Some Hard Truths

Floria freezes in her office doorway when Dave shows up for his session, Connie clinging to his arm like a shadow. The therapist's eyes narrow—Dave's a regular, but this? She lays it out straight: 'I'm not a couples counselor, Dave. You know that.' He bulldozes right through, jaw set like concrete, demanding she fix his wife in one quick hit. Connie stays quiet, head down, that soft deference hitting Floria like a spark in dry grass. Intrigue coils in her gut. Fine, she caves, but with a sharp warning—no guarantees. The session kicks off, and Dave's brute ignorance spills out fast. He's obsessed with Connie's fresh bi-curious itch, convinced Floria can scrub it clean. But oh, it blows up in his face. Floria leans in, voice smooth as silk over steel: 'Embrace it, Connie. Your desires aren't his to dictate.' Dave's world cracks as he watches from the corner, helpless. Floria draws Connie close, lips brushing skin, hands mapping forbidden paths—kisses deepen into hungry exploration, fingers teasing wet folds, tongues dancing over swells and dips in a first-time frenzy of gasps and moans. Dave's humiliation burns, forcing him to choke down his backward bullshit. Then the women turn, eyes gleaming, inviting him in. Join or watch her slip away forever—that's the razor edge he teeters on.