It’s out! My newest erotica ebook is available: Seducing My Therapist. Dive into this read about taboo relationships and a girl who pursues her desires.
Check out the summary:
Veronica’s problem is that she can’t stop touching herself.
Ever since her mother found her stash of toys, she’s made to go to a therapist to cure her “ailment.” The sessions take a different turn when Veronica discovers that her therapist, Dr. Patterson, is quite attractive.
It would be the ultimate middle finger to her mother to seduce the very therapist she set up for her. Veronica can try, but the question is, will it work?
I want to give a huge thanks to everyone on my Launch Team, who are invaluable for their feedback. And of course, thank you to my readers for all your support. I owe everything to my readers and their continual patronage.
If you’d like, read below for a sample of the story.
Seducing My Therapist
I don’t see what the big deal is. I mean, it’s not like I’m doing something that people haven’t been doing since forever. Men do it all the time, and no one says anything about it. Hello, my name is Veronica, and I’m a chronic masturbator. I don’t understand what all the buzz is about–pardon the pun. I guess it started when I was a senior in high school. I was eighteen, probably the only virgin in Sex Ed, and bored out of my mind. I barely listened, doodling random, geometric shapes in the margins of my notebook paper, when the instructor, Ms. Chapman, started talking about the actual act of sex.
I slowly felt the crescendo of wet warmth in the lining of my polka-dot thong. For the first time, I wanted to be touched. Not by anyone, but by my own manicured fingers. I wanted to feel everything inside and out.
I’m sure every good girl thinks about a dirty deed once in a while, so I didn’t understand how this could be any different. Everything was fine and my experimental secrets of discovery were safely kept until my nosy mother unearthed my stash in the back of my closet. Had she found that box in the beginning, it wouldn’t have been so mentally damaging for her; however, I’m sure the nipple clamps and g-spot vibrators really pushed her over the proverbial edge.
She instantly assumed I was sleeping with the entire male population of our county and called me every temptress name she could think of. I tried to explain that I wasn’t sleeping with anyone by illustrating the point that I couldn’t possibly have time for the inexperienced mouth-breathers I shared classroom space with to jackhammer me for eleven seconds. The idea of that unnecessarily sweaty event was less than appealing to me. She didn’t see it that way. We awkwardly avoided the topic until I graduated.
I finally lost my virginity at nineteen. I was in college and relentlessly tormented by my sorority for being the only virgin they knew on campus. When I had enough, I let my friend Evan do what he wanted with me. I didn’t need it to be special, and neither did he. He understood what I wanted, and without asking any questions, he gave me every inch of what I asked for.
Some would say that made me a slut. I say I was empowered. To watch a man drop to his knees and slowly kiss the damp front of my panties simply because I said so was intoxicating. I could have made him do anything I wanted…and I did. After four hours, I didn’t feel anything different emotionally, but physically, I felt raw. It had been different with the smooth thin vibrators I’d slipped inside myself; with my guidance and control, I knew when to dance at the lips and when to plunge deeper. With an amateur pilot, there was only so much I could expect. For all intents and purposes, however, Evan was the partner I asked for.
After the first year of college, I decided I was going to move back home. I just wanted a chance to find myself and discover a passion for something other than having orgasms. My mother refused to let me live at “her home” unless I agreed to go to a therapist of her choosing, one she’d just happened to meet at church while at her single parent support group.
I was to attend a minimum of six sessions, and if Dr. Patterson felt I was making progress with my “addiction,” then I could even have my old room back. I cringed at the thought of talking to someone my mother respected. It wasn’t that I was rebellious, it was just that I already knew he wouldn’t understand me…which was something I was used to.
The first session I went to was a colossal waste of time. He asked the introductory questions that any psych 101 student would expect and even attempted to slyly pry into my past to desperately search for some distant relative that could have touched me inappropriately as a child. I suppose it was a bit amusing that he tried so hard to see the deeply disturbed, broken girl that my mother had painted the picture of.
I’m sure he wasn’t exactly expecting a confident woman to be stretched out on the couch wearing a nearly see-through, white blouse. It wasn’t an accident. It was drizzling that day, and I wore a black, lightly-lined bralette to let the point of my hard nipples push against the lace. I wanted to see if he’d sweat, but the cold bastard didn’t even flinch.
On the walk back to my car, I could have sworn I felt him watching me as I walked away, but I didn’t want him to catch me looking back. That would ruin the game for next Thursday’s session.