The Unorthodox Counsellor
Copyright© 2025 by Meteoguy
Chapter 7
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 7 - Dan and Taylor have been struggling with their marriage since Taylor had an affair. They are currently being counselled by Sarah who has some rather unusual methods to try and reconcile their differences.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Anal Sex Analingus Oral Sex Water Sports
Sarah stared at the message. She was deep in thought. What the fuck should I do now? The red-hot passion that she had felt since the cafe encounter with Dan —the lingering sensation in her palm where Dan’s cock had been—was replaced by a cold, leaden weight in the pit of her stomach.
‘I saw what you did, and I know who you are!’
The words felt like a physical hand around her throat. Her mind raced back to the coffeehouse, scanning the room like a frantic surveillance camera. The young couple. The server. The man who had made the joke. Had someone been filming from a cell phone or hidden behind a laptop? If a video of a licensed therapist masturbating a client in a public space surfaced, it wouldn’t just be the end of her career; it would be an assault on her reputation.
Her thumb hovered over the ‘Delete’ icon, but she froze. If this was blackmail, she needed the evidence. If it was just a sick prank from someone who recognized her from her professional profile, ignoring it might make them go away—or it might provoke them.
A new notification flashed at the top of the screen. Her heart skipped a beat, but it was just Dan again.
’Forgot to mention—Taylor wants to buy that silk robe you talked about—the sheer one. We’re thinking of a whole theme for tomorrow. You still there, Sarah?’
She looked at the photos he’d sent earlier. Taylor looked stunning, radiant, and uninhibited. And then there was Dan, naked, his very hard cock sticking straight out, aimed at her mouth. A part of Sarah, the part that had been suppressed by years of clinical decorum and professional distance, screamed at her to dive in, to lose herself in the chaos of them and forget the mounting dread. But the unknown number sat there like a coiled snake ready to strike.
She stood up and paced around her condo. Should I tell Cathy? Cathy was supposed to be her mentor, her safety net. But how could she possibly tell Cathy about this? “I gave the referral you asked for, but by the way, I’m being stalked because I gave a client a hand job under a cafe table.” The words felt absurd, impossible.
The phone vibrated again in her hand. A second message came from the unknown number.
’Don’t bother blocking me, Sarah. I’m closer than you think. Check your email.’
She lunged for her laptop. Her fingers fumbled over the keys. She opened her inbox and saw a new message with no subject line. It was an attachment—a video file. With a trembling hand, she clicked it.
The footage was grainy but clear. From the angle, it looked like it was shot from the table next to them. It showed the back of her head. Then the camera angle shifted downward, showing her hand in Dan’s lap, grabbing his cock, the rhythmic motion as she stroked it, then back up to show the look of sheer ecstasy on her face as she heard him cumming. The video ended just as she reached for the napkin.
Sarah collapsed back into her chair, her heart racing. Her career wasn’t just in jeopardy; the floor had just dropped out from under her. She looked back at her phone, at Dan’s waiting invitation for a threesome, and realized with a sickening jolt that her two worlds were no longer separate.
The silence of the condo, usually a sanctuary of peace, now felt like a vacuum sucking the oxygen from her lungs. She stumbled to the floor-to-ceiling windows, her hands shaking so violently she had to grip both of the drapes. She yanked them shut, the fabric muffling against the glass and plunging the room into a dim, artificial gloom.
Ping.
She didn’t want to look. She wanted to smash the phone, to delete her existence, to wake up in the sterile safety of her office before the cafe, before Dan and Taylor, before everything.
‘Check the balcony, Sarah.’
The breath hitched in her throat. Her balcony was on the twelfth floor, accessible only through the sliding glass door. Slowly, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, she turned back toward the glass she had just covered. She reached out and parted the curtains just a fraction of an inch.
There, tucked into the corner of the railing, was a single white envelope.
Her phone began to vibrate again, but this time it wasn’t a text. The screen displayed Dan’s name, his smiling face a cruel contrast to the nightmare unfolding in her hands. She let it vibrate, the buzzing sound echoing against the hardwood floor. She thought about answering. Just forget about the threat, and give in to his incredible sexuality and all that his body had to offer her. Taylor’s too. But in the end, she let it ring; she must deal with whoever was terrorizing her.
She forced herself to unlock the sliding door. She reached for the envelope, her skin crawling with the sensation of being watched. Inside was no letter, only a business card.
It was her own card. Sarah Jenkins, PhD. Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist.
Across the back, written in precise, block print, were four words that turned her blood to slush:
’Session starts tomorrow. 9:00 AM’
The sliding door hissed shut, the lock clicking into place. Sarah backed away, her legs hitting the edge of her designer sofa, and she sank onto the cushions without breaking her gaze from the darkness outside. The business card felt heavy in her hand, the ink of the handwritten message still smelling faintly of a permanent marker.
9:00 AM.
In her professional life, nine o’clock was the hour of fresh starts and breakthroughs. It was when she sat in her high-backed leather chair, smoothed her skirt, and offered a neutral, welcoming smile to the broken and the searching. Now, the time felt like a countdown to an execution.
She scanned her phone. Two missed calls from Dan. One unread text. She didn’t check it. If she saw his face again or heard the concerned lilt of his voice, she feared she would splinter into a thousand pieces. She couldn’t tell him—not because she didn’t trust him, but because involving him made the nightmare real. As long as it was just her, she could pretend it was a professional hazard, a stray obsession from a former patient.
Her mind raced through her patient list. Who was her nine o’clock tomorrow? She closed her eyes, visualizing the digital interface of her scheduling software. It was empty. She had blocked that hour off weeks ago for a dentist appointment she’d eventually cancelled, leaving the slot as a rare window for administrative work.
The person who left the card didn’t just know where she lived. They knew her schedule. They knew the gaps in her day when no one would be around to witness her unravelling.
She stood up, driven by a sudden, frantic need to secure the perimeter. She moved through the condo, checking the heavy oak front door, the bathroom window, and even the laundry closet. Everything was locked. Everything was exactly as she had left it.
When she returned to the kitchen, a new notification lit up the phone. It wasn’t a call. It wasn’t a text from Dan. It was an email notification from her professional account, the one synced to her private practice portal.
Subject: Intake Form - New Client.
With trembling fingers, she swiped to open it. The name field was blank, but at the very bottom, in the ‘Reason for Seeking Therapy’ box, there was only a single sentence:
’I think it’s time we talked about what happened at the harbour, Sarah. Don’t be late for our first session.’
{br}
It was 11:45 PM. She had nine hours and fifteen minutes before her professional and private lives collided in a room she no longer controlled.
The cafe incident was a lapse in judgment, a reckless surrender to a mounting mid-life hunger, but the harbour was a ghost she had spent six years burying under layers of academic achievement and clinical distance.
Whoever was doing this didn’t just want to ruin her career; they wanted to bury her.
She stumbled to her feet, her legs feeling like lead. Her gaze darted to the balcony door again. The twelve-story drop should have been a fortress, yet the white envelope proved she was vulnerable from every angle. She checked the locks again—obsessively, her thumbs bruising against the metal latches she had already turned.
Ping.
She jumped, a small cry escaping her throat. It was Dan.
‘You’re being quiet, Sarah. Did I overstep with the photo? Or is it the robe? Talk to me.’
She looked at the screen, her vision swimming. Part of her wanted to scream for help, to tell him that their little game in the cafe had invited a monster into her life. But Dan was a client. No matter how much he blurred the lines, no matter how much she craved the heat of his body, he was the very evidence her blackmailer was holding over her head. To involve him was to hand her tormentor more ammunition.
With shaking hands, she typed a reply, her professional mask slipping back on through sheer muscle memory.
‘Just a long day, Dan. I need some sleep. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.’
She didn’t wait for his reply. She turned the phone face down.
Sleep was an impossibility. She spent the next few hours sitting in the dark of her living room, the business card clutched in her hand. Her mind was a kaleidoscope of faces—disgruntled former patients, colleagues she’d surpassed, the family of the girl from the harbour. Who had the patience to wait this long?
As the digital clock on the microwave shifted to 3:00 AM, the adrenaline began to sour into exhaustion. She realized she couldn’t hide. If she didn’t show up at her office at 9:00 AM, the video would likely be in the inbox of the ethics board by noon. This wasn’t a robbery; it was a summons.
She forced herself to move toward the bedroom, her movements mechanical. She laid out her most conservative suit—a charcoal grey blazer and matching trousers. She picked out a high-collared silk blouse that hid the frantic pulse at the base of her throat. She applied a heavy layer of concealer to the dark circles under her eyes, her reflection in the vanity mirror looking like a stranger wearing her skin.
By 8:15 AM, she was in her car, the morning commute a blur of grey asphalt and red brake lights. Every person on a bicycle, every pedestrian with a cell phone, felt like a scout for her silent enemy.
She reached the professional building, a sleek glass structure that usually felt like a monument to her success. Today, it felt like a mausoleum. She took the private elevator to the fourth floor, the soft chime of the doors opening sounding like a funeral bell.
Her receptionist, Marcus, wasn’t due in until ten. Sarah walked to her office door, her key trembling as she slid it into the lock.
The office was exactly as she had left it. The two leather chairs facing one another, the box of tissues on the side table, the framed degrees on the wall. She sat in her chair, the leather cool against her back, and watched the clock.
8:55.
8:57.
8:59.
At exactly 9:00 AM, the heavy mahogany door to her private waiting room creaked open. There were no footsteps, only the soft rustle of fabric. Sarah stood up, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
“Come in,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
The door swung wider, and a figure stepped into the light of the office. Sarah’s breath hitched, her eyes widening as she recognized the face—not from a recent session, and not from the cafe. It was a face she hadn’t seen in six years, not since the cold, salty spray of the harbour had changed everything.
The woman didn’t look like a monster. She was dressed in a sensible navy wool coat. Her hair, once a vibrant chestnut Sarah remembered from the grainy news footage and the depositions, had turned silver.
It was Eleanor Vance.
Eleanor didn’t wait for an invitation. She crossed the room with a measured, predatory grace and sat in the leather chair usually reserved for Sarah’s highest-paying clients. She didn’t lean back. She sat on the very edge, her spine a rigid line of resentment.
“You’ve done well for yourself, Sarah,” Eleanor said. “The glass building. The private elevator. It’s a long way from the pier.”
Sarah tried to find the therapist’s voice—the one that de-escalated, the one that remained neutral—but it had abandoned her. “Eleanor. I ... I didn’t know you were in the city.”
“I’ve been everywhere you are,” Eleanor replied softly. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a small, silver thumb drive. She set it down with a click that sounded like a gunshot. “I was at the cafe, too. The lighting was poor, but the intent was very clear. You and Mr. Sterling. It was almost poetic, seeing a woman who built a career on ‘boundaries’ dissolve so completely in a public booth.”
The room seemed to tilt. The mention of Dan’s last name confirmed the depth of the surveillance. This wasn’t just a chance encounter; it was a dossier.
“What do you want?” Sarah managed to whisper. “If it’s money—”