This erotic story excerpt by Carly from Zoloft was originally published by AURORE and is a finalist in the Good Sex Awards Best Thought Leadership Category. Show it some love and vote for this story in the Readers' Choice awards by 20 June.

Good Sex Awards Thought Leadership Category Finalist

Tease: Would you trade your libido for happiness? One woman attempts to have both.

We’ve just finished dinner, settling on the couch to watch history in real time; the latest drop of Vox’s “Explained: Coronavirus.” I realize the screen is positioned incorrectly, and rise to situate it. As I do, my ass enters my partner’s view.

He grabs my hips and utters in a low tone, “Let me kiss it. Just once.”

Nothing about this evening is sexy, but my partner’s desire remarkably rises above a full belly, disaster, and the brink of apocalypse—nothing can sink his relentlessly hard cock.

I let out a noise of consent, and he rolls the bottom of my slip dress up. He dips below me to kiss my pussy from behind. At first I feel very little aside from the soreness in my lower back growing from my awkward position. I hold onto the screen, arching my back more, and try to accept the work being done to me. Soon, he gets me wet, and I begin to focus more on the sensation than the position, begin to lean into it, sink into his face.

When I’m thoroughly aroused, I step my legs apart to straddle his. He takes this signal to pull his pants down. I hover over his cock with my wetness for a moment, before sinking onto him. I fuck him like that for a bit, but I feel so alone, staring at the paused tv screen, so I get off of him, and walk to my room.

I return with my large, heavy, floor length mirror, my small biceps taut carrying its weight. I position it carefully against the wall, watch myself glide backward and sink back down on him.

I’m suddenly intensely connected to the moment, to the sex, to myself. I see my pussy in a new way, lips spread and inner labia exposed, blooming petals, encapsulating his cock as I maneuver up and down on him. I’m glistening inside, and I can see his cock shining each time I rise up on it.

It’s like this a lot now—not that I haven’t always enjoyed the increased sensory experience of watching sex in a mirror—I have to do more to connect to my sexual pleasure. It’s as if my clit donned a helmet rather than a hood when I started taking antidepressants.

Sex on Zoloft™

Since I started taking meds, sex often feels more like a friend in town I’m obligated to entertain than the physical compulsion it used to be. After barely surviving several extremely frustrating oral sessions in which my gracious, patient lover went down on me for no less than an hour, to no avail, I’ve taken to reaching for my vibrator sooner than later during every single sex session. Basically, I give up before beginning. There’s an inherent laziness to knowing I can’t cum on my own. I’m the ultimate pillow princess, very rarely climbing on top. But when actively engaged in sex, like tonight, I seem to snap into myself.

And so, I watch his cock sparkle with my wetness. The profound stir and aching desire to be fucked left me when I started the pills, but when I actually get down to business, I don’t have trouble getting wet. He likes to pause, tell me to “listen to it.” One day, somewhat fresh on Zoloft, I smoked the last cigarette in my pack and just never went back to the bodega to buy more. No more urge to smoke (cigarettes were a cruel robber of lubrication in my past) but also, no more urge for sex. Life is sacrifices, striking bargains, I tell myself.

Tonight, I rise from his cock once again to grab a toy, a soft pink vibrator that has a low, steady pulse. Cumming on top feels different. I clench his cock, doubling over, and feel his hands grabbing my hips, ready to unleash his cum along my spine. I always feel an odd sense of accomplishment after sex. Like I did something good for him, for our relationship.


Sex before Zoloft™

Prior to June 2019, sex was my religion. I studied it, devoted—I’d orbit around my need, a need that felt greater than myself. Being desired was the only thing that fueled me, sex the culmination of my grasp at peace and power. I’d line my eyes with thick, liquid liner, and wear perfume strangers complimented. My body curved in such a way it would elicit howls when I let clothing hug it. I’d fake confidence that fooled most and I’d chainsmoke, loitering on curbs and in bar backyards, always reeling on the brink of some perceived slight or tragic end with my latest fling. Always looking for my next victim, my next savior.

My friend sent an image of a woman tied to a stake, lighting the cigarette in her mouth from the flames beneath her and I’d never seen anything more me. I lit fires. I’d happily burn. I’d fight, I’d fuck, and I’d smolder with rage and desire. My hatred for men was matched only by my desire for them, my desire to be desired by them. It became hard to distinguish if my aim was to destroy them or to destroy myself.

One night, in a madness to escape the overwhelming sadness of a recent break up, I approached a man in a bar, coming on strong. His friends told me he was engaged, as a warning or a plea, but I ignored them, continuing my mission, bringing him home. I was insatiable and reckless—I’d send graphic nudes to people for attention, then ignore their advances at parties. Once, I arrived two hours late to a good friend’s birthday because I decided at the last minute to go home with an afternoon date. I’d be the person making out with her new boyfriend you’re meeting for the first time in the corner of your living room while you’re throwing an intimate dinner. Juggling, rotating, never alone too long, I couldn’t bear it.

Have a splitting headache? A fuck will cure it. Pissed someone off? Seduce them. His foot is out the door? Suck his cum like venom from a wound.

Then I encountered a heartbreak I was unprepared for, and I crumbled. I could not recover. Not even the new beautiful boy I procured helped shake it. My friend told me seriously just take the pills, the ones that sat like a bible on my nightstand, never opened, for months.

And then it smooths. A gentle ease soaks my furious brain. The delirious desire quiets. My phone alerts me each day to take my pill. It’s not birth control, it’s some other kinda freedom. I swallow.

The Come Down

A couple months passed. I met a genuinely nice, normal guy who liked me, and I let him court me. For a little while I still wanted the sex, but I was detached from the need.

We fell into a relationship, and I came to like our simple existence. We moved in together, and I felt more wholesome than I ever have in my life. I started to favor mornings over late nights—we woke up to an empty neighborhood and played sham tennis, got high on caffeine and walked to the good brunch spots before they got crowded. We hung out with other couples, made dinner, and planned for the future. When I was a cunt, he’d tell me he still loves me through the door I slam. I trusted him completely, I felt safe. We fucked about once a week after he rubbed my back and still I hoped, hoped, hoped this was enough for him.


Prescription Grade Fantasy

While my body may have lost its verve, eternal quarantine means my mind has nowhere to go but wander amongst ghosts. It’s a dance I do with my old self—she knows all the moves but they feel a bit off; I’m a backup dancer instead of the star. I can still channel her power though, for an afternoon at least.

I pull out the bag tucked in my closet where I keep all my sexy lingerie. Digging through it, I stretch out sheer thigh high stockings, straps that seem to go nowhere and everywhere, PVC, latex, expensive, delicate things that have been used once or twice or not at all. It’s a perfumed jumble of black, with glinting gold shouting at me through the darkness. I’m an intruder, rummaging through some other woman’s drawer, but my memory reassures me…Your pale skin with black lingerie, your dark hair, and light eyes…

It’s all so symbolic, dressing up to fuck. The fastening of a garter on the back thigh—acrobatic. But the second that wispy fabric hit a fresh shaved calf, I’d transform.

I think he’d like the Bordelle harnesses; the top frames my tits with a bit of lift, and the bottom is really just a decoration, completely open where it needs to be, so it wouldn’t have to come off. I enjoy a piece with staying power, or else it’s a lot of work to dress up. I pair two stockings and find the seam, gathering each one and then rolling them up my leg till they hit my thigh and squeeze. I spy my ass in the mirror, faceted by straps like a diamond, expertly tied, squeezed in all the right places.

I decide to skip shoes because somehow that’s what I think will push the whole thing over the top, and after one last glance in the mirror, I walk on the balls of my feet to the door of his office. It’s midday and I open the door a crack to make sure he’s not on a Zoom call. The coast is clear, I fling it all the way open. I stand, still on tip toes and let him come to terms with the situation.

“Wow,” he says. “Baby, you look so good!”

I don’t say a word, instead, I walk over to his desk and lean over to kiss his neck, and let my hand roam from his shoulder, around his pec, down to his hard cock already waiting for me. I grip the waist of his sweats and ease them down, whipping them off at his feet. My face bows between his legs and my tongue licks from his balls up the bottom of his shaft, wetting his cock and playing with the ridge between the shaft and head. I let the head pop into my mouth, circling with my tongue. I can already taste his salty pre cum.

Hands on his chest, I take as much of his cock in my mouth as I can, locking eyes with him each time my head rolls back. My rhythm is upbeat, and he lays a hand on my shoulder to signal I should slow. “Wait, wait—I don’t want to cum yet,” he says.

“Stand up,” he requests, and I do.

“Turn around,” he says, and I do.

He takes a moment to investigate my many straps, and snaps one with a satisfied sound, cupping my ass at the same time. He leans me over his desk, and situates his hips behind mine. He feels for my cunt with his dick, and deeming me sufficiently wet, pushes his way inside.

The first few thrusts are painful, while I open up to him, and I grip my kegels to hold him in a space I can handle. His hands reach around my waist to grab onto my exposed breasts, bouncing with each thrust. We both look to the mirror attached to the closet doors to appreciate my costume.

He begins fucking me more feverishly, and I recognize this rhythm to mean he’s close to cumming. He whispers in my ear, “let me go get your vibrator,” but even as I feel my clit respond to this idea, I shake my head, and with my breath whisked away on each word, say “No, I want you to cum.” He doesn’t need to be convinced, he’s so close, his eyes are closed, head bowed, with my whole body in his hands, under his control.

Suddenly, he jerks out of me, cock in his hand. He holds the tip to prevent his cum from tainting my strappy things, but lets the tip rub slick and gooey on my ass cheek. My pussy feels hot, used, worthy. I eye myself again in the mirror, leaned against his desk, back arched unnaturally.


The Zoloft Reality

If only. I lay on the couch, daydreaming, until he finishes work and joins me. Cuddling, we’re both fighting a late afternoon slump. It’s raining outside, the first day in a while the weather gives us permission to sloth. I stretch over him, my belly on his lap. I feel him soften beneath me and slow his breathing. I’m thinking about it. Thinking about having sex. Thinking I could, that I kinda want to. I’m still in my robe from my shower this morning, only a pair of Thinx on under, I’ve just started my period. I rise from my position, look at him and say, “Wanna have sex?”

He pauses a moment, stunned by my proposition, and still sleepy. It looks like he considers saying no but then, incredibly enthusiastically, says, “yes!”

I get up and tell him to come to bed. I untie my robe and lie down. He goes to get a towel to put under me, and I lift my hips so he can help me shimmy out of my Thinx and then place the towel. We get right to it. Him on top, pushing into me, my wetness coats him and he’s in. It feels…amazing. I’m sighing in his ear and he’s already got that look like he wants to come. Our sparse sex schedule means it usually doesn’t last long, but I’m okay with that. He says, “let me get your vibrator,” and I respond, “yes.”

The Bordelle remains untouched, untarnished.


If you loved this story, vote for it in the Readers’ Choice awards by 20 June or read it here.

Carly is the founder of AURORE, a digital collection of non-fiction erotica.

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