Reminisce about Emily your new secretary

You close your eyes for a second, the therapist's words bringing back a memory so vivid it's like you're there again. Your fingers find the keyboard, the click-clack a counterpoint to the rising heat in your gut.

You type: "Her name is Emily. She's my new secretary."

"TheTherapist35: Tell me about her. What does she look like?"

You smile, a predatory, private thing in the dark. "Petite. Tiny. Raven hair that drifts behind her shoulders. She sometimes wears these dark-rimmed glasses that make her look like a serious, studious little thing. But her eyes... they're anything but. Dark, and they know exactly what they're doing to you. She smells like expensive coffee and something floral, jasmine maybe."

"TheTherapist35: And how did it start, you and Emily?"

Your right hand drifts from the keyboard, down to the waistband of your jeans. You pop the button. The zipper's teeth separating is a gunshot in the quiet house.

You type with your left hand, one-handed. "Not the first time I fucked her, but second time was overtime. That's the oldest story, isn't it? Ava thought I was buried in a project. And I was, in a way. Just not the one she thought. Emily stayed late to 'help.' She brought me coffee, stood too close when she leaned over my desk to point at a spreadsheet. The later in the night, her hand 'accidentally' brushed against mine. The current was undeniable. I looked at her, and she just took off her glasses, folded them, and set them on the desk. A silent surrender."

"TheTherapist35: Mmm. Go on. What happened then?"

You free yourself, the cool air a shock against your heated skin. You wrap your hand around your shaft, the grip familiar and welcome. "I stood up. My office is all closed off. I walked her backward to the wall. She was so small against it. I pinned her wrists above her head with one hand. She didn't fight it. She bit her lip, her chest heaving under that prim silk blouse."

Your hand starts to move, a slow, deliberate stroke, base to tip. You're reliving it, every sensation flooding back.

"She whispered, 'Are you going to fuck me again?' The bite of her lip did it. I yanked her skirt up. White lace. Of course it was. I tore them. Just ripped the lace at the hip. She gasped, but it was a sound of pure, unadulterated victory."

TheTherapist35 text back a perverted response. "Yes. Rip her panties. Make her yours. How did it feel inside her?" You can almost hear his ragged breathing through the text. You both are a couple of perverts.

You type back, the pace of your hand on your cock quickening, slick with precum now. "Tight. So goddamn tight it was an effort to get inside. She's so small, I felt huge. I lifted her leg, wrapped it around my waist, and just… slid in. She was wet, but the fit was still a struggle. That tight heat, that gasp from her throat... it was perfect. I fucked her against the wall, hard, the paintings rattling. Her little moans, my name a broken whisper on her lips… '{mc}… {mc}…' Not my last name. Just {mc}. Like she owned a piece of me."

Your breath hitches. The memory, the motion, the illicit thrill of sharing it with this anonymous stranger on the internet, it's a potent cocktail. You're close.

The therapist types back: "Yes! Cum for me. Cum inside her tight little pussy. Make her messy."

That's all it takes. You grip the edge of the desk with your free hand, your body tensing. You type one last, frantic message. "I pulled out and came all over her stomach and that ruined blouse."

You quickly leave the chat and look at yourself in the backlight of the computer. You stare hard as you finally turn it off and head upstairs.

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