Told My Therapist My Kink

I was fifteen minutes into the session and hadn't said a single thing worth saying.

She sat across from me, notebook resting on her thigh, legs crossed just above the knee. That pantsuit didn't just fit. It clung. Tailored, dark, sharp. Professional if you glanced. Dangerous if you looked twice. Her blouse dipped just enough to raise questions. Glasses perched perfectly. Hair in one of those loose buns that looked like it would unravel if you pulled just right.

She looked like someone you'd confess something awful to. Then hate yourself for how easily it came out.

"You seem guarded today," she said, pen hovering like it already knew the truth.

I shrugged. "I don't really know what to say."

"That usually means something's worth saying."

I smirked. "Or I'm just tired."

She didn't respond. Just let the silence spread like bait.

"You think I'm avoiding something."

"I think you're protecting something."

I let out a dry laugh. "Let me guess. Because of my childhood?"

Her head tilted slightly. "Not always. But it's a good place to look."

"Of course. I got an apple thrown at me once so now I get triggered by the colour green.

She smiled. Patient. A little amused.

"You're simplifying it. But sure. Early patterns. Deep roots."

"So it's the apples fault?

"It's worth asking why certain feelings feel safe. Or unsafe."

"Yeah you got me. Now in the bedroom I need apples thrown at me or I can't finish. Its my kink

She waited. Then added, lightly, "Even kinks usually stem from something in the past"

I blinked. "Even kinks?"

"Especially kinks."

I let that hang. Then grinned. "So, what if someone likes being spanked? What's that saying about them?

"Nothing." she said calmly. "But I'd ask what that kink lets them feel. Or avoid feeling."

She didn't say it like she was judging. Just like she understood.

"You think kinks matter in therapy?"

"I think people are most honest when they're turned on. Kinks tell the truth."

That made me laugh. A real one this time.

"If I told you a kink... what would you do with it?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Would you be telling me to shock me? Or to be seen?"

I paused. Then said, "I think I'd just be saying it because I've never said it out loud before."

She nodded once. "Then it's worth saying."

I hesitated.

Then I said it.

"I like being watched."

No reaction. Just a steady nod. "During sex?"

"Not even that far," I said. "Just... masturbating."

Still no notebook scribble. Just her eyes on me like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"Do you imagine someone watching?"

"Yeah. All the time."

"Someone specific?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes just... the idea. The tension."

"Ever acted on it?"

I shook my head. "Never had the balls."

"It's not insane," she said. "It's intimate. It's permission. You let someone see you, unfiltered. It's one of the rawest kinds of trust."

That hit something deep in my chest. My cock pulsed hard in my jeans.

"Have you ever written it out?"

"No."

"Recorded yourself?"

"Fuck no."

"So it only lives in your head."

I nodded. "Yeah."

She studied me for a second. Then set the notebook down beside her, crossed and uncrossed her legs, adjusted her glasses.

"What would it feel like," she asked, "if you played it out here?"

My mouth went dry. "Now?"

"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm asking if it would help."

I swallowed. "Im not sure how it would make me feel. But I got hard just thinking about it"

She didn't blink. "Then go ahead."

I froze. "Seriously?"

Her voice stayed even. "This is your session. No one else is here. You trust me already. Don't you?"

My heart was pounding. My cock was aching, hard and twitching inside my jeans.

"You want me to..."

"I'm not touching you," she said. "You're in control. I'll stay right here. If you change your mind, we stop. It's yours."

She leaned back in her chair. Legs crossed. Hands in her lap. Still. Waiting.

I don't remember deciding to move. My hands just did it.

I undid my jeans with fingers that trembled. Glanced at her face. She didn't look away. She didn't leer. Just watched me with this calm, steady interest. Like I was unfolding something sacred.

I pulled my cock out. It was already leaking. Throbbing. I gripped it and started stroking slow.

She didn't speak. Her glasses caught the light. Her mouth stayed composed. She looked like she was memorizing every movement.

I felt more exposed than I ever had. But also more seen. Every second her eyes stayed on me, I stroked a little harder.

"Is this how you imagined it?" she asked.

"Usually," I said between breaths, "they start encouraging me."

She smiled.

"Then keep stroking that thick, hard cock for me."

My breath hitched. My eyes fluttered shut.

"You're doing so well," she said softly. "Making yourself feel good like that."

A moan slipped out of me before I could stop it.

"Are you going to cum for me?"

"Yeah... fuck... I'm so close."

"Good. I want to see that load all over the furniture. Be a good boy and cum for me."

I felt it hit all at once. Every muscle in my body locked. My cock jerked in my fist and I came hard. Ropes of cum shot up my stomach and dripped onto the couch.

I stayed there, panting. My heart still thudding. Her lip caught between her teeth.

She stood up slowly and walked toward me. Bent just enough to drag her finger through a line of cum streaking the cushion. Brought it to her mouth. Sucked it clean, eyes never leaving mine.

"I think that was a very productive session."