Emma Watson

You sit, leaning back in your leather chair. Your legs are relaxed and propped on an interesting table, if you could call it that. Really, it's the back of Serena Williams, who's on her elbows and knees. She's tilted at just the right angle to somewhat point her juicy ass in your direction while revealing a generous amount of hanging sideboob. As usual, you wonder whether you should try to get her naked, but dismiss the idea.

It's way hotter to see her in only sheer, red lingerie.

With a small kick, you set her ass jiggling. She grunts lightly, but takes it like a champ. After all, she knows she's just your furniture, and so does everyone else. Well, they obviously all KNOW that she's a person, but they don't act like it. In the end, it was Serena's choice. Too bad she came to you of all people when she wanted to deal with the stress of motherhood.

Also, it didn't bode well for her that you had bet money on her at the U.S. Open and had to endure the endless laughter of your few friends in the world when she not only lost, but did so to a veritable kid while throwing a goddamn temper tantrum.

To say you had been less than kind would be an understatement. The only reason your friends ever shut up about the incident was that you passed Serena around one night, let them have their way with her. It was the only time you'd let her cum in months.

As you gently shook Serena's ass, you heard your door creak open and looked up. Emma Watson strode in confidently, a smile plastered on her face. She said, "Hello Dr. Thompson," then she sat down on the couch opposite you after balancing her purse on Serena's upper back.

You replied, "Good afternoon Mrs. Watson. How are you doing today?"

"Oh, I'm good, thank you. How're you?"

"Just fine, thank you. Now, would you like to explain just why it is that you've come in today?"

At that, Emma's smile finally faltered. She finally said, "Yeah, of course Dr. Thompson. It's really just like I said on the phone. I feel comfortable with myself and with my fans, and I'm in a good place in my career. I just feel used, sometimes. And I feel like what I have isn't earned. I know it's luck, and I've made my peace with that. Sometimes it's hard to recognize the skill involved, too. Hard to, well... hard to feel good, if that makes sense."

You sit forward in your seat. If you hadn't been callously tossing celebrities around for years you might do something different, but you have been, so you say, "It does make sense, Mrs. Watson. Plenty of my clients deal with similar issues related to their fame."

"Really? What do you do about it?"

You grin and say, "Oh, I usually offer them a choice. The kind of choice changes depending on the person, but it's a choice for everyone."

Emma scrunches up her face and asks, "Why a choice? How does that help?"

"Oh, don't worry. It's very effective. Here, I'll give you a small demonstration so that you can see where things will be headed. Would you rather use both of your hands to masturbate in that seat until our time is up, staying silent unless I ask you a question, or lick Serena's pussy with your hands kept firmly on her ass until the end of our session, pausing only if I ask you a question?"