Christmas Therapy Sessions

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: General Erotica  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

Unfortunate, Chloe is so sexually repressed that it’s time for professional therapy, even days before Christmas. Fortunately for Chloe, the therapist is unprofessional and presses all her sexual hot spots.

It was my dad, Ryan, who suggested therapy for me. I’m not sure how he had the time in the flush of his recent remarried life, but he cared. My dipping school results raised the parental alarm, and the anniversary of my mum’s passing which coincided with Christmas.

In contrast, my new stepmother, Sigrid, was full of herself and, well, not putting it politely, she was full of my dad, too, by the sounds coming from their bedroom next to mine. Geez, her moaning put real porn actresses to shame. And her potty mouth gave me all the details I couldn’t see through the wall. I didn't want to see my dad screwing a forty-two-year-old woman, but Sigrid had me completely off my game. I couldn’t bear to touch myself in bed anymore as she was licked out, shagged senseless and anally impaled.

Oh, I knew exactly what it was; because of her pleading as she was licked out, the bitch insisting dad paid close attention to her clitty.

“Suck my clit, Max, oh yeah, suck my clit, Max. Oh yeah, right there, mmm, yeah, mmm, yeah...” repeated till there was a culminating decadent deep, “Orrgh Fuck Yeah...Ooohhh,” when she came effusively.

And her legs must have been pinned as close to her ears as a forty-plus can get with doing yoga and the gym three times a week because she gave new expression to the phrase, ‘fuck me deep’. I wouldn’t say I liked visualising with my head under my December reindeer-themed pillow, my dad ploughing down into her Grand Canyon, but Sigrid’s voice pitched higher the further dad drilled in.

“Oh yeah, Max, deeper you bastard, oh yeah, deeper you prick, deeper, fuck me, fuck me, oh yeah fuck me, yeah, yeah.”

Then just fucking grunting. I mean unwomanly grunting, and then Dad must have got her G-spot or literally penetrated her womb or something. Her moaning lifted the roof and reverberated through the house's walls. Poor unfortunate me, getting nothing.  I was cocooned in sexual repression, made worse by the approach of Christmas.

Even worse was when I knew her arse was getting it. Oh, she took it in her back passage, doggy. I had no choice, given her instructions to dad, but to picture her arse pointed to the ceiling and dad towering over her, spearing down into her starfish. And the bitch yelping and grunting and savouring it with wrenching plaintive cries.

“My arse, fuck my arse, fuck it harder, fuck it deeper, harder, deeper.”

Then the grimaced yelp as she got it deep. Then the finale; “Orrgh, ah, ah, ah, ah” till she lost it and was panting.

She was panting in complete degenerate, middle-aged, womanly sexual satisfaction. Her sexual openness leached my former youthful sex-play self.

And what about me, indeed, you’re thinking, this was ideal noise for getting myself off. So randy. So intense, next door. Well, maybe it was too much. I couldn’t compete, and I was, giving up on myself. Had I gone frigid at a tender eighteen? Seemed like it.

So, as I mopped around, yes, virginal, but not only self-fingered broken down there but now sexually unresponsive to myself. I shrugged when daddy dear told me he had called in a couple of favours and booked me in for five sessions with the city’s best therapist. I caught the name Sandra Dean. And well, I could start before Christmas.

A week passed before my first after-college session in the central city high-rise office complex. Dean had a suite on the top floor. Business was good. I checked out her web page. She looked a bit like my grandma, Jess, who unfortunately lived on the other side of the country and had no frickin internet. Still, I was immediately calmer and felt like I could open up to this professional in complete confidentiality about my intimate problem. How I had stopped getting myself off and was so, so frustrated, courtesy of my step-mom’s excessive libido-the lucky, lucky bitch. No wonder dad had a perpetual smile these days.

He had even put up and decorated the Christmas tree, absent for four years since mum’s last hospital days.

My appointment day arrived soon enough. I entered the top floor office in my school uniform. You know, private girls’ college, tartan pleated skirt, but very short; crisp white short-sleeved blouse barely containing my former favourite but recently neglected generous C cuppers; white ankle socks and flat black shoes, nothing else, my backpack left at school, I wasn’t looking a dag in the city a day before school finished for the holidays.

My hair was in a high blonde ponytail. But my face gave me away. I was scowling at the world. I was a pitiful, sexually repressed bitchette. So sad. Nothing sadder, in fact, than an eighteen-year-old not getting sex, even from herself.

The receptionist was barely older than me and was anxious about something, even as her Christmas bell earrings tinkled, irritating me.

But I caught, “Yes, you’re on time, Ms Summers; Doctor Dean, will see you soon; I have to go, got an appointment...just wait here...bye.” And she was out the door as I sat in a plush lounge waiting for Dean.

Of course, the women’s magazine I picked up to flick through while waiting flopped open at; Female Sexual Dysfunction, and hitting me between the eyes, were the causes in big, bold lettering; anxiety, depression, guilt and shame, stress and a lack of stimulation...

“Please come in, Chloe,” I heard a male voice.

Surprised, I looked up. Where was Dean?

But I still went into the adjoining room. I was traipsing like a frigid zombie.

In a plush leather chair was a youngish guy in a well-cut suit. The Christmas hat surprised me! Though he reminded me of a clean-cut iconic movie star from the fifties, I’d seen in a poster. He couldn’t have been thirty.

He indicated the vacant leather chair close by for me. I plonked down but with my legs crossed. I was confused and unprepared for a male. I was psyched up to talk to a woman like my grandmother. The Christmas tree in the corner, white and silver, reminded me of gran.

“Relax,” he said, noticing, like me, my hands were now folded across my boobs, and my legs were crossed even tighter.

“I’m James Dean...Doctor Dean, like my mother, it’s her practice; she’s on holiday, and I’m helping her with her caseload.”

“Oh,” I said and stammered a bit, “I thought I was talking to a mature woman. I need to talk to a woman.”

“Don’t worry, I’m a professional too,” he said calmly, trying to put me at ease.

“Would you like a glass of cool water? Or A Christmas Candy Cane?”

He waited. I didn’t reply. I scanned around the room. I was trying to relax. I was trying to place the name James Dean too. I had heard it somewhere else.

“No water?” he said.

“No water,” I got back and “No candy.”

“Look, take a few deep breaths, uncross your arms, uncross your legs; I’m here to are a tense young woman. You need to open up...start with those breaths.”

And he demonstrated a deep breath.

The room was then so quiet, apart from my breathing. I heard myself and saw my heaving chest too. Then it was all too much, and I had the little shuddery sobby moment. A couple of tears trickled down my cheek.

“Blurt it out,” he said, “Don’t overthink it; let it tumble out of you, no holding back. Spill it like emptying Santa’s sack!”

I sat forward, but with my legs still prim, proper schoolgirl together. But I had undoubtedly closed the space between us. No, Dr Dean was leaning forward, too, in his chair, his stance encouraging me to open up. God, I needed to open up, not just my mouth, my mind, and my bloody legs.

I gushed out: “I can’t, um, get myself off.”

I said it quietly and with my head sinking, not looking anywhere.

“Surely not, not you,” he said, taken aback, and then added, getting composed, “But your body is designed for it.”

“You think I don’t know that I’ve lost my way, my desire...I’ve lost...oh shit...I’m frigid.”

I sobbed.

He was now wholly unprofessional, but I didn’t care. He was up and close, comforting me with his hands on my shoulders. God, I trembled at his touch. I also felt the sexual jolt of longing course right through my pussy, fuck it had been missing for a long time. I sighed. Well, I sighed repeatedly. Yeah, a series of undeniable sexual sighs. The sexual longing was evident.

“No, not you,” he said as he eased behind me and started to massage my shoulders.

“Wow, you are tense...relax...relax.”

And he was plying his fingers too damn sensually into my neck and blades.

I released what can only be called a series of sigh-gasms, sighs like I was orgasming. Well, I was rubbing my thighs together, and I felt like I would cum quickly. Well, I suppose three months of pussy neglect and my cunt was so randy, it would get off on the thought of getting off.

He transferred the Christmas hat to my head.

The suave bastard realised frigidity was not my problem. It was sexual release, and he had my blouse open and was cupping my breasts from outside my lacey bra. My nipples were engorged and elongated and so frickin hard. I could feel and see them near bursting to be released. He just kneaded my boobs, though, through my bra cups. So erotically charged. I frickin swooned. It was like he knew the real and complete cure for my state.

The prick knew the wrong but right therapy as he eased my busting tits over my bra cups. Boob release never felt so good. My tits perched high and perky on my chest.

“Damn,” he said, “You are a present worth opening.”

My nipples were demanding. My nipples wanted. My nipples received tweaking fingers and then rubbing fingertips and circling palms. Followed by pressing thumbs. A delightful wet tongue tip and divine sucking lips.

I mewed like a satisfied Santa workshop pixie. I was ready to be played with down between my legs.

My, oh my; did Mr James Dean have something useful between his legs, too, as I met his eye-popping hard-on and his swing sac. My first throbbing stiffy, and I wasn’t disappointed. His hardness was eased between my C cups as he professionally unclipped and removed my bra. And there I was, giving a titty job without ever having thought about providing a titty job. Boy, was it fun.

My boobs acted like a flesh tube for his hard cock. His cock head pointed up to my face, and then it disappeared back down between my generous cleft softness. I gasped in delight as his cock head met both my nipples a couple of times. A tingly thrilling taut sensation as petite rigidity met burgeoning hardness.

The good doctor knew the best script for this patient, his cock, which he gently leveraged into my unexpecting but accepting mouth. I had dreamed of sucking off cock a few months back but had lost it in my virginal shame at my new stepmother’s dominating libido. But boy, once my sexual instincts were rereleased, I found myself a complete trashy tart. I sucked cock head like a natural. Like it was a sweet long candy cane. I sucked it along his shaft. I licked his balls at his urging. I found myself in love with cock in my mouth. It could have stayed there forever. I slurped. I stuffed it deep in my mouth. I enjoyed it.

But the cunning doctor knew his client’s baser needs. My school skirt and plain white knickers were off in a jiffy. My legs spread wide over the arms of the green leather chair. No time to realise I hadn’t trimmed my beaver pelt in recent mournful months; now it was wild with crinkly massed tuffs of pubes spreading copiously out and up in a fair light-coloured nest. Yes, I was a true blonde.

“Ho, ho, ho, what a present,” he said, and I could tell my pussy had made a lasting impression, “Beautiful, beautiful, don’t you ever shave, never, ever,” he added.

He took the Christmas hat from my head, and then his head disappeared between my legs.

I understood instantly why Sigrid howled at daddy’s tongue hitting her pussy because as the good doctor’s tongue licked, slashed, swiped, sauntered, swaggered and twisted, over, in and around my pussy opening, lipettes and hard sensitive clitty, I howled too. Nothing feminine, just unbridled, newfound pleasure. Shards of delight filling my body centred on my pussy. Cascading fem-fulfilment. The quickest frickin and most intense climax of my youth. Wonderful and fizzy. Effervescent happiness blew the cobwebs of shame and stress straight out of my clit focussed and clitty lovin’ brain.

“Oh God,” I yelped as my pussy gushed like a fire hydrant.

“Yep, juicy water,” he said, lapping me up!

Recovery time, no such thing. I was sexually aroused, and the knowledgeable doctor upped the ante on my never-ending sexual rollercoaster. His gorgeous stiffy eased into my sopping slit so nicely. Pleasure layered on pussy pleasure. My opening holding cock naturally. Pecker sliding into my needy wetness.  My pussy’s greed dominated me as I surprisingly clenched my vag muscles without ever having done it before. It just happened.

The good doctor groaned. I screamed in extravagant filled delight. I was all woman. I was puffing. I was gasping. I was yelping. I was stuffed. I couldn’t believe how good cock was in me. I got my Christmas present early.

My girly flesh was lavish in its giving to me. Flesh sex richness. Cock, spearing in. Cock pounding to ball slapping extremes. Cock making my pussy ache for a pummelling as his knob played at my so sensitive cunt entrance.

The heights of pleasure were mine. I felt my pussy leek again and gush. The cunning sod Dean took it in his stride. Thrusting into me in a measured way, interspersed with a debauched fast deepness that had me screaming: I think even louder than I ever heard Sigrid. My sexual expression tumbled out louder and louder.

“Orrgh, yeah yeah, fuck my pussy, fuck me, faster, fuck me, yeah!”

He ramped the speed faster than Santa’s sleigh.

Memorable therapy became brain-searing perpetual sexual release as James turned me over and propped my butt straight into his face. I didn’t have time to consider this act filthy. It was filthy, but I embraced the smut immediately. My tight little virgin pink arsehole was instantly in love with a guy’s tongue in it. He rimmed my arse. He poked his tongue into my gaped arse like it was the point of the star atop our Christmas tree. He licked my arse. Kept licking my arse. Repeatedly lathered my arse with his tongue. My arsehole was getting happier with each mushy wet smooch. Then he drizzled, drenched and doused my arse with his saliva, flexing my puckered opening to wish for something more.

Oh, I didn’t need to wish for long.

His delving finger was heaven in my aching butt. I cooed. I mewed. I was anally initiated. I was bumhole fixated so easily. His bent, curving probing finger was joined by another, and I yelped. I gasped. Then how the fuck, I don’t know; he spread me, two fingers on each side of my arsehole and gaped me and spat deep in me. I don’t know how but my arse somehow flexed out for that.

He plopped the Chrissy hat back on my head.

Then my arse snared my mind and my entire body. I couldn’t think beyond a cock exploring arsehole. My bum crack was teased, and took a cock knob into my tightness. My tightness flexed. I was finding space where space shouldn’t exist. A pleasure hit so different to cock in my pussy. A treat that was spontaneously addictive. I moaned in a guttural way.

“Uggh, uggh, yea, uggh, fuck my arse deeper, uggh, ugghh.”

“Chloe, I’m gonna stretch your arse from Sydney to the North Pole!”


He didn’t lie.

Absolute pleasure. Absolute flesh intoxication. My arse was seemingly ready to rupture and fracture under a growing pushing cock, breaching where it apparently shouldn’t be. Yet so powerfully, compellingly, amazingly, gifting to my body.

Then Dean was ramming into my arse. My tender tight little arse. He was stabbing. He was plunging in without mercy. But it was okay. My arse didn’t want mercy. It wanted cock. It was praising each generous over deep thrust. My butt was crammed, jammed and compressed with pecker. My petite crack was wedged increasingly more open.

Then he found my max depth, and I screamed in delight. Screamed as I was utterly buggered. I screamed in the capitulation of self. Screamed because that was all I could do. It was automatic. I was caught between the rough house and the gratification. Cock, though, belonged in my arse.

My body was hot. My arse felt hotter as Dean jizzed me fully. His cock shanked waves of cum around my voracious crack opening. I instantly loved the dribbly mess as he withdrew. I loved the trickly runnel feel as it spread across my inner thighs. My arse was slightly smarting. But hey, I felt great…

He whipped the Santa hat from my head and wiped my cum filled starfish. Turning me, he made me lap the jizz from it. Wow, it tasted divine.

Needless to say, the next two therapy sessions really fucked with my mind and totally fucked up my body cavities. I squeezed one more session in on Christmas Eve, and yeah, I knew how to bring in the new year. My dad and stepmother saw my new attitude to life and cancelled the two sessions with Dr Sandra.

By then, in a new year mode getting ready for Uni, I filled my mind and memory with the dirtiest tricks and techniques an eighteen-year-old girl could reliably call on at any time. Including one fortunate dude who got a head job in the cinema in mid-January when we were watching Rebel Without A Cause. The lad didn’t know what brought on my randy risqué expose. He didn’t care. But I fondly remembered my Christmas sexual awakening with Dr James Dean.

Submitted: December 17, 2022

© Copyright 2023 Janus. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:


Dick Wood

That was a hot Xmas story.

Sat, December 17th, 2022 3:07pm


Wow, the good doctor was really bad but really good for what she needed. He undoubtedly took advantage of her situation and her body but under those circumstances, who wouldn't? Lovely story, loved every bit of it. Nicely done, as they say.

Sat, December 17th, 2022 3:51pm


A pleasurable session for both Doctor & also sexy patient!

Sun, December 18th, 2022 10:16am

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