The Therapist Novels & Stories

054. Therapy Session... Axel walked into the therapy room with a heavy heart. The last few weeks had been a whirlwind of emotions, and he desperately needed help sorting through them. As he settled into the chair across from the therapist, he couldn’t help but feel a little awkward. The therapist, Dr. Evelyn Clarke, was a middle-aged woman with a warm and inviting smile. She sensed his discomfort immediately and leaned forward, her eyes meeting his with empathy. “Hello, Axel. How are you feeling today?” she asked in a gentle, reassuring tone.

In fact, she was the first person he talked to in a while. She looked relaxed and slightly moved her glasses as she waited for his reply. Martin didn’t look at her. He was busy reading the many diplomas behind the counselor. She was a professional therapist, alright. He didn’t doubt her expertise. But he doubted his own sanity. He never knew anyone that sought out helps from therapists, at least to his knowledge. Maybe something was wrong with him.

But I was trying. “All right, Doc. Hit me with it.” My therapist laughed. “Hold your arms out. I’m going to press down on them, and you fight back.” I grinned. “You mean I can punch you in the face?” “Not that kind of fighting back.” “Be more specific next time.”

he continued, his tone never shifting, “we also need someone who isn’t in our personal circle. Someone trained to help us carry what’s heavy.” I stared at him, unsure how to respond. “I’m not saying you have to,” he added quickly. “I’m not here to make you do anything but I do think… talking to a therapist could help you feel a little safer again. Not just out there,” he gestured vaguely toward the hallway, “but in here too.” He placed his hand gently over his chest. The lump in my throat returned. “What if I can’t say the words?” I whispered. “Then you start with silence,” he said. “And that’s okay. The right therapist will meet you exactly where you are, no pressure. No rush.”

The sun shone brightly, Louis was standing at the edge of the bed naked, scooting up behind him, caressing his body from behind, reaching lower massaging his penis, feeling it grow in my grasp. He turned around, his lustful eyes gazing at me, "As much I would like to fuck you until nightfall love, we have things to do." He kissed me before disappearing in the walk-in and fetching us both a set of clothes. At first, I was a little nervous about seeing a therapist. After attending a few of Louis's appointments, I thought I would give it a try. It was your typical office setting, with several different sitting arrangements, degrees and certifications hung along the wall, and a few bookshelves.

“That’s totally inappropriate. I see you need to retake the class about what to say to people and what not to. Remember Manners 101?” “I know the difference.” He kept the smile in place. “We speak the truth here according to you and that’s what I’m doing. I’m going to go to my room and—” “I understand,” she cut him off. “I’m your therapist and there’s a thing called ethics. You can stop having those thoughts about me because we can’t ever have a physical relationship.” That killed his amusement. “Why not?” “I took an oath and you’re my client. You need my help and that means not being taken advantage of. You’re in a fragile state.”

"Hey, how ya doing, Santos?" "I'm doing okay, thanks." Shaking my therapist's hand, a genuine smile crosses my face. I've been seeing Justin for a couple of weeks now, and therapy hasn't been at all like I thought it would be. I envisioned a stuffy old man making me lay on a couch while he holds a clipboard and asks me about my mother. Justin, however, is anything but a stuffy old man. Just a couple years older than me, he comes to work wearing jeans and sneakers. He's got scruff on his face and doesn't even have a desk to sit behind. His office looks more like a living room with a couch and a couple recliners. The only indication it's a therapy office at all is the bookshelf full of referen

Diane said. "Perhaps one that you're not telling me about?" She interestedly asked. "Disappearance?" I quizzed as I uncrossed my legs, sitting up from the upholstery. "You're making it seem like it's gone, like maybe I can never get it back" I added. "I'm just leaving this open to you but I've had cases that t-". "That, that is not what a therapist does. You need to encourage, you need to treat, to heal, not make it seem bad" I interrupted.

My name is Sophia Bennett, and I work as a rehabilitation therapist at a physiotherapy hospital, mainly helping patients with limb issues regain strength and mobility. The city I live in has seen rapid economic growth, and families who can afford high-end rehab centers are usually wealthy, which makes my salary quite substantial. It was Sunday afternoon. The sun hung high in the sky, and the heat was stifling. I planned to spend a romantic—and wildly passionate—weekend with my husband, so I requested the day off.

Raphael continued, "A therapist isn't a judge. They are just an objective person who can help you look at the pain. Maybe they can help you understand the exact reason why you do what you do to your own body, so you don't have to bleed to feel okay." A tear slipped down my cheek, but I quickly brushed it away, shaking my head. I swallowed the thick lump in my throat, forcing my voice to stay even as his touch made my heart ache. "I don't need a stranger to tell me anything," I whispered, "I already know exactly why I do it. Now leave." Raphael let out a long sigh, the deep sound vibrating through the mattress. His broad shoulders slumped just a fraction of an inch, looking suddenly tired und