The Doctor's Temptation
I couldn’t cum ,not once in two years with him nor with someone.
Then Sophie,my best friend….slid a card across the table. Dr. Vincent Kane. Specialist in women’s sexual dysfunction. The man who could fix what felt permanently broken.
She didn’t mention he was her ex-husband Or that his “program” meant thirty locked days at his private estate. No sterile exam rooms. Just silk-draped suites, candlelit treatment spaces, and a discreet staff who vanished when he entered.
In our first session he asked me to undress behind a screen and u did. When I stepped out in the thin robe, his gaze dragged down my body,slow, deliberate,before snapping back to my face. His throat worked. “Lie back,” he said, voice rougher than the day before.
His gloved fingers parted with me for the exam. Clinical and professional until they lingered, circling my clit with the lightest pressure, testing responses I didn’t know I had.
My hips jerked. A gasp tore from my throat. He froze, knuckles white on the table edge, breathing hard through his nose.
He didn’t stop….Night after night the sessions grew bolder. His mouth replaced fingers, tongue stroking in slow, deliberate circles until my thighs shook and my back bowed off the massage table. When I finally shattered, clenching, crying out, soaking his chin, he pulled back, lips glistening, eyes black with something feral.
He pinned my wrists above my head one evening, cock hard against my thigh through his trousers. “This is still therapy,” he growled, grinding once, twice. “Tell me to stop.” I arched into him instead, nails digging into his shoulders.
My ex is threatening to leak photos, ruin us... Sophie keeps texting: How’s the retreat? He’s helping, right?