Craving for the Doctor

You step into Dr. Preston’s office and your mouth goes dry. She glances up from the couch—white coat half-open, showing the low curve of a lacy bra. Her lips curl into that smirk that never stays on the books. First the small talk. Then her questions slide sideways, land somewhere between curious and loaded. When you mention the problem, she leans closer, a rustle of paper as your file hits the floor. Her heels click once, twice, on the hardwood. Next thing you know her tongue is chasing the last protest off yours, coat open, palms sliding down your chest. Every kiss lands a little harder, each moan a small confession she’d swear never happened. She smells like vanilla hand-sanitizer and nerves. The walls, stacked high with other people’s secrets, stay quiet. By the time she’s on her knees, guide rails snapped, oath looking the other way, the only thing running is the clock counting down until the next appointment. You come hard, pulse steady like it’s in on the joke. When it’s over she straightens her glasses, clears her throat, and asks the same question she asked at the start: “How does that make you feel?” Neither of you laugh out loud, but the smirk is still there. Ethics be damned—Dr. Preston scribbles a single note on the pad: Follow-up in two weeks, bring protection. Session complete.