How to Seduce Your Therapist

She started therapy because everyone said she should. People said she was too calm, too cold, and too untouched by things that would have broken other women. She smiled and booked an appointment. She wanted to see if a man paid to understand her could tell the difference between stillness and emptiness.

He was older and controlled. His voice had that polished steadiness that made people trust him. She liked watching him try to maintain it. She sat across from him, legs crossed, voice soft, and said she felt numb. He leaned in, nodded, and asked about her childhood. She watched him watching her.

By the third session, she began to feed him little pieces of herself, half-truths. A dream about drowning. A memory of her father’s abuse. The way men made her feel both powerful and invisible.

“Sometimes,” she said, tracing the rim of her teacup, “I fantasize about men I shouldn’t.”

His pen stopped mid-air. A flicker, tiny, but there. She caught it. Filed it away.

He started calling her brave. Insightful. Honest. She started crossing her legs more slowly. The room grew warmer.

By the fifth session, she stopped pretending to cry. He didn’t ask why.

Their affair began the night she stayed after hours. She said she wanted to talk about shame.
He said, softly, “You don’t have to feel guilty for wanting comfort.” His hand brushed her knee. It lingered.

When he kissed her, he told himself it was human. That he cared. That he understood her better than anyone.

After that, everything blurred; his desk, the couch, and the taste of ginger tea and guilt. He began to text her things no therapist should. She began to log them all.

Each night she wrote her notes: Subject response escalating, boundary degradation accelerating. She was meticulous and precise.

Sometimes, when he was inside her, she’d whisper,

“Do you still think I’m your patient?”

He’d groan, “You’re mine.” She’d smile in the dark.

When she disappeared, he thought it was his fault. That he’d broken her. That she’d relapsed, fled, and crumbled.

Two weeks later, an envelope arrived at his office, it had no return address.

Inside: photocopies of his notes, his messages, photos of his hands on her waist, his face bent over her crotch.

At the top of the file:

Case Study 47: Male Therapist, Age 41.
Subject demonstrates deteriorating boundaries when exposed to simulated vulnerability. Displays confusion between empathy and arousal.

At the bottom:

Diagnosis: predictable.
Treatment complete. Patient discharged.

He sat there, staring at the words, the scent of her perfume still clinging to the pages.
For the first time in his career, he understood what it meant to be studied.