Penny Pax strolls in with that impossible hourglass shape and plants herself on the couch. Dr. Logan Pierce rattles off some therapy nonsense, but she leans forward, blouse gaping just enough to make words turn to fog in his throat. He mumbles a half-hearted "we shouldn't," and she answers by sliding a hand up his thigh. Suddenly the clipboard hits the floor, the rest of his resistance evaporates like morning mist, and he’s all hands and hurried breathing. Clothes fall in messy heaps. Penny straddles him on the leather couch while he grips her hips hard, matching every reckless grind she gives him. The office couch creaks in protest as they tangle—her hair brushing his cheek, his tongue chasing the salt on her neck. She laughs, low and filthy, every time he swears he’s losing control. By the end he’s not the doctor anymore; he’s the one begging.
Penny Pax strolls in with that impossible hourglass shape and plants herself on the couch. Dr. Logan Pierce rattles off some therapy nonsense, but she leans forward, blouse gaping just enough to make words turn to fog in his throat. He mumbles a half-hearted "we shouldn't," and she answers by sliding a hand up his thigh. Suddenly the clipboard hits the floor, the rest of his resistance evaporates like morning mist, and he’s all hands and hurried breathing. Clothes fall in messy heaps. Penny straddles him on the leather couch while he grips her hips hard, matching every reckless grind she gives him. The office couch creaks in protest as they tangle—her hair brushing his cheek, his tongue chasing the salt on her neck. She laughs, low and filthy, every time he swears he’s losing control. By the end he’s not the doctor anymore; he’s the one begging.
