Your Voice, My Hand - Sex Stories

Your Voice, My Hand

... totally understand if you don't want to talk anymore. I will miss your friendship, but I just want what's best for you. I want you to be happy. I swear I will leave you alone if that's what you want. But for God's sake, Justine, please get back to me. I'm worried sick.

Your words blurred as tears filled my eyes. I began sobbing, shaking so hard I sloshed wine on my blouse. I hadn't meant to be cruel to you, Paul. It's just that no one had ever cared about me the way you did, and I doubted anyone even could. My own mother knew to leave me alone while I was in a depressive stupor. "Call me when you've stopped feeling sorry for yourself," she once told me.

As the wine soaked through my top to stain the bra I wore beneath it, I hurried to send a reply to you:I'm okay. I'm so sorry I didn't let you know earlier.

Your response was almost immediate:Thank God! Did something happen? You know I'm here for you if you need to talk.

I let out a shuddering sigh. How could I explain what was wrong with me? I had no words to describe the hell my life had become. Climbing to my feet, I carried my phone into the bedroom, still trying to think of a way I could make you understand. I unbuttoned my ruined blouse and tossed it aside, then removed my bra and dress pants. You sent another email as I was pulling a faded t-shirt over my head. The evening was cool outside, but I felt flushed from the wine and from crying so hard.

Picking up the phone, my eyes widened. You'd sent me ...

... your number.Please call me, you wrote.If you never want to hear from me again after tonight, I'll respect that. But I need to hear your voice. I need to hear you tell me you're okay.

My hands were trembling so much, I could barely place the call to you. As soon as you answered, I blurted out, "It's Justine. I'm so sorry, Paul!" I apologized over and over again, and then it all spilled out of me: my struggle with depression and my lack of will to do anything more than merely exist. I hiccupped and sobbed, growing almost incoherent at times, yet you patiently listened.

"Shh, it's okay, sweetheart," you soothed. Your voice was low and deep, a honeyed caress. I choked out another apology, and you said, "There's no need to be sorry, Justine. We just need to get you better, okay?" It was you who convinced me to go back to the doctor despite my protests that I'd already tried every treatment my health insurance would cover. "Medications for depression are being developed all the time. There might be a new one that will work for you. We at least have to try." You spoke like we were a team and you would stick by me no matter what. "Promise me you'll make an appointment."

"I promise," I whispered.

You talked to me that night until I was drowsy and close to sleep. I still remember the last thing you said before wishing me good night: "I'm sorry it took me this long to ask you to call me. I'm sorry I wasn't here for you sooner."

I followed through on my promise, returning to ...