Rhiannon the Nymphomaniac
I hate waiting rooms. They're so sterile and completely uninviting. Who wants to sit in a chair with some random 1980's fabric while thumbing through two year old issues of Cosmopolitan? It certainly is not how I want to spend my Monday morning, or any morning, really. Sadly, it's necessary at this point in time and there isn't much I can do about it. After standing in front of a Judge and admitting that I was caught being fucked in the dressing room at a local department store, it was either court-ordered therapy or jail time. It wasn't a difficult decision.
My therapist had diagnosed me as being a nymphomaniac at a previous session.
Telling you every naughty little thought I had in that session could certainly be described as therapeutic. Watching you cross and uncross your legs again and again as I told you, in great detail, about meeting a stranger on Tinder to give him a blow job in the bathroom at a bar was entertaining to say the least. The only thing I could think about as you cleared your throat was how that hard cock of yours would feel with my lips wrapped around it and how your voice would crack as you moaned my name.
Snapping back to reality, I smooth my skirt onto my thighs as you let me know the time for our appointment has arrived. My heels click against the cheap laminate flooring as I make my way into your office and seat myself. The big, comfy, chair completely envelops me as I sink into it. You clear your throat before asking me if I've had any more intrusive sexual thoughts. My mind is a whirlwind of erotic images.
I picture the two of us, during a therapy session, fucking in all sorts of ways.
Your cock bottoming out against my cervix. My thighs wrapped around your face as your tongue thrusts in and out of my wet and wanting cunt. Me, bent over the arm of this chair, as your balls slap against my clit.
"No more than usual," I tell you as you write notes on your clipboard. While chewing on my bottom lip, I feel my pussy grow wet and internally beg for you to touch it with your long, thick, fingers. Picturing your fingers thrusting inside of me is easy, and I blink my eyes a few times as I hear you call my name.
"My apologies," I tell you, coming back to reality, "It's just that sometimes I feel like the need to have an orgasm rules my life."
As you rise from your seat, you tell me how very interesting you find that.
Once you're on your feet, I can see the bulging erection in your pants, and I want so badly to unzip your fly and unfurl your cock for me to play with. As I'm fantasizing about wrapping my sweetly glossed lips around the head of your cock, I hear you ask if my cunt is currently wet. Blinking a few times, I snap myself out of my fantasy. "What?" I ask, unsure if what you'd asked was part of my daydream or not.
Slowly, you enunciate your words, pausing between each of them for emphasis. I had heard you correctly the first time, it seems. The realization that I'm not fantasizing any longer hits me like a ton of bricks, and my clit throbs, begging to be touched. Your hand caresses my inner thigh and gives it a good squeeze before I grab you by the wrist and place your palm directly over my pussy, beneath my skirt.
I am, a nymphomanic, after all, and the need for you to touch my pussy is too strong to ignore.
Staring down at me, your fingertips find the entrance to my dripping cunt. They slide so easily in and out of me, causing me to moan and wriggle in my seat. Craving more, I rise to my feet and turn to face the chair. Giving you a look over my shoulder, I reach for the hem of my skirt and pull it up, exposing my round little ass, and begging-to-be-fucked pussy to you.
The invitation is all you need, and I hear the distinct sound of your zipper being undone. Those big, strong, hands of yours are on my hips as you plunge your cock into my awaiting, begging, depths. Fuck! It feels so amazing and I can't help but moan loudly. This little nymphomaniac isn't a pillow princess, so use my grip on the arms of the chair to meet you stroke for stroke.
If this isn't the cure for nymphomania, I don't know what is.
Your thrusts become faster, harder, deeper and I can no longer stop myself from cumming. My sweet little pussy grips your cock in its depths, squeezing it, as it flutters around your dick in blessed orgasm. I've gotten my release! The orgasm I craved so very, very badly. The final thrust into my fluttering cunt as you spitting a hot load of cum into me. Its sticky goodness drips down my thighs as you pull out of me, and drag the hem of my skirt back over my ass.
"Same time next week?" I ask. You nod and make a note on your chart before pulling your pants back up. Maybe I will enjoy therapy after all!"
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