Heart pounding, I step into the dim hallway of our apartment building. The neighbor’s door—molded panels, iron knocker, plaque reading ‘Elena Binet, Sex Therapist’—looms ahead. Light filters under it, soft glow on checkered tiles. Faded blue walls, framed diplomas. Empty waiting area to the left. I sink into a modern chair. Rodin’s The Kiss stares from the shelf. Flip a magazine. Perfume ad: red gown, black stockings, heels on stairs. My hand ghosts her silky legs in my mind. Skirt hikes, lace tops peek. Quick glance at the door. Heat surges low. Breathe slow. Footsteps. Heels click on tiles.
‘Mr. Zorg?’ Red curls vanish into the office. Vanilla scent pulls me up. She eyes me head to toe: austere black skirt to mid-calf, satin gray blouse, thick shell glasses. Blocks notes to her chest. I follow into the office. Parquet creaks under her heels. ‘Sit.’ Leather sighs as I settle. Bookshelves sag with colors. Green eyes lock on. ‘What brings you?’
The Contact
Nerves crackle. ‘Obsession. Women’s sensuality. Lingerie. Stockings over pantyhose.’ She hovers pencil over blank page, lips parted. Mutinous glint. I flush. ‘Love touching them. Turns me on hard. Mistress wears them during sex.’ Imagination floods: blondes in streets, nurse outfits, lace. Pants tighten. She crosses legs slow. Black nylons flash on calves. Trap?
Second visit. Tweed skirt, white tunic. Elegant curves. She perches on desk edge, glasses off. Vanilla close. ‘Under this, black stockings. For your therapy. Excited?’ Bare feet push shoes aside. Hair cascades red. Grabs my hands to hips. Breasts press my chest. Lips graze neck. I stroke thighs over fabric. Kiss deep. She hikes skirt. Lace tops gleam. Hands glide nylon, skirt pools. Full kiss. Blouse off: black-plum lingerie. ‘Love them.’ Palms on perfect ass. She turns, bends over desk. Camber. Cock grinds her. Panties drop. Pinch tits. Fingers dip wet pussy. Moans muffled. She arches. Zipper rasps quiet.
The Indiscretion
Third time. Plunging tank top, faded jeans, ankle bracelet. Dim stores down. Divan black leather. She sits close. Foot rubs calf. Up insistent. ‘What attracts you?’ ‘Your sensuality. Hair, scent, cleavage, bracelet.’ Hand on her thigh. Kiss hungry, tongues dance. ‘Want?’ ‘Your mouth on me.’ Kneels. Jeans open. Grips cock, swallows deep. Sucks wet, sloppy. Balls tighten. Explode down throat. Gasp stifled.
She notes, hand shaky. ‘Not pathological. Explore more kinks.’ Pay, leave. Vestibule. ‘Wait!’ Hands jacket. Fingers brush. ‘Careful, Mr. Zorg.’ Door shuts. Hallway shadows. Stairs creak. Heart hammers. Neighbor’s door passes—old Mrs. L. Sleeps above? Did she hear moans, leather squeaks, wet sucks? Keys fumble. Pocket: balled nylons. Smile. Glance up. Window blinds twitch—manicured hand yanks voilage. Slide stockings deep. Engine hums low. Trap perfect. Neighbors oblivious. Secret throbs.