Emily has been having ever increasing numbers of migraines. She works intensively for eight months of the year, and uses the remaining four as follows. One month of absolutely no work to recharge her batteries, followed by six weeks of updating training and the rest of the time is used for preparing the following 8 months training courses that she delivers. She works her socks off.
But these fucking migraines have been getting more and more severe. And frequent. I’ve spoken to Tig about them and she, bless her heart, went into awesome detail over the symptoms. Emily first has an ‘aura’, which in her case is a bitter taste in her mouth followed by a disturbance in her vision. Both of these then fade, and the headache grips her…..and boy, does it grip! Tig wanted to know if there were any neurological symptoms? Well, I’m not medical in any way so I needed help with that. “Things like loss of sensation anywhere on her body, maybe a lopsided smile, or slurring speech. Pins and needles, or dysphasia. (Dys-what?) Dysphasia, not being able to find words, or saying the wrong words. Jumbled sentences.” By the time I’d finished with Tig, I had a list of things to look for…
…and I found some of them. Emily didn’t have a migraine, but she calmly asked me if I’d like a cup of grass. I asked her to repeat it and, word for word, she then said “Would you…….like…..a……………cup of tea.” She had no idea she was pausing between sentences. A few minutes later, she told me she had ‘that taste in my mouth’ again, and now she’s lying down upstairs in a darkened room dosed up with sumotriptan.
Which is why, the next day we had an appointment with an MRI scanner. We use different doctors, Emily and me, but I dragged her, protesting, to see my lovely GP who was brilliant with her. Half an hour later we had the referral, and (I’m sorry to say this, but it’s true) money talks. I’d give my entire wealth in a heartbeat to fix whatever is wrong….and something is wrong.
Even Tig wouldn’t tell me what the options were, but we’ve known each other all our lives, and I could see the worry in her eyes.
Which brings me on to a confession. Something I’m not proud of, yet, I did it. I may not be medical, but I’m not a complete idiot either. I know we could be looking at something serious here - maybe even life-limiting. I don’t mind admitting I’m scared shitless. So can one of you please tell me why I’m also ragingly horny? I’m like a bitch on heat. I’m wet all the time, and just thinking about Emily makes me need to get myself off.
In between her migraine attacks, I don’t see any neurological signs, and she is as chirpy and cheeky as always…and as sexy. But, nonetheless I’m worried, and with the worry, it seems, comes wet panties. How on earth can I react so inappropriately?
Example? Ok then. I know that tomorrow, Em will be in one of those ridiculous hospital gowns, the sort that open at the back. (I mean….why? Since when did a doctor ever need to get to your arse in a hurry?) just the mere thought of her standing in front of me with that ill-fitting gown hanging off one shoulder, and trailing open at the back giving me a little flash of her bum sends me crazy.
Fuck! See? Just telling you that has caused a flood! Oh dear….
And there’s something else. When I’m worried about something there are usually two kinds of things. Things I can do something about and things I can’t. If it’s something I can affect, I sit down, create a plan, and that’s that. If it’s something I can’t fix, I distract myself. I’ve been known to binge-watch Game of Thrones…and have sexual fantasies about Arya Stark and The Hound. Well last night, I binge watched three Harry Potter movies back to back, and found myself getting horny over Ginny Weasley, of all people.
Remember that scene when she makes Harry take his potions book to the room of requirement in Half Blood Prince? She takes the book off him and hides it, then she kisses him. “That can stay up here too if you like,” she says. Well, I found myself changing what comes next as I sat in our home cinema.
“Off you go then.” Ginny’s voice was low and husky, betraying what she was really feeling. Harry looks confused, but does as he’s told and leaves. Ginny looks around and sees one or two Cornish piskies fluttering about. She smiles to herself. She knows more about piskies than most. She undoes her jeans and pulls them down and off, followed by her panties. Ginny isn’t completely shaved. She has a small triangle above her clit. She sees a piskie sitting on the back of an old leather armchair eyeing her curiously. “Well, I guess it’s just you and me now?” Ginny waves her wand, giving it a curious ‘s’ shaped flick. She doesn’t need a verbal incantation. This is something she’s been doing since she was 14. The piskie flies over to her and lands on her thighs. It buries its head between the young girl’s legs and it’s forked tongue goes to work on her clit. Ginny rolls her head back and closes her eyes. “Mmm….Harry….one day this will be you.” The piskie brings her to orgasm easily, and we watch as Ginny convulses in ecstasy.
Meanwhile, I’ve rubbed myself of….again! What the fuck is wrong with me?
And far, far more importantly, what the fuck is wrong with Emily?
You must be logged in to post wall comments or like a story. Please login or signup (free).