Direct Therapy

Dr. Comet crosses her legs slow and tight. She studies Nate like he’s already tied down. She tells him the treatment’s called direct therapy. No couch. No polite distance. Just her stepping into the fantasy he keeps locked up. She wants to hear the details. He wants to show her. So she offers him rope instead of answers. He binds her wrists, fast and mean, the way he pictures it at night. The cord bites. She smiles when it does. He’s thick, cut, hard as trouble. She drops to her knees without being asked. The beard brushes her cheek when he leans over her. One hand fists her hair, the other guides her mouth. She takes him deep, tongue working, spit sliding down her chin. He fucks her throat like she’s already bound and helpless. Every pull of the rope, every wet sound, every growled order pushes the session further. She asked for direct. He’s giving it.