The Therapist Novels & Stories

Within a month, I lost fifteen pounds. I was like someone drowning, cold lake water slowly filling my nose and mouth, flooding into my chest and stomach. No one could save me. And I couldn’t find a way to save myself until I went to see a therapist. She said, “Have you ever heard of exposure therapy?” It was a kind of therapy that meant facing the pain, offering love willingly, until disappointment gradually wore that love away. So that day, I put on makeup, changed into new clothes, lifted a smile, and went to see Peter.

he turns back to his conversation and the moment breaks. “Taylor!” one of the therapists waves me over holding a clipboard.I slip back into motion, scanning checklists, answering questions, adjusting the schedule. The rhythm steadies me. Professional. Detached. That’s how I survive nights like this.

I was hyper aware of his presence with every fiber of my being, I could hear his steady breathing, sometimes interrupted by a low grunt of pleasure as the therapist worked on his body. When Helen, our therapist, was done with him. She told him that he would repeat the process on my body, just the way she had done his. "Wait," I turned a little to the side, making sure my breast didn't come out of the sheets, "he is going to massage me, not you?" "Yes, ma'am. That's how we do it, Mrs. Berkley." She said with a polite smile. I looked over at Seth, a bit of panic rising in my chest. What if...

I’m sitting on my couch completely naked stroking my cock while my physical therapist kneels between my legs with his hands on my inner thigh inches from my balls. The situation is completely insane and I can’t decide if that’s making this harder or easier. I stroke faster and Theve’s hands work deeper. Every press of his thumbs sends that deep ache through my hip but it’s releasing something. I can feel the tension slowly letting go. “Don’t stop,” he says. I don’t know if he’s talking to himself or to me. I keep stroking and he keeps working and the room is silent except for our breathing which is getting heavier.

Zander paused at the therapist's door for a minute and considered running away. Come on Zander! You're not chickening out of this right now! Dr. Kim's words came rushing back to his mind. “Maybe the answer is in healing from your wounds” You have spent a long time running away, Zander. How much longer until you actually break down? Taking a deep breath, he turned the door handle and walked in. His therapist was a kind looking woman that looked old enough to be his mother. Her soft smile and warm greeting made him feel at ease.

The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of the Greyhound estate, but the light felt cruel to Leonard. It mocked him, spilling across the polished floorboards while he sat confined in his chair, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache. Across the room, Elisa stood beside the physician and the therapist William had summoned—a stocky man with calloused hands and a patient voice. “Mr. Greyhound,” the therapist said carefully, as if speaking to a feral animal. “Shall we begin?”

After confirming my appointment, a lady walked up to me, "Sophia, hello. I'm Nurse Johnson. I understand you're here for an appointment." "Yes, hi," I replied, my voice shaking slightly. "Okay, let's get you scheduled. We have an available date on Thursday. Would that work for you?" "Yes, that works," I said. "And we offer therapy sessions before and after the procedure," Nurse Johnson explained. "This is a big decision, and we want to make sure you're emotionally prepared for what's ahead. The therapy sessions will help you process your feelings and come to terms with your decision. It's a safe space to talk about your emotions and concerns.”

I quietly walked into my therapist's office, a heavy weight pressing down on my heart, diminishing any sense of joy. Miss Beira Sinclair raised her head from the book she had been reading and offered me a warm, empathetic smile. But when she saw the distress etched across my features, her expression fell. She closed the book and clasped her hands before her, dropping the professional demeanor she typically maintained. Beira spoke to me then as a friend and a mother, using whatever means necessary to ensure I would listen.

Their relentless dedication and innovative methods helped me navigate through my depression. The therapy sessions were a blend of intense emotional exploration and gentle guidance. The therapists created a safe space for me to confront my grief and insecurities. The sessions were a combination of talking through my feelings, cognitive behavioral techniques to manage my negative thoughts, and mindfulness exercises to ground me in the present.

“Only if you want to, sweetheart. Your therapist will help you in ways that feel right for you. And if you don’t feel like talking, that’s okay too.” Christian nodded. “We’ll be with you every step of the way.” A small flicker of relief passed through Eunice’s eyes, and she gave a hesitant nod. The therapy center was a bright, welcoming space filled with colourful murals and shelves lined with toys, books, and art supplies. Eunice clung to Olivia’s hand as they entered, her wide eyes taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. A warm voice greeted them. “You must be Eunice.” The therapist, a kind-looking woman in her early forties, knelt to Eunice’s level, offering