The Therapist - Volume 2: Episode 1

She walked into the office like someone trying to disappear. Tight blouse, nervous hands, eyes that wanted to look at anything but me. Alison Rey. Newly married and already losing the thread. I crossed my legs and studied her. She had that fragile, clenched beauty you see in wives who spend too long making dinners they don’t want to eat. I knew exactly what she needed. Not advice. Touch. First session was slow, almost tender. I told her to unbutton her blouse while she told me how she and her husband faked intimacy on Tuesday nights. Her fingers trembled. Her nipples tightened in the cool office air. When I finally touched her—palm cupping the swell of one breast—she exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for months. Her body learned faster than her mouth. Heat, flush, wet. She came against my thigh in five minutes flat, hips jerking, wedding ring flashing under the lamp. By session two she undressed before I asked. Kneeling between my spread legs, she licked me like a secret she finally stopped apologizing for. Her tongue pressed flat, then quick, then inside. I kept my voice calm while my thighs trembled around her cheeks. "Slower," I whispered. "Make it last." She moaned into me, and I rewarded her with slick fingers sliding over her clit until she trembled hard enough to grab the edge of my desk. Third session broke what little restraint she still had. I bent her over my leather couch, peeled her panties aside, and slid a thick silicone cock between her cheeks. Slow. Deep. She clawed the cushions and begged—silently at first, then loud, filthy words her husband had never pulled from her. I held her hips steady and fucked her in steady strokes until she came hard enough to soak the fabric beneath us. Sweat cooled on her back. My name trembled off her tongue like she was praying. She left smiling. Not the polite smile she wore on arrival—the real one, the lazy, fucked-out kind. Marriage saved. Or at least redefined.