Confession To My Therapist Dave ? Virginia Part II

It had been two weeks since I last spilled my guts in this room.

Two weeks of pretending I didn’t replay his voice in my head while jerking off.

Two weeks of lying flat on my back, eyes closed, imagining him watching me — not as a therapist, but as a man. Just one lonely bastard taking in another.

And now here I was again, walking into Dave’s office like I hadn’t spent the last fourteen nights with my fist wrapped around my dick, chasing the same filthy high, same desperate edge, only this time, he was the fantasy.

The room hadn’t changed.

Rain slid down the glass like fingers dragging through grease. Same gray light. Same smell, lemon Pledge and printer paper, clean like nothing ever rotted in here. Like no one ever came in here.

Dave sat across from me. Same chair. Same folded hands. Forty-five. Fit. Shaved head catching the dull glow like polished stone. Beard trimmed, silver threaded in like warning wires. Rust-colored sweater — safe, neutral, boring. Sleeves rolled to the exact legal limit. Forearms still. Calm. In control.

Vanilla. Rule-follower. By the book.

Everything about him screamed contained. Like he’d never broken a sweat, never lost his breath, never choked on his own moans in the dark.

And there I was, sitting across from him, thick in the dick, full in the balls, carrying a confession so wet and messy it could stain the carpet.

He looked up. Calm. Steady. “Good to see you. How have you been since our last session?”

How have I been?

Man, I wanted to laugh.

Instead, I let the truth crawl out slow.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said. “About Virginia. About that hotel room. About what you said.”

He nodded. Pen poised. Waiting. Always waiting.

“That stayed with me,” I told him. “More than it should have.”

“How so?” he asked — cool, even, like he was asking about the weather.

But I saw it.

Just for a second.

The flicker behind his eyes. Not shock. Not disgust. Interest. Like a crack in drywall you pretend not to see.

“I went home,” I said, voice low now, already slipping into that place, the one where my pants get tight and my thoughts get dirty — “and I jacked off. Same way. Same pace. Same filthy rhythm. But this time… you were in my head.”

His pen stilled.

Not much. Just a half-second freeze. But I felt it. Like the air dipped.

“Your voice,” I said, leaning forward just enough to make him feel it, “saying you’re in control. Like you knew what I needed before I did. And fuck, Dave… it made me hard. Right then. Right there. Throbbing like I hadn’t cum in months.”

His throat worked. Swallowed. Didn’t look away.

“Tell me about that feeling,” he said. Voice steady. Too steady.

Like he was holding himself down.

So I gave him more.

“I started slow,” I said, hand drifting unconsciously to my lap, fingers brushing the outline of my dick through my sweats. “One hand on my balls. Just cupping them. Feeling how heavy they were. How tight. Skin drawn up, wrinkled, aching. Like they’d been full too long. Like they were screaming for release.”

My breath deepened. His knee twitched, subtle, but I saw it.

“The other hand,” I continued, “wrapped around my shaft. Already leaking. That first bead…thick, clear, glistening at the slit, just hanging there, stretching into a string down the head. I caught it with my thumb. Spread it over the crown. And the smell…”

A low groan slipped out before I could stop it.

“Man… that musky, ripe, fucking animal stink of my own arousal. It hit me like a drug. Made my mouth water. Pulse jackhammer in my neck. It wasn’t just precum, it was need. Raw. Undeniable. Like my body was begging me to ruin myself.”

Dave didn’t speak. Didn’t write. Just watched. Listened. Like he was afraid to move.

And I loved it.

“I stroked slow,” I said, voice dropping, “tight fist, slick glide. Schlick-schlick-schlick…that wet slap of skin on skin. My balls slapped up with every pull. Sweat rolled down my spine. Precum mixed with lube, with spit, with me, making everything slippery, filthy, perfect. And my mind… it wasn’t thinking. It was fucking. Imagining a mouth. A throat. A man on his knees, eyes locked on mine, taking every inch.”

My hips shifted. The bulge in my sweats pulsed.

“I edged,” I whispered. “Long. Hard. Teasing that slit with my thumb, rolling it in circles — 1… 2… 3… 123… you know that groove, right? That spot that makes your whole body quake? I played it like a fucking instrument. Veins bulging. Head flaring. Dick twitching like it was alive. And when I finally let go…”

A breath. A pause. I let it build.

“It wasn’t pretty. It was necessary. My back arched. Hips slammed up. “FUUUCK!” tore out of me like I was being ripped open. Thick ropes…hot, sticky, endless…shot up my chest, splattered my neck, coated my fist. Spurt after spurt. Each one locking my muscles, curling my toes, obliterating me. I milked myself slow after, smearing cum into my skin, into my pubes, into the bed like I was marking territory.”

Dave’s nostrils flared. Pen tapped once, off beat. His knee bounced again. Subtle. But I saw it.

“And when it was over?” I asked, voice wrecked. “You know that moment? When you’re lying there, covered in your own mess, dick still twitching, air thick with the stink of cum and sweat and you? When you whisper, ‘Fuck… I’d do that again’?”

He didn’t answer.

But his chest rose a little faster.

And I knew —

Something had shifted.

He took a breath, slow, measured, the kind you take before saying something you can’t unsay. “Wow. That’s intense and powerful.” His voice stayed professional, but it was thinner now, stretched. “That was the act itself. What was the feeling?” He paused. “Did you feel… compelled?”

My dick throbbed harder. It had been half-hard since I'd sat down, just from reliving the grip of my own hand, the sharp smell of my own cum. But hearing him say compelled, like this was some textbook case, made it harder against my thigh like it was trying to answer for me.

“No. Yes. Maybe.” My fingers brushed my thigh, grazing the tent in my sweats again. “It’s not exactly like that.”

“What do you think it represents?” he asked.

His eyes flicked. Quick. Down to my lap, then back up. Not accidental. Not clinical. It was a look. The kind a man gives another man’s dick when he thinks no one’s watching. But he knew I'd be watching.

Silence stretched between us. His gaze locked steady on mine, professional and calm. But the air — fuck, the air was charged. Electric. Like lightning about to strike a dry field.

That spark lit something in my head. A fantasy so vivid it felt like memory.

In my mind, I'm tugging my waistband low. My dick is free, curved upward, angry, swollen head already drooling clear ropes of precum. Dave’s eyes drop. Lock on it. His mouth opens but nothing comes out.

"Shit," he mutters. Not the therapist voice. The real one. The guy-in-the-locker-room voice.

"Dave," my fantasy-self whispers. "Look at me."

"This is inappropriate." But he doesn't look away.

"Look at me stroke it, Dave."

"Stop. This is highly inappropriate."

But his hand clamps down on his own thigh. White-knuckled. Holding himself back from something.

"You feel it too," my fantasy whispers. "See it in your face."

His gaze drops again — lingers on my slick fingers, the filthy glide of my fist, thumb smearing the weeping head. In my mind, he's breathing through his mouth now, shallow, chest rising faster.

"You don't scare me, bro" my fantasy-self tells him, voice low and sure. "That cock you're hiding? It's big. Fucking thick. The kind that stretches a man's jaw. Show me what you do to it when your wife's asleep."

His jaw tightens. "This is crossing a line."

"You're already across it. Play with it for me."

A beat. Then his hand moves, not to stop me, but to his own zipper. Slow. Torturous. The sound of metal teeth parting echoes in the quiet office.

Out it flops. Heavy. Uncut. Flushed dark pink, foreskin bunched at the tip, crusted with a day's worth of smegma, the smell of a married man who hasn't been touched right in years. Neglected. Starved. His wife probably thinks foreskin is "gross." Probably schedules Sunday missionary like it's a dentist appointment.

His beard twitches as he matches my strokes, long, firm pulls that sync perfectly. Wet slaps fill the room: my fist slurping loud on precum, his adding deeper, meatier smacks. The schlick-schlick of my rhythm is erratic, desperate. His is deeper. Therapeutic. Like he's disciplined even his own dick into submission.

"Cum for me," he growls, the real Dave breaking through the fantasy. "Show me control. Edge it. Don't you fucking dare let go until we say."

His beard scrapes my thigh as he leans in close, hot breath washing over my shaft. In my mind, I'm jacking faster, balls aching, ass clenching. "Spread your legs," he orders. "Finger that hole."

Middle finger slick with spit and pre, circling my tight rim. Pushing in. One finger. Two. Crooking to hit that spot that makes my vision blur. "Dave… fuck, your beard on my balls…"

He grabs my wrist. "Slower. Edge it." His other hand cups my sack, tugs it heavy, thumb digging into my taint. "Beg for my mouth."

"Suck this dick."

"Please… suck it," my fantasy-self gasps.

He engulfs me. Wet velvet heat, beard grinding rough against my pubes, throat gagging sloppy. Spit cascades down my balls with echoing slurps. Two fingers punch deep into my hole, milking precum that streams down his chin like a faucet. The room reeks of ripe ballsweat and raw animal rut.

"Now fuck your fist," he rasps. "Match me. Cum together."

We stroke in perfect sync. Wet slaps, grunts, balls whipping against thighs. His beard brushes my lips and we kiss, messy, tasting salt and skin and power.

"Cum. Let it go. Let it all out, man!"

My balls yank up tight. I roar as I erupt explosively in the fantasy, ropes blasting across my chest, my chin, his boot. He groans deep, yanks hard, and unleashes four massive globs onto my beard. They cool sticky, crusting fast with that pungent ammonia whiff mixed into our sour ballsweat stench.

Snap back.

Real room. Real me. My sweats tented huge with a dark wet crotch spot from precum. My thighs shook. Sweat beaded at my temple.

Dave sat frozen. His knee bounced once, subtle, but I saw it. Nostrils flared again. Jaw clenched. Pen tapped off-beat.

"I couldn't stop," I whispered. "You were right there in it. The whole time."

"Wow," he said softly, swallowing hard. "That's a lot. What's happening for you right now?"

I held his eyes and exhaled slow. "I'm in control."

When the session ended, I pulled my hoodie tight and left immediately. The building door slammed behind me as the rain came down hard. I got into my truck and sat there, engine off, then shoved my sweats and underwear past the steering wheel to my knees. Eyes closed, I swiped the pooled precum from my black boxer briefs and jerked twice, savage strokes. My dick was unbelievably hard after that confession.

I lifted my head and caught movement in the rearview mirror. Paused.

The building doors opened. Dave stepped out into the rain. Same contained body, now forced into a small, awkward jog, cap pulled down. Shoulders hunched. Eyes fixed on the ground. He'd sprinted out there just to escape whatever I'd planted in his head.

He didn't scan the lot. Didn't look for me. Headed straight for the beige RAV4 parked in front of my truck.

Beige. The color of compromise. Of a man who'd let his wife choose the car, the curtains, the fucking laundry detergent that made his clothes smell like lavender instead of man.

He got in. Door closed clean. Engine turned over. Headlights flared. For a second, I thought he was leaving.

The car backed up. Then stopped.

Pulled forward again, correcting the angle, easing back into the same space like he'd changed his mind mid-thought. Brake lights went dark. Engine shut off.

Silence.

The window fogged slowly, maybe deliberately, sealing the inside off from the rain. Through the blur, I saw him settle back into the seat.

Not rushed. Not frantic.

Chosen.

His head dropped low, shoulders slumping as the seat motor whirred back an inch or two. Then his right elbow vanished below the dash in that unmistakable pump: slow at first, up-down rhythm building steady through the rustle of his sweater sleeve against the seat. The tan slacks tented obvious with a fist-shaped bulge sliding deliberate along what had to be his thick, repressed cock.

The wipers moved intermittent, giving me perfect frames: clear shot of his beard jutting as his head tilted back, mouth slack, fogging the glass; streak of rain blurring it; another clear where his elbow pistoned faster, shoulder dipping with each full stroke from base to tip. Hips lifted subtle off the upholstery like the boring therapist was finally unleashing the bull underneath, no wild bucks but that married-man efficiency, chasing his nut in the downpour's cover.

My own pants hit my ankles in a heartbeat. Fist wrapped my leaking shaft, matching his tempo exactly, schlick syncing with the rain roar as I watched every pump, every tense of his jaw. The fantasy bleeding real now because there he was, the rule-follower, beating meat right in front of me without a clue. His innocent RAV4 turned jerk-off den under those smeared lot lights.

The rain roar masked my strokes, but I heard his muffled groan through my cracked window, professional distance measured in feet and shattered ethics.

His pace hit frantic. Elbow blurring. Free hand wrapped around the top of the wheel. Then the stutter hit: fist clamping low at the base, whole body rigid as he came silent and hard. I heard his loud moan in my car, it spread like guilt under the orange glow. Two-three milking pulls wrung the last throbs before he yanked tissues from the glovebox, dabbed the mess with quick, ashamed pats like wiping kid-spill at a diner. Folded them precise. Tossed 'em casual.

Straightened the seat with a mechanical whir. Exhaled a fogged cloud he cleared with one sleeve-swipe.

Before he started the car, his hand hovered over his phone on the dash. For three heartbeats, I thought he'd text me. Maybe "We need to talk." Maybe "Never come back." Maybe just a question mark.

Then he threw it in the glovebox like it burned him.

Checked mirrors like a commuter late for dinner. Eased out sedate with blinker clicking polite into the storm.

I didn’t feel surprised.

I felt confirmed.

That vanilla daddy breaking, just a crack, his cum-stain souvenir, pushed me over: my ropes detonated volcanic across my steering wheel in thick, endless white splats that splattered hotter on my chest and chin. Balls emptying savage as the truck rocked with my bucks, every pulse screaming ownership.

Cum still dripping from my spent cock onto the seat, the office building fading orange in the rearview, I decided: therapy with Dave was done. No more sessions. No more measured words or bitten lips hiding hunger.

But I saved his appointment slot in my calendar.

Just in case.

Just in case I needed to remind myself:

—who cracked first.

—who really was in control.