Therapist Couch Novels & Stories

Usually, I chose to sit opposite my therapist in the chair that was a mate to hers, but today, I sank down into the loveseat, leaning into the corner. "I'm . . . I'm a mess. That's why I'm here, obviously." I dropped my handbag onto the floor and kicked off my shoes. Brooke Slater and I had discovered early in our professional relationship-therapist to client-that we both talked better when our shoes were off. It was probably representative of shedding the need for cover and defense, Brooke posited. I didn't care; I was just grateful that I'd found a doctor who didn't mind that I liked to get comfortable when I was spilling my guts. "Well, you cancelled two appointments earlier this month, a

The cool air helped a little but didn't do much to calm the storm within me. I couldn't afford this. Not now. I had worked hard to compress the nightmares. I paid my therapist fifty dollars per hour for couch time. Or maybe I just needed to indulge in more distractions, like considering that cafe hangout with Sophie...or getting laid.

••~~CORIAN~~•• Shawny’s space isn’t a regular therapist’s office. It’s like a devil’s cave. Dark matte walls. Dim lighting. Velvet couches. Diffuser steam curling in the air. There’s incense burning somewhere, sandalwood and cinnamon, and a playlist humming low in the background, something moody and beat-heavy. She calls it The Hub. It’s where I come to reset. Where she pulls me apart and puts me back together.

Dean quickly opened his eyes to avoid the man in his fantasy and at the same time, he turned his head sideways, happened to see the mirror in front of him, and through the reflection of the mirror he saw that his towel was gone, and the therapist turned out to be fully undressed, sitting on his thighs and aiming to enter his body. Dean was so startled that he immediately struggled to break free. After sitting up, he kicked the therapist away. The force of the kick sent the therapist tumbling into a nearby shelf, causing everything on it to crash to the floor. The commotion quickly caught the attention of the spa manager, who hurried in to see what was happening. Upon noticing the therapist's

She is very nice. Moira- coming. My heart races as I ease into a standing position. "I can do this." I lie to myself over and over again. Lisa's therapist friend has a nice small office. She works with two other therapists. Lisa and I go with her to a small cozy room. Mike heads to another room with a male therapist. He smells like a wolf. The couch is comfy deep leather. When you sit in it, you sink into heaven. "Lisa already knows me, but I am Dr. Thomas," the she-wolf says, shaking my hand.

The therapist's office smelled like lavender and lies. Maya sat on the plush gray couch, her fingers knotted together in her lap, wondering how many couples had sat in this exact spot and pretended everything was fine. How many had walked out with practiced smiles and unspoken resentments festering like open wounds. Beside her, Ethan sat with careful distance between them—not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough to remember what it felt like when that distance didn't exist.

The afternoon sun had moved across the penthouse windows by the time they got back from therapy. The three of them stepped inside and took off their shoes near the door. The space felt quieter than usual, like it was waiting for them to settle into this new version of normal. Kai walked to the couch and sat down slowly. His shoulders still carried the weight of the session. Damien stayed close but gave him room, watching with careful eyes.

I looked at Rosa, then at Jessica. Both of their faces showed concern and support in equal measure. "No," I said honestly. "But let's do it anyway." --- The therapy room was nothing like the ICU. It was designed to be comfortable—soft lighting, upholstered chairs in soothing blues and greys, plants in the corners, and an observation window disguised to look like a mirror. It could have been any therapist's office in Seattle. Except for the man sitting in one of the chairs.

He paired them with a matching black shirt and jacket, adorned with lines along the sides of each arm. A black beanie with a single white Chinese symbol rested on his head, and his hair was neatly braided into six plaits that cascaded down on either side of his head. Silently, he approached the couch where I was seated, not acknowledging anyone's presence. The therapist smiled and greeted him, but his eyes snapped to hers with a cold gaze. "Good Morning." The Therapist greeted him. "It's really not," he replied, causing her cheerful smile to fade. I couldn't help but chuckle inwardly at her reaction, and she sighed before handing him a paper.