Textbook Narcissism

Jessica stepped into Dr. Crawford's office, eyes sharp, hips swinging. She sat, crossed her legs, and admitted she thought she was better than everyone else. She wasn't sorry for it—just tired of friends suddenly ghosting. Dr. Crawford nodded, took notes, already counting the ways she'd twist every word. Four sessions in, Dr. Crawford leaned forward and said the real work started today. Jessica shrugged, hungry for whatever came next. The therapist dropped the act. She confessed her own hunger to stand above the rest and said she'd seen the same fire in Jessica. It could burn anything—if Jessica quit clinging to cheap friends. The words made Jessica flush, not with shame but with heat. Dr. Crawford laid a matching outfit across the desk: crisp blouse, pencil skirt, same neutral tones as her own. Jessica peeled off her sweater, let the older woman's hands smooth fabric over bare skin, nipples tightening under each slow tug. Skirts rode up, panties flashed, breath grew loud. Glasses next—thin frames slid onto Jessica's nose—and her red hair twisted into a tight bun. Standing before the mirror they became twins: same mouth, same stare, same cool perfection. Dr. Crawford's fingers traced Jessica's waist, slid lower. "All we need," she whispered, "is each other."