We'd been seeing a couples therapist for six months, ninety pounds an appointment.

Thirty minutes in she told me; admitted her truth.

We were talking about fantasies. She took her glasses off, looking me in the eye.

"My deepest fantasy. You walk around the desk, shove me face-down. Spit on your cock, and ram it straight into my dripping cunt—pounding deep and hard until I’m dripping down my thighs, begging for every thick pulse as you fill me up and I finally stop being the therapist.”

I stood. My wife leant forward.

"I'll waive the fee," she said, smiling.