Novelas y relatos de Therapist Couch

She almost found herself running in her quick pace, and made it fast enough to step in immediately after the chaotic pair. She recognised that room as soon as she saw it; the expansive space where Viscount had caught Andre on camera lying in bed. One look at it and she confirmed what Krystal had told her earlier; it was the room he used for his therapy sessions, and its peculiarity gave itself away from the hardcore torture equipments ranging from varied sizes of leather whips to spanking benches. It was a spacious room large enough to accommodate a big bed as well as sofas and couches. Clara saw all these through the indigo lightning of the room, as well as his glorious frame seated on the

One press of a concealed button on the armrest and the base of the couch slid open, revealing a storage space roughly four feet deep. A woman of average build climbed inside with room to spare. Once the base closed again, no one could tell anything was there. "That's only the first piece of evidence." I signaled Derek to connect the second call. The face of a furniture store owner appeared on screen. "Sir, do you remember who commissioned this couch?" Derek asked. The man nodded eagerly. "Absolutely. Last fall, a man and a woman came in and wanted a custom order. They specifically asked for a hidden compartment built into the base, and they paid double the deposit upfront.

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.

***Naomi’s POV*** I enter the room and I look around, taking in the new surroundings. I am here for therapy and my therapist picked a new location today. I don’t know exactly why but she said something about refreshing visual stimulants; whatever that may mean. I walk towards the couch and I flop my body down on it. My therapist is stting behind a desk in a rolling chair, she is right across from me. She is looking at me with a smile on her face, but I maintain the small frown that I have on my own face.

“Thanks a lot, doc. I appreciate. You're more like family to me now…” “All right. Get going before I get you in trouble with your boss.” He mocked as I was out of his office in a bit. I was soon in my car, driving off to meet up with the lady who had now become my therapist. It had been quite a day as I had gone from several moods I had so little time. At that point, I felt like I would lose it completely if I wasn't able to get to Tamika. I drove hurriedly to the location she had texted me, with hopes of seeing her face and having her clear my head of all the worries that were in it.

"Good day, sir. I'm your love therapist… for the day." I subconsciously lowered my voice toward the end of my sentence, my smile stiffening at the sight of the tools laid out. The client looked normal—he seemed to be in his early 30s and looked like a gentleman. The only jarring thing about this scene was the adult toys laid on the table. My anxiety level started rising. Could it be that this client had some weird fetishes? Still, I had to be professional. I sat beside him with a gentle smile.

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.

“That’s the last thing I need. A hot therapist judging me while I tell him all the ways I’m messed up.” “Or maybe,” Mia said slyly, “that’s exactly what you need.” I groaned, but when she handed me her phone, my eyes fell on his profile. Dr. Zayn Steele. Sex Therapist. The picture showed a man in his early thirties with sharp features, messy dark hair, and a piercing glinting on his lip. His tattoos crawled up his forearms in the photo, half-hidden by his rolled-up sleeves. Something about him made my stomach flip.

Chapter 18: Therapy and Truths The therapist’s office was a quiet sanctuary in a brownstone building in the West Village. Soft beige walls, comfortable cream-colored armchairs, and a large window overlooking a peaceful garden. Dr. Aisha Rahman sat across from me with calm, knowing eyes and a gentle presence that immediately put me at ease. She was in her mid-forties, with warm brown skin and neatly pinned hair. Her voice carried the soft cadence of someone who had walked through many storms with her patients.

“That is very stiff indeed.” He groaned, head tipping back. “Is… is it improving?” I stroked him lazily. “Hard to tell.” “Hmm,” he said, thinking. “I heard about a new therapy. A bit controversial, but very effective.” “Oh?” I asked. “And what does this therapy involve?” He looked at me with fake seriousness. “Sitting on it. Working it like that.” I paused. “I don’t want to lose my job.” “Well,” he said gravely, “patient outcomes are very important.”