The quartz confession

The couple left my office thirty minutes ago, but the air still hums with their unresolved tension. God, the way they fought sharp words laced with something far hotter than anger. She’d crossed her legs tight when he leaned in, her knuckles whitening around her purse strap. He’d smirked, all dimples and dominance, like he knew exactly how wet she got when they yelled. And I? I sat there, professional as hell, nodding as my thighs pressed together under the desk.

Now the door’s locked. My fingers twitch.

The quartz on my bookshelf winks at me—pink, smooth, thicker than three fingers. A gift from an ex who called it a “healing stone.” Fuck healing. I palm it, the weight solid, cool. My skirt’s already hiked up, my panties shoved aside. No prep, no lube. I’m dripping just from replaying her bitten-off moan when he growled, “You love this shit.”

The quartz’s blunt head teases my slit. I hiss. It’s bigger than I remembered. I rock forward, letting my body swallow it inch by inch, the stretch burning so good I see stars. Christ. It’s like fucking myself with their rage, their lust. I imagine her—blonde, polished nails digging into his biceps—watching me impale myself on this rock while he whispers filth in her ear.

My hips piston. The quartz drags against my walls, the ridges catching just right. I’m loud, moans bouncing off the diplomas on the wall. Professionalism be damned. I shove it deeper, my cervix throbbing, and my free hand claws at my breast through my blouse. Pinching a nipple, I whimper. “Fuck, fuck—”

I try the other hole, just to see. A quick prod—nope. Too dry, too tight. Not today. Back to my cunt, where I’m swollen and greedy. The quartz glistens, my cream coating it, and I fuck myself faster, the base slapping my clit with every thrust.

The fantasy shifts: now he’s here, kneeling between my spread legs, watching me ruin myself. “That’s it, Doctor,” he’d murmur, “show me how bad you needed it.” His wife would kneel beside him, her lips parted, her fingers sneaking under her skirt. “She’s prettier when she comes,” he’d tell me, and I’d—

Ohgodohgod. My back arches. The orgasm rips through me, violent, vulgar, my thighs shaking as I pulse around the stone. Cream spills down my thighs, onto the leather couch. Shit. I’ll need to wipe it down before my next session.

I slump, the quartz slipping out with a wet plop. My heartbeat thrums between my legs. The office smells like sex and regret.

I glance at the clock. Twenty minutes till my next client.

Just enough time to do it again.