Therapy
"Court-ordered sessions. Professional boundaries. She crosses every single one."
The court order is very specific.
Twelve sessions of cognitive behavioral therapy, to be completed within six months. Failure to comply will result in immediate incarceration.
One bar fight. One broken jaw. One judge who decided that I had "anger issues" that needed professional intervention rather than a prison cell.
So now I'm sitting in a waiting room that smells like lavender and anxiety, waiting to meet the therapist assigned to my case.
The door opens.
"Elijah Torres?"
I look up.
And forget how to breathe.
Dr. Margot Sinclair is not what I expected.
Forty-nine years old, according to the diplomas on her wall. Built like something from a fever dream—thick everywhere, curves straining against a wrap dress in deep burgundy, hips that could eclipse the sun. Her skin is pale and freckled, her hair a wild mane of copper and silver, her face soft and knowing and utterly unreadable.
She's also easily two-fifty. Maybe more.
And she's looking at me like she can see straight through to my bones.
"Please. Sit."
I sit. The therapy chair is leather, expensive, designed to make you relax. I don't relax.
She settles into her own chair across from me, crossing legs thick as oak branches, and opens a tablet.
"So. Court-ordered anger management. Assault with bodily harm. No prior convictions, but a history of—" She scrolls. "—bar fights, workplace altercations, and one restraining order from an ex-girlfriend."
"She exaggerated."
"They usually do." She sets down the tablet. "Tell me, Elijah. Why are you really here?"
"Because a judge ordered me to be."
"That's why you're required to be here. I asked why you're really here." She leans forward, and her dress gapes slightly, showing the pale swell of her cleavage. "What's underneath all that anger?"
I stare at her. At the way she's watching me. At the way her body seems to fill the entire room.
"I don't know."
"Then that's where we start."
The first three sessions are normal.
We talk about my childhood—shitty. My father—absent. My mother—dead. We talk about the patterns of violence that trace through my family like cracks through old concrete, the way I learned early that fists solved problems faster than words.
Dr. Sinclair listens. Nods. Takes notes. She's good at her job—asks questions that make me think, reflects things back in ways that make me actually hear them.
But I can't focus.
Because every time she moves, I see her. Every time she shifts in her chair, crosses her legs, leans forward to make a point—I see the flesh beneath the professional veneer. The breasts that strain against her dress. The belly that curves soft beneath the fabric. The thighs that spread when she sits, thick and pale and impossible to ignore.
I start getting hard in session four.
By session five, I'm wearing baggy jeans to hide it.
By session six, she notices.
"You're distracted today."
It's the middle of our sixth session. We've been talking about my ex—the restraining order, the screaming matches, the way I loved her and hated her in equal measure.
"I'm fine."
"You're not." She sets down her tablet. "You've been staring at my chest for the last fifteen minutes."
My face goes hot. "I haven't—"
"Elijah." Her voice is gentle. Not angry. "I've been doing this for twenty years. I know when a client is attracted to me."
The silence stretches. I want the floor to open up and swallow me.
"I'm sorry. I know it's inappropriate. I'll try to—"
"Stop." She holds up a hand. "Attraction isn't inappropriate. It's human. What matters is what we do with it." She pauses. "Tell me about it."
"About what?"
"About your attraction to me. Describe it."
"That's—you want me to—"
"Therapy requires honesty, Elijah. And right now, this—" She gestures between us. "—is the most honest thing in the room. So. Describe it."
I don't know why I obey.
Maybe because she told me to. Maybe because something about her voice bypasses every defense I have. Maybe because I've been carrying this for six weeks and I'm tired of pretending.
"I think about you," I say. "At night. In the shower. At work. I imagine what you look like under those dresses. I imagine—" I swallow. "—touching you. All of you. Every inch."
"What specifically draws you?"
"Your—" I can't believe I'm saying this. "Your body. The size of you. The way you fill a room. The way you move like you don't give a fuck what anyone thinks about how you look."
"And what would you do, if you could touch me?"
"Everything." The word comes out rough. "I'd start at your throat and work my way down. I'd worship every inch of you. Every curve, every roll, every place where you're soft. I'd bury my face between your thighs and I wouldn't come up until you couldn't remember your own name."
Silence.
I'm breathing hard. My cock is straining against my jeans. I've just confessed the most inappropriate fantasy of my life to my court-ordered therapist.
Dr. Sinclair uncrosses her legs.
"That's very detailed," she says. Her voice is different now. Rougher. "Have you considered that your anger and your desire might be connected?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're attracted to power. To presence. To women who take up space unapologetically." She stands, moves toward me. "But you've been taught that desire is shameful. That wanting something this much is dangerous. So you bury it. And the burying becomes anger."
She stops in front of my chair. Close enough that I can smell her—vanilla and something muskier, something that makes my head spin.
"What if the cure for your anger isn't suppression?" She reaches down, cups my face. "What if it's release?"
"This is unethical."
I say it even as she straddles my lap, her weight settling onto me, pressing me into the therapy chair like I'm being absorbed.
"Completely." She's undoing the wrap of her dress. "I could lose my license."
"Then why—"
"Because I've been watching you for six weeks." The dress falls open, revealing a body that makes my brain short-circuit. "Watching you try not to want me. Watching you suffer. And I'm tired of pretending I don't want you back."
She's wearing a black bra that barely contains her breasts and matching panties that disappear between thick thighs. Her belly is soft and round, her skin pale and freckled everywhere. She's everything I've been fantasizing about, and she's here, and she's real.
"Touch me," she commands.
I touch her.
My hands find her hips, her waist, the soft overflow of flesh above her panties. I pull her closer and bury my face in her cleavage, breathing her in, losing myself in the softness and heat.
"Fuck," I gasp.
"That's the idea." She reaches back, unhooks her bra. Her breasts spill free—heavy, freckled, nipples pink and hardening. "Show me what you've been imagining."
I show her everything.
I suck her nipples until she's moaning, grinding down on the bulge in my jeans. I slide my hand into her panties and find her soaked—wet enough that my fingers glide through her folds like silk. She gasps when I find her clit, works herself against my hand while I watch her face contort with pleasure.
"Yes—yes—right there—"
"You're so fucking wet."
"Six weeks of watching you suffer. Six weeks of imagining this." She reaches for my zipper. "I need you inside me. Now."
She frees my cock. Positions herself. And sinks down in one smooth motion.
The sound she makes is inhuman.
She's tight and wet and hot, and every inch of her is pressed against me—breasts in my face, belly against my stomach, thighs clamping around my hips. She's too much. She's everything. She's exactly what I've been craving for years and didn't know how to ask for.
"Move," I growl.
She moves.
She rides me in her therapy chair like she's exorcising demons.
Her office fills with the sounds of flesh against flesh, with her moans and my grunts and the wet slap of our bodies connecting. She's not gentle about it—she takes what she wants, uses me, chases her own pleasure with the same single-minded focus she brings to therapy.
"Harder," she demands. "Fuck me harder—"
I grab her hips—sink my fingers into that soft flesh—and thrust up into her with everything I have. She screams. Not a therapeutic scream—a raw, animal sound that would get us both arrested if anyone heard.
"You're so—fuck—so goddamn—"
"Tell me. Tell me what I am."
"You're everything. You're massive and soft and perfect and I want to live inside you. I want to worship you every fucking day. I want—"
She comes.
I feel it—the clench of her around me, the shudder that runs through her whole body, the way she goes rigid and then liquid in my arms. She moans my name—Elijah, Elijah, oh god Elijah—and the sound of it tips me over the edge.
I come so hard I see stars.
We lie tangled in her therapy chair, both breathing hard.
"Well," she says finally. "That was unprofessional."
"Yeah."
"I should refer you to another therapist."
"Probably."
"Will you go?"
I turn my head, look at her—this incredible woman, flushed and satisfied, her professional mask completely shattered.
"Not a fucking chance."
She laughs. It's nothing like her therapy laugh—controlled, professional. This is real. Surprised. Happy.
"Then I suppose we'll have to continue our sessions." She traces a finger down my chest. "For therapeutic purposes, of course."
"Of course."
"Same time next week?"
I pull her back into a kiss.
"How about tomorrow?"
We never file the paperwork saying my sessions ended.
As far as the court knows, I'm still in treatment. As far as the world knows, Dr. Sinclair is still my therapist. But in her office, after hours, with the blinds drawn and the door locked—
We're something else entirely.
"You're healing," she tells me one night. "The anger. The violence. It's fading."
"Because of the therapy?"
"Because of the release." She's lying on the couch, spent, her body a landscape I've memorized. "You spent your whole life being told desire was dangerous. That wanting too much would hurt people. So you turned it into anger instead."
"And now?"
"Now you have an outlet." She smiles. "A very enthusiastic outlet who looks forward to your sessions more than she should."
"Is that a clinical assessment, Dr. Sinclair?"
"It's a personal one, Elijah." She pulls me down to her. "Now come here. We have more work to do."
I come.
And in a therapist's office in Neo-Portland, two people who never should have crossed the line discover that sometimes the most healing thing you can do is let yourself want without shame.
Session complete.
Rescheduled for infinity.