Therapist Couch Novels & Stories

And at the end of it I had agreed to this meeting and I had put on the green dress and I had not once talked myself out of either decision. That was growth apparently. The therapist's office was on the fourteenth floor of a building that was aggressively neutral in the way places were when they had been professionally designed to belong to nobody. Soft furniture. No sharp edges. Art on the walls that was interesting enough to look at without making anyone feel anything specific about it. I appreciated the commitment to the concept. The receptionist smiled at me. I smiled back. Dominic was already there. He was standing near the window with his back half-turned, looking at whatever the fourte

He let her feel the stretch, the heat, the way he filled her completely while the therapy room sat silent around them. When he finally moved it was with controlled, deep rolls of his hips. The couch shifted. Serena’s hands gripped the back of it. He kept the pace steady and hard, one hand sliding up her spine to hold her in place so every movement stayed deep. The wet sound of her taking him filled the space between them. He watched her the entire time—watched the flush climb her chest, watched her mouth open, watched the exact moment the tension in her body started to gather again.

“Coach isn’t convinced. So until he is, this guy’s stuck doing the sessions.” “That sucks,” Milo said with a grin. I ignored both of them and kept picking up cups. “So,” Milo tipped his chin at me, “coach really sent you one of those fancy sports therapists?” “Yeah,” I said, tossing another cup into the trash bag. “Big deal.” Jake’s smirk deepened. “Pretty sure it is a big deal. She works out of the university’s rehab center, right? Coach probably thinks you’re one hit away from snapping in half.” “Shoulder’s fine,” I muttered, snatching an empty bottle from the table.

Marco's POV Marco sat in the familiar leather chair across from Dr. Rashida Knight, his therapist for the past three months. He had come to appreciate these sessions more than he thought he ever would. Therapy wasn’t something he had considered before, well not seriously but here he was, showing up religiously every week, and to his own surprise, actually benefiting from it. Dr. Knight folded her hands in her lap, her dark brown eyes steady but kind. “So, Marco, how have things been since our last session?”

$$$*$$$*$$$ “He told me he was poor.” I didn’t know why I was bothered and nervous about talking to a therapist. It felt amazing. The room was colored pastel, and I was lying down on a very comfortable bed, staring at the ceiling. I wasn’t even looking at the therapist. They were just sitting across me on a chair, a notebook by their lap. The only time we made eye contact was when I shook their hand and they asked me how my day was.

Lucian’s POV The therapist’s name was Dr. Sandra Osei, and she had the specific energy of someone who had heard everything and was genuinely not going to be surprised by anything we said. She had a warm office — plants, soft lighting, two couches arranged in an L-shape, a chair for her across from them. It looked like a place designed to make people comfortable enough to say difficult things. I noticed all of this in the first thirty seconds because noticing things was how I managed situations I wasn’t fully in control of.

This place was one of my most favorites, quite ironic thinking that I used to dread coming here once. Polished dark-wood walls dominated the floor and the ceiling was lit up with small halogens that cast a soft ambiance in the entire room. On one side, a huge plush cream three-seat sofa dominated the place and on either side of it were two brown armchairs. The bright floor to ceiling windows was concealed underneath the beige sheer curtains. On the opposite was a huge shelf filled with books about psychology and shiny golden awards. In front of it was a brown mahogany desk and in the very midst of the room was, what I’d personally call, was the high chair, the chair where my therapist usuall

I even felt like skinning his pretty face on the asphalt. The reception was not very big. As soon as he entered the door, wide, on the right was the reception desk, with glass separating the customer from the attendant. On the left, a living room, with light beige sofas, upholstered, looking like divans. Not that I was an expert on therapists and couches, but yes, I had tried to tell a stranger my problems. The thing is, later I found out that my friends said the same thing as him and didn't charge for it.

She even purchased a luxurious single-person couch identical to the ones found in therapy offices. The couch cost over two thousand dollars. If she had chosen a larger one, the price would have been even higher. But it was worth every penny. It was incredibly soft yet supportive, and lying on it made anyone feel like they were floating on a cloud. Millie was confident the couch would make a big difference. "Aren't we going camping today?" Piercy wondered aloud, now fully sober. Millie, however, hadn't come downstairs all morning. Curious, Piercy went to her room and found her looking pale and feverish.

she threatened as she dusted the imaginary specks of dust on his suit before turning towards the elevator with a saccharine smile on her face as though she hadn't just threatened him. He released a tired sigh as he walked to the sitting area which was dominated by the colour black; the couches and coffee table with only the white marble floor tiles acting as a total contrast to the dark setting. He was at least pleased that the therapist hadn't opted for a bright and polychromatic setting because it would've been sickening to be surrounded by the colours pink and purple. He sat, crossed one leg over the other and closed his eyes before focusing on his breathing. The only sounds in the room w