My couch.
“Inhale,” I whispered.
She obeyed slowly, drawing the air deep into her lungs. Her chest rose beneath the green silk of her blouse, the fabric stretching over the curves I had tried very hard not to imagine.
Tried.
“Hold,” I said, my voice tightening for a fraction of a second.
I nearly slipped and called her my good girl.
I counted the seconds carefully.
“And release.”
Her lips parted as she exhaled, the breath leaving her in a soft stream.
I was so hard it bordered on painful.
“Inhale,” I said again, forcing the words past the ache building through my body.
I ignored the urge to reach for her. Ignored the far more dangerous urge to give her exactly what she was asking for without saying it outright.
Instead, I continued guiding her through the rhythm.
Breath by breath.
Gradually her shoulders softened, the tension leaving her frame as they began to droop. The tightness in her expression faded, replaced by the calmer version of Stella I had been carefully cultivating for weeks.
Relaxed.
Trusting.
Mine to guide.
Yet even as she settled, my mind betrayed me.
Hosiery or stockings.
Panties… or nothing at all.
Sweet… or savoury.
My mouth watered.
Soon.
???
Once I closed the door behind her, I dragged my hand slowly down my face, pressing my palm briefly against my mouth as I exhaled.
There was no record of her being my patient. I had never accepted payment from her parents. I had even encouraged her to go out this weekend—something simple, something harmless, even if it was just a walk.
And I had her location at all times.
Bumping into her would not be difficult.
The house felt quieter without her presence lingering in the hallway, but the tension she left behind clung stubbornly to the air.
