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Christmas Therapy Sessions

Sexually repressed Chloe requires frigidity therapy.
Christmas Therapy Sessions

My Dad, Ryan, 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 happened to coincide with Christmas.

In contrast, my new stepmother, Sigrid, only loved herself and, well, not putting it politely, she was full of my Dad, too, by the sounds coming from their bedroom. Unfortunately, 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 even have to imagine seeing my Dad screwing a forty-two-year-old woman.

Yes, Sigrid had me entirely off my own pussy game.

Mid-Story - After 3rd Paragraph

I couldn’t bear to touch myself in bed anymore as she issued Dad instructions on licking her out, rimming her butthole, and shrieking whilst enjoying being dogged senseless or anally impaled. 

I heard her pleading as she was licked out, the bitch insisting Dad paid close attention to her clitty.

“Suck my clit, Ryan honey, oh yeah, suck my clit. 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 her pussy Grand Canyon deep, but Sigrid’s voice pitched higher than a randy reindeer bay the further Dad drilled in. 

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

Then grunting. I mean unwomanly grunting, as Dad must have smitten her G-spot or literally penetrated her womb. Her moaning reverberated through the house’s plaster walls.

Poor unfortunate me, getting nothing. I was fetal positioned, cocooned in sexual repression, made worse by the approach of Christmas.

Even worse was when I knew her arse was getting banged. Oh, she took man beef in her back passage, doggy. I had no choice, given her loud instructions to Dad, but to picture her arse pointed to the ceiling and Dad towering over her, spearing down into her demanding balloon knot.

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 hot man sausage, deeper than a Santa belly laugh.

Oh, and the fricking finale; “Orrgh, ah, ah, ah, ah,” till she lost it and was panting. 

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

Yet you’re thinking, wasn’t this the ideal noise for getting myself off? 

Someone else’s randy action?

No, the lewd intensity next door turned my masturbation dial to zero.

Well, that and the realisation I couldn’t compete, and I gave up on myself. 

Had I gone frigid at a tender eighteen? Seemed like a sad fact.

So, as I mopped around, yes, virginal, but not only self-fingered broken down there but now sexually unresponsive to anyone or myself.

I shrugged when Daddy dear told me he had called in a few favours and booked me 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 Sydney high-rise office complex. I did my Google search. Dean occupied a suite on the top floor. 

Business must be good, I mused. 

I checked out her web page. She looked a bit like my grandma, Jess, who unfortunately lived on the other side of the country, in Perth, and had no frickin internet.

Still, I was immediately calmer and felt like I could open up to this professional female in complete confidentiality about my intimate problem. How I had stopped getting myself off and was so, so frustrated, courtesy of my stepmom’s excessive libido-the lucky, lucky bitch. 

No wonder Dad has 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,  because I deliberately left my backpack at school. I wasn’t looking like a complete loser in the city a day before school finished for the holidays.

My hair flounced long and loose. But my face gave me away. I scowled at the world—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 appeared 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 for a Chrissy manicure…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 Mrs Dean? 

But I still went into the adjoining room. I traipsed in like I had splattered cranberry sauce over a white Christmas dress.

In a plush leather chair relaxed 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. The doctor couldn’t have been much over thirty. 

He indicated the vacant office chair close by for me. I plonked down but with my legs crossed. I mulled, 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 my Gran’s house.

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

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

“Oh,” I said and stammered, “I thought I was talking to a mature woman. I need to talk to a woman. I can only talk to a lady!”

“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 the room. My breathing hit ragged. I tried to place the name, James Dean. I had heard it somewhere else.

“No water?” he said.

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

“Look, take a few deep breaths, uncross your arms and legs; I’m here to help…you 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. 

Then, it was all too much, and I released a little shuddery sob.

 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 in his chair, 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.

My 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.

Okay, I admit I felt the liquid ooze between my clammy flaps.

“Ooh, ooh, ooh,” I cooed.

Well, I was rubbing my thighs together, and I felt like I would cum quickly.

I suppose three months of pussy neglect peaked my cunt to randy. My love nest would get off on the thought of getting off.

The doctor 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 cupped 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 free.

He kneaded my boobs, though, through my bra cups. So erotically charged.

I frickin swooned.

It was like he knew the exact 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. My teats were avaricious for predatory touch.

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

My nipples demanded.  My nipples wanted.

Thank Christ, 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 crafting a Christmas dildo.

I was ready to be played with down between my legs.

My, oh my; did Mr James Dean have something useful between his legs as I met his eye-popping hard-on and his swinging nut sack.

My first throbbing stiffy and no disappointment. His hardness 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. 

The fun, the fun!

My boobs acted like a flesh tube for his hard cock. His pecker head pointed up to my face, and then it disappeared back down between my generous cleft softness. I gasped in delight as his cock tip 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. It resembled a long, sweet candy cane. I sucked along his shaft.

I licked his balls at his urging.

“Yes, take the length, suck the head, then swallow the shaft. Good girl, yeah, great, oh yes!”

I found myself in love with cock in my mouth. It could have stayed there forever. 

I slurped. I stuffed a stiff knob deep in my mouth.

But the cunning doctor knew his client’s baser needs. 

My school skirt and plain white knickers were yanked off in a jiffy. My legs spread wide over the arms of the green leather chair. Leaving me 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 brunette velvety nest. 

“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 groaned too.

“Ugh, Ugh, Ugh!”

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 focused and girl-pearl lovin’ brain.

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

“Yep, juicy water,” he said, lapping me up faster than a parched reindeer delivering presents to the Australian outback.

Recovery time, no such thing.

I was sexually aroused, and the knowledgeable doctor upped the ante on my never-ending carnal rollercoaster. His gorgeous stiffy eased into my sopping slit tighter than Ruldoph’s arse in a blizzard. Pleasure layered on pussy pleasure. My opening holding cock, enveloped and compact. Pecker sliding into my needy wetness, over and over, sensationally repeated. My pussy’s greed dominated me as I surprisingly clenched my inner girly self without ever having done it before. It just happened. 

The good doctor groaned as my vagina clenched, clamped and cloistered his man muscle.

“Orrgh, Orrgh, Orrgh!”

In turn, I screamed in extravagant filled delight.

“Yes, Yes, Yes!”

I was all woman. I puffed. I gasped. I yelped. I was a college girl stuffed. I couldn’t believe how good cock resided inside me. I got my Chrissy pressie early.

My girly flesh was lavish in explosive giving to me. Flesh sex richness. Cock, spearing in. Cock stretching my opening. Cock pounding to ball slapping extremes. Cock making my pussy ache for a pummelling as his knob played at my so sensitive cunny 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 measuredly, 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 on a worldwide dash.

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 starfish embraced instant love with a guy’s tongue inside my raunchy, runelling rills. 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 embraced happiness with each mushy wet smooch.

Then he drizzled, drenched and doused my arse with his spittle, flexing my puckered opening to wish for something more. 

Teenage dreams, ‘ Cock in my arse, cock in my arse!’

Oh, I didn’t need to wish for long.

His delving finger created heaven in my aching butt.

I cooed. I mewed as I was anally initiated. I was bum-hole fixated forever, so quickly. 

His bent, curving, probing finger was joined by another, and I yelped. 

“Ooh, yes, ooh, my, oh my, ooh yes!”

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 my bum. I don’t know how, but my arse somehow flexed out with his control. Embracing the lack of self-jurisdiction.

He plopped the Chrissy hat back on my head. I accepted my initiation into sexual slavery.

Then my arse snared my mind, plus my entire body. I couldn’t think beyond a cock exploring my arsehole. My bum crack easily teased and then took a cock knob into my wonderful accomodating tightness. 

Yet, my tightness flexed. I found space where space shouldn’t exist. A pleasure hit so different to cock in my pussy. A treat like a pulled Christmas bon-bon that was spontaneously addictive. I moaned in a guttural way. 

“Uggh, ugh, yeah, ugh, fuck my arse deeper, ugh, ugghh.”

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

I could only hope for the foul deed!


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.

My body wrenched open like ripped Christmas paper from an over-exuberant recipient. 

Then Dean rammed his meat stick into the limits of my arse. My tender tight little arse. He stabbed. He stabbed. He plunged and plundered in without mercy.

But it was okay. My arse didn’t want mercy. My second hole of debauched desire only craved and stipulated cock. My cute balloon knot praised each generous over-deep thrust.

“Orgh fuck yes, oh sweet Jesus, fuck yes, fuck yes!”

My butt was crammed, jammed and compressed with pecker. My petite crack was wedged increasingly more open. 

Then he found my realm beyond 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. My sexual response was automatic. 

“Oh, fucking hell, sweet mother of Jesus, fucking yes, yes, yes!”

I was caught between the rough house and the ego gratification.

 Cock, though, belonged in my arse.

My skin flamed in a lathered sweat. 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 trickling driblet feel as it spread across my inner thighs.

My arse tensed, raw, 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 the cap.

Wow, it tasted divine. 

Needless to say, the subsequent two therapy sessions fucked up my mind and totally screwed up my body cavities. I squeezed one more session in on Christmas Eve and knew how to bring in the New Year. 

My Dad and stepmother witnessed my new attitude to life and cancelled the final two sessions with the returning Dr Sandra.

Geez, that was okay. I needed a male hot dog, not aged female reassurance!

By then, in New Year mode, getting ready for Uni, I had filled my mind and memory with the dirtiest tricks and techniques an eighteen-year-old girl could reliably call on whenever she smuttily required them.

I now recall one fortunate dude who got a head job in the cinema in mid-January when we watched Rebel Without A Cause. 

The dude didn’t know what brought on my randy risqué expose.

Boys never care about girly motivation in their cock happiness.

But I fondly remembered my Christmas sexual awakening with Dr James Dean.



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