Therapist Couch Novels & Stories

It was my first visit to a therapist's office. I didn't know what to expect: diplomas all over the walls to show that he knew what he was talking about, plants to relax me, Kleenex for crying, a lovely couch to lie on. And the therapist himself, I don't know why, but I had imagined him bald and with a big belly. Before entering, I had heard his voice. I hadn't liked it. I had found it without warmth and emotion. As cold as a washcloth placed on the forehead to reduce fever.

"This place must've cost tens of millions to build. The designers were probably brought in from the best. Mr. Lowe knows how to run a business." "This place is amazing," the manager smiled. "The therapist will be right in. Please make yourselves comfortable." Debra and Theda sat down in the massage chairs. Not long after, there was a knock on the door. "Come in," Theda said. Six young, handsome guys in white shirts walked into the room. Debra's smile froze on her face. "Dear guests, we're the therapists assigned to your session today," one of them said. Theda whispered to Debra, "Is this the special service Drake was talking about?"

Watching me like I was his little plaything that needed fixing every time it broke. He reached over, gently touched my ankle. “Get on the couch.” I should’ve told him no. I should’ve walked out. But all I did was obey. I climbed up, body weak, and curled into the soft leather, my heartbeat still thudding through every inch of me. His voice dropped low. “We’re not done yet.” I stared. “What else could you possibly—” He grabbed my hips and flipped me onto my stomach. “Therapy isn’t just about release,” he whispered, undoing his belt. “It’s about exposure.”

One press of a concealed button on the armrest and the base of the couch slid open, revealing a storage space roughly four feet deep. A woman of average build climbed inside with room to spare. Once the base closed again, no one could tell anything was there. "That's only the first piece of evidence." I signaled Derek to connect the second call. The face of a furniture store owner appeared on screen. "Sir, do you remember who commissioned this couch?" Derek asked. The man nodded eagerly. "Absolutely. Last fall, a man and a woman came in and wanted a custom order. They specifically asked for a hidden compartment built into the base, and they paid double the deposit upfront.

The breath came out ragged, the sound of something held for too long finally released. "Twenty-five," the therapist said, writing on her clipboard. "Thirty next week." He sat on the mat and pressed his palm flat on his thigh until the trembling stopped. She handed him the water bottle. He drank. The water was warm from sitting near the window all session. He drank it anyway.

“He’s too quiet. That’s creepy.” “He probably talks to ghosts.” I held my breath the entire walk to the therapy office so I wouldn’t cry. The school therapist’s room had this warm smell… lavender mixed with something else I couldn’t name. The walls were painted soft cream, and the shelves were full of books with titles like Healing the Inner Wolf and Silver Moons, Heavy Hearts. Dr. Fox sat behind a polished wooden desk. He had curly brown hair and glasses too big for his face, but somehow they made him look kind. He smiled when he saw me.

I sat on the plush leather couch in the therapist's office, knees pressed tightly together, hands twisted in my lap. The room was designed to be calming: soft beige walls, abstract art in muted colors, a large potted plant in the corner, and dim lamps casting warm light. But nothing about this felt calm. My stepdad, Mark, sat on the other end of the couch, his broad frame taking up too much space, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight. He wore a button-down shirt that strained slightly across his shoulders, jeans that hugged his thighs, and he avoided looking at me directly.

Teresa's POV I started therapy two weeks after the trial. Even though I told myself I was ready, the first session proved that I was not as prepared as I thought. The office was quiet and warm, decorated in soft colors with a comfortable couch and a chair where my therapist sat across from me. The room was designed to make people feel safe, but I could not relax. I sat on the edge of the couch with my hands clasped tightly together, my knuckles white, my shoulders tense. My eyes moved around the room instead of settling on my therapist's face. I looked at the bookshelf, at the plants by the window, at the clock on the wall. Anywhere but at her.

She found the room empty so she sat down on the couch and opened the television. The room is filled with different types of things to entertain. Billiards, table tennis, chess, and more. Why? It is to ease someone's thoughts, especially after doing deadly missions that could've gotten them killed, and missions that they need to kill. With that in mind, that's why the syndicate has a therapist whom they can visit anytime.

“Eloise?” The therapist stood at the doorway, her voice calm and warm like chamomile tea. Her hair was curly, brown, and framed her face with a softness that seemed rehearsed. But not insincere. I rose, smoothing the front of my cream sweater, and followed her into the room. The space was cozy, almost homey. A plush navy couch. A single window cracked open just enough to let in the city murmur. Two mugs sat waiting on the coffee table, steam rising.