I started therapy when I was 23, and gravitated towards a handsome fifty-year-old man named James. I had seen other therapists before but never connected with any of them like I did my therapist James. I didn't know anything about James's life, but he soon learned everything about me. I felt comfortable and safe around him, loved how he laughed at my jokes, and though I knew he had a daughter my age, I felt comfortable talking to him about anything. James was handsome, and I immediately had a crush on him. I loved his lean build and his salt and pepper hair, and I would prepare for our sessions like I would a date. I loved his business-like demeanor and his open collared button-up shirts, and how warm and quiet his office was. It was a safe place for me, but somewhere where I valued looking my best. I would curl the ends of my brown hair, wear something that flattered my slim figure and hugged my chest and ass, and always went in with a story to tell.
It started out innocent and I never dreamed we'd cross any lines. Yes, I fantasized about him on occasion, and yes, telling a red-blooded male nearly twice my age about my sexual desires did occasionally feel forbidden, even erotic. I knew that any other man hearing about a much younger woman's sexual desires and, on a good week, my sexual encounters would catch their attention, and I looked for signs my therapist was anything but completely professional. Occasionally, I saw his eyes dart across my chest, but he gave me few signals to work with. He called me lovely in almost a paternal way, but I still loved hearing it. Nothing seemed to shake him no matter how filthy or forbidden my thoughts were week to week. Nonetheless, I found myself looking forward to our sessions more and more, and even seeking out experiences I thought might make him desire me.
Lately, I had been exploring my fascination with pursuing older men. While I never spoke a word of my attraction to my therapist to him personally, he knew this was a theme of my desires, for reasons that likely stemmed from my absent father as a child. I was ashamed that being neglected made me seek validation in older men but couldn't control it, and didn't want to. Part of the work I was doing in therapy was learning to accept this part of myself, and not shame myself for it. And truthfully, men twice my age just did it for me. I couldn't change that about myself even if I wanted to.
I currently had my eye on my graduate school professor who, let's just say was not as stoic when I flirted with him as my therapist James was. After class, I would find excuses to talk to him and would go to comical lengths to get him to notice me. I mentioned to James that I had started touching myself right before class, but not letting myself come before I walked into his class. That way, every move I'd make, and every look we exchanged was laced with desire, even desperation for him to cross a line with me. I'd watch him teach and could feel how wet I was when I opened or closed my legs. I'd make eyes at him the whole hour and a half, sucking the tip of my pen and running my hands over my bare thighs when we locked eyes.
After class, I'd approach him to ask how his week went, and tell him how much I enjoyed watching him teach. I'd touch his arm, occasionally his chest, and play the part of the adoring schoolgirl. This man had nothing on James, but he was easier to excite. He responded to my touches with a grin and a blush, would subtlety need to readjust his slacks, and this past week, asked me to get coffee. I asked for a raincheck, then ran my hands across his chest and wished him a good night.
I told James that I had been playing with myself every night, thinking about how my professor, probably close to my dad's age, might desire me physically. That look in my professor's eyes when I toyed with him, while I decided whether to seduce him or not made me wet, and it made me wet talking about it in therapy.
"I feel slutty, but it feels good to have him want me. I've been craving that feeling more and more."
James looked at me deep in the eye and asked what I meant by that.
"Oh--well it's no secret I've been thinking about older men lately. Everything about them--but especially the power I know the right one would have over me."
"And what about that power excites you?"
I looked at him and saw something new in his eyes. He was looking at me with... hunger. Or at least that's what it felt like. Definite intrigue, at least. For the first time, I felt like I was tempting this man, despite his demeanor of stoic control.
"Well you know this--I like to please in bed. I like when someone makes me work to please him. And I've been fantasizing a lot about..."
"Go on."
"Well, a man licking me, teasing me, until I beg him to keep going."
"And does he?"
