She’s sprawled across my desk, legs wide, a red lace garter belt framing her dripping pussy as I slam into her, each thrust rocking the pens off the edge. Late 20s, blonde, body built for filth, she’s gasping, “Fuck, teach me how to make him crazy!” Her voice is raw, desperate. I grab her hips, pounding deeper, snarling, “You wanna drive him wild? Fuck like this—own that cock.” She moans, “Yes, yes, like that!” and cums so hard her walls choke me, her body shaking. I pull out, spraying across her thighs, the air thick with sex. My office door’s locked, our Tuesday “session” burning hotter than hell.I’m a therapist, 30s, supposed to patch up her marriage, not fuck her through every position she’s googling. Six months ago, she dragged herself in, eyes swollen, spilling how her husband—same age, glued to his laptop—barely touches her. Their sex life’s a ghost town; she’s dry as sand, too tense to cum, and it’s gutting them both. She’d whisper, “I feel like I’m failing him.” I should’ve stayed professional, but that first time, I lost it—spread her on my couch, licked her pussy till she screamed, “Oh fuck, nobody’s done that!” Her juices soaked my chin, and I was hooked. Now it’s weekly, my cock her personal trainer, teaching her body to crave it. Confidentiality’s my ticket; nobody’s sniffing out what’s happening here.She’s a goddamn piece. After I rail her, she’s deep in sex blogs, Kama Sutra PDFs, ordering lingerie to jolt her husband awake. But her rule’s ironclad: I’m her test run. Last week, she struts in, black crotchless bodysuit clinging to every curve, smirking, “Bought this to blow his mind, but you’re first.” She climbed on me, riding reverse-cowgirl, ass grinding my cock, panting, “Will he fuck me this good?” I gripped her throat, growled, “He better, or I’m keeping this pussy.” She laughed, wicked, “You’re too good at this.” We’ve fucked through half the playbook—wheelbarrow left her trembling, lotus had her begging, standing split made her scream, “Fuck, I’m gonna do this for him!” Good thing my office walls have good soundproofing for "confidentiality" purposes.Yesterday, she upped the ante. Walks in with a purple vibrator, fishnet stockings, and a lace bralette barely holding her tits. “New plan,” she says, tossing her bag down. “I’m gonna surprise him tonight, but I need you to make sure I’m ready.” Before I can blink, she’s on her knees, sucking my cock, moaning, “Does this make you hard?” I’m throbbing, growling, “Fuck yes, now show me how you’ll tease him.” She crawls onto the desk, spreads her legs, and buzzes the vibrator on her clit, gasping, “I’m gonna ride him with this—tell me how to do it.” I’m inside her in seconds, fucking her doggy while she grinds the toy, screaming, “Like this? Is this slutty enough?” I smack her ass, snarling, “Sluttier—make him fucking beg.” She cums twice, sobbing, “You make me so much dirtier than he ever will.”Real talk? This shit’s not unheard of. I’ve heard whispers at conferences—therapists “guiding” clients through “intimacy issues,” swearing it’s healing till they’re caught. One guy I know got his license yanked when a husband found flirty texts. Me, I’m risking my whole career, but her pussy’s a fucking addiction, and I’m drunk on being her coach. The wildest part: it’s working. She goes home, slips into the lingerie, tries our moves, and her husband’s all over her. She told me he growled, “Where the hell did you learn this?” last week, fucking her against their kitchen counter. She laughed, telling me, “I said I’ve been reading. He bought it.” Her marriage is alive, but she’s still here, testing new toys, new positions, whispering, “I need you to push me further.”The plot’s got teeth. Her husband’s hooked, but she’s greedy—wants his love and my filth. I’m teaching her to save her marriage, but I’m falling hard, hating the thought of her husband’s hands on her. Last session, she FaceTimed him while I fucked her from behind, muted, his clueless face on her screen as she purred, “Can’t wait to show you something tonight.” I nearly lost it, growling, “You’re mine first.” She smirked, “Maybe always.” That’s the danger—I’m possessive, and she’s playing with fire. Confidentiality’s my only shield, but if her husband gets a hint of this, my practice is fucked, my life’s in ruins, and this secret, sweaty, pussy-training fuckfest is over.

She’s sprawled across my desk, legs wide, a red lace garter belt framing her dripping pussy as I slam into her, each thrust rocking the pens off the edge. Late 20s, blonde, body built for filth, she’s gasping, “Fuck, teach me how to make him crazy!” Her voice is raw, desperate. I grab her hips, pounding deeper, snarling, “You wanna drive him wild? Fuck like this—own that cock.” She moans, “Yes, yes, like that!” and cums so hard her walls choke me, her body shaking. I pull out, spraying across her thighs, the air thick with sex. My office door’s locked, our Tuesday “session” burning hotter than hell.

I’m a therapist, 30s, supposed to patch up her marriage, not fuck her through every position she’s googling. Six months ago, she dragged herself in, eyes swollen, spilling how her husband—same age, glued to his laptop—barely touches her. Their sex life’s a ghost town; she’s dry as sand, too tense to cum, and it’s gutting them both. She’d whisper, “I feel like I’m failing him.” I should’ve stayed professional, but that first time, I lost it—spread her on my couch, licked her pussy till she screamed, “Oh fuck, nobody’s done that!” Her juices soaked my chin, and I was hooked. Now it’s weekly, my cock her personal trainer, teaching her body to crave it. Confidentiality’s my ticket; nobody’s sniffing out what’s happening here.

She’s a goddamn piece. After I rail her, she’s deep in sex blogs, Kama Sutra PDFs, ordering lingerie to jolt her husband awake. But her rule’s ironclad: I’m her test run. Last week, she struts in, black crotchless bodysuit clinging to every curve, smirking, “Bought this to blow his mind, but you’re first.” She climbed on me, riding reverse-cowgirl, ass grinding my cock, panting, “Will he fuck me this good?” I gripped her throat, growled, “He better, or I’m keeping this pussy.” She laughed, wicked, “You’re too good at this.” We’ve fucked through half the playbook—wheelbarrow left her trembling, lotus had her begging, standing split made her scream, “Fuck, I’m gonna do this for him!” Good thing my office walls have good soundproofing for "confidentiality" purposes.

Yesterday, she upped the ante. Walks in with a purple vibrator, fishnet stockings, and a lace bralette barely holding her tits. “New plan,” she says, tossing her bag down. “I’m gonna surprise him tonight, but I need you to make sure I’m ready.” Before I can blink, she’s on her knees, sucking my cock, moaning, “Does this make you hard?” I’m throbbing, growling, “Fuck yes, now show me how you’ll tease him.” She crawls onto the desk, spreads her legs, and buzzes the vibrator on her clit, gasping, “I’m gonna ride him with this—tell me how to do it.” I’m inside her in seconds, fucking her doggy while she grinds the toy, screaming, “Like this? Is this slutty enough?” I smack her ass, snarling, “Sluttier—make him fucking beg.” She cums twice, sobbing, “You make me so much dirtier than he ever will.”

Real talk? This shit’s not unheard of. I’ve heard whispers at conferences—therapists “guiding” clients through “intimacy issues,” swearing it’s healing till they’re caught. One guy I know got his license yanked when a husband found flirty texts. Me, I’m risking my whole career, but her pussy’s a fucking addiction, and I’m drunk on being her coach. The wildest part: it’s working. She goes home, slips into the lingerie, tries our moves, and her husband’s all over her. She told me he growled, “Where the hell did you learn this?” last week, fucking her against their kitchen counter. She laughed, telling me, “I said I’ve been reading. He bought it.” Her marriage is alive, but she’s still here, testing new toys, new positions, whispering, “I need you to push me further.”

The plot’s got teeth. Her husband’s hooked, but she’s greedy—wants his love and my filth. I’m teaching her to save her marriage, but I’m falling hard, hating the thought of her husband’s hands on her. Last session, she FaceTimed him while I fucked her from behind, muted, his clueless face on her screen as she purred, “Can’t wait to show you something tonight.” I nearly lost it, growling, “You’re mine first.” She smirked, “Maybe always.” That’s the danger—I’m possessive, and she’s playing with fire. Confidentiality’s my only shield, but if her husband gets a hint of this, my practice is fucked, my life’s in ruins, and this secret, sweaty, pussy-training fuckfest is over.

A therapist in his 30s finds himself crossing professional boundaries when he begins to train a late-20s patient to regain her sexual confidence.

The patient, a blonde, curvy woman, seeks help for her emotionally and physically dry marriage, and the therapist uses his expertise to teach her how to please her husband. She became addicted to these sessions, continues to train with the therapist, even after her husband's cums inside her.

Training my client’s pussy on how to fix her dry sex married life

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