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What my s*x therapist imagines I’ll be doing before the first session!!!

The camera dives straight into my therapist’s dirty fantasy. In his mind, I’m sitting on that chair, my legs spread so wide that everything is exposed, whilst my fingers greedily creep under my skirt. Warm, dim light caresses my skin as my hand slides between my wet thighs and settles directly on my clitoris. My fingers work hard, rubbing and pressing, whilst my breath breaks into hot, gasping bursts. In his mind’s eye, the therapist watches closely as my hips press wildly against the seat, as a damp, stifled moan escapes my lips, and as every muscle in my lower abdomen contracts with every rapid stroke. In his imagination, the camera zooms in on the twitching of my inner thighs, on my rolled-back eyes, on the exact moment I come – how my body arches, how the pleasure shoots out of me in a hot, pulsating wave and soaks everything beneath me. It remains purely imaginary – no real sound, no real touch, just the mercilessly explicit, almost perverse staging of a fantasy which he directs, with his eyes closed, through the lens of his own lustful mind. How my s*x therapist imagines what I do before our first session!!! The camera dives straight into my therapist’s dirty fantasy. In his mind, I am sitting on this chair, my legs spread so wide that everything lies exposed, whilst my fingers greedily crawl beneath my skirt. Warm, dim light caresses my skin as my hand slides between my wet thighs, landing directly on my clitoris. My fingers work hard—rubbing and pressing—whilst my breath breaks into hot, ragged gasps. In his mind’s eye, the therapist watches intently as my hips press wildly against the seat, as a moist, stifled moan escapes my lips, and as every muscle in my lower abdomen contracts with each rapid stroke. In his imagination, the camera zooms in on the twitching of my inner thighs, on my rolling eyes, on the exact moment I climax—how my body arches, how pleasure surges out of me in a hot, pulsating wave, drenching everything beneath me. It remains purely imaginary—no real sound, no real touch—just the ruthlessly explicit, almost perverse staging of a fantasy that he directs, with his eyes closed, through the lens of his own lustful mind.