This chapter contains mature content and depicts scenes about anxiety.

Ace

I watch closely as the hands from clock on the wall tick over. Another second closer to escaping this room. It's not the drab, hard eighties green decor that's doing my head in, it's the court ordered psychologist behind the small rustic desk that's the problem.

I'm pretty sure she is coming on to me. And I'm considering fucking her just to make the time go faster.

I haven't seen her before and the second I walked in, she was eye fucking the shit out of me. I knew things were going to be different this session.

As she stands and slowly slinks her way around to perch on the front of the desk, legs crossing and then un crossing, I get a very purposeful glimpse up her tigh ass skirt and happen to notice she is sans underwear.

Yep. Definitely coming on to me.

Fucking perfect.

She is not my regular doctor. He does not accept any of my bullshit and despite all my best efforts to avoid him; I have to admit that talking with him has started to help.

A little.

I hate myself only most of the day, every day now. Instead of all day.

See, progress.

A long pink nail scrapes down my shoulder and my attention is directed back to her and to the point of the stiletto that has found a temporary home at the apex of my crotch.

I look up to find the doctor wearing a coy smile, her tongue darts out to wet her overly plumped up lips and her claw like nails scratch their way down my arm, circling on my bicep before she scoots closer to me, legs open, placing a hand on each of my shoulders.
She is overdone for my taste but this seeing a shrink business is not my choice and if she has a better way to treat my issues, something other than all the pointless talking, then I'm all ears. Or balls.

This session just became a fuck load more fun that's for sure. Yes, it's completely unprofessional but shit, she is the instigator here and I would take sex over therapy any old day.

Plus, she has a sexy secretary look going for her. Dirty doctor. Why would I say no? Ill let her take the lead. If she starts it, it's her word against mine later if things go south.

" Talking about your PTSD doesn't seem to be working Ace, maybe we can try something a little more, physical." She purrs as she steps around me on the chair and moves to lock the door. As she makes her way back around the desk, ass swaying as she goes, she pulls out her phone and puts on some random music, before placing her phone back on the desk and stalking towards me.

One by one, she flicks open the buttons on her tight shirt and I'm pleasantly surprised when she shakes it off to reveal two very sweet, round assets.

I catch her watching me take her in and her smile broadens, matching my smug grin as she shimmies out of her skin tight skirt and slides it down her legs, stepping out to reveal that I was correct.

Dirty doctor is commando.

I try to make my mind think of all the reasons why fucking the substitute psychologist is not the best idea, but when she straddles me and begins to undo my pants, those thoughts seem to disappear like a few other things, for instance my morals. And common sense.

Fuck it. I'll add them to the list and unpack those two issues with my normal doctor next week.

As she takes hold of me, pumping my length once, twice before completely freeing me from my boxers, I lose all hope of ending this in any other way except all over her large fake breasts.

I fumble about in my pants that are now in a heap on the floor and manage to tear open the little foil packet and sheath myself before she takes control and pushes down on top of my lap once more. Taking all of me in. Deep.

I let her go for it, grabbing a hold of her under the crease of her tits, bracing her around the rib cage as I help her to slam back down on to me. She bites her lip as I grunt with the force of her hips slamming onto mine with a ferocity that I wasn't expecting. I let my mind wander as she keeps working up and down.

Slam.

That's for the mess you made.

Slam.

That's for the pain you caused.

Slam.

That's for leaving. Me.

Slam. Slam.

The last push throws me over the edge. My insides warring with my mind. I take a hold of dirty doctor and stalk us both backwards until I can lay her out on the desk. I use her long legs as leverage around me and grab her hips once more, pushing myself in to her as hard as I can until I feel her tighten around me, her big round tits begging for me to cover them as she lays spent, grabbing at her own chest and playing with her nipples . I pull out suddenly, fling off the condom and pump myself a few times before yanking on her leg, pulling her towards me so I can release myself all over her chest.

From the look on her face, she didn't mind at all. But the slight licking of her lips makes me feel sudden shame for doing this here like this.

I just fucked the doctor and used my my problems as a sexual frustration release. And this crazy lady liked it.

Im more fucked up than I thought.

I stumble back a little, grabbing the chair for support as I hastily pull my boxers back up around my hips and grab my pants off the floor.

I all but jump back into them, swiping my keys and phone off the desk and exiting the door without so much as a look in the direction of the stunned doctor sitting topless on the desk.

The further I get away from the office, the more of an asshole I feel like.
That was stupid, even for me. And leaving like that. What a dick move.

Shit. Now I can't even come back to this office.

I start to feel my breath constricting like it does when an anxiety attack is coming on and my heart speeds up at just the thought of it. The anticipation of the actual attack is the killer for me.

The worry about the worry of an attack is the clincher, the trigger for my ptsd. My pulse speeds faster than the guard on my team and just the very barest of thoughts about an advancing attack makes me jump out of my skin. My heart rate accelerates to the point where I know this is tipping over into an actual full blown attack.

By the time I get to my truck I'm freaking the fuck out and I know there is only one place I want to go. Only one person I let see me like this.

I try to focus on my breath once I manage to get in to the drivers seat, leaning forward and placing my head on the wheel. But as soon as my face makes contact with the cool firm leather, the flashback to the feeling of my face imbedded in the airbag comes to the forefront of my mind and has me gasping for air like a fish out of water.

Fuck. I smash my hands on the dash three, four times. I can't stand that I'm like this after so long. It's been five years but I can still feel the splitting headache from the impact with the dash, I hear the screech of the tires and the scratching sound the metal made as it hit the tree as loud as if it is happening now.

I reach about in the glove compartment, blindly searching for the tiny white pills that are the only thing that help when I'm stuck in this crashing wave.

I pop one and suck it in to my mouth without a second thought. Putting my hands above my head and trying to clear my mind of all thoughts of that night. Breathing in and out slowly. Trying desperately to fill my lungs and calm my flying nerves.

When I feel like I can breathe, just a little, I force the car in to drive. My hands shaking around the wheel but gripping it so tight that my knuckles are white.

I make the forty five minute drive in silence and pain. Making my way to the quiet space that I know far to well. And shouldn't have to.

I park in a space far from other cars even though I know there won't be too many this time of day.
Taking my time to try to calm my racing mind and heart, I throw the car into park and climb out of the drivers seat, I purposefully leave my phone behind to avoid any kick back from my actions at the doctors office.

I'll deal with that nightmare later.

For now, I need to go and see my brother. For some reason, talking to him is the only thing that calms me when I get past the point of no return.

I make my way through the grass, always kept so tidy and short. How boring a job must that be. But the attention to detail is not lost on me. The people who visit here are somber enough without having to weave their way through long grass and over grown hedges.

As I come upon the small gated section, I head for the row marked with a L and follow the stone pathway to the very end. Even now, almost five years to the day we found him, seeing where he rests has me feeling sick to my stomach.

I reach his headstone and sink to my knees in front of it, placing my hand on the cold stone that simply
holds his name.

He was so much in his life. Always so big and bright.

And now he is just, this.

And I'm just... a mess. I blame him. I blame me. I hate it all.

I let the breath and desperation pour out of me and into the grass that covers him, wishing somehow, my pain and suffering in the form of tears could somehow rejuvenate him. Because without him, things just don't make sense.

He doesn't know how much has altered since he left. Not only me. Life in general has sucked. It's just not the same without him here.

I tip my head to the stone, letting the cool surface sink into my skin. It soothes me to be here. Close to him. But it sickens me at the same time.

I ask the him the same question that I do each time I get to this point. Knowing I'll never get the answer and praying like hell that eventually, I won't need it.

"Why Sebby. Why?" I say. To him. To no one.

To myself.