I’d been seeing him for months, mostly talking about stress, relationships, and all the ways I get myself into trouble. He was older, calm, always in perfectly pressed shirts, glasses he’d take off when he wanted me to “open up.” There was always this undercurrent when we talked. The way his eyes lingered on my legs when I crossed them. How his voice would drop when he told me to be honest.
This session I wore a short skirt and no panties. I sat forward in the chair, leaning toward him, letting the skirt ride up inch by inch. When he asked if there was anything I’d been holding back, I told him I’d been having fantasies about him.
He just sat there for a moment, then stood and walked around the desk. Told me if I was going to share that, I needed to be very specific. My heart was pounding. I told him exactly what I wanted him to do to me.
The next thing I knew, I was bent over his desk, my skirt around my waist, his hands gripping my hips as he slid inside me raw. Papers scattered to the floor, his chair rolling back as the desk creaked under us. He fucked me slow at first, making me say every filthy thought I’d ever had about him, then harder, deeper, until I was moaning into the wood and shaking.
I came with my nails digging into his blotter, and he followed seconds later, filling me and holding me still like he wasn’t ready to let go.
When I sat back down, he handed me a tissue, straightened his glasses, and asked if I felt lighter after getting that off my chest.
Next session’s in two weeks. I’m already wet thinking about it
