Diabolic
Skylar Snow, Robby Apples Pic(s)
The leather of the analyst’s couch was cool and slick agat my bare back, a stark contrast to the feverish heat of my own skin. His fingers, usually occupied with a notepad, traced a slow, deliberate path from my ankle to the sensitive hollow of my knee, each inch a silent, unprofessional diagnosis. The air in the room, once filled with the weight of my confessions, now thickened with the scent of his cologne and the sharp, clean smell of his starched shirt as he leaned over me. His mouth found the frantic pulse at the base of my throat, and the sound that escaped me was not a word from our sessions but a raw, guttural plea. I arched into him, my hands fisting in the crisp fabric of his trousers, feeling the powerful tension coiled in his thighs. The quiet, analytical gaze I knew so well was gone, replaced by a dark, hungry focus that saw only the landscape of my desire. He entered me with a single, devastatingly slow thrust that felt less like an invasion and more like a homecoming, a physical answer to every unspoken question that had ever passed between us. The rhythm we built was a new language, punctuated by sharp breaths and the soft, wet sounds of our joining, a therapy far more profound than any spoken word. In that suspended moment, the boundaries of patient and doctor dissolved completely, leaving only the primal, shuddering truth of two bodies seeking absolution in shared, breathless release.
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