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Dr. Charlie Hayes takes the case when Joseph Curwin sits across from her desk, and within minutes she knows he’s more than a headline. Her clipboard, her cool voice, the buttoned blazer—he watches every seam tighten as she shifts in her chair, and he flashes a smirk that says “let’s skip the prologue.” She starts polite: questions, posture, eye contact. He’s sprawled in his chair like the room belongs to him and answers her latest drill with a slow, drawling confession that drips from his mouth while his hand flexes beneath the table. The chill in the air sharpens when he leans forward, cuffs clinking, and tells her he needs the part of his brain between his legs to shut up for five damn minutes. Tension crackles between pen and paper. She licks her lower lip once—doesn’t even notice—then stands and circles behind him, heels ticking, breath hovering at his ear while she lists “symptoms” in a voice gone half an octave lower. He’s thick behind his zipper, twitching like he’s reading her mind, and she glances down, sees the strain, feels her pulse throb between her thighs. Without asking again she pops the first three buttons of that blazer, slides her silk blouse free, then drops to a squat beside his chair. Cuffs jangle once when his fingers find the hem of her skirt; he yanks, she lets him. Cool air hits hot skin as he palms the heat between her legs, rubs a rough thumb across lace already damp, and she exhales a shaky laugh that sounds like surrender. She frees him—hard, flushed, one vein pulsing thick—gives two lazy strokes before pressing the head against her tongue, tasting salt and urgency. Tongue swirls, lips seal, and he hisses through clenched teeth like her mouth is the verdict he’s been waiting for. He lifts his hips in short thrusts, fucking the wet heat while she bobs, gagging softly, spit shining on her chin. Her hand snakes between her own legs, shoves lace aside, two fingers plunging while she sucks. He clocks the wet sounds, laughs low and filthy, then warns her he’s close. She doubles down, throat working, until he jerks once and floods her mouth in hot, salty bursts she swallows without breaking eye contact. She wipes the corner of her lips, stands, and smooths her skirt like nothing happened. Clipboard back in place, voice professional again. “Mr. Curwin,” she says, cheeks still flushed, “it seems you are, in fact, fit to stand trial.”
Dr. Charlie Hayes takes the case when Joseph Curwin sits across from her desk, and within minutes she knows he’s more than a headline. Her clipboard, her cool voice, the buttoned blazer—he watches every seam tighten as she shifts in her chair, and he flashes a smirk that says “let’s skip the prologue.” She starts polite: questions, posture, eye contact. He’s sprawled in his chair like the room belongs to him and answers her latest drill with a slow, drawling confession that drips from his mouth while his hand flexes beneath the table. The chill in the air sharpens when he leans forward, cuffs clinking, and tells her he needs the part of his brain between his legs to shut up for five damn minutes. Tension crackles between pen and paper. She licks her lower lip once—doesn’t even notice—then stands and circles behind him, heels ticking, breath hovering at his ear while she lists “symptoms” in a voice gone half an octave lower. He’s thick behind his zipper, twitching like he’s reading her mind, and she glances down, sees the strain, feels her pulse throb between her thighs. Without asking again she pops the first three buttons of that blazer, slides her silk blouse free, then drops to a squat beside his chair. Cuffs jangle once when his fingers find the hem of her skirt; he yanks, she lets him. Cool air hits hot skin as he palms the heat between her legs, rubs a rough thumb across lace already damp, and she exhales a shaky laugh that sounds like surrender. She frees him—hard, flushed, one vein pulsing thick—gives two lazy strokes before pressing the head against her tongue, tasting salt and urgency. Tongue swirls, lips seal, and he hisses through clenched teeth like her mouth is the verdict he’s been waiting for. He lifts his hips in short thrusts, fucking the wet heat while she bobs, gagging softly, spit shining on her chin. Her hand snakes between her own legs, shoves lace aside, two fingers plunging while she sucks. He clocks the wet sounds, laughs low and filthy, then warns her he’s close. She doubles down, throat working, until he jerks once and floods her mouth in hot, salty bursts she swallows without breaking eye contact. She wipes the corner of her lips, stands, and smooths her skirt like nothing happened. Clipboard back in place, voice professional again. “Mr. Curwin,” she says, cheeks still flushed, “it seems you are, in fact, fit to stand trial.”