My fiancé thinks I’m going to therapy for stress

Mariana barely slept that night. She lay staring at the ceiling of her rented room, with a taste still clinging to her throat and the skin on her face feeling tight, where the cold water hadn’t managed to clean everything away. Every time she closed her eyes, the same image came back: her mouth full, his fingers in her nape, the sudden heat that had splattered into her hair and over her breasts.

And the worst part wasn’t that. The worst part was remembering how her own body had responded. How she had swallowed without thinking. How, in some shameful corner, a part of her had enjoyed the filth, the shock, the absolute surrender.

The next morning she looked at herself in the mirror and was frightened. Dark circles, swollen lips, a reddish mark on her neck she couldn’t remember giving herself. She felt dirty, and not just on the outside. She felt betrayed by herself.

When Damián texted her in the afternoon—“Do we see each other today?”—she replied with three curt words: “I can’t. I need to think.”

The phone rang at once. Mariana hesitated, looked at the screen for a long while, and finally answered.

—Mariana, what’s wrong? —Damián’s voice was worried, but too calm to be sincere.

She broke down. The words came out in a rush, between sobs.

—This is too much. I feel awful. I’ve done things I never thought I’d do. I have a fiancé, Damián. I’m going to get married. This is wrong and I want to stop. I want to quit therapy.

There was a long silence on the other end.

—Listen to me —he said at last, soft but firm—. It’s normal that you’re scared. All of this is new to you. But stopping now would mean throwing away everything you’ve achieved. Do you really want to go back to the altar with that doubt eating you alive, without knowing whether you’re actually capable of enjoying yourself?

—I don’t know… I don’t know what to do.

—Before deciding anything, let’s talk to Néstor. Just the three of us. You tell him how you feel, without details. Tell him we’ve been making progress in intimacy and that it’s hard for you. He’s the therapist. Trust him.

Mariana closed her eyes. The idea of telling the professor terrified her. But Damián insisted with that calculated patience she still didn’t know how to read, and in the end she gave in. They set the next day, a one-on-one session.

***

She arrived at the office pale, her hands cold. Damián sat beside her with a feigned embarrassment that didn’t quite manage to hide a spark of mischief. Néstor noticed it immediately.

The therapist listened without interrupting. Mariana spoke in a broken voice.

—Professor, we’ve been… doing couple things. Kissing, touching… and more. And I feel terrible. I have a fiancé. I’m going to get married. I think this is wrong. I want to stop.

Néstor looked at her calmly, then shifted his eyes to Damián, who lowered his gaze without fully erasing his smile. He intuited they had gone much farther than “touching.” He said nothing about it.

—Mariana, what you’re feeling is completely normal —he began, in the voice of someone reciting something memorized—. Guilt is the first wall that appears when someone truly explores their sexuality. Especially when it comes from a relationship where sex was always the same: quick, small, without curiosity. You told me that. And now you’re discovering that your body responds in ways you didn’t know. That’s scary. It’s also a sign that you’re growing.

She lowered her gaze, tears running down her cheeks.

—What if this makes me a bad person? What if after this I can’t even look Andrés in the eye?

Néstor leaned forward, his voice wrapped in false tenderness.

—Listen carefully. Marrying without having resolved your doubts would be far more dangerous for your marriage than anything you do now. Imagine you get to your first anniversary and discover you don’t enjoy it, that you feel empty, that you start fantasizing about other people. That’s what destroys a couple. What you’re doing now is preparing yourself. It’s an investment in your future, in a safe, controlled setting. No one is falling in love. No one is going to get hurt. And the day you get married, you’ll know exactly what you need. It’s a gift you’re giving yourself… and your future husband.

Mariana looked at him with glassy eyes.

—Do you really think this isn’t wrong?

—I think stopping now would be the real mistake.

She stayed silent for a long time. Then she nodded slowly.

—All right. I’ll continue. For my marriage.

Damián exhaled, relieved. Néstor barely smiled. How can she swallow all this? he thought, without letting the expression betray him.

When they left the office, Mariana’s doubt had turned into a renewed excuse. Now she had official permission to keep going.

***

The encounters intensified. Damián was patient and relentless at the same time, and every appointment became a “lesson.”

One day he asked her to strip completely. Mariana hesitated, but guilt had already thinned out more. She removed her clothes slowly, and when she was naked he looked at her with a hunger that raised gooseflesh on her skin.

—You’re beautiful —he whispered.

He sat her on top of him, astride. They kissed for a long time, with tongue and gasps, until his glans rested right at her entrance, slick against her swollen lips.

—Wait… we can’t —she murmured.

But her hips moved on their own, dropping barely a centimeter. He slid in, and a long moan escaped Mariana. Damián grabbed her by the waist and pushed her downward, opening her little by little. It hurt—he was much bigger than Andrés—but behind the pain something enormous kept growing.

When she had him all the way inside, both of them gasped at once. They started slowly, deeply, and then faster and faster. She bounced on him with her hands braced on his chest.

—I’m going to come —she shouted, convulsing, squeezing him in spasms.

He couldn’t hold on. He lifted her by the waist and emptied himself in hot, deep bursts, until the heat started sliding down her thighs. Mariana collapsed on top of him, sweaty, trembling.

And the guilt came back, right on time.

—I don’t even know what this is anymore —she whispered.

—It’s for your marriage. You’re doing it for your future.

She nodded. But deep down, a little voice that was growing louder told her it was no longer just for that. And she liked that little voice too much.

***

That same week, Andrés showed up in her room without warning, as he had taken to doing lately. He came in still wearing his work jacket and that neutral expression he had when he arrived tired.

—Hi —he said, hanging up the jacket—. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.

—I was nearby. I thought we could talk for a bit.

He sat beside her. The smell of his cologne mingled with her skin, which still held traces of the day. Mariana wrapped her arms around her knees tightly.

—How are you? —he asked, almost professionally.

—Tired. I’m still going to therapy, for the stress of moving cities.

—Is it helping?

—A little. It helps me clear my head.

Andrés looked toward the window. Then he shifted position, resting his elbows on his knees.

—I’ve been thinking about the engagement. I want to make it official now. What do you think about a dinner with my family to announce it?

Mariana’s stomach tightened.

—So soon? It makes me nervous. I don’t know if they like me.

—Don’t worry about that. I chose you because you’re simple, uncomplicated. Not like others who ask too many questions or want to change everything. You keep me calm. That’s what I need.

She lowered her eyes. She didn’t know whether to take it as a compliment or something else.

—Okay. We’ll do it. But promise you won’t leave me alone with them.

—Of course. I’ll let you know when I have everything ready.

He gave her a quick kiss, picked up the jacket and put it back on, already heading for the door.

—Don’t you want to stay a little longer? We can do something —she said, more out of duty than desire.

Andrés looked at her for a few seconds, as if considering it.

—Rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.

—I love you —she said, almost in a whisper.

He paused for an instant in the doorway, hand on the knob.

—Yes, I love you too. Rest.

The door shut with a soft click. Mariana was left alone on the sofa, with the echo of those cold words bouncing around her head. She understood nothing, and she also didn’t know what to expect.

***

The therapy, meanwhile, could not stop.

One day, while he had her on all fours and was pounding into her hard, Damián lowered his head and ran his tongue over a new place. First a brush, then slow circles.

Mariana tensed up at once.

—What are you doing? Stop! That’s disgusting.

—It’s not —he replied, lifting his head with a calm smile—. It’s an erogenous zone. Didn’t you notice a different tingling when I touched you there? Something you liked even though it embarrassed you.

She stayed silent. It was true: she had felt a heat rising all the way to her nape. But the shame weighed more.

—If we’re both clean and we enjoy it, there’s nothing dirty about it —he insisted—. Let me try. If you don’t like it, I’ll stop.

Curiosity won. Mariana nodded slightly, and he went back, this time with dedication. The tongue went in, out, circling, until an involuntary moan escaped her. Then he slipped in a finger, lubricated with saliva, and she shuddered, half scared, half aroused.

—Relax —he whispered—. Look how much you like it.

And she did like it. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, but the pleasure was real.

A few days later, Damián arrived with a small bag. He took out a black silicone toy and a bottle of lubricant.

—It’s so you can get used to the sensation. You put it on and wear it while we’re together.

—No. That’s too much already.

—It’s small. Just for practice. Trust me.

After a lot of insisting and a lot of kisses, she gave in. When they started, the double pressure drove her mad: she came harder than ever, screaming, her legs shaking.

—What is this? I’m losing my mind!

Damián smiled.

—I told you you’d like it.

***

And then came the day he had been waiting for.

He prepared her calmly: lubricant, tongue, two fingers, then three. Mariana moaned softly, already completely surrendered.

—I think you’re ready now —he said, pulling his fingers out.

—Ready for what?

He lubed himself up, positioned himself behind her, and pressed the glans against her.

—For this.

Mariana was truly scared.

—No! It’s too big! You’re going to tear me apart!

—Relax —he said, not moving—. Your body already knows how to open. We’ll go slowly. If it hurts too much, I’ll stop.

She was trembling. Fear and shame were enormous, but so was curiosity, and that blind trust that “it was all for her marriage.”

—Slowly. Please.

He pushed. The glans entered with difficulty and Mariana let out a sharp cry. Centimeter by centimeter, she gave way. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but beneath the pain a deep, strange pressure pulsed that was beginning to turn into pleasure.

—Are you okay? —he asked when he was fully inside.

—It hurts… but also… I don’t know… it’s weird.

Damián started moving slowly. Out, in, each time more fluid. The pain dissolved. The pleasure grew until she began moaning differently, pushing back without realizing it.

The orgasm hit suddenly, brutal, contracting her in waves. He roared and emptied himself inside her, in thick bursts that filled her to overflowing.

When he pulled away, Mariana remained trembling face down. She slowly turned and looked at him with wide eyes.

—I can’t believe what we just did.

He held her.

—I told you your body was capable of a lot more than you thought.

She closed her eyes, still panting.

—All of this is for my marriage… right?

—All of this is for you, Mariana. So you’ll get there knowing what you want.

She nodded slowly. But deep down, the little voice was whispering something else, something she could no longer silence: what if I don’t want to go back anymore?

She sat up, pushed her hair out of her face, and looked at him straight on.

—We need to talk to Néstor again.

Damián stopped smiling. For the first time, he seemed uneasy.

—This time for what?

Mariana held his gaze, and for the first time there was no guilt in her eyes. Only a new, dangerous certainty that belonged entirely to her.

—To find out whether therapy is over… or whether what I’ve discovered doesn’t need an excuse anymore.