“So, tell me about your week.”
The soft light of late November filtered in through the windows. Bass lines floated through the air, hinting at some event occurring across campus.
She lay on the couch, her soft, plump, tanned legs slipping up and away beneath a short skirt. Knee-high socks accentuated her gifts, her tight top cupped and brandished her chest.
I caught myself staring again, then looked away, crossing my legs and refocusing on my notes. ‘Nymphomaniac’ had been written and underlined several times.
“I think I did a little better, sir.”
“Melissa, you don’t have to call me that.”
She said nothing, then continued. “I only slept with my roommate’s boyfriend once.”
I restrained a sigh. “That’s an improvement. How many times did you sleep with him last week?”
“Four. Five if you count blowjobs.”
“Do you think we should count those?”
“…Yeah, I guess. He’s just so horny, and she never gives him any pussy. I feel so…just so bad for him. He’s a nice guy. He deserves to feel good, doesn’t he?”
“…I’m not sure I’m the one to answer that.”
She sighed.
“Did you sleep with him because he felt bad?”
“Yeah.”
“No other reasons?”
“…Well, I guess that’s how it started, but, well he does have a nice cock. He was really eager too.”
“You like to feel wanted?”
“Of course. You say that like there’s someone that doesn’t like to feel wanted.”
…I nodded.
She turned over to look at me, her cleavage was deep and severe and I glanced and she noticed my glance, smiling as I met her eyes again. “Seriously, have you met someone who doesn’t want to be desired? To feel sexy?”
I considered the question, then I nodded, “I think I do have patients that are uncomfortable with the level of attention they get from others.”
She scoffed and turned back over.
“…When you were with your…roommate’s boyfriend, did you use protection?”
“…No. He offered, but I said he could have it raw.”
“Can you tell me more?”
“About raw sex?” she asked. I could hear the coy smile in her voice.
“About why you enjoy it, or feel you need it.”
…She sighed. “It’s so warm. I can’t describe it, or at least I’ve never tried. It just…feels right. Complete. Perfect.”
“And yet, you feel…unsatisfied.”
…
She was quiet for sometime before she spoke again. “I think I’ve been…fighting myself. Trying to control myself. I think that’s why I’m unsatisfied.”
“What do you mean?”
She sat up and looked at me. “I think I’m a slut,” she whispered, half to herself, smiling. “I think I’m just…a dirty fuck slut.” Her smile widened. She looked away, across the room, at nothing. “I’m not good at many things. I’m pretty bad, actually, at most things. I mean, jesus, I’m nearly failing out of school. I don’t try, I think. I don’t care.”
I watched her. I felt I was losing control, but I wasn’t sure what to say, what to do.
“I care about cock.” She smiled. Her hand went to her stomach, traced up to her breast. “I care about satisfying men. Fucking them until they’re spent. I’m good at it.” She turned to look at me. “Sir, I’m really good at it.” Her fingers traced along her shirt, barely containing her tits. “I’ve seen you looking, sir, stealing glances.”
I clenched my jaw. “Melissa, you’re confused. You have a powerful imagination and-”
“No, I don’t. I’ve seen you looking, don’t feel bad about it. It’s natural. I know you want to fuck me.”
“Melissa, I think you should leave.”
“I want to fuck you too,” she said, squeezing her tits together, smiling, biting her lip. “I’ve been thinking about your cock, you know?”
I stood, flustered, wanting, needing to escape, but as I did, I understood my error. She had indeed awakened my baser urges, my half-risen cock pressed against my pants and she glared at it hungrily, giggling. “Melissa, this is unacceptable behavior. Leave. Now.”
“I think we’re past that, sir.” She stepped closer and pulled off her shirt, exposing a tight, tight pink bra squeezing her luscious tits. She reached up behind her to undo her bra, to release the flood of her tits. “There’s nothing wrong with being a slut, sir. With being a nasty little breeding factory, meant to suck and fuck.” She stepped closer, pulled her bra off-
The tension in my neck that had been rising and rising released as I saw her breasts. Her beautiful, bountiful breasts. I wanted, needed to brace them with my fingers, to suck her nipples, to feel the heat of her skin through my tongue.
“I’ve been struggling because I’ve been fighting myself. Trying to make myself something I’m not.” She reached me, setting her manicured fingernails into my waistline, gently, but surely holding me there. She was so close, but holding herself at bay, tantalizing me, teasing me.
My notepad fell to the floor. She looked down at it, seeing the words written upon it. She smiled. “Nymphomaniac?” She looked back up at me, soft, shining eyes, pouting lips. “Are you-”
I reached up and grabbed her arms, pulling her against me. Our lips met and she made soft noises of pleasure. I admitted then, to myself, that I’d yearned to hear those noises, to hear her make them for me. I kissed her, deeply, and still I flinched when her tongue slithered into my mouth, but I melted as we writhed against one another within our kiss.
…She pulled back, laughing, smiling, then dropped to her knees, frantically, but skillfully undoing my belt. In a breath she had my pants around my ankles, grabbed my balls with one hand, the base of my cock with the other, and took the head of my cock into her mouth. My head rocked back under her assault, reeling as her tongue lapped and traced around my head. She pumped me, fondled me, and moaned as she did. She loved this. I moaned and she went faster. I gasped for breath and she took me deeper.
I put a hand on her head and pushed her, pried her off my cock. She looked up at me pouting, water in her eyes. “You taste good, sir.”
I reached down and grabbed her arm, pulling her up to me. I stared at her for a few moments. “Do you want to stop?” she asked, a knowing smiled across her face.
I pulled her to my desk, lifted her up and spread her thighs with my hips. As I looked down, I could see how wet she was already.
“Just do it, sir,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around me, pulling me in and in and then I was sliding into her, moaning as her wet lips parted. I bucked my hips without thought, with only desire, a driving need to be deeper, deeper inside her. We crashed down onto the desk and she wrapped her legs around my waist and locked me against her and I fucked her. “Fuck me, sir. Fuck me.” My hips threw my cock into her again and again and again. Her slick, wet walls sucked at me, embraced me, took everything I had.
She was saying ‘yes’ and I was fucking harder, stronger, her nails were driving into my back, her tits were pressed into my chest, her mouth, the song of her pleasure was in my ear and-
I started to cum, wrenching back not to pull out but to retreat from the intensity of my ecstasy as her grip, the strength in her arms held me in, held me deep. I groaned breathlessly as I erupted into her wet flame, the fires licked and soaking around me as my cum filled her, filled everything inside of her.
Her legs were still clutching me close. Her nails traced up and down my spine. She was cooing and sighing in my ear. “Good, sir. Wasn’t that good?”
There was a vacuum there, within me. I’d entered some space, taken some leap, crashed through boundaries so long held in place. Regret, self-loather were nearly there to fill that space, but she whispered in my ear.
“I think we should move to daily sessions, sir. Twice a day, if you’re up for it,” she said, giggling.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/xn6a0a/the_new_treatment_plan_m42f20_dubcon