I take a deep breath and knock.
Grant opens the door and gestures toward the elegant camel sofa. Soft winter sunlight filters through the frosted windowpane. A fragrant evergreen adorned with warm white lights glows in the corner where the tall floor lamp once stood.
“Welcome back,” he says, as we settle in across from one another—me on the sofa, him in his cognac leather armchair, legs crossed.
“Thanks,” I reply, already damp and distracted.
Grant is the epitome of polished masculinity. He keeps his dark, thick beard trimmed short and his chestnut waves carefully combed to the side with a precise part. Today he’s wearing taupe tapered slacks, immaculately pressed (as usual), with his mahogany leather boots. His deep burgundy sweater hugs his broad chest and accentuates his prominent biceps.
I lean back and slowly run my fingers across the soft, plush velvet. I wonder if a woman had chosen the decor. A quick, irrational pang of jealousy jolts through me.
“So how are things going?” he asks, with an air of formality.
“Not great,” I answer, feeling slightly annoyed at the thought of delving into my trauma when all I really want to do is strip down, open my legs, and take his stiff, eager cock deep inside my slippery, wet cunt.
I know it won’t be that easy. Grant is a good therapist. He takes his job seriously. It would take a concerted effort to convince him to abandon his ethics and unzip for me.
“Go on…” I realize I’d lost myself to fantasy and try to refocus.
“I’m confused. I wake up in a panic several times a night after these awful dreams, but I’m also…aroused? I’m terrified, but my body reacts in a way that just doesn’t make sense, given the context. I have to get up and change my panties before I go back to sleep. It makes me feel dirty.”
I scan his expression and body language, searching for any subtle sign that he might be turned on. Grant appears completely unfazed.
Without a hint of emotion, he tells me, “I’m sorry to hear you’re still having nightmares, Ivy. I think it makes a lot of sense that your body would react that way, and frankly, it’s a common response. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I understand that it might feel unsettling, but I hope you can take some comfort in knowing that what you’re experiencing is very normal and doesn’t necessarily reflect your true desires.”
We sit in silence for a few seconds. I bite my lower lip. “…but what if it does?”
He cocks a thick, arched eyebrow and smirks ever so slightly. I smile coyly and adjust my glasses, grazing my long, slender neck with my bright red fingernails as I bring my hand back to my lap and rest it on my exposed thigh.
It’s cold out, but I couldn’t pass up the chance to show off. The last time I wore this little black dress, I caught men and women alike looking me up and down all night long. It’s classy enough—long sleeves, high neckline—but it’s skin tight and stops several inches above the knee.
Grant quickly realizes he’s shown his hand. He clears his throat, reaches for his water bottle, and takes a sip. His expression is neutral once again, but I’m satisfied for the moment. I was wet when I walked in, but now I’m drenched.
“Well, what if it does? What would that mean to you?” His tone is dry, sterile.
“I guess it would mean I’m just a filthy little slut who loves to be used.”
Grant remains silent but tilts his head and brings a hand to his face, thinking. I keep quiet and gaze confidently into his coffee brown eyes.
“Is that really how you feel about yourself, Ivy? Is that really what you believe?”
“Yes, Grant.”
His brow furrows. I can tell I’m getting to him. Without looking away, I lean back, drop my hands at my sides, and open my legs, wide. He sighs heavily and shakes his head imperceptibly, but he doesn’t break eye contact. My bright red panties are on full display—I’m certain he’s aware of the vibrant color in his peripheral.
My plump, bald lips spill over the sides, just barely. The wet spot between them grows darker and spreads.
Grant sighs once more. “I’m concerned that this interaction is becoming inappropriate. I think it’s best that we end our session here today and revisit this discussion next week. I’ll see you on Thursday,” he states dryly.
“Seriously?” I scoff.
“Seriously. I understand you’re experiencing some strong feelings right now and you may not know how to manage them. I think the best thing we can do right now is take some space and reflect on the boundaries of our relationship.” His tone is almost condescending by now.
“Fine.” I stand up, put on my coat, and walk out without another word. As the door closes behind me, I pause, trying to make sense of what just happened.
I hear the faint, frantic clattering of a buckle and a nearly inaudible, “Fuck.”
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/tsu7l9/erotic_transference_seducing_my_therapist_part