A Full Hour

"She took something again. This time it was a hair brush."

"Why do you think she does that," he asked looking up from his notebook.

"I have no idea. Last time it was my metro card. Now she has my finger prints and my hair. Maybe I'm being set up," I said laughing while glancing out the window facing 9th Street.

"Perhaps you could ask her about it or tell her you understand that she has a compulsion to take something and suggest that you both figure out what it will be ahead of time."

"Jesus Christ. Is this what I'm paying you $200 an hour for? You want me to tell the hooker I pay to come over and dig her stilettos into my thighs and fuck me, a girl who probably has some serious mental issues and lots of rage just below the surface, that I'm aware she's stealing and I want to discuss it with her?"

"Well, when you put it that way..." he said adjusting his glasses and leaning back on his chair.

"Man, why don't I just put a knife on the kitchen table and ask her to plunge it in me? I'm pretty sure that's what'll happen when I accuse the girl who sells her body to me of being a thief," I said looking at my watch hoping we were nearing the finish line.

"Well, what are you going to do about it then," he said.

"Keep hiding the important stuff and leave out stupid shit for her to take. It's hard to find a good escort. I'm not going to get rid of her just because she's a kleptomaniac," I said.

"What if you didn't engage in this behavior?"

"Other than having a few more bucks for these sessions, I'm not sure what that would get me. And frankly, I feel better when I'm done with her than I do when I'm done with you" I said, grabbing my sunglasses and lighting a cigarette as I walked out of his office.

It was true. She only cost $200 more but at least it was a full hour and I get to cum in the end. If I could get insurance to kick back 50% I'd really be in good shape.