Therapist Couch Novels & Stories

Araceli's Pov I sank into the plush couch, feeling the cushion press against my back. My fingers tangled in each other, thumbs circling, picking, digging at the same spot like they could somehow unearth everything I had buried deep. The therapist sat across from me, waiting, silent, and patient. Her eyes held a kind of knowing, unhurried but unwavering, a gentle prodding without saying a word. “Do you want to tell me about the nightmares?” she asked eventually, her voice soft, like she was coaxing something fragile from a hiding place.

Smiling, he said, “Of course. I’ll let you do anything you want to me.” Sarah motioned toward the couch. “Alright, Mr. Spencer, lie down here. Close your eyes and try to completely clear your mind.” “Okay.” He lay down, a little too eager. The couch had been custom-made overseas—designed specifically for hypnotherapy patients. It was covered in the softest material and filled with plush cotton padding. The moment Leon sank into it, it felt like he was floating on a cloud. Even before Sarah said a word, the comfort alone made him feel like drifting off to sleep.

he kisses my hand and I remain speechless. A couple weeks later, Eric and I stand outside our new therapists office, an hour away from home. Far enough that no one we know would see us here. Eric’s only condition. “Ready?” I ask Eric who looks squeamish. “Do I have a choice?” “No,” I answer and flash him a smile just before I pull him inside. The therapists office is calming. There’s plants of lavenders centered on clean glass tables, the walls are a soft grayish blue with gray hardwood floors and black furniture cushioned with white fluffy pillows.

“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?”

About ten minutes later we were in bed making love. It took me about a week to find a therapist that was black and willing to have me watch the massage. He was in his 40s and not in great shape but he was male and black. I didn't want to lose the momentum or the fun we were having so I arranged for him to come to our home one evening.

$$$*$$$*$$$ “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.