Vanessa thinks she’s just taking a comfy office job, talking about other people’s messy love lives while she sits in a nice chair with a clipboard. Then the elevator doors open, she sees her ex again, and her brain basically bluescreens. This is the woman who used to make her legs shake against a cheap mattress, now in a fancy suit, acting all professional, like she didn’t once make Vanessa come so hard she bit her own shoulder. And yeah, technically Vanessa is here as a “relationship psychologist,” but it takes about five minutes to realize the whole company is horny, lonely and way too hot to keep things strictly ethical. Every session turns into a test: listen like a good therapist, or slide a little closer, touch a little longer, let those “what if” thoughts drip into something real.

The vibe is slow burn at first, like a good office gossip chat that accidentally turns filthy. You sit across from a coworker with a ring on their finger and a dead bedroom at home, they talk about frustration, and your brain goes: “What if we just… fix that. Right here.” Some are soft and shy, fingers twisting their wedding band while their eyes keep dropping to Vanessa’s chest. Some are cocky, literally, with that futa coworker who can’t sit still in her chair because she’s hard as hell under the desk, trying to keep it “medical.” There’s this one scene that really stuck in my head: late evening, blinds half closed, the city lights outside, and Vanessa is kneeling between a client’s legs, pretending it’s still a session. She keeps asking calm questions with her mouth full, like “Does this help with your anxiety?” while spit and precum run down her chin, and the client can’t even answer, just grabbing her hair. It’s filthy and a little funny at the same time, like porn with a straight face that keeps slipping. Sometimes she starts the session with a notebook and ends it with her tits wrapped around someone’s shaft, trying to keep eye contact like it’s part of the therapy method. Other times it’s just her alone, past midnight, rubbing herself on her office chair after someone leaves, panties pushed aside, hand clamped over her mouth so no one in the hallway hears her moan her ex’s name instead of the client’s.

Half of the fun is how the “sandbox” stuff makes it feel like wandering in horny LinkedIn. You check your messages like you’re opening Slack, only instead of boring memos it’s a married woman hinting about “extra help” or a jealous coworker asking for a private talk in the break room. You poke around the building, pop into someone’s office, and next thing you’re sitting on their lap, their hands under your blouse while they confess their “emotional needs.” The teasing is constant: ass brushing against someone’s crotch in the copy room, a “friendly” hug turning into a hand sliding down the back of your skirt, a coworker dropping a file and making very sure you see her big tits when she bends to pick it up. Sometimes it’s gentle stuff like soft lesbian kissing in the storage room, thighs pressed together, fingers sneaking under a blouse. Sometimes it’s rougher: a client pinning Vanessa against her own door when she tries to keep it professional, grinding against her big ass until she finally gives up and opens her legs. The best part is how often the game lets you just sit in the tension, watching someone stare at her mouth while pretending to talk about their “communication issues” at home. One moment she’s giving calm advice, the next she’s stroking them off under the desk while they try to keep their voice level, swallowing moans between fake business words. And somewhere in the background, her ex is always there, watching, testing, flirting through half-truths, like the final boss of bad decisions. It feels messy, horny in a very “this is a terrible idea, keep going” way, and yeah, it made me hate my own boring non-horny office job a little bit more.