[MF] Is it bad when you want to fuck your therapist?

*Sometimes the fun is in the buildup… There will be a second part — and maybe more, too.*

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The air was still in the room.

Thomas could feel the sun, shining through the window, on the back of his neck, bathing it in warmth — the kind of warmth that you only really feel in spring, on the first days where the sun is really shining and the air is less cold. He regretted wearing the grey cashmere sweater as he felt the warmth swell down his back and across his chest — it would be a long hour. He crossed his left leg over his right and ran his hand along his thigh, pressing the fabric of his navy blue trousers flat.

It was a small room, with a sloping ceiling, and it made Thomas feel cramped and comically tall, as if his thin 6’3” frame dwarfed the room and everything in it, including the grey couch he was sitting on.

His eyes scanned the room, as they were wont to do, first to the painting that was hanging on the wall across from him, a little to his left, then to the right, where he honed in on the small crack where the window sill met the wall, which he had first noticed a few weeks ago. His eyes then darted to the bookshelf and he read the titles that ran down the spines of the books, quickly, before he finally looked Lydia in the eyes.

Lydia had been staring at Thomas for the last minute, in total silence, unflinchingly observing as he uncrossed his arms, then crossed his legs. She had watched his hand — quite a large hand, she thought — as it smoothed the fabric of his trousers and she had followed his eyes as they darted around the room, seemingly avoiding her gaze. When their eyes met, she didn’t blink, nor did she say anything, she simply stared at him. It was something that she did often and, for Thomas, it was a bit uncomfortable. But, he told himself, it was her job; she was his therapist and it was her job to listen — to wait and to let Thomas talk about what he had on his mind, but also to observe what made him uncomfortable.

The first time Thomas set foot in Lydia’s office, two months ago, he had been struck by her. For one, he found her attractive — though he was known to find many a woman attractive — with her dark hair, soft features and disarming smile. He had noticed that while she kept perfectly manicured nails and wore nice clothes — she was fond of turtlenecks, trousers and boots — she preferred looser cuts that left a lot to Thomas’ imagination.

Today was slightly different. For one, she was wearing tighter pants, with a brown and beige houndstooth patterns. When she had come to fetch Thomas in the waiting room and led him up the stairs, he had been surprised to look up and see that Lydia had quite a rounded ass — she usually followed him up the stairs, though, so maybe it wasn’t the pants. Once seated, he noticed a small pendant dangling out of her sweater, a loose-fitting cream mock neck — it was impossible for it to have ended up like that through the course of natural movement, so Lydia must’ve placed the piece of gold jewelry there on purpose. This struck Thomas as a strange development — she seemed to go to great lengths to obfuscate details about her personal life, even a small golden pepper that nodded to her Italian heritage, something Thomas had suspected but could now confirm.

Thomas knew that Lydia had been observing him and collecting her professional thoughts on him over the last two months, but what he didn’t know was that she, too, was more interested in him than she should be in a professional context.

Lydia was good at her job, she was considerate, a good listener and attuned to her patients needs, willing to challenge them when she felt it was needed but also able to comfort them and encourage them when a more delicate touch was required. She also extremely good at being a blank slate for her patients — besides her face and her name, she revealed very little about herself. She wore reserved clothes in a palette of neutrals and earth tones, she refrained from jewelry, she didn’t offer tidbits about her life and she could believably pass as being anywhere from her late 20s to late 30s. If she were married, she’d have removed the wedding band before work every day. It was important to her to be somewhat anonymous — the way a priest is mostly obscured from view in a Catholic confessional — so as to encourage patients to lose their inhibitions and be as honest as possible.

With Thomas, it had worked, she had drawn him out of his shell. When he started seeing her, he spoke a lot about the death of his parents, but, in recent weeks he had begun to address his relationship — admitting that they had a dead bedroom at home. He had still not mentioned his girlfriend of eight years by name, referring to her only as “my girlfriend” when talking about her. Lydia was intrigued. She also felt sorry for him. She didn’t really understand, either — she found him handsome and he had a mysterious side to him that attracted her. In another life — where he wasn’t in a relationship and she wasn’t his therapist — she’d have slept with him. She was honest enough with herself to admit that, before setting those thoughts aside and focusing on Thomas as a patient, not a potential tryst.

After their eyes locked for a few seconds, Thomas finally broke the silence.

“I don’t know, I guess.” He spoke slowly, searching for the right words. “Yeah, I guess you could say that it’s gotten better.”

He was talking about panic attacks that he had been suffering when he first sought out Lydia’s services. She could tell that he wanted to move on.

“You know, Thomas, if ever you want to practice coming down from a panic attack, simulating that here, that’s something we can do. I’m just putting that out there.” She offered him a warm smile, resting her hands on the wooden arm rests of the chair — the grey upholstery matching that of the couch. She reached for a mug on the table next to her and took a sip of tea.

Thomas wondered what kind of tea it was — or maybe it was coffee, he wasn’t sure. He considered her offer for a second and smiled back. “I think I’m good, but thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.”

Lydia nodded. She waited a few seconds to see if he might say something — to see if he wanted his session to head in a specific direction. Silence followed and she watched as he averted his eyes once again: the painting to his left, the window sill, the small succulent on her table, the bookshelf behind her, the necklace that was visible today, then finally back to her eyes.

She leaned over a bit to one side, bending her arm so that her elbow was resting on the arm of the chair, and propped her chin against her palm, her fingers cupping her cheek. “And, if you want to to practice expressing your emotions, we could do that in here, too. You can tell me if something I do or say annoys you, you can say what you feel without a filter” She watched him intently, as she always did.

Again, Thomas mulled this over in his head. He was picky with his words — he was, after all, a writer — and he took great care to select the right ones when discussing things with Lydia; he felt it important for her to better understand him.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he said, “does that mean you’re going to try and be annoying next week?” He smiled wryly and laughed a little bit. He had made a few jokes in the past weeks that she had laughed at and even reciprocated, so he felt emboldened. In the second and a half before Lydia answered, he thought about telling her that he found her attractive. Would that be inappropriate? Would she be flattered? Would she be mad, but mask it as part of her professional duty? Would she be blush? Thomas felt slightly aroused, a bit more blood flowing to his groin than usual, but nothing noticeable, at least externally.

Lydia laughed, gently and shook her head before smiling widely. “No, Tom, I’m not going to try to manufacture anything. But I want you to be as honest as you can — even if this is a private space, practicing saying things in here can really help you when it comes time to expressing those feelings in the real world.” She paused for a second, again, watching Thomas’ face for a reaction. “Whether that’s with your family, your friends or your girlfriend.”

The last two words sent his mind back towards the same thought — he wondered what would happen if he uttered the words I want to fuck you, something he had given up on telling his girlfriend — but also something that he thought was true of Lydia. He wouldn’t mind it one bit. He felt the heat swelling in his back again. He looked at her and wondered if she could read his thoughts. Did she know what he was thinking? Where his mind had wandered, even if only for a second or two? Thomas liked to think he was different from people, whether it was his friends, strangers or even Christine, his girlfriend.

She could see him staring at her intently. For the first time, he was maintaining eye contact with her for a prolonged period of time. She also felt like she could see his mind working, the gears turning inside his head as he computed different permutations. Lydia knew that most men would consider he attractive — not a 9 or a 10, but definitely above average — she also knew that it was somewhat normal for patients to fantasize about their therapists, there’s an emotional rapprochement that occurs when you reveal your darkest desires of deepest insecurities to someone, and a even stronger bond is forged when someone helps through a tough part of your life. She could see that Thomas was at least entertaining the possibility of what her vague, open-ended offer entailed. She wasn’t offering herself, but she was earnest in offering a space where he could say anything — she would explain to him why he was feeling a certain way if he said anything, but she didn’t expect him too. Thomas was polite, appropriate, and she didn’t know for certain that he was necessarily attracted to her, even if he did find her more attractive than the average woman.

Thomas nodded and uncrossed his legs, placing his hands on his thighs. He smiled. “Okay, sounds like a deal.” He took a deep breath, held it for a second and let it out. “You know,” he said, “I really think that this is working, I’ve noticed myself feeling lighter — less tense — the last few weeks.” He leaned forward a bit, propping his forearms against his knees. “I know that it’s still a work in progress, but I feel like I’ve at least made some progress.” He looked up at Lydia. “What do you think?”

As he was talking and looking to the side a bit, Lydia had glanced at the clock. Sessions were, technically speaking, only 50 minutes, though she usually let them run a little bit longer, telling patients around 50 minutes that the session would soon be coming to an end and using the last five or six minutes to tie up any proverbial loose ends. With Thomas, though, she often found herself telling him that time was coming to an end after an hour — he was her last patient on Fridays so there wasn’t anybody left waiting around — plus she found him interesting. It was four minutes past 3.

“I think that we’re coming to an end,” she said, with a smile, “and that what matters is that you feel like you’re making progress. This is about you, not me.” She could see that Thomas wanted more. “But,” she continued, tilting her head from side to side as she spoke, “I don’t disagree with you.” She stood up and walked to the small desk to grab the Interac terminal. As she did, Thomas noticed that her tighter, houndstooth pants didn’t only accentuate her ass, but able revealed that she had quite muscular thighs. He tried to not get caught staring, standing up and tilting his head towards just as Lydia turned around, handing him the machine. As she did, their fingers brushed against one another. Thomas took the machine, tapped his phone to it and handed it back to her, trying to manufacture another brush of their fingers, but without much success.

Thomas looked at Lydia and flashed her a smile, “I’ll see you next week, then?” She nodded. “Have a nice weekend,” he said, walking out the door and heading down the stairs.

“Thanks, you, too, take it easy,” Lydia answered as he crossed the threshold.

Lydia’s office was talking distance from Thomas’s house. As he stepped outside, he was grateful for the grey cashmere sweater. The sun was warm, but there was a chilly breeze blowing. While he might’ve been too warm inside, outside he was perfectly comfortable. He took his phone from his pocket and opened Instagram, glancing up, periodically, to make sure that he wasn’t about to walk into someone. For the umpteenth time, he typed in the name Lydia Falco — his therapist’s full name — into the search bar and, for the umpteenth time, there were no results. This was, he assumed, standard practice for therapists. But he was curious — more so now, after seeing Lydia in a tighter pair of pants and with a small bit of jewelry showing, and having made that suggestion which prompted Thomas’ imagination to run rampant. He wanted to see what she was like when she wasn’t in her office, what she might like: cooking? Museums? Brunch? Or was she a party girl. Perhaps he’d be able to glean how old she was from the posts. Maybe he’d see a beach vacation throwback that revealed more than loose turtlenecks and trousers. But no, none of that was to be. He slid his phone back into his pocket.

Ten minutes later, he was home. He dropped his keys in a small bowl by the door and called out to Christine, but there was no answer. She must’ve gone out to grab some groceries. He decided to take a shower. Stepping into the bathroom and stepping out of his trousers, he pulled the grey sweater over his head, taking the white T-shirt underneath with it. He looked at himself in the mirror, his grey boxers accentuated both his ass and his bulge. Thomas wasn’t ripped per se, but he was definitely in shape. He had a toned stomach and muscular legs, but he didn’t have strapping biceps, noticeable pecs or a six-pack cut from marble. He did have dark chest hair and a small strip that extended below his belly button, though.

Thomas tucked his thumb into his waistband and pulled his boxers down, stepping out of them and kicking them to the side. He turned to the side looked at himself in the mirror. He wondered whether Lydia would find him attractive. Again, he felt a small rush of blood to his member, but rather than fight it, he embraced it. Literally. He clutched his balls in the palm of his hand, massaging them slightly, closing his eyes and picturing Lydia, wondering what her body looked like under those clothes. He thought about her ass and muscular thighs — or what he imagined to be a perfectly round ass, just thick enough and slightly toned, and matching thighs. His shaft began to harden and, slowly, he began to stroke it, gently, running his palm along the bottom of his manhood, from his balls to the tip.

Little did Thomas know that Lydia, too, was letting her hands wander and little did he know that she lived in the same building as her practice. After finishing up with Thomas, she had turned off the lights and locked the door behind her, made her way downstairs, locked the door, and taken two steps on the sidewalk before opening the neighbouring door. It was an old four-plex that she had bought when her mother had died, converting two of the units into her therapy practice and the remaining two into a two-story townhouse. She put her purse down on the kitchen counter and pulled her sweater over her head as she made her way towards the stairs, climbing them in nothing but a bra and her trousers. Reaching the landing, she undid the waistband of the trousers and walked into her bedroom, sitting on her bed as she removed them.

Her body had given her some pause when she was younger, but she had grown to embrace it — she had a muscular frame, with well-toned thighs, a well-rounded ass that jiggled a little bit, but that she took great pride in, a flat stomach but not the smallest waist. Her breasts, by no means the biggest, had remained perky as she got older — not that she was old, she was only 33. In her purple lace bra and matching panties, she looked hot and she knew it as she looked herself over in the mirror, standing up for a second. Like Thomas, she wondered whether she would inspired desire if he were to see her like this. She had been particularly taken by his hands, today. They were big, but still elegant, not daunting — yet she could picture them comfortably cupping her breasts and running along her side, before settling on her ass, grabbing a handful of it, lovingly, of course.

Lydia could feel herself getting wet. She spread her legs and slid her hand — perfectly manicured nails and all — under her panties. Her middle finger circled her clit, gently. She liked teasing herself, sometimes.

Thomas, too, was taking things slowly, but he was watching himself in the mirror, trying to imagine Lydia in front of him, her hand on his shaft while his hand would be on her mound, spreading her lips ever so slightly to get his middle wet. He’d give anything to taste her wetness — to feel its warmth.

Lydia’s fingers wandered lower, parting her lips. She was definitely wet. She slid forward a bit, pressing her feet down to the ground but tilting her head back. The movement and positioning of her body sent a shudder down her spine as she slid her finger inside her tight, wet slit.

Thomas looked down at his shaft and his hand stroking it slowly. He let a long, thin strand of his saliva slowly dangle from his tongue until it broke away, falling freely until it landed on the base of his shaft. Using his palm, he rubbed it along the length of his swollen manhood and over his sensitive, throbbing tip.

Lydia pulled her finger from her wetness and brought it to her lips, tasting herself — it was a weakness of hers and previous partners hadn’t always understood. Quickly she plunged her hand back into her panties, pressing her fingers to her womanhood and grinding her clit and her labia against her palm.

Thomas began to stroke his shaft faster, gripping it tighter. He looked at himself in the mirror. He pictured Lydia standing in front of him, also facing the mirror. He wanted to be behind her, but looking into her eyes in the mirror while he buried his shaft inside her. He knew that she’d look great like that. He felt a warmth growing between his balls and his prostate and spreading to his belly. He loosened his grip, slightly, but kept stroking his cock at the same rhythm, now thrusting his hips. He let out a low groan, tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

“Fuck, yes,” he groaned, barely audible — there was nobody to hear him, anyways.

“Yes, fuck,” Lydia shouted, burying two fingers inside herself. She had always been loud. It was a good thing there was nobody in the office next door. She fucked herself slowly at first, focusing on finding that sensitive part of her inner most walls. She let herself fall back on the bet and arched her back, lifting her hips ever so slightly so that she was applying more pressure to her G spot. She imagined Thomas’ long fingers working their way inside her and finding her sensitive spot so easily. She pictured grabbing his wavy brown hair. Biting his lip. Feeling his tongue in her throat. He looked like the kind who would suck her soul out with a kiss. She wanted to cum.

So did Thomas. He kept stroking his shaft, picturing Lydia — imagining her voice.

“Fuck,” they both grunted as they approached the precipice.

In his bathroom, Thomas’ knees buckled a bit and he shuddered as he felt a wave of warmth traversing him, filling his shaft and eventually shooting out onto the floor. Thick, warm ropes of white cum coating the black tiles. He kept stroking his shaft, using the cum as lube, but he was too sensitive — each time he brushed over his tip he shuddered and almost giggled.

In her bedroom, Lydia kept shouting, she couldn’t help it.

“Fuck. Yes. Yes. Fuuuuuuck.” As she started cumming it was like a spring snapped, she sat up, flexing her abs and pulled her fingers from her slit, bringing them to her clit and rubbing it from side to side. There were no words to make out, just a series of sounds as she came. She felt it coursing through her, starting deep inside her and spreading outwards until it enveloped her entire body. It was a warm glow. Her clit was sensitive, but she kept flicking it back and forth. Finally she let herself fall back onto the bed and slowly removed her hand from her panties, before licking it clean.

Immediately afterwards, both Thomas and Lydia felt slightly ashamed. If only they knew what the other was up to — maybe next session they would.

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/12jiag2/mf_is_it_bad_when_you_want_to_fuck_your_therapist