Therapist Couch Novels & Stories

A sky-high profit that caused innocent people to die… in front of him. The Second Therapy Appointment “Sit as you feel comfortable. Take it easy. Think about the events of that day again, Martin. I know that all this is difficult. But in the healing process and for you to heal, you have to understand the past and accept it as it was.” The therapist told her, and her voice calmed him down. He took a deep breath and exhaled. He was sitting on the upholstered chair; the whole room was dimly lit, and the soothing atmosphere of the room relaxed him a great deal.

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.

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

I needed that session more than ever. I sat on the couch in my therapist's office, the soft hum of the air conditioning doing little to ease the knot of tension coiling in my chest. Dr. Laura was a woman in her late thirties with a composed demeanor and striking looks. She observed me from her chair. Her office always smelled like a blend of citrus and something woody, a crisp, clean scent that was oddly comforting. I glanced at the small swan centerpiece on the table beside her, the familiar object giving me something to focus on as I tried to keep my thoughts in check.

••~~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.

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.

He offered. "I think that's a great idea!" Tracy pushed the coffee table out of the way and cleared out a wide area for the therapy to take place. She found a white sheet in a linen closet and spread it out smooth across the carpeted floor. Harry sat slumped on the couch and pretended to be in pain. Tracy took him by the arm and guided him to the center of the sheet. She had a couple of towels folded for him to rest his head on. He laid down on his back.