Therapist Couch Novels & Stories

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

“I’m Dr. Rhodes. Are you ready to get started?” I nodded nervously. Edrick had moved a small loveseat into my room that was placed across from my armchair by the window, and I gestured for the therapist to sit on the armchair while I sat down on the loveseat. It felt strange to have a therapist in my bedroom, but it was also comforting to be doing this in a comfortable space that I knew well. “So,” Dr. Rhodes said as he opened up his spiral-bound notebook, “can you start with telling me what’s been going on recently?”

3 - Use Your Tongue Ivy “Sorry, I had a call,” I said, closing the door behind me. I looked at the comfortable pale blue couch and sat in the middle. It had been two weeks since we started therapy sessions. By we, I mean, me and Aiden or as I liked to call him—Doctor Aiden, during the sessions. His clinic was not at all like I had imagined. It was minimalist and cozy, with his certificates and various awards lined on the wall behind his desk. The bookshelf comprised a few books and antiques and craft pieces his patients had gifted him. There was a coffee table between the two couches that faced each other that always had sweets, savory snacks, tissues and a candle.

We are literally age mates. She's wearing ripped jeans and a simple white t-shirt. Another reason that I don't take her seriously. Shouldn't they show up in these things wearing suits and ties and heels? This therapist is literally wearing sneakers. I look around the room for the millionth time. A gigantic green couch which I'm sitting on, directly facing the therapist. A cream carpet with a coffee table on top. Huge windows, splashing light into the room. A bunch of plants standing in the corners, breathing life into the room.

It was so deep, so rich and so sexy… Salish stood across from his massive desk, trying not to openly drool while the bouncy nurse nodded once and closed the office door with a mischievous little click. “Why don’t you have a seat.” Doctor D pointed to the therapy couch beside his desk, a sleek curve of charcoal leather. It was more for resting than anything else but Salish, again being the good wife listened to the good doctor. She swallowed hard and walked over to the couch, running her fingers along its surface. It felt buttery-soft yet firm under her touch, with a small padded headrest and polished wooden legs that lifted it just above the floor.

"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

It was my own fault for not holding back, and I didn't even think to cover myself. The therapist was wearing a uniform. I noticed that he had a perfect figure—broad shoulders and a narrow waist. My heart raced as I took him in, and the sensation coursed through me again. The therapist lit a candle in the room. I immediately began to relax under the alluring scent. "Hello. Please take off your shoes and lie on the bed." I did as I was told and lay comfortably on the bed. My inner thighs grew warm, but I could only clamp my legs tightly together.

(Natasha) My therapist's name is Sandra and she doesn't decorate her office. Weirdly, that was the thing that made me decide I could keep coming after my first appointment. No inspirational prints. No Live. Love. Laugh. No fern. No colorful abstract painting. A chair, a couch, a small table with tissues that are close enough to reach if I need them, but not so close that it’s telling me I’m doing therapy wrong because I’m not crying.