I told myself I was here for help.
Not because I was horny. Not because I couldn’t stop picturing my therapist between my legs.
But because I had issues.
Impulse control. Risk-taking. Obsession.
Dr. Carter said I needed to “explore the root.” That we’d go slow. Talk it out. Trust the process.
But it’s been three sessions. And the only thing I’ve been “exploring” is how good he looks with his sleeves rolled up and his fingers wrapped around a pen.
Today, I wore the shortest skirt I owned. No panties.
He opened the door like usual. Calm. Cold.
“Right on time,” he said. “Come in.”
His office smelled like leather and clean wood. Dark walls. Big chair. Soft lighting. One long black couch that I never actually laid on.
I sat. Crossed my legs slowly.
Dr. Carter sat across from me, flip
