My therapy is sex

India Summer knows two kinds of therapy. One fills the hour and leaves you talking. The other ends with your cock in her mouth and her polished toes pressed against warm skin. She stretches out across Marco’s bench already barefoot, her black hair spilling over the leather like ink. The shrink tries to speak. India smiles, lifts one foot, and the conversation is over. She works her sole along the ridge in his slacks until the fabric tents. Then the other foot joins in, trapping him between her arches while her hands peel her blouse open. Marco stops pretending to take notes. He frees his cock and she welcomes it with a slow, wet slide between her lips. Her tongue laps at the underside, tasting every pulse, while her feet stroke him in tandem. Soon it is the three of them, a second cock added to the mix. India moves between them, mouth and hands busy, feet never still. She takes turns swallowing each length, saliva shining on her chin, her toes curling around whatever shaft she leaves free. Her moans vibrate against hard flesh, the room filled with slick sounds and the slap of skin. When the men can’t wait any longer, India guides them exactly where she wants them, urging one deeper into her throat while the other rubs between her soles. Her body arches, greedy and precise, turning the couch into her own private clinic where relief comes hot and thick across her tongue and across her pretty painted toes.