The Family Therapist

Elle runs her mouth to her dad about how Angela stays cold and distant, all wrapped up in spreadsheets and late nights at the office. He books them both with Allie, the shrink who doesn't blink. The minute they sit down, Elle spits out her grievances. Angela hits back about ungrateful brats and pressure she can't unload on anyone else. Allie cuts through the noise: no affection, just credit cards and slammed doors. She tells them to strip. Angela freezes, jaw tight, but she shrugs off her blouse like she's shedding dead skin. Elle follows, heartbeat loud enough to hear. Naked under the fluorescents, they step in, skin brushing skin. First contact is awkward—then hungry. Tongues find each other, slow, wet, and deliberate. Allie watches, hand already under her skirt, eyes sharp. She crouches between them, fingers testing slick heat. "You're close," she murmurs. "Let it break." Elle drops to her knees and drags her tongue along Angela's slit. Angela groans, grabs Elle's hair, pushes her closer. Lips part, suck, slide across swollen clits while Allie strips and joins, the three of them grinding and moaning until thighs shake and the room reeks of sex. They come hard—together—sweaty, shaking, still tangled on the office floor.