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You’ve been scheduling weekly therapy sessions with Ian Duncan since the start of the semester, and it truly wasn’t supposed to last this long. At first, you’d planned on one appointment—you were wondering if he could get you medical marijuana, and he’d responded with an immediate and resolute “no”. (He insisted it had nothing to do with his morals and more to do with his utter lack of certifications. You’d even learned one of his bachelor’s degrees was less than authentic, but you could’ve judged as much from its misspelling of “Cambridge”.) But then he asked you about your parents, and hooked you for session two; eight weeks later and you were somewhere between your tales of childhood bullying and the time all your friends got their period before you did. You’ve talked to therapists before. (You’ve actually met the whole band: the therapist, the psychologist, the psychiatrist, even the holistic healer.) You’ve never talked to therapists like this before, though. So openly. It was refreshing. You found Duncan refreshing in general: his sloppy side-swept hair and crooked smile nicely complemented his recklessness and hipsterish professor costumes. A tiny part of you believes that, under the right circumstances, you’d let him kiss you. Probably after several drinks. Which, incidentally, is why you’re back for another week. Your plunge into college life—if you could call a tiny apartment five minutes from Greendale’s campus “college life”—was abrupt and cold. Suddenly your days became vacant and lonely; you have a roommate who hates you and a great reluctance to socialize and, now, an alcohol dependency. You’re sitting on his ugly blue sofa, and as he rambles about oral fixations you rehearse what you’re going to say next. You believe it’s time to mention the booze. “I think I drink too much,” you say to him, though your eyes are fixed on the fidgeting hands in your lap. You absently yet intently pick dirt from under your fingernails and hope some form of reassurance will follow your confession. (A confession which you were once convinced that, upon verbalization, would relieve the weight that’s been pressing on your chest. Instead, you feel heavier.) Duncan clicks his pen and says simply, “That’s no good.” He then jots something brief onto his paper. He’s never been too good at keeping his clipboard tipped up, though, so you lift your gaze only long enough to read “—alcoholism?” scribbled next to some marginal doodles. For the following three seconds, you contemplate changing your major to psychology; to some fault of his own, Duncan makes his field appear hopelessly easy to master. He straightens his glasses and says with a small cough, “How much do you drink?” Briefly, you entertain his question and make a quick tally of your last seven days’ drink total before deciding you don’t want to share that information. You repeat meekly, “Too much,” and watch your knuckles turn white. Duncan taps his pen against the clipboard thoughtfully. “Fair enough,” he says. “How long ago did you notice it was a problem?” You don’t like the tint the word “problem” casts on your situation, but it’s an accurate enough descriptor that you brush it off. “Maybe four months ago? Since, like, July,” you answer. “When I told myself I’d only drink on the weekends and I was out of vodka by the next Wednesday.” He scoffs, which surprises you. “Yeah, I know how that goes,” he says through a humorless smile. “The old ‘failure to self-discipline’ issue. Been there.” “Should you be talking about your alcoholism with your patients?” “Hey, now, you’re hardly a real patient. You’re paying me exactly zero dollars an hour to do this,” says Duncan. “And besides, it’s not like you’re one to judge.” The implication that you’re an alcoholic—a label you’ve considered, but found too daunting to accept—shakes you. His brashness is angering. (Maybe that’s inaccurate. The thing angering you is more likely his ability to see through your glib excuses.) “Very professional,” is all you say. Duncan’s face softens. He clasps his hands in front of his chest. “Look,” he begins dubiously. “Maybe you’re not an alcoholic. Maybe you’re just an experimental teenager with too much time and freedom on your hands. You shouldn’t get too anxious about this.” He stoops his neck in a feeble attempt to lock eyes, but you can’t stop analyzing your dirty shoelaces. His intent gaze makes you feel like he’s trying to tip your chin up, literally and metaphorically, from across the room. “I have to be honest with you, though, (y/n),” he continues. “There are some good reasons to think about cutting back on the booze. I’m not going to lecture you about it—I can’t lecture you about it—but your antidepressant doesn’t mix well with the ol’ giggle juice. Damages your liver.” “You’re right,” you say, at last meeting his stare. “You can’t lecture me about it. You’re just some middle-aged drunk who once got suspended from his job for crashing a community college formal dance—so remind me again, why am I taking advice from you?” He sucks in through his teeth. “Fresh wound,” he says, and despite your irritation, you’re charmed by his flippancy. “But I get it. I’ve had years to come to terms with my problems. You’ve just realized you have them. But that’s what I call”—he leans in—“a breakthrough.” He stands from his chair; you first assume he’s going to fetch something from a desk drawer, but instead he strides over to the sofa and settles next to you. You inhale sharply through your nose, only because your brain suddenly feels oxygen-deprived and dizzy, and catch a whiff of his cheap cologne. You’re not even mad that it barely masks the smell of his even cheaper vodka. After sitting he looks to you and asks, “Is this okay?” and for once sounds genuine. Sober. Your heart is beating faster than you’d ever admit and as your mind spins, your autopilot is thankfully able to say, “Yeah.” (According to written rule and, arguably, your moral compass, it’s not okay—but you want to see where this is going.) Duncan puts his hand on your knee. (Duncan puts his hand on your knee.) He appears just as nervous as you, but somehow you still trust him; you wonder what sort of psychologist shit he pulled to make himself seem so honest. You trust him even as his hand inches its way upward, closer, even as he leans in, and— Oh my God. You and Duncan are kissing. The rational part of your brain, thinking about the innumerable rules you must be breaking as you poke at his mouth with your tongue, protests; nevertheless you both grow eager once contact and fervent permission has been established and Duncan proves it by biting at your lower lip. You moan. You’ve never moaned uninhibitedly during a makeout session before, but you moan, loud. So loud that Duncan has to shush you. He pulls his face away from yours but compensates you with a firm knee between your legs. “We really shouldn’t be doing this,” he says. He gapes when you grind against him. “I know, right?” you reply, snaking a hand behind his neck and pulling him in for a bite under his jaw. Duncan grapples at your upper arms. “God, (y/n)….” Something about your name in his mouth turns you on. A lot. You bite him harder. “Ow! Okay, easy there,” he says, bringing his fingers to the fresh bruise on his throat. His other hand grips your shoulder and his eyes, his fucking brown eyes, meet yours. “Look, if we’re gonna do this….” “Yeah, I get it. Nobody can know, it’s against Greendale policy, you got it,” you say hastily. You guide his hands to your hips, then move to straddle him. He looks concerned, like he wants to say more, but is distracted when your mouth covers his. It’s Duncan’s turn to moan, and when he does, the vibration of his lips against yours melts into a warmth that drips down your throat. You jerk your hips; he responds with a thrust upwards. “To think I’ve been—ah—to think I’ve been so careful about that damn rule,” Duncan says. He speaks like he’s pushing out words, one by one. “Here I am fifteen minutes into a session with a student in my lap.” You abstain from kissing his neck long enough to reply, “It can’t have been that hard. How many opportunities like this actually come along?” You feel him tremble at the sensation of your hot breath on his skin. He fixes his posture a little. “First of all, ouch. I can tell you don’t think of me as a womanizer.” (You scoff.) “Second, you’d be surprised. There are a lot of sad, lonely girls on this campus who depend heavily on their free weekly therapy sessions. Have you ever heard of daddy issues, (y/n)?” You shift your weight to your knees and put a few centimeters of space between you and Duncan. He huffs at the loss of contact. “First of all, ouch,” you echo. “I guess I’m a sad, lonely girl with daddy issues?” You didn’t mean to sound as offended as you did. Duncan uses his grip on your hips to place you beside him, and says, “I don’t like you for your daddy issues, (y/n). I like you for your cleverness. And, to be quite honest, your American girl-next-door sex appeal.” “You like me, Professor?” you tease, lips curving upward into a defiant smile. He looks at you over his glasses—you can’t tell if he’s feeling embarrassed or patronizing—and you can’t put your finger on why he charms you so thoroughly, but your cheeks burn all the same. Duncan kisses you again and leans gently into you, coercing you into a reclined position. You’re lying on the sofa now, head and shoulders propped on some small decorative pillows. Correction: you’re lying on the sofa, under Duncan. Twenty minutes ago, the mere notion of this situation would have shocked you. But you don’t feel like contemplating the wild, perilous path your life is taking and elect to focus on the electricity of Duncan’s weight on yours. He’s wearing a dark plaid shirt and some dorky fucking sweater vest which you refuse to admit is actually adorable; you pull at it ‘til he gets the hint and lifts it over his head. You can’t tell what’s better: his now-mussed hair or his freed necktie, both of which practically beg you to grab hold. You choose the latter and use it to yank him closer. “Easy there, don’t choke me,” he says. “Or do. If you’re into that sort of thing.” He slips a cool hand under your blouse and finds your bra, which he discovers impressively quickly has a clasp at the front; he swiftly pinches it undone. You suddenly feel so exposed, so naughty, and arch your back to press your torso against his. You’re not sure if you want to tell him to slow down or speed up. The coldness of his hands on your breasts makes your nipples harden, and he chuckles softly into your mouth. He’s sexy, really sexy, and oh, it’s been a while, and you think it’s been a while for him too because you’re both behaving so hungrily. Duncan doesn’t linger; your lips maintain contact as he slides his arms downward in search of your pants. The wordless way he undoes the button and slips his fingers under the fabric is painfully hot, and the way he roughly rubs circles into you through your underwear is even hotter. You cry out, and Duncan clamps his free hand over your mouth. “New rule,” he says breathlessly. His face is flushed, which makes you grin. “If this is actually going to happen right now, your silence is kind of non-negotiable. Greendale didn’t exactly give me a soundproof office.” You reply with a sharp bite to his bottom lip, and he yelps. “Kinky girl,” he says, slipping one thick finger inside you. Maybe you are kinky. You are, after all, currently rounding third base with your middle-aged psychologist on his office sofa. What did Duncan call that? “Daddy issues”? You push yourself down onto him and rock your hips as he fingers you viciously. You feel guilty for enjoying yourself so much, like you should be doing something for him, but you’ve never lost yourself so completely during sex and all you can do is feel. He slips a second finger inside you with surprising ease and still it doesn’t feel like enough. His thumb is placed cleverly, so that every time he thrusts he presses into your clit; you think he growls something into your ear about how wet you are, but it’s hard to hear over the throbbing heartbeat in your ears. Duncan nips at the crook of your neck, then pulls back and admires you in a way that sends a jolt to your heart. He’s ramming you with those fingers now, hard and rough and just right with every thrust. (Why aren’t you thinking about how you’ll regret this later? Why aren’t you calling yourself a disaster? Why does this feel so fulfilling?) “Come on, love,” says Duncan, and his accent drips from his tongue like hot caramel and ohmygod, you don’t remember ever coming this fast from being fingered but you think it’s about to happen and— “Fuckfuckfuckfuck!” you say strainedly, a little louder than Duncan would’ve liked. “God, shit, Duncan—” “Quiet, now,” he reminds. “Although the compliments are much appreciated.” He contradicts his own request by circling his thumb in response to your feedback. It’s like some kind of torture, asking you to bite your tongue as he smugly pulls harder at the words lodged in your throat. You’re at the very top of the hill now, then tumbling down in a spiral of hedonistic bliss. You tighten around his fingers and he responds by quickening his already rapid pace, fingers riding you through your unraveling orgasm. You don’t know what to do other than grip his shoulders and attempt to suppress a loud pleasured cry. Your breathing begins to slow back down, and your eyes tighten into focus again, and Jesus Christ you just let Ian Duncan finger you on the couch in his office. He removes his hand from inside your pants and sits up. There is, expectedly, a thick tension polluting the air. “I would offer you a drink, but considering the circumstances….” He tapers off, pausing to allow for another swath of uncomfortable silence. As he returns to his desk chair, you refasten your trousers and run your fingers through your frizzed hair. The back of your head is knotted in a way that only comes from hours of restless sleep and, you suppose, times like this. You feel pressured to say something. “Should I come back the same time next week?” “Works for me,” says Duncan. He winks. You smile.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Are you nervous for today’s appointment? Absolutely. Did you swallow three shots of whiskey before your walk to Duncan’s office in hopes it’d silence the heartbeat leaping within your throat? No comment. You draw in a hefty breath through your nose and, at last, convince yourself to rap your knuckles on his door. From inside, you hear him call out, “It’s open!” He’s hunched over his desk when you step in, scribbling something on a stack of papers. You surmise he’s grading. “How’s it going?” you say. You probably would’ve greeted him differently, less confidently, if you weren’t a little tipsy. (Maybe “a little” is understating it.) Duncan’s red pen falls from his grasp and he looks up, glasses perched on the end of his nose. “(y/n),” he says with wide eyes. He presses his palms on the desk and stands, then gestures to the sofa. “Sit. Please. If you want.” He’s flustered, you observe, which makes you feel… powerful? You can’t quite put your finger on it. Nonetheless, you heed his request. The sofa feels itchier than usual. He mirrors you, returning to his seat. His hair is disheveled, like he’s been fisting it anxiously—you know because you do the same thing. “To answer your question, it’s going fine,” he says, pushing up his glasses with an index finger. “Just fine.” “What a dull answer,” you say. You cross your legs and drape an arm over the back of the sofa. You doubt you’re any more comfortable than he is, but you’re pretending like you are, like nothing’s weird and you’re not a little nauseated and this is just a normal therapy session. “Everybody says they’re doing fine, but it’s never really true, is it? Everyone’s got something going on, something weighing on them.” Duncan studies your face and hesitates. Finally, he says, “Yep. You’re drunk.” You huff a sigh. “No more than usual,” you say defeatedly. “Only three shots.” “Amateur,” he says with a sardonic scoff. “Remember last week, when I said you might not be an alcoholic? Y’know, when I told you not to worry about it too much? I officially rescind that statement.” You suppress a colossal eye roll. “Yeah, I remember a whole lot more than that happening last week.” His face flushes; it’s unfortunately adorable. “So are we just going to abandon the whole therapy thing, or…?” “I don’t know, are we? Do you want me to stop scheduling weekly appointments?” You pause, then admit, “I like our sessions.” He reclines and kicks his feet up on the desk—he’s rivaling you in your display of confidence. With an arrogant smile, he says, “Yeah, I bet you do.” It’s funny, kind of, but you don’t laugh. His shirt has some kind of tiny dot pattern, speckled with pinpoints of red; in all your anxiety, you begin to absently count them. Duncan’s eyebrows draw together; he looks like his words are about to betray him. “Come here.” There’s that leaping heartbeat again. You wonder if anyone’s ever had a heart attack from a situation like this. Sheepishly, you approach, and he doesn’t look satisfied until you’re standing right in front of him. You lean against the desk to steady yourself. He’s looking at you over his glasses again, which makes you feel smaller than usual. “It would be irresponsible,” says Duncan lowly, “for me not to refer you to another therapist.” “I don’t want a referral.” His breath hitches. “I’m concerned I’m causing your problems when I should be solving them.” And then you sort of jump each other, a lot like how it looks in the movies; you don’t know if it’s his dark voice or flushed nose or maybe even your drunkenness that got you, but it seems he’s just as enthusiastic you are, and you fully embrace whatever the fuck is happening. You’re bad people. Oh, you’re such bad people. You’ve got his shirt bunched in your fists, pulling him in a bit too aggressively. You just want to feel his warm chest against yours, and God, he really is warm, almost like he’s a little less than sober. You pull your wet lips from his to ask, “Is this okay?” Duncan laughs. “Oh God, no.” He kisses you again, but for a second you don’t close your eyes; over his shoulder, you note an open desk drawer which holds a bottle of bottom-shelf vodka. Dammit. At least the power balance feels a little less askew now. He’s succumbed to your tugging and is standing now, but the desk’s edge has been uncomfortably pressing against the back of your thighs, so you sit and draw him in with your legs. He fences you in, arms on either side of you, so he can rest his weight on the desk. “Wait,” you say. For some reason you can’t convince your voice to stop interrupting; this time your wilting dignity is looking for something to hold onto. “Is this about more than just sex for you?” He kisses your neck. “Is this about more than just sex for you?” “Jesus Christ,” you say, interpreting his rebuttal quite negatively, but against your better judgement proceed. As he kisses you, you untuck his shirt and begin to work at his belt, and the implication seems to have stopped his breath before it had the chance to escape his throat. Rubbing at the front of his trousers, you say, “I think it’s your turn,” and stand, using your grip on his hips to turn him around. He’s the one against the desk now, and boy do you feel powerful, like he’s soft and pliable and right in the palm of your hands. Duncan tries desperately to keep his mouth on your skin as you move, and you yield another minute to him before dropping to your knees. Is this happening? You guess so, but your brain is having trouble keeping pace. You tug down his zipper with fingers you hope aren’t trembling too obviously and pull his erection from his underwear. You press your swollen red lips to the head, and a bead of precum stains your tongue. You suck lightly, drawing a moan from Duncan; one of his hands grips the desk behind him, and the other tangles into your messy hair. You watch his fingers grow rigid, nails digging into the desk’s grooved wooden surface. “Ah, (y/n), I really shouldn’t—” You reach around his backside and pull him further into your mouth. “—don’t stop, please, for the love of God….” He chokes on his own filthy sob. You almost feel guilty for his regretfulness. Almost. You press your hot tongue to the underside of his dick and suppress a grin when you feel his body twitch. You hum contentedly, and suppose Duncan likes the way that feels because his hand claws desperately into your scalp. This is possibly the hottest thing you’ve ever done, challenged only by last week’s encounter, and not just because your mind is foggy from the toxic warmth of your generic whiskey. Duncan is so verbal, offering an uninterrupted stream of needy whimpers as you suck him off. You hope his office walls aren’t quite as paper-thin as he says. You are single-sighted now, aiming pointedly at his orgasm—yet the romantic in you, the dumbass in you, compels you to rise from your knees. You busy his lips with a starved kiss and scratch his chest, squeeze his sides. His bones don’t have much extra padding, but his body still offers softness and warmth. You wonder briefly what it’d be like to fall asleep with your head on his chest. You’re reminded of your original goal when Duncan tilts his head back and thrusts his hips into yours. You take hold of his length and tug a couple times, and he bites your bottom lip. (The biting thing does seem to be a recurring theme between you two, and you can't say you mind it.) You can do better than this. You kneel again, feeding his cock back into your mouth. Things are getting sloppy—your chin shines with saliva and precum—and you hope, you sinfully hope, that that turns him on more. You’re taking in as much as you can, but the overachiever in you is still disappointed that your lips haven’t neared his pelvis. Granted, he’s certainly not a disappointing length, and you don’t consider yourself particularly talented at deep-throating. He doesn’t seem to mind, however, and continues to erratically fuck your mouth. You’re not sure if he has any control over his hips right now. Another sigh slips out of you, and Duncan responds by crying out your name. His palms slam upon his desktop, once, twice. You could laugh at his lack of discretion. You hope one day you get to hear the sounds he makes when fucking, pornographic and unrestrained; you hope one day you get to share a hotel room, or maybe a bedroom and house and dog and— “I’m gonna come,” he says with such confidence that it sounds like a warning. You don’t need a warning. You swallow as much of his dick as you can—so much that your eyes burn and leak tears—and revel in the hot sensation of his cum down your throat. His entire body trembles, which is funny because you don’t remember any of your exes experiencing such a full-body orgasm before. You could practically congratulate yourself. Are you moaning? You’re… moaning. Uninhibitedly, yearningly, around Duncan’s cock. He finishes with a conclusive “ah” and slumps back against the desk, exhaling in short pants. You remove yourself from him with one last obscene lick. Duncan wipes his brow and pushes up his glasses, then tucks himself back into his pants and zips up. You pray your encounter won’t be followed by another uncomfortable bout of silence. He plucks a handful of tissues from the box behind him and passes them to you. “Well,” he says pointedly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It feels like a ‘thank you’ is in order, but somehow I’m not sure thanking you is appropriate.” “Definitely don’t thank me,” you say. You reach to straighten his glasses and comb his hair with your fingers, and he scrunches his face. “Come on. You look… obvious.” “Hey,” Duncan says softly. He grabs your wrists with surprising tenderness and meets your gaze. “Can I…?” Somehow you understand what he’s asking, and nod as he leans in and gently presses his lips against yours. Considering your recent proclivities, it’s kinda gross, really, and you wish you could’ve at least brushed your teeth first—especially since this kiss feels so different, so new. Maybe that’s why he asked permission. He’s kissing you like he hasn’t kissed you before. Duncan cups your face and caresses your red cheeks with his thumbs, which makes your heart swell. You slide your hands around his waist and up to his shoulder blades, pulling his body flush against yours, and detach your lips from his. Your chest is heaving, but so is his, and if it wasn’t awkward before, it sure is now. (Or maybe “awkward” is the wrong way to put it. Emotionally charged, maybe? Yeah. You’re just uncomfortable with how fucking charged it is.) Now you’re the one who wants to say “thank you”, and you’re not entirely sure why. You step back, and so does he, cocking his head with a small “hm”. “Yeah. Hm.” You look him up and down briefly, like you’re admiring your handiwork—he tends to look pleasantly disheveled after your more lecherous interactions—but then reprimand yourself for objectifying him so thoroughly. It’s easiest to look at him like an object, you suppose, as if your eyes are trying to convince the rest of you that his value is strictly physical. (Side note: it’s not working.) The way Duncan looks at you, though—the way he’s looking at you—makes your stomach twist up like it’s wringing itself out. There’s something in his eyes, maybe his expression, that’s alarmingly affectionate. Not attached, not carnal, just… fond. Warm. Do you like it? You think you like it. Your feet feel like fleeing, though, so you reach for your bag. “I guess I should go,” you say, trying desperately to ignore the worry that flashes across his face. “My time’s probably up anyway. I’d hate to keep someone waiting.” Duncan looks lost. “I’d hardly call my schedule booked.” He rubs his hands together idly. “You could stay, if you want.” Your brain races; you’re already halfway to the door. “I dunno, I’ve got an exam tomorrow. I should definitely be studying.” (Is that a lie?) (…Why the fuck did you lie?) You've advanced a few paces, hand itching for the doorknob, when he interrupts your exit with a hasty “wait!” You hold your breath and turn. “Sorry, um….” Duncan scrambles for the pad of Post-its on the corner of his desk, then scribbles down a phone number. He tears off the leaf and hands it to you. “If you ever need anything.” “Oh,” you say, for once unable to find words. You tuck it into your pocket and give him a smile you hope looks warm. “Thanks.” He smiles back. It’s so fucking genuine. “Same time next week?” he says. There’s a hopefulness in his voice that he’s failed to conceal. “Yeah, sure,” you reply, and you’re pretty certain you mean it. Mostly, though, you just want your heart to stop beating so fast, so you utter a goodbye and slip out of his office. Before bed, you take a large swig straight from your handle of whiskey and type a text: it’s not just about the sex for me, by the way.
have a good night, ian. (You delete a couple emojis before you press send.)