Sex Therapy: Episode 1 (Sex Therapy #1)

  Sex THERAPY

  EPISODE ONE

  J.A. BELFIELD

  Sex Therapy

  Published by J.A. Belfield

  www.jabelfield.com

  Copyright © 2016 Julie Anne Belfield

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, locations, or any other element is entirely coincidental.

  First Published: 2017

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To those who tell me yay when my head’s telling me nay …

  You’re top of that list, Sweet Cheeks.

  EPISODE ONE

  Letting his body sink back in his chair, Chase Walker took a moment’s rest. When he’d first set himself up as a therapist almost three years earlier, he’d no idea how quickly the idea would take off. No fucking idea how many would flock to him for his kind of advice and assistance. He could’ve suggested splurging on a penthouse office on the outskirts of the busiest city in the UK had helped boost his numbers, but his clients travelled however far they needed to for his services, and he knew damned well that his practice’s top-level discretion took the trophy for that.

  He slid out a drawer on his walnut desk and withdrew a bottle of water. While he’d have loved a stiff drink before his next clients arrived, he doubted they’d appreciate the smell of whisky on his breath. The liquid glugged when he tipped the bottle back and took a swallow before recapping the drink. Tapping the plastic against his knee, he let his head sink back, closed his eyes, took deep breaths. His usual routine for preparing for an appointment such as the one he suspected was on its way.

  Each inhalation sucked in rich woody perfumes and expensive polish—scents that spoke of money. And so they should. Behind him, the room-wide windows graced the eyes with an almost bird’s-eye view of the Thames, and around him, teak panelled the entire bottom third of the walls and boarded the floor. Even the elegant chaise that passed as a visitor seat had cost a pretty penny from a dealer he’d once been hired by.

  The intercom buzzed on his desk, and he lifted his lids, revealing all of his well-earned belongings. After tucking the water back inside his desk, he pressed a small camouflaged button and answered, “Yes?”

  “Your four o’clock is ready for you, Mr Walker.”

  “Thank you, Samantha.”

  Clicking off the connection, he pushed up from his chair, brushing his hands over the front of his crisp trousers as he straightened his legs. Those had cost a bomb, too, but at least the fabric caressed his thighs and hugged him everywhere it should. After checking his shirt front for blotches and straightening his tie, he strode for the door.

  Opening it exposed the reception area. The highly-polished desk on the left looked like a piece of art, with the way it curled around the two women sat behind it. They both glanced up as he stepped out, their lips curved into smiles that spoke of contentment in their work, while their perfectly-plucked eyebrows arched in a knowing expression. They may have reacted the same at his appearance, but in looks, Samantha was day to Raelyn’s night. The innocent persona of blonde hair and blues beside the wickedness of raven darkness surrounding hazelnut eyes that Raelyn often lowlighted with smoky grey kohl.

  At the slight lift of Sam’s chin, he followed her gaze to the seating on the opposite side of the room, where a middle-aged couple sat side by side in nothing but the clinic-provided robes and terry-cloth slippers.

  “Mr and Mrs Miller—would you like to come through?”

  The duo looked at each other, like they needed permission to move. Or maybe they were both hoping the other would be the initiator. Almost reluctantly, the man and woman climbed ungracefully to their feet and shuffled their way toward the door Chase held open.

  “How are you both today?” he asked, as they filed past him.

  The couple of jerky nods he got in response were to be expected, he supposed. When it came to a first ‘practical session’, nerves often arrived with the clients. It was Chase’s job to ensure they’d left those behind—at least in part—by the time they walked back out the door.

  “Good.” Closing them in, he watched as they slid their slippers across the floor. As they came to a stop in front of the chaise, he headed for his desk, but didn’t round it when he realised that neither of them had sat. Instead, he perched his butt on the wood’s edge and faced them. “Would you like to sit a moment, or did you prefer to stand?”

  The lines surrounding Mrs Miller’s eyes spoke more of fatigue than laughter, but Chase couldn’t fault the immaculate chestnut-toned dye job covering what must have been equally tired hair. She frowned as she asked, “Are we doing it in here?”

  With a soft smile, he shook his head. “Only verbal consults are carried out in my office. The clinic offers a choice of rooms that have been specially designed for the practical sessions.” He waved their attention toward the far wall that supported a drop-down screen and reached for the clicker on his desk. One press of its button brought the screen to life, and a second flicked their first option into full colour.

  “The bedroom,” he said with a smile. “Comfortable queen-sized bed, seating … fully stocked bedside drawers …”

  “Fully stocked with what?” Mr Miller asked gruffly.

  “Hopefully, with anything you feel you may need,” Chase answered, pressing the button for the next option.

  Caramel-toned tiles covered the walls and floor of the on-screen room, soft candlelight providing a distorted glow. And in the centre of those, a sunken tub equipped to house up to four people. “The bathroom,” he said. “There is, of course, also a generous shower cubicle.”

  “Looks like a bloody hotel room,” Mr Miller muttered beneath his breath.

  Pretending he hadn’t heard, Chase nodded toward the next image. “The office.”

  Somewhat bigger than the one from which he carried out his regular consults, the client office represented the wet dream of anyone who’d ever fantasised about banging a PA on their work desk.

  “And we also have the dark—”

  “The office.” Averting her eyes, Mrs Miller nodded. “I want the office.”

  Chase glanced to her husband. “Mr Miller?”

  He gave what almost passed as a nod. “If that’s what she wants.”

  “Good, okay. If you’ll follow me.”

  Leaving through a discreet exit in the far corner of his office took them into a narrow corridor lined with closed doors, each fronted by a gold-coloured nameplate. The room they needed stood two doors to the right, and as Chase led the couple inside, he gave them a moment to take the space in.

  Floor-to-ceiling glass lined the room along two of its walls, giving the space a sense of openness. Of being openly explicit, too, despite being six storeys high—and despite the outer-reflective glass that assured even those eager enough to scale the climb would never be privy to what went on within.

  In almost the same position as in his own office, a broad Cherrywood desk sat diagonally across the glassed-in corner, its topside set up with papers and pens, even a hole puncher—mundane items found on almost every office desk in the land. For some reason, his clients often got a kick out of sweeping everything to the floor before carrying out their
role play. To support the scene further, filing cabinets and bookshelves had been positioned around the room, as well as an array of seating that ranged from deep and cosy, small and unassuming, to hard as fuck.

  “Do you remember what we discussed at our last meeting?” Chase asked them.

  They slowly turned from ogling the room and looked his way. “That we need to talk more?” Mrs Miller asked.

  “Yes. That you need to communicate more.” From their previous consults, Chase had garnered that they both knew exactly what they wanted, they just couldn’t get past the barrier of making the other party aware of it. Hell, they’d taken a whole lot of prompting just to discuss their needs in a regular setting. “So, today, you’ll be putting that into practice. Did you decide who would take their turn first?”

  The previous week, they’d agreed it would be too much if they both started spouting demands and wants left, right and centre, so they’d strategized a plan. One week, one of them would be in full control of the situation, and the following week, the other would get to try.

  Mrs Miller half raised her hand. “I am, but Christopher isn’t comfortable with taking part just yet.”

  Chase glanced toward her husband. “You’re comfortable with observing?”

  The man had a stern face, his expression measured as if he didn’t like showing any hint of his feelings. His kind often took a little more encouragement. The slight peppering at the temples of his dark hair told of his age, and the rigid stance of his body spoke of a man set in his ways and uneasy with change. If he didn’t let go of that control, though, the physical side of their marriage would likely be unsalvageable in time.

  Though it was a stiff movement, he nodded, and Chase looked back to the woman.

  “And have you had time to think about what you want to do today, as I suggested? Do you know how you want to proceed?”

  She jerked her chin, her eyes flickering all over the place. “I’d like to use a prop.”

  By prop, she meant Chase. Just one part of the service of CW Consult. A service that came with rules:

  The clients couldn’t ask him to touch them

  He never initiated contact with the clients

  He never pleasured the clients in any way

  He never fucked the clients

  And they never fucked him

  “And you’re comfortable with this arrangement?” he asked Mr Miller.

  Again, the man nodded.

  “And are you both aware that this session will be observed in its entirety, for both my benefit and your own—are you comfortable with that?”

  The two of them mumbled consent.

  “And that, if at any point I believe it to be beneficial to the session, I may call upon other parties, singular or plural, to join us in this room?”

  “Yes, we understand,” Mrs Miller answered, briefly brushing her fingers over her husband’s arm.

  “Okay, Mr Miller, if you would like to take a seat and make yourself comfortable.”

  “Which one?” he asked, glancing at the different chairs.

  “Whichever one you feel you’ll enjoy the session from the most,” Chase answered, though he could’ve easily predicted the man’s decision, even before he shuffled across to a large bucketed armchair, padded by scatter cushions along its back.

  Waiting until Mr Miller had quit fidgeting, which included tucking his robe neatly over his groin, Chase turned to the wife. “Mrs Miller, you’re free to begin as soon as you feel comfortable. The idea is to specify everything you want to do as, or before, you do it, because communication is the key here. And remember, nobody outside of this practice, other than you and your husband, will see what happens in this room. Everything is completely private, so you are free to be yourself. There is no judgement here, but if at any point you wish for the session to end, you have only to say. You’re in complete control of what happens here today. Understand?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly.

  “This session in now in progress, and I won’t speak again unless I feel it necessary. The room is yours.”

  Ducking his head, Chase pretended not to be watching as he waited to see how Mrs Miller would proceed. If she’d proceed—because he’d had clients before who’d completely baulked when they’d reached the practical sessions. He couldn’t help but wonder if she’d be one of those.

  A moment later, though, he just caught the fumbling of her fingers over the belt of her robe. She seemed about to tug it free, but paused and cleared her throat. Exactly three seconds later, her attempt at communicating began.

  “I want you to undress me.”

  Chase skimmed his gaze up to Mrs Miller. “You know I can’t do that, but it’s a good start.”

  Another rule:

  He never undressed, or removed any clothing from, the clients

  “Please, keep going,” he prompted, giving a gentle nod of encouragement.

  “Just to be clear, you’re Christopher in this scenario, yes?”

  “Correct.” He’d gotten used to the women in his clinic pretending they stood before someone else, and had years before stopped taking offense at the fantasies of the female mind.

  “Then, can I pretend you’re undressing me?” she asked.

  He smiled at the question. “Of course.”

  A few breaths later, she’d shrugged the robe to the floor and flicked off the slippers, leaving herself naked, exactly as he’d requested the couple come prepared for the session.

  While not exactly slender, Mrs Miller still had enough of her shape left that she should have been proud. According to her records, she’d been around for almost forty-seven years, and her breasts still sat plump and full, her hips rounded out from her thighs before the flesh dipped back in for her waist. Though, it wouldn’t have mattered to Chase if she’d been ten stone heavier and painted in a road map of stretchmarks. He’d long ago learned to appreciate the beauty of the human body. Whatever its size and form. And he definitely appreciated that she’d waxed her pussy. Enough so that his cock stirred within his pants.

  Off to the side, Mr Miller shifted in his seat a little, and Chase spared a glance at the way he stared toward his naked wife and nothing else.

  So, the man still noticed the woman. It was always a good start.

  Mrs Miller took a step forward. “I want you by the desk,” she said, a little more assertive, though Chase noticed she didn’t make eye contact each time she spoke.

  He crossed the room toward the desk, as instructed. A couple of steps away came the instruction to, “Stop,” and he did.

  Head tilted, he tracked the padding of Mrs Millers footsteps as she approached him from behind. A hand pressed against the small of his back, another wrapped around his arm, and at gentle nudging from the woman, he turned until he faced her.

  Folding the fingers of each hand over his hips, she guided him backward until his butt met the desk and she’d propped him against it. “I want you here.” She took a step back, her gaze dipped. “I want your trousers undone.”

  Chase didn’t move. Yet another rule:

  If the client wanted any part of his body exposed, they had to do it themselves

  She reached out for his waistband. Her movements were gentle, but efficient, as she worked her fingers beneath the fabric and popped the hook, and Chase wondered for a moment why her husband didn’t want them on himself more often. Her skin was soft, evidently tended for, and he already knew those hands would feel pretty fucking good wrapped around his cock.

  She drew down the zip of his trousers, the bulge of his forming erection instantly clear in the created gap. Skimming her knuckles over the soft fabric of his boxers made his cock twitch. “I want to remove your penis,” she said.

  “Audrey!” her husband hissed from his seat.

  Mrs Miller’s hand stilled, but she didn’t move it away, while Chase glanced across to the armchair. “What offends you about this, Mr Miller?” Noting that the man looked far from offended by his wife’s actions, he smiled.
“There are many names for the male sexual organ, and none of them are wrong. Shaft, prick, phallus, tool, dick, cock, penis. A person should never feel the need to apologise for saying whichever one feels right in the moment.” Supporting himself with his hands atop the desk, he gave a small nod to Mrs Miller. “Please, continue when you’re comfortable.”

  She seemed a little hesitant after the interruption, but it didn’t last long before she gripped the waistband of his trousers. She worked them down, past his hips to hug the tops of his thighs, leaving his hard length pushing against the underside of his shorts. Cupping her fingers over his cock, she brushed her palm upward, finishing with a flick of her thumb across its swelling head through the fabric. “Does that feel nice?”

  His left eye twitched, but only briefly before he caught himself. How often did the clients care if he enjoyed his part played in their therapy? How many of them had bothered to ask? He found his jaw had tightened when he answered, “Yes.” Because it did. Any woman’s hands on his cock felt good. Always had.

  The answer seemed to bolster her courage, because no hesitancy accompanied her grip of his shorts, or the way she slid them down to join his trousers. As soon as she had, his cock bounced up, harder than fucking ever and ready to play.

  “God, you’re big.” She whispered the words, as if she only meant for him to hear, as if she didn’t want her husband to be privy to the opinion.

  He had to agree with her. Women often considered him larger than average, and praised him on it. They also praised him on his ability to be hard and ready and able to perform at a moment’s notice. His cock deserved a fucking medal for that, because Chase could screw all day long, if he chose to, and the damned beast would still be up for another round, and then another. Which was probably a good thing, considering it’d been his cock that’d made him his money in the first place.

  With her eyes wholly fixed on his phallus, she said quietly, “I want your penis in my mouth.”