My mind often drifts to explicit sexual imagery as I sit through my weekly therapy sessions with Dr. Amy Grey, and today is no different.

Coming here every week, and sometimes struggling to pinpoint the best use of our time together, there are frequent lulls in our conversations. During those awkward pauses, I find it hard to focus on her face (as I know I should), instead finding myself unable to control my wandering gaze as it follows the contours of her body. At first, I would mentally reprimand myself during these moments. I would tell myself I should be thinking with my semi-defective brain, the supposed subject of our discussions, rather than the often-hard-to-control organ that dangles between my thighs, threatening at times to expose my 'taboo' fantasies before your eyes.

In these moments, Dr. Grey's arresting eyes seem to pierce through my very being, reaching the malleable softness deep down, that part of me still susceptible to suggestion, still hungry for new experiences. She had, over the course of the last six months, instilled in that secret alcove a newfound desire, a yearning for something I knew could never be.

I'd been in and out of therapy since my parents divorced at a young age, continuing on through adulthood after receiving a bi-polar disorder diagnosis in my late teens. It was well controlled with medication, but habit and family-urging kept me coming back to seek dialogue-focused assistance with a professional. It vacillated over time between feeling like a chore and providing a moderate amount of relief in my everyday life, a place where I could vent with impunity when I felt the need.

But Dr. Grey had changed all that. She had given new meaning to the idea of openly discussing by deepest-held secrets and desires. And, in fact, she had given me something to look forward to, more so than any professional I'd seen prior. Even when I felt I had nothing to rant about, nothing I needed to get off my chest, coming to see Dr. Grey never felt like an obligation. Instead, I now found myself counting down the days between visits.

She was the first therapist I'd seen who was my age, something I should have anticipated happening as I grew older. But, somehow, therapists had always been inherently old and dull in my mind. I was stunned the first time I laid eyes on her, having been given no indication of my new therapist's age, gender, or appearance. The scheduling service I'd used had an option for gender, but I always left it blank, having found on real preference in the past.

My previous therapist, who I'd found through the same service, had been unusually helpful. I connected with her in a way I rarely did with therapists, and it helped me internalize our 'work' more than was often possible. When she relocated some five hundred miles from here, I was sad to see her go, but resigned to returning to the usual drudgery I'd grown accustomed to with talk therapy. So, when Dr. Grey had opened the door to her office and invited me into our intake session, I'd been taken aback in a wholly unfamiliar way.

My immediate reaction had been one of embarrassed hesitance, followed swiftly by a familiar stirring between my legs. These emotions conflicted so dramatically that I struggled to respond when she called my name and beckoned for me to follow.

As I would come to understand as an almost uniform-like outfit, Dr. Grey wore a tight, button-down white dress shirt beneath a form-fitting blue blazer (which she would often remove as we settled into our seats), a tan-colored pencil skirt, reaching down to just above her knees, and black stockings with a visible seam running down the back of each leg. Her shoes changed from visit to visit, but she always managed to put together a very similar outfit with only small variations in cut and fabric.

It was that uniform, and her habit of frequently crossing and re-crossing her stockinged legs, that quickly led to my first real fantasy of her. I imagined her standing over me while she instructed me on how to pleasure myself. In truth, I did have a legitimate desire to improve my masturbatory techniques, having always felt abandoned by society when it came to learning the best way to hold and stroke my dick. It never seemed fair that the one activity nearly everyone finds true pleasure in is never taught. We're just left to our own devices. Even bedmates are rarely willing to openly discuss sexuality, let alone masturbation.

And so, it was this combination of a deep seeded desire for someone to 'show me the ropes,' combined with a newfound, intense attraction to Dr. Grey, that sparked my first lustful daydream about her. Often, when I closed my eyes, I would see her standing above me in her uniform, firmly and directly guiding my masturbation in a level, almost serene tone of voice as I lay below her, pants around my ankles, and stroked my erect member.

My fantasies evolved and grew more detailed with time, but they always began with this kind of almost-clinical instruction. From there, I would envision her taking over for me, claiming I wasn't fully grasping the meaning of her direction, that she needed to demonstrate with her own hands before I could really learn. As I watched her stroke me, I could hear her continuing to offer encouraging words in that same professional tone. Sometimes this would lead to sex, whether oral or otherwise, but always she would remain in control, maintaining the pretense of a therapeutic environment.

It got to the point where I would invariably grow erect during the short drive from my apartment to her small office building. It would take great effort to calm myself enough to make the walk to her office door and settle into my chair without revealing myself. Sometimes, the feeling became so intense during my drive to see Dr. Grey, that I'd find a quiet place to pull off the series of back-roads I'd started to take just for this reason and quickly bring myself to orgasm. Eventually, this became my weekly routine. Sometimes I'd do it on the way there, sometimes on the way home, and occasionally both.

One Saturday afternoon, as I found myself wrapped up in one of these daydream sexual encounters, a thought occurred to me: I knew I'd never be able to live out these fantasies with Dr. Grey, but what if I found a kind of surrogate. I'd heard of sex therapists before, and of course porn would have you believe that one could experience a physical relationship with such a professional, but I really didn't know the reality. I did know, however, that at least I'd be able to raise the issue of bettering my masturbatory techniques, be able to give voice to my sexual urges and fantasies. Maybe that would be enough to satisfy me, I thought, even if my suspicion that porn had embellished and misrepresented the reality of sex therapy proved true. So, why not? I had good insurance, and I even remembered there being a carve-out for this kind of therapy. I decided I had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

I, of course, had to find a different scheduling service through which to connect with a sex therapist. It wasn't hard, as I soon learned. My insurance's website, after jumping through a few hoops, actually listed such services.

These listings, I found, did indeed include pictures. Pouring over the options, I settled on you. You looked the part, having a nearly-identical build and eyes that seemed soul-piercing in an eerily similar way to Dr. Grey's. I booked your next available time slot, and instantly began counting the minutes until we'd be face-to-face. I had no idea what to expect. In my wildest fantasy of you, we'd play out the sexual contact I yearned for from Dr. Grey. I doubted that would be the reality of our meetings, but at least I'd be able to give voice to my fantasies about Dr. Grey. I decided that was enough of a pretense to book an appointment, selecting 'unhealthy sexual fantasies' from the dropdown menu on the online intake form.

Your address wasn't listed, only that you were within 10 miles of my current location. I was informed via email that, in order to maintain privacy and for everyone's safety, I'd receive a call from you directly to discuss our meeting location, along with a few other intake details. It didn't say it explicitly, but I assumed this was a kind of screening system to make sure you were comfortable with me before inviting me into a sexually-charged and intimate setting.

I sat impatiently, obsessively checking my phone every few seconds, before an unlisted number popped up and my phone vibrated between my fingers. Taking a deep breath, I hit the little green button and raised the phone to my ear.

"Hello?"

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I'm looking for someone to play the sex therapist in this fantasy. I've left it open-ended, but included some potential details I'd enjoy playing out. The main criteria I'm really looking for in a roleplay partner is a willingness to be somewhat dominant and instructive.

Shoot me a message if you connect with this scenario and want to try it out.

I am 18 and all participants and characters must be 18