The Therapist - WS Greer

1

~Sean~

I’m sweating, and I'm not sure if it’s because of how hot it is in the room or because of how hard I’m working, but the sweat is pouring off of me. I watch it fall and land on Becky’s chest as I hover above her, and have to distract myself from the tiny puddle between her breasts.

She has all of my attention, but when I look at her, I’m not sure I have all of hers. Every now and then, Becky’s eyes seem to fade away, like a TV that keeps losing its picture every so often. It’s as if she’s not here in her head, but her body is lying beneath me.

She’s so beautiful I can barely stand it. Sometimes I can hardly believe I landed Rebecca Richmond, but it’s been over a year now, and the two of us are still together. She’s still my everything, and I'm hers. Yet, I still haven't figured out everything about her, and this is it. This is the part that continues to be a mystery to me.

I look down on Becky, and I yearn to watch her crumble beneath me. I want her to scream for me—to scream my name loud enough for the neighbors to hear while I screw her senseless. I mean that literally, by the way. I want to bang Becky so good that she loses all feeling in her limbs. I want her comatose when we’re finished, but that fantasy has been nothing more than just that—a fantasy. Today, however, I’m going to make it come true.

The night started off right: the two of us having dinner at Longhorn Steakhouse in Dover, white wine reaching for the brim of our wine glasses, as I made sure the waiter kept them full all night, and playful touching underneath the table throughout dinner. The more we drank, the more I could tell Becky was ready to get home. She kept letting me know with those round, light brown eyes staring at me the way they do when she wants it. Her foot kept finding its way to my shin and crawling up my leg like a curious spider. The scene had been set from the very beginning, and now it’s on me to bring it home.

“Fuck me harder, Sean,” I hear Becky blurt, and it catches me off guard.

I startle, losing my focus as the memory of our evening together dissipates and I realize the moment I’m supposed to be bringing home has already begun and I’m letting it slip away.

When I look down at Becky, her round eyes glare up at me, and I swear I can sense disappointment peaking out at me from just behind her pupils. She’s trying to hide it, but it’s there. Again.

I focus my energy into thrusting in and out of Becky. She wants it hard? Perfect. That’s how I’m going to give it to her. I have to reposition myself to get my balance just right, but I manage to maneuver into an angle that provides me the perfect posture to give it to Becky how she wants it.

I thrust in and out of her, doing it as hard as I can. Our bodies slap together, and I know I have to be doing it right. Our skin clapping echoes off the walls, the sweat keeps dripping from me like a leaky faucet, and it feels amazing to me. I might not be getting much depth, but Becky can't say I’m not screwing her hard now. She wanted it hard, and this is as hard and as fast as I can do it.

After a minute or two of slamming in and out of Becky like a machine, my breathing starts to rise louder than the sound of our bodies colliding. I'm getting tired, but I’m still determined to satisfy her. I lose more and more of my rhythm as my lungs start to struggle to bring in the amount air I need, and eventually I’m thrown completely off.

Becky lets out a wisp of air beneath me, but when she looks up and sees me watching her, the expression on her face lightens up. She doesn't look mad, and I notice every ounce of effort she has to put into controlling the muscles in her face. She squints her eyes to make herself look more into it than she really is, and she even lets out a squeal to convince me.

“Keep going, baby,” she whispers, and her words are all I need to