Page 39 of Strike A Chord

“Oh yeah? Wanna test me?” No heat, we weren’t arguing, but this playful banter got me thinking. I could play a mean domination game, jack off in front of him. Play with myself but not let him touch me or himself, nor could he come. Oh, the evil wheels of torment spun wildly. “Game on, baby.” But not tonight. Today’s events warranted mutual orgasms. “I’ll get you back when you least expect it. But for now,” I flipped the sheets off and slid down his body, licking a stripe up his dick. “It’s my turn to make you embarrass yourself.”

Given my current train of thought, I amped up my efforts. Was that fair? Hell no, but if he blew quicker than me, I’d redeem my man card and bragging rights. Would I still get him back later for that snide comment? You bet your ass I would.

Competitive much?

With my tongue in his ass and my hand on his dick, he didn’t know which way to thrust. When he was a mumbling, panting mess, I replaced my tongue with a finger, wrapped my lips around his dick and swallowed. Right when my finger hit his spot, he blew.

Check mate.

“Wanna revisit your earlier comment?”

“You. Win.” Josh’s breathy pants nearly drowned out his words. “Can we do that again sometime?”

“Ha-ha-ha.” Gods, how I loved this man. “I don’t know about you, but I’m wiped out.”

“Ditto, babe.” Those were his last words, Josh was out when I returned from the bathroom a few minutes later.

“Goodnight, my love.” I kissed his head and curled up behind him, not waking until he thrashed around, fighting his way through another nightmare. I knew enough both from sleeping beside him and the reading I’d done on PTSD, which said to get out of the way and wait patiently until they came around. This was the first time Josh didn’t jump out of bed and storm off. Tonight, he turned away and cried.

“Josh, are you back with me?” Don’t approach until they respond, then you know the episode has passed.

“How can you love someone as broken as me?”

“Josh,” I slid back in behind him, wrapped my arms around his waist and held him tightly. “We’ve had this conversation before. I love you because of you. You can’t control this.” A couple times I’d mentioned therapy but ultimately that was Josh’s decision to make. If I beat that point to death he may walk away, and I wouldn’t risk that.

Sleep was elusive, I only managed to lightly doze off and on as I lay there worried about Josh. As soon as the sun rose, I got up, made coffee, and started on the garage. Too much nervous energy to sit still. I wanted to help Josh so badly but had no clue how to without risk of offending him.

“You’re up early, everything okay?” Mom’s voice startled me.

“Rough night.” Wasn’t my story to tell, but this was Mom and we kept nothing from each other.

“I heard some hollering, care to explain what that was about?” Mom didn’t miss a trick. I always teased that she had Vulcan hearing. She called it mom hearing and at one point convinced me she could read my every thought. Took about three months before I figured it out. Not the brightest eight-year-old, I’d admit.

I sighed and pulled up an old milk crate to sit on. “Josh suffers from PTSD and has nightmares from it.”

“That poor boy. Was he in the military?” Of course, that’s the first reaction most have. I’d found in my research that PTSD was a result of various forms of trauma and wasn’t solely relegated to those who served in the armed forces.

“No. It’s the result of a horribly abusive childhood.” Even I didn’t know the depths of it, nor was I sure I’d be able to handle that knowledge if I had.

“He needs us, Reagan. Love. Love will heal all.” While I knew she meant well, and she truly believed that, in this case I knew better. Love and support would help, and we’d be there along his journey, but the depth of Josh’s issues required a professional that specialized in PTSD and ways to manage it.

“Did I miss something?” Josh walked in, groggy, and rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Good morning, love.” Momma hugged him. “I’ll get breakfast started.”

Once she was out of earshot, he asked the question I’d anticipated. “What’s going on?”

How did I word this, so he didn’t immediately pack his bags and leave? That’s not what any of us wanted. Josh was a flight guy, a defense mechanism that ran deep. “Have a seat, babe.”

“I’d rather stand. Doesn’t sound like I’m gonna like what you have to say.” Josh crossed his arms, striking a defensive pose. Not off to a good start.

“Babe, it’s the opposite. Remember our conversation last night? We talk through shit. That’s what this is. Come here.” I pulled him in for a morning kiss. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” he groaned. “What did I do?”

“Josh, it’s not like that. We’re just worried about you.”

“Fuck,” he ran his hands through his hair and tugged. “I knew I’d fuck it up. Twenty-four hours is a new record. I’ll pack my shit.”

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