and calling them biscuits. It makes me feel fancy, and I think it’s probably good to treat yourself to little things that make you happy.
I’m sure my future therapist—my normal, surely wonderful, future therapist—will agree.
