A+ play Th: what can I help you with? Wf: our sex life has gotten kind of stale, I was hopping you could provide some guidance on improvements. Th: absolutely. But my methods require first hand experience. It can be overwhelming. Wf: I have heard great things about your work and I would like to give it a try TH: In order to understand where improvements can be made, I would like through all the steps with you. Once we do that, I will be able to provide some recommendations and coaching. Let’s begin with typical FP and OS. (Gets up in front of her, while she is seating in a chair) (Undoes his pants) WF: Wait. You actually want to do everything I do with my partner? TH: I need to experience everything first hand. WF: Okeeey! I thought we are just going to talk through it. (Puts his member in her hand. And begins stroking barely the entire dialogue ) It is so warm and hard! This is so unexpected. Is this a standard practice? TH: yes. If you want results this is the process. Wf: I hadn’t done anything like that with a stranger. This is kind of embarrassing. But if that is part of the process I am willing to give it a try. (Puts it her mouth and sucks on for a bit) Th: that’s it! Just keep doing that and don’t overthink it. You are amazing. (Goes back to stroking, a bit more confidently) I am too nervous to do it the way I do it with my partner. Is there any way to be less anxious? Th: absolutely! Take off your clothes and lay down on the massage table. I will give you a very relaxing massage. Wf: I think that would help (Takes off skirt and blouse, lays down on massage table) Th: (massages her back for 10 minutes) Are you ready to continue now? Wf: I think so. (Reaches out and begins stroking him gently again) thank you for the massage. I feel much more at ease now. Th: excellent. Let’s continue. Wf: (puts him in her mouth and begins sucking more confidently and passionately than before) Th: I can feel the difference. Wf: (goes back to stroking) You do?! I was so embarrassed initially but now I feel more comfortable. (Begins to suck more vigorously, no longer feels reservations) Th: perfect now that you are at ease keep going for few minutes like you normally would. Wf: (stops sucking) let me know if you want me to do anything differently. I am a fast learner. Th: we will go over corrections later. Keep going. What you are going is perfect. Wf. Sounds good. (Goes back to sucking. Moans a little) (Few mins later)

Chapter 1: The Clinical Touch: A Stroke-By-Stroke Consultation

The leather recliner sighed under Thomas’s weight as he settled back, the city’s twilight skyline a glittering backdrop framed by vast windows. The office air was cool, smelling faintly of lemon polish and expensive leather, a stark contrast to the heat prickling Claire’s skin. She smoothed her skirt over her thighs for the third time, the silk feeling suddenly flimsy, insubstantial.

"Alright, Claire," Thomas said, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. He didn't look at her, his gaze fixed on the skyline. "Procedure is procedure. We start with an evaluation. Hands-on." His fingers found the zipper of his dark trousers. The metallic rasp sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet room. Down it slid. "Let’s see what you’ve got."

She watched, frozen, as he pushed the fabric aside. His cock sprang free, already thick and impossibly hard, the head flushed a deep, angry purple against the contrast of his tailored shirt. Precum glistened at the tip. Her breath hitched. This wasn't the clinical demonstration she’d naively anticipated.

"Go on," he prompted, finally turning his head. His eyes, usually sharp and assessing, were heavy-lidded, predatory. "Technique evaluation. That is why you came, isn’t it? To learn how to please your husband?" A ghost of a smirk played on his lips.

Swallowing hard, Claire forced her hand forward. Her fingers trembled as they brushed the hot, velvety skin. It jerked in her tentative grasp. He was enormous, the thick vein running along the underside pulsing against her palm. She curled her fingers hesitantly around the shaft. It felt alien, heavy, radiating heat.

"Jesus, Claire," Thomas groaned, the sound low and vibrating. "Like you're afraid it'll bite." His own hand closed over hers, rough and demanding. He squeezed her fingers tight around his girth. "Firm. You need to be firm." He started moving her hand, a slow, deliberate upstroke that pulled the skin taut over the rigid flesh. Precum smeared slickly over her knuckles. "Justin… does he like it slow? Or does he like it rough?" He punctuated 'rough' with a sharp upward tug of her hand.

"Uh… I…" Claire stammered, her cheeks burning. Her husband’s name in this context felt like sacrilege.

"Focus," Thomas snapped, his grip tightening painfully on her wrist. He forced her pace faster, her fist pistoning up and down his slick shaft with a wet, rhythmic sound. "When you get him off… really get him off… does he like your soft little touches? Or does he want you to fucking milk him?" He thrust his hips upward, meeting her forced strokes. "Tell me."

"He… likes it… hard," she gasped, the words escaping in a rush, shame warring with a treacherous, unwelcome throb low in her belly. The friction, the sheer domination of his hand controlling hers, was doing something visceral to her.

"Hard," Thomas repeated, a dark satisfaction in his voice. He released her wrist, leaving her hand moving on its own now, driven by his command and the relentless rhythm he’d established. "Show me hard, Claire. Show me how you make Justin lose his fucking mind."

She squeezed tighter, pumping faster, the slick sounds growing obscenely loud. Precum dripped freely now, running hot and sticky over her fingers, down onto her wrist. She felt the dampness soaking the cuff of her blouse. The sheer power of him beneath her hand, the raw carnality of the act, was overwhelming. His eyes were locked on hers, unblinking, daring her to look away.

"That’s it," he rasped, his breath coming faster. His hips moved in time with her strokes, fucking her fist. "Just like that. Feel how hard you make me? Feel how fucking much I want to come?" One large hand snaked up her arm, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her bicep. The other moved to the back of her head, tangling in her hair, not pulling yet, but holding her in place. "Justin ever make you taste it? Hmm? Ever make you swallow his load like a good little wife?"

Claire whimpered, unable to speak, her hand never stopping its frantic motion. The room seemed to shrink, the city lights blurring into streaks. The scent of him – musk, salt, pure male – filled her nostrils. His cock swelled impossibly harder in her grip, the head flaring.

"Open your mouth," Thomas commanded, his voice thick, strained at the edges. He wasn't asking. His grip tightened in her hair.

Panic flared, cold this time. But her body, traitorously, was liquid heat. His thumb brushed her lower lip. With a choked gasp, she parted them.

The first hot, salty spurt hit the back of her throat before she was ready. She gagged reflexively, but his hand was a vise in her hair, holding her head firmly in place. "Swallow," he growled, the word harsh, guttural. Another thick pulse coated her tongue, bitter and overwhelming. "Swallow it all. Every fucking drop. Show me what a good girl you can be."

Tears welled in her eyes as she struggled, trying to pull back, but he held her fast. His hips jerked erratically against her still-moving hand as he emptied himself down her throat. She choked, swallowed convulsively, the viscous fluid burning its way down. The taste was strong, sharp, utterly unfamiliar and violating. Her stomach clenched in revolt.

Finally, the pulsing stopped. He held her there for a long, agonizing moment, her lips sealed around his softening cock. She could feel the throb of his fading heartbeat against her tongue. Then, with a grunt, he released her hair.

Claire lurched back, gasping, coughing. Spit and the remnants of his release slicked her chin. She wiped frantically at her mouth with the back of her trembling hand, the taste lingering, making her retch. Humiliation burned hotter than the alcohol she wished for.

Thomas sighed, a sound of deep, sated satisfaction. He tucked himself away with casual indifference, zipping up his trousers as if he’d just finished signing a document. He leaned back into the recliner, the picture of smug control, his gaze drifting back to the city lights. He picked up a crystal tumbler from a side table and took a slow sip of amber liquid.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Claire remained on her knees beside the chair, trembling, her ruined blouse sticking to her skin, the smell of sex and shame clinging to her. The panoramic view now felt like a million indifferent eyes watching her degradation. Her heart hammered against her ribs, not just from exertion, but from a dawning, horrifying understanding.

Thomas didn't look at her. He just swirled the ice in his glass, the clinking sound unnervingly loud. "Alright," he said, his voice calm, conversational again. "Technique needs work. Consistency is key. We'll schedule another session." A pause. "Next week." He finally turned his head, his eyes meeting hers, devoid of warmth, only assessment. "You'll need to be… much more thorough."

Chapter 1: The Clinical Touch: A Stroke-By-Stroke Consultation

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