Therapist Couch Novels & Stories

"Sorry to ask, but are you, by any chance, my therapist?" He nodded, smiling. "I hope you're okay with that." My therapist is a male? How can I talk to him? I was prepared to speak about my problem with a girl, but now my therapist was a man. What should I say? I can't do this. I could just make an excuse and run out. Rose would definitely push me back inside if I did, though. It was better to stay for some time before leaving. I walked toward his desk, looking around the spacious room. It had a couch that looked comfortable. At one corner of the room, there was a coffee machine,a juicer, and a mini-fridge. The green-colored curtains and the sage walls made the room more pleasant.

“Have a seat. We’ll call you in shortly.” They sat down quietly at each sides. Azxel’s knee bounced once, then stopped. His hands stayed clenched in his sleeves. Jaelen watched him from the corner of his eye but didn’t speak. A door opened. “Azxel?” He stood immediately. The therapist’s office was warm in a deliberate way with soft lighting. Two chairs angled toward each other. A bookshelf full of titles about trauma, dissociation, identity, recovery and many others. The man smiled kindly. “I’m Dr. Ash. You can sit wherever you’re comfortable.”

The two couches were separated by a round coffee table. “So, how should we do this?” I asked, just wanting to get it all over with, “should I tell you about myself so we can move on to my problems and life experiences.” The therapist looked at me, with a smirk on her face. “We could do that if you prefer.” “What is the alternative?” Doctor Hersch smiled. “Well, I’m much of a gossiper. So I want to hear about your friends.” “My friends?” “Yeah,” she answered, “I want to know about their lives. I want to know everything that you know”. I looked.

All I know is that every day she’s gone, it gets worse. And now, I’m here. Sitting on a dark leather couch in a high-rise office that smells like polished wood and fresh coffee, I stare at the man I pay too much money to tell me things I already know. Dr. West Cole. He’s expensive. The kind of therapist people like my father would call a “luxury,” as if mental stability is something only people without real problems could afford. But West is good. His office is surrounded by soft gray walls and floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the skyline. There's a small bookshelf with books that I'm sure he never touches.

I hissed as my answer and she squealed excitedly. A day later I was at the therapy room, it was nice with a desk and chair the Therapist probably sat on to lecture her patients, I sat down on a cushion dressed in white waiting for her, Mandy was there too patiently waiting for the so called therapist. "He's late.." she mummered checking the time.

Eleanor Vance’s office was how painfully normal it looked. The office was warm. Soft lighting, beige walls, and a couch that looked comfortable but felt like a trap. No white walls, no clipboard-wielding assistants waiting to diagnose me with a dozen problems. Just bookshelves lined with novels and psychology textbooks, two armchairs facing each other, and a window overlooking the city. “Mr. Weston.” I glanced at the woman seated across from me. The therapist sat with her legs crossed, and her notepad balanced on her knee. She was younger than I expected. Calm and patient with steady focus. The kind of person who could sit in silence for hours and wait for you to crack.

I called out to him, "But Thomas…" He waved me off. "Why are you so nervous? It's alright. The therapy will still take a while." Before I could say anything else, Thomas walked out immediately. He seemed to have no qualms about me currently lying next to another man. My body was covered in sweat when Charlie stopped to take something. Flushed crimson, I lay on my back and fanned myself gently to cool down. We were alone in the room, and the air was thick with tension. My heart raced as he stood next to me and spoke in a hoarse voice. "I'll start the lactation massage next. It might hurt, so you can cry out if you need to."

“My individual therapist said it might help. Not to fix everything overnight, but to have a safe place where we can talk without it turning into a fight or silence. I don’t want to keep carrying this alone.” Luca set the towel down slowly. “If that’s what you want, we’ll do it.” Valentina nodded. “I’m in. Whatever you need.” Sofia looked between them. “It’s not just for me. It’s for all of us. I’m tired of walking on eggshells in my own house. And I know you two are exhausted from pretending everything is fine when it’s not.” The appointment was booked for the following Tuesday. The therapist’s office was in a quiet part of the city, on the third floor of a modern building with large windows

"May I come in?" "Yes," Elena called out, her voice muffled. The door opened and closed. Footsteps approached. "Good afternoon. I'm Marcus, and I'll be your therapist today." His voice was deep, calm, professionally soothing. "I understand you're experiencing tension in your upper back and shoulders?" "Yes," Elena confirmed. "It's been getting worse. Nothing seems to help." "I specialize in deep tissue and comprehensive tension release therapy," Marcus said. She heard him washing his hands at the sink. "We'll start with a full assessment, then focus on your problem areas. The goal is complete relaxation and release. Does that sound good?"

Because my palm is cooling now, and the loss of heat frightens me more than the burn. The tunnel opens into a service alcove behind counseling. Counseling looks nothing like a clinic. It looks like a family room. Three soft chairs. A low table with tissues. A mural of a sea turtle on the wall. Warm lamps. A little shelf of wooden toys polished by many small hands. At the center of the room waits a chair with clean straps. White. Padded. Straps tucked discreetly into the sides, like leather becomes kinder when hidden. A screen wakes above it.