I knock on Jessica’s door, hoping she wasn’t called in to work.
The door whips open and Jessica is standing in a white tank top, white panties, and an untied blue robe. The cool draft coming from the hall causes her nipples to peek through the thin material of her top. I can’t look away, my mouth watering to have them in my mouth.
“Shit, I thought you were Bree,” Jessica shrieks, trying to cover herself with her hands. “What are you doing here?” she asks harshly, wrapping the robe around her half-naked body. She doesn’t like it when I come to her house, but I do it anyway.
“I made sure to wait until Addie was at school, chill,” I reply, stepping around her, making my way into her place.
She sighs and shuts the door behind me. Her apartment is clean and smells of coffee. The overstuffed tan couch sits in front of an entertainment center, and there’s a desk in the corner with a large computer. Looking to my right, a small kitchen with a wooden top island sits, complete with white bar stools, and stainless steel appliances lining the back wall. She moved a few things around since I was here last, but it’s mostly the same.
“We need to talk,” I inform her, sitting on one of the stools. Her eyes peek above her coffee mug as she takes a sip, looking at me with a concerned glare. My eyes travel down her body, the tops of her breasts swelling above her top, and a sliver of her belly showing between her shirt and panties. I turn my head and adjust my semi-hard dick. Jessica is the most stunning woman I know. If I keep eye fucking her, I’ll never get out what I came here to say.
“I think I can help you,” I start, biting my bottom lip in nervousness.
Jessica’s body stiffens and she looks away from me. “How?” she whispers, instinctively knowing what I am talking about. I interlock my fingers sitting on top of the island, and swallow.
“I think you have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,” I inform softly, waiting for her to bite my head off and argue. I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t believe it though. I looked up PTSD all day yesterday, and I’m certain that is what Jessica has.
“No, I don’t,” Jessica snaps offended, her blue eyes stabbing me angrily, and her fingers digging into her mug.
“Yes, you do, Jessica. You live in fear of your ex-husband. He’s conditioned your mind, trained you to behave a certain way. You can’t do things you used to do because he is still in your mind, haunting you severely,” I bark, pointing to my head to emphasis my point.
Jessica leans against her counter, scowling, and shaking her head at me.
“I have a friend who is a therapist. I briefly told her what was going on and she said it was PTSD,” I answer, my tone more gentle than before.
Jessica closes her eyes and huffs. I can tell she is not happy I told someone else about what she told me, but I was out of my league and I needed advice.
“Medicine doesn’t work. Therapy doesn’t work, so whether or not I have PTSD is pointless. Nothing helps,” she clips, shrugging.
“I have a different medicine,” I smirk. Her scowl turns into a look of curiosity.
“What?” she questions, her blue eyes looking at me like I’m her last hope.
I also searched exposure therapy all day yesterday. It has a high rate in effectiveness, making me more eager to try it. I worry my lips between my teeth and take a deep breath. I’m a little nervous at how she is going to react.
“Sex,” I respond.
Jessica laughs, setting her cup on the counter. She’s not taking me seriously. I knew she wouldn’t.
“Okay, time for you to go,” she remarks, still laughing.
“I’m serious, Jessica,” I interrupt. “It’s called exposure therapy. From what you told me, most of your abuse was when your husband made you submit to him sexually, abusing you in the bedroom,” I say seriously, standing from the stool. Jessica’s face stills, her smile from laughing fading into a frown. She runs her hand through her long, blonde hair, the ends curling around her fingers. Her chest rises as she breathes harshly from my confrontation.
“So I should just go have as much sex as I can? I’ve tried that. It doesn’t work. It just…” She stops, taking a deep breath. I close my eyes, not really caring to hear about her sleeping around to help overcome her tormented life.
“Not with just anyone, but with me,” I grit. “I will take those situations, the condition he programmed into your head and redo them in a setting that makes you safe, replace the bad memories with good, with pleasure rather than pain.” I walk around the counter and grasp her by the hips, making her look at me. Her blue eyes glossy with tears, her cheeks flushed.
“How are you any different than sex with anyone else?” she asks, a tear slipping over her lips.
I reach up and rub the tear off her bottom lip with my thumb.
“Because you trust me, and you’re safe with me,” I comfort honestly. She smirks, licking the rest of the tear from her lips.