My Therapist's Hands Pt. 01

I started therapy when I was 23, and gravitated towards a handsome fifty-year-old man named James. I had seen other therapists before but never connected with any of them like I did my therapist James. I didn't know anything about James's life, but he soon learned everything about me. I felt comfortable and safe around him, loved how he laughed at my jokes, and though I knew he had a daughter my age, I felt comfortable talking to him about anything. James was handsome, and I immediately had a crush on him. I loved his lean build and his salt and pepper hair, and I would prepare for our sessions like I would a date. I loved his business-like demeanor and his open collared button-up shirts, and how warm and quiet his office was. It was a safe place for me, but somewhere where I valued looking my best. I would curl the ends of my brown hair, wear something that flattered my slim figure and hugged my chest and ass, and always went in with a story to tell.

It started out innocent and I never dreamed we'd cross any lines. Yes, I fantasized about him on occasion, and yes, telling a red-blooded male nearly twice my age about my sexual desires did occasionally feel forbidden, even erotic. I knew that any other man hearing about a much younger woman's sexual desires and, on a good week, my sexual encounters would catch their attention, and I looked for signs my therapist was anything but completely professional. Occasionally, I saw his eyes dart across my chest, but he gave me few signals to work with. He called me lovely in almost a paternal way, but I still loved hearing it. Nothing seemed to shake him no matter how filthy or forbidden my thoughts were week to week. Nonetheless, I found myself looking forward to our sessions more and more, and even seeking out experiences I thought might make him desire me.

Lately, I had been exploring my fascination with pursuing older men. While I never spoke a word of my attraction to my therapist to him personally, he knew this was a theme of my desires, for reasons that likely stemmed from my absent father as a child. I was ashamed that being neglected made me seek validation in older men but couldn't control it, and didn't want to. Part of the work I was doing in therapy was learning to accept this part of myself, and not shame myself for it. And truthfully, men twice my age just did it for me. I couldn't change that about myself even if I wanted to.

I currently had my eye on my graduate school professor who, let's just say was not as stoic when I flirted with him as my therapist James was. After class, I would find excuses to talk to him and would go to comical lengths to get him to notice me. I mentioned to James that I had started touching myself right before class, but not letting myself come before I walked into his class. That way, every move I'd make, and every look we exchanged was laced with desire, even desperation for him to cross a line with me. I'd watch him teach and could feel how wet I was when I opened or closed my legs. I'd make eyes at him the whole hour and a half, sucking the tip of my pen and running my hands over my bare thighs when we locked eyes.

After class, I'd approach him to ask how his week went, and tell him how much I enjoyed watching him teach. I'd touch his arm, occasionally his chest, and play the part of the adoring schoolgirl. This man had nothing on James, but he was easier to excite. He responded to my touches with a grin and a blush, would subtlety need to readjust his slacks, and this past week, asked me to get coffee. I asked for a raincheck, then ran my hands across his chest and wished him a good night.

I told James that I had been playing with myself every night, thinking about how my professor, probably close to my dad's age, might desire me physically. That look in my professor's eyes when I toyed with him, while I decided whether to seduce him or not made me wet, and it made me wet talking about it in therapy.

"I feel slutty, but it feels good to have him want me. I've been craving that feeling more and more."

James looked at me deep in the eye and asked what I meant by that.

"Oh--well it's no secret I've been thinking about older men lately. Everything about them--but especially the power I know the right one would have over me."

"And what about that power excites you?"

I looked at him and saw something new in his eyes. He was looking at me with... hunger. Or at least that's what it felt like. Definite intrigue, at least. For the first time, I felt like I was tempting this man, despite his demeanor of stoic control.

"Well you know this--I like to please in bed. I like when someone makes me work to please him. And I've been fantasizing a lot about..."

"Go on."

"Well, a man licking me, teasing me, until I beg him to keep going."

"And does he?"

"Not the first time."

"So what happens the first time?"

"He denies me pleasure--or at least denies my release because he says I haven't earned it yet. Kind of like I deny myself an orgasm before class. And then he lets me please him orally."

My therapist looked at me lovingly, calmly, but with that same hunger in his eyes. He took off his glasses for a moment and paused quietly. For the first time in a session, he asked me to lie down.

"I want to try something, if you don't mind. I'd like to stroke your face so you can get comfortable with nonsexual intimacy from an older man. I think it'd be good for you."

My cheeks burned, but I was already under his spell. I thought about his touch many times in my fantasies but here, at 4pm, with no sexual purpose--it was more intimidating that I thought.

"Just stroke my face or...?"

"Yes, June--it's time for me to touch your face. Lie down now."

I did what he said. I felt my heart rate pick up as I positioned my head on the pillow of his couch, and felt warmth below my skirt.

"I'm going to walk over to you now--just stay still and keep breathing. You can close your eyes if you like."

He got up from his chair and moved in my direction. I breathed deeply as he stepped over to me, and started lightly massaging his hands through my hair. I felt tingles go down my spine and I let out a low murmur. My nipples instantly hardened.

"Oh, that's nice."

"It feels nice? And you recognize that I can be here for you in a nonsexual context now?"

Truthfully, I would say whatever he wanted to hear to make him keep touching me. I nodded quietly in assent.

"Yes James, I think this is really helping me. I feel so relaxed."

I opened my eyes and saw him looking down at me. He looked calm and in control and maybe like he enjoyed bringing me calm and pleasure. I felt my pussy burning and wondered if he knew that, and truthfully, whether he could smell my desire for him. I was already wet from talking about my professor, but having this unexpected caress from my therapist set my pussy on fire.

"June, I'm going to keep going, if you don't object."

Without waiting for my reply, he moved his hand from my scalp to lightly graze the length of my thigh. I gasped a bit and looked up at him to see if he noticed. It didn't seem like he did, and he kept his fingers moving the length of my thigh, slowly moving closer to my wet panties. This was it, I thought. I'd tempted this man enough, and he had to know I wanted it. He had to notice how hard my nipples were through my blouse, and how I was reacting to his touch.

"No--keep going James, I don't mind."

His other hand moved to my right thigh, so he was lightly rubbing me from the inside of my knee to just below my panties. I wanted his touch so bad and started to lose any veneer of calm. I felt my breathing get ragged and I squirmed slightly, willing him to put his fingers on my sex. During one of his strokes, I felt his fingers brush my panties and I moaned out for him. I gasped and briefly opened my eyes, while his fingers lingered on my innermost thigh.

And just like that, he withdrew his hands. He gave my face one last stroke and took his hands off my shaking legs. I opened my eyes and looked at him, with longing and confusion.

"No... don't stop. Please--I was feeling so safe with you. I think that was good for me. Please James, just another few minutes."

I was embarrassed to hear the pleading in my voice. That I was begging my therapist to put his hands back on me--when the whole point was this was supposed to be nonsexual.

"I think that's quite enough for today, June. I won't be going any further. You can sit up now."

I wondered if he was upset with me as he moved back over to his chair. With his back turned, I grazed my hands over my sex just for a moment, desperate to feel a touch there. I let out a quiet moan from my own touch. He sat down and turned back to me--observing my aroused state. His face was typically stoic, but still kind, as I practically gasped on the couch across from him.

I looked at him incredulously, feeling frustrated and desperate for release. I felt my pussy pound and wanted to touch myself right there, but knew that we were almost done with our session.

"And what was the point of that?," I asked him. My voice still had a whining in it, as much as I tried to get control of myself.

"You need to learn to trust me. Know I'll never ask you to do more than you're ready for."

I looked up at him and decided to have a bit of fun. I locked eyes with the man, and slowly sucked on each of my fingers, to see if I could get any reaction. I imagined his cock in his dark slacks right now--whether seeing his cock would give me an idea of how he really felt about me. I rested my other hand on the border of my skirt--not touching myself but retracing where his hands were on my thigh.

"What do I have to do, James? Tell me what I have to do, and I'll do it."

"We're out of time," he said. "I'll see you same time next week."