He's Never Made Me Come - Sex Stories

He's Never Made Me Come

“Come in!” I pushed open the door and shyly walked into her office, not really knowing what to expect after our last session. I’m pretty new to therapy, having only been recently diagnosed and only having had 3 appointments so far with my counsellor, but even I was fairly certain that what had happened last week wasn’t exactly usual. It had begun like the two sessions before it; she’d welcomed me into the tiny office, we’d sat opposite one another in armchairs, she’d begun to delicately ask me about my mental state over the last week. We discussed in detail how I’d been, and she appeared noticeably relieved to hear that I was feeling better than I had been the last time I sat in that chair. I know that the relationship we have is purely professional: I’m struggling with depression and it’s her job to try to get to the bottom of why, to coax me back to my old self. But that doesn’t mean that I wasn’t starting to develop feelings for her. Not romantic feelings, and certainly not sexual (she’s at least twenty years older than me!), but a definite attachment. I guess I was comforted by her. I felt safe being with her, knowing that I could tell her all the worst parts of myself, and no matter what I thought of myself, what I’d done to harm myself, she’d heard it all and worse before. Nothing I could say would shock or visibly upset her. It was liberating. “Sit down,” she greeted me, “I just need another minute to type up these notes and I’ll be with you.” I nodded and took up my ...

... usual place, making myself as small as possible in the chair and staring out of the window at the setting sun. As she typed I glanced over at her, trying to understand how she could behave so nonchalantly after my last visit. I suppose she wasn’t unattractive; I’d put her in her mid-forties, with dark hair and a slight frame. I, a mere twenty-one-year-old with long, off-blonde hair, always felt child-like in her presence. Here was a mature, professional woman, and I was just an average girl, only recently having come out the other side of a long, drawn-out puberty and still learning how to hold my 5’9 frame in a way that didn’t look awkward, despite my lack of curves. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come back.” She gently brought me back to the real World with her soft-spoken manner. She closed the door I’d left ajar upon entering and sat in the armchair opposite me, signalling that my counselling session had begun. “Neither was I,” I replied with a small voice. She studied my face intently for a second, which always made me uncomfortable, as I felt sure she could see the things in my mind that I’d spent the last few years trying to hide from everybody else, before she spoke again. “I wanted to apologise for my behaviour last week.” She began. “What happened was entirely my fault and I should never have put you in that position. I don’t know what came over me, but I’m going to try to put it aside so that we can refocus these sessions on you.” I nodded, noticing for the first time the ...