“My New Therapist” (a story)

“My New Therapist”

By Dr. Sensitive

It was my second visit with my new therapist, and I was still having trouble even hearing what she was saying. You see, her breasts were far too distracting!

For our first session, she wore a devastatingly-tight turtleneck sweater that left no doubts about what a living miracle she was. Today she was wearing a plain but crisp white cotton button-down blouse that was thin and tight enough to show an impression of the bra underneath.

I sat quietly, trying but failing to look at anything except her chest. She leaned to her side to pick a file folder off a side-table. As she did, her breasts strained against her blouse, and a line of gaps appeared between the buttons. Snapping to attention, my eyes caught a glimpse of her bra, which also appeared to be white cotton.

She sat up straight again, and her fantastic breasts heaved up and out. For a moment I felt sure a button or two would pop straight off, and I imagined what I might see if they did.

She broke through my reverie with a stern “George!”

I looked up at her eyes for a change and squeaked “yes, Doctor?”

“Please let’s try to focus, shall we?” While sounding exasperated, she seemed to be smiling slightly.

Did she catch me staring!? I must have turned a bit red, and I sheepishly replied “Yes, Doctor.”

She reached up to adjust her glasses, but in doing so she knocked the folder off her lap. She leaned forward to pick it up, revealing her décolletage.

I actually gasped at the depth of her cleavage, then covered my mouth and stared. I could see the edges of her bra dipping between her wondrous breasts. It was thin but not quite sheer, yet the straps were stronger than most. I ate up the view as the moment lasted and lasted, grateful that it took a little longer than seemed necessary.

She leaned back up, her breasts again straining against her top, and started to review a chart. My mind reeled in shock as I replayed what I had glimpsed.

While she was busy flipping through the pages in her folder, I was busy watching her breasts bob and sway about, her fullness somehow packed tightly in her top, yet free to fall almost into her lap, or pressed together, bulging up and out, or squished and hugged by her arm. I fought against a rising, almost desperate, need to be close to them.

I suddenly thought “wait, how did I not notice her nipples poking through her blouse!?” They were standing out clearly now, and from what I could see were promisingly thick and hard. I started fantasizing about what they might look like if exposed.

“George!”

I looked up and blushed. She caught me staring again! I have to control myself!

“George, this is a safe space, and therefore I won’t say anything more if you stare. But of course you do understand that others, outside this room, may find it rude.”

My face burned, and “yes, Doctor” was all I could say. It was rude, I admitted to myself, but so hard to resist, and now she had almost given permission! Feeling the shame, I tried to hold my view on her eyes, which again seemed to display a bit of sly mirth. But she was simply too much! I gave up and locked my eyes squarely back on her wonderful breasts!

She ignored my staring and started talking about how a willingness to make changes in my life was very important in therapy, yada, yada… I somehow had the impression that she knew I wasn’t listening, and that she was inwardly laughing at me. Indeed, I wasn’t listening; for me, there was only one focus left in the world: her fabulously large, heavy, motherly bosom.

As she chatted away, my eyes kept a keen watch on her bosom. “Wait, something’s different,” I thought. Her blouse seemed a bit damp. “Wait, wait, wait,” my mind spun. Yes, two darker wet patches were emerging! “OMG, is she leaking? She has milk!” My mind was exploding, and every nerve was sparking. I sat frozen, staring, until she changed tone.

“OK, George, perhaps we really do need to talk about this. We can’t have a productive professional relationship if you won’t pay attention. If you can’t focus, I may have to refer you to a different Doctor.

Aghast, I looked up and burst out “NO!”

“Well, let’s talk about your staring then. Speaking frankly, I take it you appreciate a lady who is well endowed up top?”

My face was burning, and all I could do was reflexively nod.

“That’s fine and natural, though it seems you might be especially obsessive about it, even to the point that you feel a hole in your soul due to these desires. Would you say that’s true?”

Her words were like a dagger, but I robotically nodded again. Having given up all pretense of attending to anything else, I hungrily looked back down at her chest. The darker wet spots were much larger now, and they made her nipples stand out through the wet cloth. It clicked: “those straps… she’s wearing a nursing bra!”

Now she looked down at her blouse too. “Oh! I’m sorry about that. I don’t have a … partner these days.”

I felt confused. What did she mean by “partner”?

Abruptly, she stood up, her breasts jutting out over me just a few feet away while I timidly sat still and looked up. The front of her blouse was now so soaked that it glistened, causing my gut to tie itself in terrible knots of desire mixed with uncertainty about just what was going on.

She went on, “yes, I’m afraid I won’t be able to see you for psychological counseling after all. I’ll put in a referral for you with Dr. O’Henry. He’s very good.”

She moved over to her office’s couch and sat down at one end. Smiling disarmingly, her hands slowly moved towards the top of her blouse. Not believing what I was seeing, I held my breath as her fingers moving in a slow, deliberate fashion, and one by one the straining buttons of her blouse popped open.

She finished with the last button at her waist and, still watching me with her mirth-full eyes, she revealed her soaking-wet bra. She unhooked one of the straps and an enormous, full, motherly breast, even bigger than I had imagined while it was hidden, tumbled out, erasing everything else in my mind. The nipple was very large, sturdy and quite dark, with a wide, dark areola. By now she was leaking profusely, and drops of milk went “plop, plop, plop” into her bra cup at a rapid pace. I was stupefied in disbelief and awe.

She looked down at her breast, now strongly letting-down and starting to spray into her lap. “Although psychological counseling will no longer be appropriate with me, I believe you will benefit from a different form of therapy.”

Her words became crisply assertive: “Your new therapy will necessarily be more frequent and intensive. To start with, I’ll schedule you for 1:00, Monday through Friday. Please do not miss your appointments, and be on time.”

Her mirthful smile reappeared, and she patted her lap to beckon me over. Looking back down at her chest, she said “I’m confident you will focus properly and steadily on your new regimen. Isn’t that right?”

Only a single, ancient, primitive need was left in my mind and body. I dropped from the chair to my knees, my eyes fixated on her now-spraying breast, and started crawling towards her. My mouth was dry with anticipation and longing, but I managed to croak out a timid “yes, Doctor.”

With a verbal wink, she added “Oh, and you should skip lunch before your appointments. You won’t be needing it!”