The Therapist’s Secret Session
It started on a mundane Wednesday. I had a habit of wandering the city when boredom struck, often finding myself near the holistic center where I occasionally sought consultations. The center was a hub of psychiatrists, therapists, and alternative healers. On this particular afternoon, the waiting room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the surprised look on the receptionist’s face when she saw me arrive without an appointment.
That was when Alma stepped out of her office. She was in her thirties, with a warm, olive complexion, large brown eyes, and lips always painted in a subtle, inviting shade. She was slender yet curved in all the right places, but it was her legs that truly captivated me. Despite her professional attire, she never wore stockings, and her toned legs, accentuated by high heels and a tailored skirt, always sparked my imagination.
I watched as Alma learned her next patient had canceled. Seeing an opening, I followed her back into her office. I had tried to seduce her before; she had always responded with playful glances or a suggestive sway of her hips, only to retreat at the last second. But today, the tension felt different.
I entered while she was facing her desk. “You must have dropped those pens with those suggestive hips of yours,” I murmured. She jumped, accidentally knocking more items to the floor. For a fleeting second, her eyes flashed with raw desire before she masked it with a professional facade. As she leaned over to retrieve the pens, the view of her curves in that tight skirt was irresistible. I stepped forward, pressing my body against her back.
Alma shivered but didn’t pull away. She leaned back into me, her scent of sweet jasmine filling my senses. “You never miss an opportunity, do you?” she whispered with a smirk. Instead of kicking me out, she stepped toward the door, told the receptionist she had a new patient, and clicked the lock shut.
The atmosphere shifted instantly. I sat on the leather divan, watching her approach. When she was close enough, I pulled her by the waist, my mouth finding the swell of her breast through her blouse. She let out a soft moan, her head tilting back as my hands wandered down to her thighs. I felt the heat radiating from her, the humidity of her desire already soaking through her lace panties.
Our kiss was hungry and desperate, a release of months of unspoken tension. I lifted her onto the desk, clearing the papers with one swift motion. She hurriedly shed her undergarments and unbuttoned her blouse, her white bra barely containing her. I worshipped her body, my tongue tracing a path from her chest down to her belly, eventually finding the center of her heat. She gasped, her fingers clutching my hair as I tasted her, driving her to the brink of ecstasy.
When I finally entered her, the connection was electric. We moved together in a frantic, rhythmic dance, the sound of our skin meeting filling the soundproof room. Alma clung to me, her cries of pleasure echoing as we both reached a crashing climax, leaving us breathless and tangled together on the desk.
As we dressed, she confessed the reason for her previous hesitation. “My husband is incredibly jealous,” she whispered. “He drops me off and picks me up every day.” The risk only made the fire burn hotter. From that day on, I became her most frequent ‘patient,’ finding a thrilling addiction in our stolen hours of forbidden intimacy.