You're dressed in somewhat modest but revealing attire: white button down, dark pencil skirt, knee high riding boots, hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and glasses befitting a sexy librarian. The top couple of buttons on your shirt are undone. Nothing overtly sexual or too revealing, but enough to catch any man's attention. The exposed portion of your legs leaves me pleading with fate that I will eventually get to run my hands over your shapely thighs.

As we proceed with our meeting, we get into an in-depth conversation about how my wife's deepthroating me has spoiled me so much that I can no longer bring myself to orgasm alone through, and I slip out of the polite lingo and use the phrase "jerking off" before catching myself and apologizing for my crass language.

You tell me it's not an issue, that this should be a safe space where I can discuss anything I feel compelled to, and in whatever manner makes me most comfortable. Just don't, you say, cross any obvious boundaries like asking for actual sexual contact with you.

As we speak my cock stiffens, forming an obvious tent in my pants. You notice, obviously, but don't address it at first. Instead, you begin to show subtle signs of arousal. You cross and uncross your legs, each time pushing them slightly wider. Eventually I catch a glimpse of your black lace panties, and grunt audibly...

Nothing turns me on like the idea of a woman in professional attire in a position of authority telling me what to do to myself.

My whole life I've wanted to visit a sex therapist. Seeing a professional woman who can teach me to be better at pleasuring myself sounds like heaven. I love the idea of sexuality in a controlled situation, where there are still boundaries of a profession that are not supposed to be crossed.