sexual side effects

We'd watched half of The Sheltering Sky, part of the time with my hand rubbing his cock through his pajama bottoms.  Another part of the time I'd lain myself across his lap, and he stroked and patted my bottom until I drifted into sensual bliss.

When we turned off the film, halfway through, we went to the bedroom but not to bed.  Gerard took out his computer and started doing work, even though it was well past 11pm.  I sprawled out on the bed, my face near to his side of the room (where his desk is crammed in among his dressers and our laundry hamper).  "You've made me want to masturbate," I told him.

"What's stopping you?" he replied.  This was a welcome invitation, as in the past he's discouraged me from pleasuring myself in his presence.  Seeing me in fits from self-stimulated orgasm has in the past rendered Gerard incapable of staying focused on work or sleep or whatever else he's wanting or needing to get done.  But apparently his self-control has grown in the past few months.

I reached over to my bedside table and grabbed the vibrator.  Though I admit I was a little bit hesitant.  I'd been warned that my antidepressant can have sexual side effects, and I didn't want to moan and bump around on the vibrator for 20 minutes only to end in frustration.  I'd had that happen once already.  And the last time that Gerard and I had had sex, my vaginal orgasms were weaker than usual.  But this didn't seem like a definite indication of a change.  I decided to be optimistic.

I always masturbate on my stomach, with the vibrator against the outer fabric of my panties.  Gerard watched me get into place, and I tried to ignore him.  I flipped it on, and felt its comforting buzz.  I closed my eyes, my body relaxed slightly, and I moaned.

A moment later I opened my eyes, and I saw Gerard holding his phone, taking a video.  "I love the way your ass bumps up and down," he told me, his voice breathy with arousal.  I giggled and tried to ignore him.  The presence of the camera turned me on more, and I could feel the extra kick in the buzz between my legs.

But I was having some trouble.  None of my usual fantasy avenues were putting me on the road to climax.  There are lots of images and situations that usually come to my mind in such moments, and work to easily send me over the edge, and none of them were working.  I started to flip through my mental catalogue more frantically, retrying my favorites, and nothing was happening.

I now wanted to come more than ever, partly to please Gerard and partly to assure myself that I was not going to succumb to the sexual side effects.  I thought of the psychiatrist who initially prescribed this medication, who told me that a decrease in libido or in ability to reach orgasm could happen.

I hadn't liked this psychiatrist, and have since found someone else to work with instead.  When I met with him, he was crass-- telling me to wait in his office while he went to "the john," and that he really wasn't interested in being in contact with my therapist.  He was portly and, while nice enough, barely asked me a thing about myself and what had driven me to seek a psychopharmacologist.  Just found a box to put me into and left it at that.  Also, he had an obvious sexual interest in me.  He'd looked at me a little too long, with a little bit too much attention, after he told me about the sexual side effects.  And earlier in our meeting he'd said, "You're a very attractive girl.  Men have probably been hitting on you your whole life."  I'd just met his gaze and said, "Yes, that's true," as if it was a totally normal thing for a professional to say to a client out of nowhere-- but it's not.

It was creepy.  Yet, as I thought about it... well, its creepiness started to feel a little bit erotic.  There I was, alone with this man-- this man who was large and could easily have overpowered me, this man who was on the up side of the fiduciary relationship and was obviously already pushing the boundaries a little bit.  He'd seen my vulnerability and he believed that he could go ahead, just say those things, let his mind wander about me and not hide the fact that it was.  He was taking liberties, even if they'd been relatively harmless.  (I mean, it lost him a client (and any chance at future referrals from me or anyone I know), but I didn't have a breakdown or threaten to sue or even confront him.)

I'd been masturbating for 20 minutes already, and I had finally come upon a thought that was hitting the button.  I was a little weirded out with myself, but I really wanted that orgasm.  I imagined him grabbing me by the arm, pulling me out of my chair, bending me over his desk, lifting my skirt.  I imagined how totally grossed out I would be, and how scared and vulnerable.  I did NOT want to imagine him fucking me, but I imagined him thinking about it, touching me in ways that are deplorable, taking advantage of my vulnerability.  I imagined him spanking me and talking down to me, with that self-satisfied superiority that he had through our entire meeting.

Bam.  There was my orgasm.  It was a great one too-- loud and thorough.  I banged my temple against the softness of the comforter, and cried out, gasping for breath and then slowing down again eventually.  I wasn't able to push to a second one, which was disappointing, but I usually need a second fantasy on hand to make a second orgasm happen, and I already knew I'd run out of ideas.  Plus, I was just slightly grossed out by what had actually pushed me over the edge.

That was out of my mind pretty quickly, though, when Gerard caught his breath and I opened my eyes to see him smiling at me.  He slid his hand down my back and then gave my bottom a few firm swats.  They served to extend the physical sensation of the orgasm just a little bit longer.  "Don't stop," Gerard urged me.  "I love to see your pleasure."  He leaned down and we kissed.

A moment later I flipped off the vibrator.  I snuggled under the covers, and Gerard joined me, laying his arm around my middle and pulling me into the curve of his body.