Chapter 2
What do you wear to an appointment when the week before, you showed your therapist your tits?
That is the question.
I decide to go with a summer dress. One that has buttons all the way up the front. Not just for decoration. Working buttons. In case I need to show off my tits again.
No bra today.
Am I playing with fire?
Abso-fucking-lutely.
I’m going to show Dr. John that I’m not afraid of him. Not afraid of his psychobabble bullshit, and not thrown by the fact that he told me to show him my tits – and I did. He’d outbluffed me last week. That’s not going to happen this week. My dress screams “you don’t faze me.”
Because it’ll be super easy to unbutton it and show him my tits again.
I can flip up my skirt and show him my thong if I want to.
I can’t help but feel buzzed as I saunter into his office.
Dr. John glances up at me from where he’s sitting at his desk, his gaze skimming over my outfit. Just like last week, he doesn’t smile when he sees me. Today his suit is a dark blue, perfectly fitted to him, and paired with a silver tie that’s almost the same shade as his hair.
“Good afternoon, Traci,” he says, as if he didn’t order me to flash him last week. As if he’s never seen my tits. His complete nonchalance is making me feel a little crazy. I want to rile him up. The way I feel riled up. “Go ahead and take a seat, I’ll be right with you.”
Pressing my lips together, I give him a fake, pursed smile, and go to sit down. I flounce onto the couch, my skirt fluttering around me and I stare at my bare thighs which are mostly exposed. If I was anywhere else, I’d pull my skirt down. But I’m not. I’m here.
So let’s see what he thinks of my skirt being so high up on my legs.
He doesn’t even glance up from what he’s writing, and when he finally does look up, it’s with the same blasé expression as always.
Which is infuriating. Sure, he’s hot and a total silver fox, but I know I look good too.
Especially in this dress. He can’t have THAT much pussy being thrown at him that he’s completely immune to me, right?
“Well, Traci, how was your week?” he asks as he moves back to his chair, which is directly across from the couch I’m now sitting on. It means the only thing between us is a low coffee table, which does not obscure the view of my legs at all.
“Fine.” I’m not trying to be pouty, I’m really not, but I know that’s how it’s coming across. Oh well. I’m going to pout then. He’s acting like nothing happened last week at all.
“Did you masturbate?”
“What?” Once again, I’m thrown off-kilter by him, because he asks whether or not I masturbated in the exact same tone of voice that he asked how my week was.
“This past week, did you masturbate?”
“I… yes.” Heat fills my cheeks. If he can be nonchalant, so can I. I press my thighs together as need curls between them. My pussy is already perking up with interest.
“Were you thinking about showing me your breasts when you did so?”
“No, I was thinking about blowing you,” I retort, just to see what he says. That was the least of what I fantasized about doing with him while I was jilling myself.
He nods thoughtfully and makes a note on his stupid clipboard. I squirm in my seat, trying to keep up my bravado and feeling like I’m failing. Just like I did last week.
“Show them to me again,” he says calmly, folding his hands over his clipboard. His gaze bores into mine, and I feel the blush in my cheeks grow even hotter.
“You want to see my tits again?” I run my hand over my chest, trying to take control of the situation.
“No, you want to show them to me again. So show them to me. Unbutton your dress down to your waist. That’s all you’ll need to do since you’re not wearing a bra.”
Hot and cold runs through me, and I feel strangely vulnerable.
I reach for the top button on my dress. He’s right.
I want to show him my tits again. But I also want him to react to me.
I don’t want to just show him my tits and get nothing…
except that it also makes me hotter than ever when I do get my dress open and my tits are hanging out there and he barely glances at them.
“Now pull up your skirt. It doesn’t have far to go.”
My cheeks feel like they’re on fire as I pull the hem of my skirt up to show off the lacy red thong that’s underneath.
“Good girl. Now tuck your skirt around your hips and spread your knees apart.”
Which means that I can’t keep pressing my thighs together to try and put some pressure on my needy pussy.
It also means that he can probably see how wet I am, because I’ve already soaked through the fabric of my thong.
My face blazes as I do what he orders, leaning back against the couch with my knees spread, skirt tucked around my hips, and my tits completely exposed.
I feel utterly shameless.
“Good. Now, cup your breasts and squeeze them.”
He waits as I slowly raise my hands up to cup my tits, sliding my fingers under them and lifting up like I’m offering them to him.
“Have you always been a rebel, Traci?”
“What? I…” It feels like my brain has whiplash as he goes from bossing me around sexually to asking me a question about myself. “Sort of? I guess?”
The truth is, I hate being told what to do. Except that he’s telling me what to do and I’m doing it… and I’m loving it. I don’t know how to explain the difference between doing what he’s telling me to do and not doing what everyone else tells me to do.
“Pinch your nipples, Traci.”
Pleasure flashes through me, along with just a hint of pain as I close my fingers around the tiny buds.
I bite my lip against the moan that wants to come out of me, and my knees waver before going back into position.
I want to press my thighs together so bad, it feels like my pussy is throbbing between my legs.
I hate that he can just stare straight at my wet-fabric-covered crotch, and at the same time I’m loving it too.
“Do you remember ever following the rules?” he asks.
I shake my head, but not because the answer is no, but because I’m trying to shake off the lust that’s making my brain feel hazy.
“Sure. When I was a little kid. Doesn’t everyone?”
“Pinch your nipples harder and give them a little twist.”
This time I can’t stop the moan as the pleasure and pain zap through me. Maybe I like this because I know we’re definitely not following the rules. I’m following his orders, but not the rules. He could get into serious trouble for this. I looked it up.
Then again, maybe not? Since he’s not touching me?
I feel like ordering me to touch myself has to be crossing some kind of line though.
“Do you remember the first time you decided not to follow the rules?”
“Um… pretty sure it was middle school.” I try to think back. I don’t know why I’m even trying. What the hell does this matter? And yet, I know he’s not going to keep going unless I do.
“Take one of your hands and start rubbing your clit with your fingers. Slowly.”
My nipple throbs as I release it and reach down to press my fingers over my pussy.
The lace of my thong is wet to the touch and I whimper as I slip my fingers beneath the fabric and touch my clit.
He didn’t say I couldn’t. As I touch myself, he finally looks up from his clipboard, watching my fingers circle my clit for a moment.
I don’t think I’m imagining seeing a bulge in the front of his pants now. They’re slim fit pants, so it shows. I can’t help but wonder exactly how big he is. That’s something I can’t tell at all, unfortunately.
My pussy clenches at knowing that he’s hard for me.
“Slowly, Traci. You are not allowed to come yet.”
Oh fuck.
Just him saying those words turns me on even more and I swear I can feel my clit pulse against my fingers. I swallow hard.
For some reason I want to keep doing as he says. There’s a part of me, a very small part, that wants to rub myself fast and hard and get myself off, to spite him… but deep down I know I won’t get as much satisfaction from that as I am from following his orders.
“Let’s talk about what changed in middle school.”
Let’s not.
But I know that if I stop talking, he won’t let me come.
Sure, I can wait till the session is over, but I don’t want to rush to the bathroom and get myself off there. I want to get off in here. On his couch. With him watching me.
Which is probably also something I need therapy for.
I can barely focus on the questions he’s asking, much less the answers I’m giving him. It’s probably the most honest I’ve ever been, because my head is too sex-fuzzed to lie right now or even watch what I’m saying.
“Okay, Traci. You have three minutes left in this session. Get yourself off.”
Dr. John sits back in his seat, his eyes watching me like a hawk, as he rests one ankle on his opposite knee, the clipboard on his lap.
I stare back at him, my fingers slick with my need, my body aching from how I’ve been teasing myself…
Part of me thinks that he can’t be serious, and yet I know he is.
Does he think I won’t do it?
I stare back at him, not blinking, not looking away, as I rub my clit harder. Faster. Something flashes across his face, too quick for me to pin down what he’s thinking, and I moan, lifting my hips against my hand. He wants a show? I’ll give him a fucking show.
Let’s see if he can stay stoic through this.
I arch, pinching my nipple with one hand, rubbing my clit with the other, letting my moans spill from my lips because I want him to hear me. I want him to know what I sound like when I come.
And I do.
I come so fucking hard.
Wave after wave of pleasure that starts in my pussy and then ripples through me with explosive intent. I shudder on his couch, under his gaze, as erotic bliss washes over me, leaving me limp and sated.
When I look back at him, panting for breath, I swear for just a moment I see his own desire. But then it’s gone, the second I blink. My hand is still in my underwear, my tits hanging out of my dress.
“Good job today, Traci.” He doesn’t smile, but there is real approval in his voice and something inside of me basks in it.
When he gets up, I can see the bulge at the front of his pants.
He reaches over his desk and picks up a couple of tissues, walking over to where I’m still sitting on the couch, feeling slightly dazed. “Clean yourself up.”
The dismissal is as humiliating as it is arousing.
Heat fills my cheeks as I pull my hand from my panties, casting my gaze downward as I wipe my fingers clean on the tissues. I can still smell my arousal though, musky and sweet. My hand is going to smell like that until I can actually wash it. He turns and heads back toward his desk.
Suddenly feeling small and vulnerable, I snap my knees together as I yank my skirt down and start frantically doing my buttons up to cover my breasts. I almost feel like I’m about to cry.
“Traci.” Dr. John’s voice is not gentle or loud, just firm and clear as always as he sits down behind his desk, setting his clipboard in front of him.
I clear my throat, lifting my chin defiantly. I don’t want to let him know he got to me.
“Yes?” My voice doesn’t shake even a little. I’m proud of that.
“If you have another good session next week, I’ll let you blow me.”
He looks back down at his notes in front of him, as if he didn’t just drop a verbal bomb on me. I sit frozen on the couch, my brain trying to find some kind of balance when I feel like I’m in freefall.
“I’ll see you next week, Traci.” Dr. John doesn’t even look up.
So I do the only thing I can do – I flee.
And I already know I’m going to spend the next week fantasizing about him watching me masturbate… and about being on my knees and blowing him.