My Psychiatrists Unconventional Treatment

Diabolic

Adira Allure, Nathan Bronson Pic(s)

The leather of the chaise was cool and supple agat my bare skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of his gaze as he moved from behind his desk, the quiet click of the door lock echoing the sudden, frantic rhythm of my heart. He didn’t speak, his silence more potent than any interpretation as his fingers, smelling faintly of sandalwood and ink, traced the delicate arch of my foot, a touch so deliberate it felt like a question. My breath hitched, a small, trapped sound, as his hand slid with agonizing slowness up my calf, the friction a delicious torment that made my muscles tremble. He paused at the sensitive hollow behind my knee, his thumb pressing in a slow, circular motion that unspooled a thread of heat deep within my belly, a liquid warmth that began to pool and spread. Leaning close, his breath ghosted across my clavicle, a whisper of mint and something darker, more primal, before his lips followed the same path, not quite kissing, just branding me with his proximity. I arched involuntarily, a silent plea, and his low chuckle vibrated through me as his other hand found the small of my back, pressing me down into the leather, a firm anchor in the rising tide of sensation. Every nerve ending felt exposed, hyper-aware of the weight of his body leaning over me, the crisp cotton of his shirt brushing my nipples, each thread a tiny lightning strike. The world narrowed to this room, to the scent of him, to the exquisite pressure of his palm now splayed across my abdomen, holding me still as his mouth finally, devastatingly, found the frantic pulse at the base of my throat. This was not a conversation; it was a dismantling, a methodical unraveling of every defense I had so carefully built, each touch a prescription written directly onto my skin.