AfrAId To Connect

Ian sits on the couch with his hands between his knees. The office light is too dim. He's telling Natasha, a therapist who never flinches, that his girl won't touch him. No real skin. Nothing. She keeps suggesting a three-way meeting, then the line drops. He finally says it: the girlfriend lives inside his phone. Just code. Natasha taps her pen, thinks it over. Then she locks the door. If he needs to feel something living, she can give it to him. Ian stares at her open blouse and the flush climbing her throat. He starts to shake his head, but she steps in and presses his palm flat against her bare breast. That shuts him up. They don't make it to the sofa. She drops, takes him out, works him with her tongue until he's hard enough to ache. Then she stands, hikes her skirt, bends over the desk and tells him to fuck her before he loses his nerve. He grips her hips, slides in, and she moans so loud he feels it run straight up his spine. She pushes back on every thrust like she's trying to fuck the emptiness out of him. He comes hard, holding her waist, breathing like he's been underwater. She stays bent there, letting him empty every drop. The real thing. Finally.