Going Deep In Therapy

Shane and Angela pull up to the therapist's office, the engine ticking down like a bomb in the humid afternoon haze. She's got that tight-lipped smile, fingers drumming the armrest—another routine session to patch their crumbling marriage. But Shane, all sharp edges and shadowed eyes, nods coolly as Penny's voice calls him in first. Angela sinks into the waiting room chair, flipping through a dog-eared magazine, oblivious for now. The door clicks shut. Alone at last, Penny's professional mask cracks like cheap porcelain. She lunges at Shane, their mouths crashing in a frenzy of forbidden heat. Clothes hit the floor in a frantic heap—his shirt buttons popping, her skirt hiked up rough and desperate. He pins her against the desk, thrusting deep, her nails raking his back as she gasps his name, not Dr. Hayes, but Shane, raw and real. They fuck like animals, the rhythm building to a savage pulse, her legs wrapped tight around him, moans barely muffled by his hand over her mouth. A knock rattles the door—Angela's voice, sharp as a switchblade. 'Everything okay in there?' Penny freezes mid-thrust, heart slamming, but Shane doesn't stop, grinding harder, eyes locked on hers in wicked defiance. They stifle the sounds, sweat-slick bodies still locked, until Angela mutters and retreats. But the tension coils tighter. Later, as Shane's buried to the hilt inside her, pounding with reckless abandon, a file crashes to the floor—loud enough to echo. Angela calls again, closer this time, suspicion threading her words like barbed wire. 'Shane? What's going on?' They ride the edge, climax ripping through them in silent, shuddering waves, the affair's dirty secret hanging by a thread.