Chapter 1
I cross and uncross my legs, letting out a sigh as my court-appointed therapist, Dr. John, raises his eyebrows at me, waiting for me to get over myself and say something. Instead, I cross my arms over my chest and slouch in my seat, glaring at him.
Sure, I’m twenty-five years old, but right now I feel like a teenager facing down my dad. I cross my legs again and leave my foot jiggling in front of me.
Dr. John looks down at the clipboard resting on his lap – unlike me, he’s not fidgeting all over the place – and makes a note.
“What are you writing?” I ask, not bothering to temper the hostility in my voice. “I haven’t said anything yet.”
“Exactly.” If he’s bothered by my questions, it doesn’t show as he rests his hand on the clipboard and returns to his observation of me.
I probably wouldn’t be quite so out of sorts if I hadn’t somehow drawn a silver fox Zaddy as my shrink.
Seriously, Dr. John is all sorts of hot, from the top of his silver-gray hair to the neatly trimmed silver beard along his strong jawline, and the way his shoulders fill out the jacket he’s wearing.
I’ve never had a thing for older men, but there’s something about the way he holds himself that made me feel like a nervous wreck from the moment I walked into his office and saw him.
I don’t do well with authority figures.
I definitely don’t do well with older men.
But something about Dr. John has me completely thrown out of my usual headspace and feeling like I want to do something really stupid… like try and impress him.
There’s another long moment of silence as I bite down on my lower lip to keep from blurting out something crazy. Like asking him if he’s married. It’s none of my business and I shouldn’t care anyway.
“Well, Traci, would you like to say something now?”
“No.”
Another long silence.
I can’t help it.
“Aren’t you supposed to try and make me say something?” It seems stupid to just sit here in silence.
“Why would I want to do that?” He raises his eyebrows at me again.
“Because how else are you supposed to diagnose me?”
“Is that what I’m supposed to do?”
I squirm in my seat at his calm, controlled voice. I wonder if anything ever throws him. Maybe if I flashed him.
I bet that would crack his calm.
The image that pops into my head of his likely expression, his eyes bulging, jaw dropping in shock, almost makes me snort with amusement.
He’s still studying me, and he makes another note on his clipboard as I realize I’m smiling. Immediately, I smile wider, since he thinks that’s so noteworthy.
“What are you thinking about right now?” he asks.
“Flashing you my tits.” So maybe I’m not going to actually do it, but I can still get the reaction from saying it.
Except he doesn’t react at all. He doesn’t even blink. His expression doesn’t change. His hand rests on his clipboard, holding his pen, because apparently telling him that I’m thinking about pulling up my shirt and showing off my tits to him isn’t noteworthy.
“Do it.”
I freeze. There’s no fucking way he just said what I think he said… right?
Except he’s still sitting there, looking at me, the two words echoing in my ears.
“What?” Even if he did say it, there’s no way he would say it again. Right?
“Do it, Traci. Pull up your shirt and show me your tits.” As vulgar as the word sounded when I said it, it’s so much worse when he does. Maybe because he doesn’t look like the kind of guy who would normally say ‘tits.’ I’m pretty sure therapists aren’t supposed to say ‘tits.’
“I…” My voice trails off, because I know he’s calling my bluff and I hate that.
I really freaking hate that. There’s gotta be ethical rules that say he’s not supposed to tell me to show him my tits.
But he did it anyway. Probably because he doesn’t think I’ll do it. He thinks he’s got one over on me.
My face flames hot, because I’m that pissed off.
Fine. He thinks he can out-bluff me?
I grab my shirt by the hem and yank it up, flashing him for a brief moment.
The expression on his face is disapproving. Ha!
“I told you to show me your tits, Traci, not your bra.” The completely calm way he says it freezes me up. “Pull up your shirt and pull the cups of your bra under your tits.”
I stare at Dr. John for a long moment. He stares back at me. He’s not kidding.
Something stirs inside me.
“Now, Traci.”
His voice is firm. Commanding.
I feel almost like I’ve been hypnotized as I pull my shirt up. Heat flushes through my cheeks as the cool air touches my skin when I pull the cups of my bra down. My nipples pucker immediately and I tell myself it’s because of the air conditioning, even though I know that’s only part of the reason.
“Good girl.” He nods approvingly and I feel another wave of heat flash through me. I squeeze my thighs together as the heat settles between them, pressing my palms together on my lap. “You can do the rest of today’s session like that.”
“I…” My voice trails off as my cheeks pale.
My tits are hanging out, framed by my shirt and bra, and he wants me to complete today’s therapy session like this? How is this supposed to help my mental state?
Except it kind of does.
When he asks questions, I answer them. Somehow, it’s easier now. I don’t feel as embarrassed about being in therapy as I did before. How can I? It’s way more embarrassing to have my tits out than to talk about how I ended up in his office today.
I squirm in my seat, constantly wondering what else he might ask me to do. If he might ask me to do anything.
Is he as aroused as I am?
He glances at my tits occasionally as we talk, but he doesn’t stare at them.
I kind of wish he would.
It’s both humiliating and hot to be sitting here like this while he conducts a regular therapy session with me, as if I’m fully clothed.
“That was a good session, Traci,” he finally says, glancing at the clock. “You can cover your tits up again now. I’ll see you next week.”
It feels like my face is on fire as I pull up my bra and yank down my shirt. He’s not even looking at me; he’s already getting up from his chair to move back to his desk. Like it means nothing at all that he saw my tits.
I grab my purse from where it’s sitting next to my feet and practically sprint from the room.
He’ll see me next week?
Fuck that.
Except… I don’t exactly get a choice.
Rushing through the waiting room, which only has a hunched-over guy sitting in one of the chairs and the receptionist who doesn’t even blink as I scurry past her, I finally make it to the hallway. Only then do I feel like I can breathe.
I immediately go down the hall to the bathroom and lock myself in. Leaning against the wall, I pull open the front of my jeans and shove my hands into my panties. My pussy is soaking wet. So wet that it’s almost too slippery to give me the friction I need against my clit.
Pleasure explodes inside me as I remember the look on Dr. John’s face when he told me I could go. I rub as fast as I can, hampered by my jeans, gasping for breath as the ecstasy sweeps through me, leaving my fingers sticky and my muscles quivering.
That was so fucked up.