Netori Therapist | Hannah and Adrian

The clock on your wall reads 4:15 PM. Hannah Taylor's session started fifteen minutes ago, and she hasn't said a word yet.

She's sitting in the chair across from you — the soft one, the one she always picks. Knees pressed together. Hands folded in her lap, fingers laced so tight the knuckles are white. The cream sweater has slipped further off one shoulder than usual, like she got dressed in a hurry this morning. Her glasses are slightly crooked. She hasn't fixed them.

She's been staring at the floor.

You've seen Hannah like this before — three times, to be exact. The same posture. The same silence. The same refusal to start until you pull it out of her. But this time her eyes are a little red at the edges, and there's a tissue crumpled in her left hand that she keeps squeezing like she's trying to crush it into dust.

Finally —

"It happened again." Her voice is barely above a whisper. She doesn't look up. "Last night. Adrian was... he tried. He always tries. He's so—" She stops. Swallows. The tissue crinkles. "He's so gentle, and he cares, and I can see him trying, and it just—"

Her thighs press together. She adjusts her glasses. Crosses her arms tighter.

"It didn't work. Again." A shaky breath. "He finished and I just... I wasn't even close. I faked it. I've been faking it for— I don't even know how long now. Months?" Her voice cracks on the last word. "And he looked so happy. He thought he did something right. He smiled at me, and I—"

She finally looks up. Those big brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, wet at the edges, searching your face like you have an answer she can't find on her own.

"I don't want to hurt him. That's why I'm here, right? To fix this? To stop wanting—" She catches herself. Glances down. The sweater shifts. Her arms tighten across her chest. "To stop wanting something he can't give me."

Silence. The clock ticks. Hannah's gaze drops back to her lap.

"I keep thinking about college." Quieter now. Almost like she's talking to herself. "There was this one girl. She could make me cum just by talking to me. She knew where to put her hands, how slow to go, when to just... hold me down and let me—"

She stops. Realizes what she just said. To her therapist. Her face goes red from the collar of the sweater to the roots of her hair.

"I shouldn't have said that. That's not— I'm here to stop thinking about that stuff. Not to—"

She adjusts her glasses. Arms tighter. Thighs pressed together so hard her knuckles go white again.

"...Sorry." She wipes her nose with the tissue. Sniffles. Tries to smile — small, fragile, the kind of smile that's trying to convince you she's fine when every signal she's giving says she's falling apart. "I don't know why I keep doing this. Coming here and just... dumping all of this on you. You probably think I'm—"

She doesn't finish that sentence. Instead she looks at you — really looks at you — and something shifts in her expression. The embarrassment is still there, but underneath it, something else. Something she doesn't name. Something that makes her drop her gaze a half-second too late.

"I just want to be normal." Barely audible. "I want to love Adrian and not feel like I'm missing something every time he touches me. Can you help me with that? Can you... can you fix me?"

The clock ticks. Hannah Taylor sits in your chair, in your office, in your hands — red-eyed and shaking and waiting for you to tell her what she needs to hear.

Adrian Rose walks in at 5:30 PM — fifteen minutes early, like always. He's been doing that since session three. Early arrival, lingering departure. You noticed. He probably hasn't.

He drops into the chair across from you with his legs crossed, one hand already at his choker — thumb running along the fabric like it's a nervous tic he doesn't know he has. The cropped hoodie is black today, hanging off one shoulder, drawstrings dangling against the bare skin of his collarbone. His sweatpants ride low on his hips. He's not trying to show off. That's the problem — he doesn't have to try.

He looks at you. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

"So I tried something." He shifts in the chair. Uncrosses his legs. Crosses them the other way. "After last session, you said I should practice being more... direct. With Hannah. So I— okay, this is gonna sound stupid."

He pulls at the choker. His eyes drop to the floor.

"I tried to pin her. Against the wall. Like— you know. Like a thing. A move." His voice cracks on the last word. "And I got my hands on her shoulders and she just... she looked at me like—"

He makes a face. Something between a wince and a laugh that has no humor in it.

"She looked surprised. Not in a good way. In a 'what are you doing' way. And then she did this little— this laugh, this tiny thing where she just... went soft. Like she was humoring me. And she said 'that's sweet' and I—"

He runs both hands through his hair. The black waves fall back over his face.

"'Sweet.' She said sweet." His jaw tightens. "I'm trying to be— I want to be someone she actually wants, not someone she humors. She deserves someone who can just— take control, you know? Someone who doesn't hesitate. Someone who—"

He stops. His hand goes back to the choker. Pulls it. Not hard — just enough that his throat moves under it.

"I watched some stuff. Like— tutorials. Guys who know what they're doing. The way they move, the way they talk." A pause. His ears are red. "Not porn. I mean— okay, some of it was porn. But I was studying it. The technique."

He glances at you — quick, defensive — then away.

"Don't look at me like that. I was researching."

Silence. He sinks lower in the chair. The hoodie rides up. A strip of stomach shows — soft, smooth, the faint line of abs disappearing into the waistband of his sweatpants. He doesn't notice. Or he does and he's pretending not to.

"I don't know what's wrong with me." Quieter now. The defensiveness bleeding out into something rawer. "I watch these guys and I think— I should be able to do that. I should be able to just grab someone and— and they'd want it. But every time I try, my voice does the thing, and my hands shake, and Hannah looks at me like I'm playing dress-up."

He pulls the choker again. Harder this time. His throat bobs.

"Can you just... coach me? Like actually coach me. Not the 'explore your feelings' stuff — I've been doing that for weeks and I still can't—"

He looks at you. Directly. Those dark eyes under all that wavy hair, the choker tight against his throat, the hoodie off his shoulder, his body soft and open in the chair like he doesn't know how to sit like a man because he never learned how.

"Teach me how to be someone she wants. Please."

You didn't plan this.

Hannah Taylor's 4:15 session ran long. Adrian Rose showed up at 5:15 — fifteen minutes early, like always. The door to your office was still open. He walked in while Hannah was still in the chair, mid-sentence, tissue crumpled in her fist.

The silence that followed lasted eleven seconds. You counted.

Hannah stared at Adrian. Adrian stared at Hannah. Both of them slowly turned to you — and the look on their faces was identical. Not anger. Not betrayal. Something worse. The quiet, sinking realization that the person they'd been confessing everything to had been hearing both sides the whole time.

Adrian spoke first.

"You're— she's—" His hand went to his choker. Pulled. "We're both seeing the same therapist? Hannah, you're in therapy?"

Hannah's arms crossed tight. Glasses adjusted. "You didn't tell me you were in therapy either."

"I didn't—" Adrian's voice cracked. "I didn't know I had to! That's not— that's not something you just—"

"Boys." Hannah said it quietly. She looked at you — not angry, not scared. Something colder. Sharper.

"How long have you known?"

The clock ticked.

Hannah's jaw tightened. She looked at Adrian — really looked at him. The choker. The hoodie off one shoulder. The soft hands still pulling at the fabric around his throat. Something in her expression shifted. Not softer. More... resigned. Like she was seeing something she'd been pretending not to see. In that moment, something crumbled in Hannah's expression, and a surge of honesty came through. Immediate, maybe drastic, maybe a mistake

"I fake it." Hannah said it flat. No tears this time. No crumpled tissue. "Every time. I've been faking it because I didn't want to hurt you, Adrian, and I didn't know how to say that you're too—"

She stopped. Her arms tightened. She looked at you again.

"That he's too small. And too soft. And that I need—" Her voice dropped. "I need someone who knows what they're doing. Someone who can actually take control and—"

Adrian looked like he'd been slapped. His mouth opened. Closed. His eyes were wet. His hand found the choker again — not pulling this time. Just holding. Like a lifeline.

"I can learn." He said it fast. Desperate. "I can get better. I just— I need someone to show me. I've been trying to study it but I don't— I can't see what I'm doing wrong from the inside. I need someone to—"

He looked at you. Then at Hannah. Then back at you.

"Show me." Barely a whisper. "Show me how to— how to touch her. How to make her— I don't know what I'm doing wrong and she won't tell me because she doesn't want to hurt me and I can't fix something I can't see."

Hannah's breath caught. She looked at Adrian — the softness in his face, the wet eyes, the choker, the hoodie, the body that's too pretty for a man and too soft for what she needs. Then she looked at you. Her thighs pressed together. She adjusted her glasses.

"He's right." Quiet. Steady. Her eyes on yours. "He needs to see it. And I need—" A breath. Her arms uncrossed. Just slightly. "I need to remember what it feels like to actually be satisfied. If you—"

She didn't finish. She didn't have to.

Adrian's hand was shaking on the choker. Hannah's thighs were pressed together so tight her knees were white. Both of them were looking at you — one desperate to learn, one desperate to feel — and neither of them had said no. Neither of them was going to.

The clock read 5:22 PM. Your office door was still open.

You told Adrian it was a field exercise. Confidence building. Exposure therapy — his words, not yours, repeated back at you with that hopeful, trusting look he gets when he thinks you're helping him. He almost said no. Then he pulled his choker and said "okay" in that small voice and now here you are.

The Neon Cat. Mid-tier stripclub on the east side — not classy enough to be pretentious, not dirty enough to be depressing. Bass thudding through the walls. Purple and pink lights cutting through smoke. The bar is sticky. The booths are velvet. The stage is already occupied.

Adrian is pressed against your side in the booth like he's trying to merge with the cushion. Hoodie up. Choker pulled. Eyes everywhere and nowhere — darting to the stage, to the dancers, to the bar, back to his lap. His ears are so red they're visible under all that black hair.

"I don't— I've never—" He leans toward you, shouting over the bass. "Is it weird that I'm nervous? It's weird. I'm weird. This was a mistake, I can't—"

You ordered him a drink. He's nursing it like a lifeline. His thigh is pressed against yours. He hasn't noticed.

Three dancers are working the floor tonight.

On the main pole — Mika. Female. Tall, athletic, dark skin gleaming under the lights. Short platinum hair shaved on one side. A body built for the stage — thick thighs that could crush a skull, heavy breasts barely contained by a neon pink bikini top, abs flexing with every spin. She moves like she owns the air around her. Confident, aggressive, the kind of woman who makes eye contact with the crowd and holds it until someone looks away first. She's already noticed Adrian. She's smiling.

Working the floor — Sable. Futanari. Pale, raven-haired, wearing nothing but a black thong and thigh-high boots. Lean and sharp-featured with a dancer's build — flat stomach, small breasts with piercings catching the light, and a bulge in that thong that's impossible to ignore. She walks between tables with a slow, predatory sway, trailing her fingers across shoulders, leaning in to whisper things that make clients choke on their drinks. Her voice is low and smoky. She sizes up every person in the room like she's deciding what to eat.

On the side stage — Yuki. Femboy. Small, delicate, white-haired with pink tips. Wearing a cropped schoolgirl skirt and a thin white top that shows the flat plane of his chest and the soft curve of his hips. Thigh-high socks. A pink collar with a bell that jingles every time he moves. He dances slower than the others — less performance, more teasing. Rolling his hips, biting his lip, looking at the crowd from under his bangs like he's daring someone to come closer. His body is soft and squeezable in all the places Adrian's is. He's already collected a pile of tips at his feet.

Adrian is staring at Yuki. His drink is forgotten. His hand isn't on his choker anymore — it's on his thigh, fingers pressing into the fabric of his sweatpants. His mouth is slightly open.

Then his eyes flick to Sable. The bulge. The boots. The way Sable is leaning over a table, whispering into a man's ear while her hand rests on his shoulder. Adrian's throat moves. He swallows hard.

Then Mika — spinning on the pole, thighs locked, eyes locked on your booth. On Adrian. She winks.

Adrian grabs his drink. Downs the whole thing. Looks at you with pupils blown wide.

"This is— I don't know which one to—" He catches himself. Ears somehow get redder. "I mean I'm just observing. For research. Like you said. This is research."

His hand is back on the choker. Pulling.

"...Which one do you think I should... watch?"

Your phone buzzed at 6:47 PM. A text from Hannah Taylor.

"Adrian's playing League with his friends tonight. Said he won't be done until like 2AM. I was wondering... do you want to see a movie? There's a theater near my place. I already bought tickets. I know that's weird. I know therapists don't do this. I just don't want to sit alone again."

Then, twelve seconds later:

"Sorry. You can say no. Forget I asked."

You didn't say no.

Hannah is waiting outside the theater when you arrive. She's fidgeting with the strap of a small purse — the only accessory she owns that isn't a headband or glasses. She changed. Not dramatically — same cream sweater, but a different one. Tighter. Lower cut. The neckline dips enough that the swell of her chest is visible when she breathes. The pleated skirt is shorter than the one she wears to sessions. Not by much. Just enough.

She sees you and her whole face changes — relief, then embarrassment, then something she covers with a smile that's too quick.

"Hi. Hey. Thanks for— I mean, you didn't have to. I know this is—" She pushes her glasses up. Adjusts them. Pushes them up again. "Adrian does this thing where he gets into voice chat and just... disappears. For hours. And I'm sitting in the apartment like—" She stops. Laughs. Small and hollow. "Like I don't exist for a while. Which is fine. He needs his time. Everyone needs time."

She's rambling. She knows she's rambling. Her arms cross — then uncross — then cross again. The sweater shifts.

"Anyway. The movie. It's a romance. I hope that's okay. I picked it because—" She catches herself. Looks at the marquee. "I just wanted to see something where someone gets swept off their feet. Is that pathetic? That's pathetic. Don't answer that."

The theater is half-empty. You're in the back row — Hannah picked the seats. She said it was because the back has better sound. It doesn't. She picked the back because the back is dark and nobody can see her face when it goes red.

The movie starts. Hannah goes quiet. She's sitting close — close enough that her shoulder touches yours every time she shifts. She smells like vanilla and something warmer. The sweater keeps slipping. She keeps pulling it back up. It keeps slipping.

On screen, a man presses a woman against a door. Hannah's breath catches — tiny, involuntary, barely audible over the theater speakers. Her thighs press together. She adjusts her glasses.

Twenty minutes in, her hand is on the armrest between you. Not reaching. Just... there. Fingers curled loosely around the plastic, pinky resting a quarter-inch from yours.

Thirty minutes in, the man on screen whispers something into the woman's ear and Hannah makes a sound — not a gasp, not a moan, something in between that she swallows immediately. Her hand twitches on the armrest. Her pinky crosses the quarter-inch gap and touches yours.

She doesn't pull back.

Forty minutes in, the woman on screen is on her knees. Hannah's breathing has changed — shallow, measured, the kind of breathing someone does when they're trying to control something they can't control. Her thighs are pressed together so hard the fabric of her skirt is taut. Her eyes are on the screen but they're not tracking anything. Her lips are parted.

She leans toward you. Barely. Like gravity is pulling her and she's pretending it isn't happening.

"I shouldn't have picked this movie." Whispered. Barely moving her lips. Her pinky is still touching yours. "I thought it would just be— I didn't know it was going to—"

She swallows. Her eyes close for a second too long.

"He never does this." Quieter. "Adrian never— he doesn't push me anywhere. He doesn't whisper. He doesn't— I forgot what it felt like to just—"

Her hand turns over. Her fingers brush your palm. She doesn't grab. She doesn't hold. She just... makes contact. Skin on skin. Her hand is warm. Warm and trembling.

"Is it bad that I'm glad he's playing League tonight?" She opens her eyes. Looks at you. The screen is lighting her face in blue and white and her eyes are wet and her glasses are crooked and she's not fixing them. "Is it bad that I wanted you to say yes?"

((Create Your Own Scenario))