Reminisce about Darla your new secretary

You hesitate, your fingers hovering over the mouse. The therapist's last question hangs in the digital air, a hook baited with forbidden intimacy. Part of you, the part that led you down here, wants to bite. The other part, the part Ava married, wants to slam the laptop shut and run back upstairs. But the laptop stays open. You look back at the therapist's words. Shallow. Maybe he's right. But shallow feels good right now. Shallow feels like breathing after being underwater for too long.

You unbutton your jeans again, the zipper a familiar, illicit rasp. Your hand slides down, finding the heat building there. You type back, your fingers clumsy with lust.

"JohnDoe42: Her name is Darla. My new secretary."

You pause, picturing her. The silver-streaked crimson hair, always in a perfect, sensible bun. The reading glasses perched on her nose. The way her blouses, though professional, couldn't hide the generous curve of her breasts.

"TheTherapist35: Tell me."

"JohnDoe42: The second time was different. The first was a mistake, a frantic, sweaty thing in my office after she won me over with the promise of more sex. She tasted like old vanilla and hunger for a job. But the second time... the second time was planned."

You begin to stroke yourself, slowly, as the memory floods back.

"It was a Friday. I told her I needed help with the end-of-quarter reports, a blatant lie. She knew it. I could see it in her eyes, that glint of a woman who's seen it all and isn't impressed, but is intrigued anyway."

Your grip tightens. On screen, a new message appears. "TheTherapist35: Describe her. What was she wearing?"

"JohnDoe42: A navy blue dress. Not tight, but it clung in the right places. The kind of dress a woman wears when she wants to be taken seriously, but also wants to be looked at. She sat across from me at my desk, crossing her legs. The sound of her nylon stockings rubbing together was the only sound in the office."

You remember the scent of her perfume, something with lavender and spice. The way she watched you over the top of her glasses as you fumbled with the pretend reports.

"TheTherapist35: What happened next?"

"JohnDoe42: I gave up the pretense. I stood up, walked around the desk. I didn't say a word. I just put my hand on the back of her neck, under that soft bun of red hair. She tilted her head back, exposing her throat. A complete surrender."

The therapist said something perverse next. "TheTherapist35: Did you grab her by her hair and call her your pretty gilf."

You moan softly, the memory and the words on the screen a potent cocktail. Your strokes become faster, more deliberate.

"JohnDoe42: I did. I wrapped her hair around my fist, pulled her head back. 'You're a dirty old woman, Darla,' I whispered. She just smiled, a slow, knowing smile. 'And you're a married man with a hard-on,' she whispered back."

You remember lifting her to her feet, her body surprisingly firm against yours. Her hands went to your belt, her movements sure, practiced. This wasn't her first rodeo.

"TheTherapist35: Where did you fuck her?"

"JohnDoe42: Right there. Bent over my desk. Papers scattered, a coffee mug shattered. I hiked up her dress, tore her stockings. I didn't care. I wanted to ruin her, to mark her. I wanted to see my mess all over her."

Your breathing is ragged now. The therapist's messages are coming faster, more urgent.

"TheTherapist35: Did you make her call you daddy? Did she scream for you?"

"JohnDoe42: I didn't have to ask. She screamed it. 'Oh, Daddy, yes! Right there!' Over and over. The whole office could hear. I didn't care. I was piston-fucking her, the desk groaning under us. She was so wet, so tight. Her cunt was a velvet fist."

You're close, so close. The therapist's last message flashes on the screen.

"TheTherapist35: Come for me, John. Come on your desk for me. Pretend I'm the one watching you, your pretty therapist, my hand between my legs, getting off on your stories."

That's all it takes. With a choked gasp, you erupt, spilling over your hand and onto the cool wood of the desk. The wave of pleasure crashes over you, intense and immediate, followed by the icy tide of shame.

You slump back in the chair, your chest heaving. On the screen, the therapist's final message awaits. "TheTherapist35: Feel better? Or just emptier?"

You stare at the words, then at the sticky mess on your hand and desk. The answer is painfully obvious. Log off. Before you can see his next response, you slam the laptop shut, plunging the room back into darkness. You clean up and head stairs to your wife.

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