Truthfully, He isn't Ethical

*Thanks to RedBottom1632 for edits. This is my first piece, so try to be kind. Though the players may be real, their names have been changed. This is a fantasy - no harm was done in real life. :)*

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I stepped into his office and he trailed behind me by a few feet. I wonder occasionally, does he have to avert his eyes from the way my ass wiggles?

He, my therapist, Neil... Our professional relationship spans a fair length - four years. I started seeing him the summer after I started nursing school. I was a few months past my eighteenth birthday, living alone, thrown into the world. He's never told me his age outright - probably in his early fifties, though he takes good care of himself.

Neil's head is always shaved, while his face is covered in a thick beard from his cheeks to his chin. Brown coloring, with a distinguishing patch of gray that sits above his left jaw. Neil's sharp brown eyes are framed by black glasses and both ears are pierced. He is one of the few men who can pull of earrings - usually wearing a small square hoop set. Very subtle.

He is a classy man of the eighties and is wonderfully liberal, like myself. He is also an artist, married to an older woman in failing health, and has no children of his own, I've learned over the years. He's a strong man, full of passion. His pent up sexual energy and frustration has a tangible quality at times.

I found Neil's practice during a particularly nasty depressive episode during the summer of 2013. He charged based on a sliding scale, which allowed me to see him weekly. He stayed professional as he sat next to me, thigh to thigh, on his office's couch to teach me the vital skills of dialectical behavioral therapy. Distress tolerance, wise mind, mindfulness... He helped mold me into the woman I am today.

Well, Neil at least played a pivotal role.

Over the past year, we moved towards something more of a talk therapy. Around this time, my husband and I started having problems, which culminated in my husband having an affair. This is ironic considering our history of sexual issues; I've always had a higher sex drive than any male partner, especially my husband who might exist on the spectrum of asexuality.

With that said, Neil knows everything about my sex life. I've told him of the times my husband has failed to perform and left me not only unsatisfied, but also in tears, feeling like a failure.

Once, on an exciting trip to NYC, my husband and I stayed in a 5 star suite 20 floors up, overlooking Central Park. It was the definition of luxury (his money makes up for his flaccid cock - but only to a certain extent). After a wonderful day together, he settled into bed around 7PM while I showered, shaved every stray hair on my body, lotioned up and perfumed myself. I put on a touch of eye makeup to accent their hazel color and blush colored lip balm. I felt more than satisfied with my sex appeal and confident as I slipped on a newly purchased black floral silk robe. I loved the contrast against my pale, lightly freckled skin. Then, I slipped on my new favorite pair of panties my husband had purchased that day - hot pink and strappy. Perfectly cut to show the curves of my shapely bottom and made of the softest microfiber cotton material. Sexy and efficient, just my style.

I admired my figure in the mirror. On good days, I consider myself classically beautiful - on the smaller side of "Reubenesque". An hourglass shape with thick thighs and a modestly narrow waist, compared to the other parts of my female form. I pinched my small tummy and rolled my eyes. Not perfect, but not horrible. Soft and firm in the right places.

I traced the vividly red tattoo that sits below the right of my waist which was permanently etched into my skin on my eighteenth birthday. I smiled and chuckled at the number I'd collected across parts of my body that could be concealed over the next two years. Only twenty two and I already roll my eyes at myself. At least my career was also on my mind at that time. Poverty stricken child turned upper class wife by twenty, decked out in Tiffany's and Louis Vuitton (fuck, I like what I like and got that out of my system), but tatted and working in a top hospital in the nation. It's funny how life works out.

I stared into my enigmatic reflection.

God, I felt like the sexiest woman in the world. I quickly snuck in a bowl of herb and blew the smoke directly into the marble bathroom's fan. I felt like a teenager for once. I slid open the door to find hubby relaxing, reading his e-book. The city lights literally glistened as I sat on his lap as if I was going to ride him. I kissed him deeply and felt his cock twitch. Nibbled his earlobes, kissed down his neck and arms. He hardened further. I groaned as I rubbed my thinly veiled pussy against him. I loved it and decided to tease more, so I switched to a reverse cowgirl position. Reaching back, I grabbed his hands and placed them squarely on my bottom, spreading my cheeks. I could feel him growing as I slid his cock between my ass and I knew the sensitive head of his cock was rubbing against the soft fabric of my dampening panties.

Satisfied with how hard he'd gotten, I again flipped and scooted down the bed, planting kisses on his solid cock. The mushrooming head passed between my lips and into my throat effortlessly due to his average size and my talent combined. I bobbed my head up and down gently and thoroughly; I was met with the stifled moans of a happy man. Thinking this had been plenty of foreplay, I stopped after a couple minutes of teasing and moved up to kiss him deeply, giggling together. I moved my panties to the side, rubbing my bare and thoroughly wet cunt against him. For good measure I again slid down to taste myself on him. Again, he began groaning with pleasure. I took that cue and slid off my panties to ride him.

As I rose up and went to guide him into my aching pussy, he went soft.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He's psyching himself out, his mommy issues he won't confront are getting in the way of me getting dick. Fuck. Fuck. Playing the loving wife, I coddled him, hiding my devastation and disappointment. I feigned calmness while the flush that had once covered from my cheek bones down to the dip in my chest faded.

Ultimately, that was my breaking point. I quickly withdrew from my husband, becoming icier, and not like the woman he married. My attempts at communication became more infrequent due to his refusal to acknowledge any issue and just guess what happened a few months later... Not only that did my husband cheat, but I had to quit my job as a nurse. My life felt as if it was falling apart around me. So, in my turmoil, Neil's cozy office I felt safe, warm, and relaxed. How could anyone blame me for feeling this way?

But that doesn't matter now because Neil is settling into his leather swivel chair. I glance around at the familiar sights - small religious artifacts from around the world, multiple bookcases full of any information you could imagine about one's psyche. The front half of his office is dedicated to play therapy for his younger clients, while the back half is where we sit. A cheap black couch sits against the far back wall and another sits against the back left wall. The later is where I sit. Rarely does he join me on the couch anymore since there is no paperwork or print outs to explain anymore.

So, across from me he sits, five feet away. He crosses his legs and leans back. I avert my gaze as fail to maintain eye contact and he asks,

"How are you?"

"I'm... Good."

Neil always waits so patiently for me to expand upon that statement.

"Oh, God, sorry give me a moment to collect my thoughts," I add on.

He nods. In the short while I have sat on his couch, I've already become distracted from the professional purpose of his question. A passing fantasy enters my mind. I picture myself standing and taking the two steps to his chair. I'd slide his knees apart, sit on his left thigh, and wrap my arms around his neck. Leaning in, pressing my full DD breasts against him, running my fingernails along his shaven head, I'd whisper into his ear, "Fuck me Neil. Please."

Fuck. I need sex. I need a man who is confident and passionate for once, not one riddled with emotional baggage. I'm so desperate.

"Tiffany? You with me?"

"Oh, my god, I'm so sorry, yes!"

I nervously start talking about my week trying to push those horrible desires from my mind. I update him on how my marriage counseling sessions are going (alright) and update him on the most recent developments concerning an illness of my beloved puppy. After a few minutes, there's a lull in my anxious chatter. He interjects, "Tiffany... Jesus, you're so superficial. Obviously, there is more to say. Say it."

Neil repeats that last statement again, looking calmly into my eyes. It seems to echo and the syllables hang powerfully in the air.

"Say it, dear."

Fuck. I've melted. Neil knows myself better than I do and the power imbalance is there as much as I'd like to deny it, but right now I'm his. The look on his face is one I do not recognize, which startles me at first. Somehow, I feel as if I am growing pale and flushed all at once. After a few heart beats I recognize his expression - longing, craving, lusting. I can count on my fingers the number of times he has called me by a pet name and each time it's left me wondering for days if the look I saw in his eyes was strictly a misinterpretation.

What he said next confirmed that I had indeed recognized his subtle cues of need. Neil uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, settling with his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together. I could only briefly meet his gaze and in the moment I did, a smirk cracked across his face.

"Fine. I want you to know I'm undressing you with my eyes this very moment. You're incapable of maintaining eye contact and that aversion allowed me plenty of opportunity to let my gaze fall to you breasts throughout our time together."

He didn't stop. He continued his monologue to my humiliation.

"You also tend to sit with your ass sticking out," Neil said as he gestured to my sitting position.

I was not humiliated by his actual words but rather their accuracy. I had never even admitted my own desires to myself, so to hear it from him weighed heavily in my chest.

His expression grew tougher.

"You come into my goddamned office every week and complain about your sexless marriage. You bite your lip and twirl your hair and don't even realize what a slut you sound like," he spat out.

"You fucking bastard," I whispered harshly.

To be continued...

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