The Therapist’s Secret Session
It began on a routine Wednesday. I had a habit of wandering the city when boredom struck, seeking something to ignite my curiosity. My steps led me to the holistic center, a place where psychiatrists and therapists worked side by side. I slipped into the waiting room, unnoticed by the receptionist, and waited.
Then I saw her. Alma was a psychologist in her thirties with an oval face, honey-toned skin, and deep brown eyes. She wore a professional skirt and heels that accentuated her long, toned legs—legs that had haunted my imagination during previous visits. I had tried to seduce her before; she would respond with a playful glance or a suggestive sway of her hips, only to vanish behind a professional excuse just as things became interesting.
When the receptionist informed her that her next patient had canceled, I saw my opening. I followed her into her office, catching her off guard. As she bent over her desk to retrieve a fallen pen, the curve of her hips in that tight skirt was irresistible. I stepped forward, pressing my body against her back. She shivered, but she didn’t pull away.
“You don’t miss an opportunity, do you?” she whispered, her voice laced with mischief. Instead of kicking me out, she stepped to the door and told the receptionist not to disturb her, claiming a new patient had arrived. She locked the door with a satisfying click.
I moved to the office divan, watching her approach. When she was close enough, I pulled her by the waist, my mouth finding her breast through the thin fabric of her blouse. A soft moan escaped her lips as my hands wandered down to her thighs. I kissed her with a sudden, desperate passion, my tongue dancing with hers while my hand slid beneath her skirt. She was already damp, her body humming with a desire she could no longer hide.
I lifted her onto the desk, sweeping aside the paperwork. She hurriedly shed her underwear and unbuttoned her shirt, her chest heaving. I worshipped her body, my tongue tracing a path from her breasts down to her belly, eventually finding the heat of her core. She arched her back, her fingers gripping my hair as I tasted her, driving her to the brink of madness.
When I finally entered her, the connection was electric. We moved together in a frantic, rhythmic dance, the sound of our bodies colliding filling the soundproof room. Alma clung to me, her cries of pleasure echoing as we both spiraled toward a shattering climax. I filled her with a warmth that left us both breathless and trembling.
As we dressed, the truth emerged. “I’m married,” she confessed softly, “and my husband is incredibly jealous.” Far from deterring me, the risk only heightened the thrill. From that day on, I became her most frequent ‘patient,’ finding a dangerous, exquisite pleasure in the secret we shared right under her husband’s nose.