8. A Dirty Counseling Session
A DIRTY COUNSELING SESSION
Lachlan
You can tell a lot about people by how they enter a room.
Stella Moreland slips through the office door first—slips, because that’s the only word for the way her hips move in that wrap dress, a blue so deep it could drown you.
The fabric tugs at the swell of her chest, folding in a V that narrows to the fine bone at her sternum.
I make a conscious effort not to stare, but every inch of her is a study in what happens when genetics and desire negotiate a stalemate.
There’s a brief, arrested moment as her eyes find mine across the desk—cobalt under the office light, lashes heavy, the edge of challenge visible even through her uncertainty.
She’s nervous, but not ashamed. Her hands smooth her skirt.
The dress is a weapon, and she knows how to use it.
Her step-uncle follows close behind, one hand at the small of her back.
He is not the kind of man who enters anywhere quietly; he fills the frame, shoulders squared, the calculated violence of expensive tailoring on full display.
His hair is immaculate. There’s the hint of a five o’clock shadow even though it’s only just after ten.
His grip on her is proprietary, not rough but not gentle either.
He smiles at me, slow and humorless, the kind of smile men wear when they know a secret and can’t be bothered to keep it.
I stand to greet them, both hands visible on the desk, and modulate my voice to neutral. “Stella. Hunter. Good to see you again. Please, come in.”
They do, taking the twin leather chairs across from me, close together.
The space between their bodies is measured in millimeters, but the air is already crowded with unspoken things.
The stained glass above the window throws a line of color across the wood paneling—amber with a pulse of blue—landing, almost theatrically, on Stella’s collarbone.
The incense burner, a cheap brass thing, leaks a slow spiral of Nag Champa toward the ceiling.
I reach for the legal pad, the motion slow and deliberate. “How have you been since our last session?” I ask, voice gentle but with a purposeful clinical cadence. “Any developments you’d like to discuss?”
Stella glances at Hunter, a flicker so fast most would miss it. He inclines his head, giving her permission, but she waits. I get the sense she wants me to press, or maybe she just wants to see if I’ll ask the right question.
Hunter answers first. “We’ve been exploring,” he says. There’s an edge of amusement, as if he finds the whole scenario deeply entertaining. “Trying to figure out what comes next, if anything.”
I allow a neutral smile. “And did the exploring help?”
Stella’s lips part, but the words stick. She shifts, ankles crossed under the chair, and I can see the pulse at the hollow of her throat. “It’s different, now. Harder to pretend it’s not real.”
There’s a pause—pregnant, as therapists say. I let it breathe. “You mean, the attraction?” I ask, pencil hovering.
Her cheeks pinken, a slow rush of color that reaches her ears. “Yes,” she says, a whisper. “And more.”
I nod, jot a note. The act is theater, but it matters. “You’re not the only people who’ve struggled with this,” I say, meaning every word. “Taboo isn’t about the law, not always. Sometimes it’s the shape of your own shame.”
Hunter leans back, crossing one ankle over the other knee. “Neither of us is ashamed,” he growls, and even I can tell he’s lying. “But we’d like to know how to proceed. Stella’s father—my stepbrother—will return soon enough. We want to be prepared.”
I rest the pencil on the pad, steeple my fingers. “Are you asking for permission, or absolution?”
Hunter’s mouth curves. “Maybe both.”
This is what I like about them: no bullshit, no endless hedging. There’s a hunger here, bright and honest and unafraid of its own implications.
I shift the topic with a soft, practiced glide. “Did you act on your feelings since we last spoke?” I keep the tone clinical, but there’s no mistaking the charge behind the question.
Another flick of Stella’s eyes. This time, she answers. “Yes.”
Hunter adds, “Last night.” Then, after a beat, “And this morning.”
My cock stirs under the desk, unwanted but inevitable. I school my face to impassivity, but my pulse is climbing. “That’s definitely something,” I say, as if this happens all the time. “How did it feel?”
There’s a tension in the air—triangular, triangulated. Stella’s gaze drops to her lap. “It felt…” She hesitates, then looks straight at me, as if daring me to look away. “Like everything I’d ever wanted.”
Hunter slides his hand over the curve of her thigh, a gesture so possessive it’s almost predatory. He’s marking territory, but not just for her. For me.
I allow the silence to grow teeth. “This is exactly the moment where most people retreat,” I say. “But you’re not most people, are you?”
Hunter shakes his head, the movement feline. “We want to go further.”
“Further how?” I ask, watching his pupils.
He grins, full and dangerous. “That’s what we came to ask.”
Stella’s cheeks are nearly crimson now, but her posture is perfect.
She’s a contradiction—blushing, but with her chin high.
“Is it possible that we’re totally lost?
” she asks, eyes luminous. “That’s what I’m afraid of.
That we’ve lost sight of land and are totally off the reservation at this point.
That we’re deviants, and not normal anymore,” she finishes in an agonized whisper.
I lean back, fold my arms. “Normal is a moving target,” I say.
“But it’s not about what’s normal to others.
It’s about what’s sustainable for you.” I pause, then, feeling the shift in the room, the air prickling with anticipation.
“But I understand what you’re saying because obviously, an attraction between relatives, albeit unrelated ones, is generally considered outside the “normal realm,” and I’d like to address this with you.
There is a method—exposure therapy—that’s been shown to be very effective for unwanted, or shamed, behavior.
Sometimes, reenacting the thing you fear—in a controlled, safe environment—can strip it of its hold. ”
They both look at me. Not incredulous, but as if I’ve just suggested a magic trick. “You mean do it here?” Hunter says, the challenge plain.
I don’t flinch. “If you’re comfortable, yes.”
Stella’s breath is audible, a small, soft gasp. Her hands flutter, then still. “Exposure how? What would that look like?” she asks, voice gone small again.
“Whatever you want it to,” I say. “The idea is to make the hidden, unhideable. To see it for what it is.” I stand, smooth the sleeves of my shirt, and cross to the office door. My shoes are silent on the carpet. I twist the lock, the click quiet but absolute.
The sound lands in the pit of my stomach.
Hunter’s eyes are on me, measured, weighing. I return to my desk and sit on the edge, body loose but focused. “There’s no one else in the building,” I say. “We can be as candid or not candid as you want. Again, I’ll let you choose to reveal what you’re comfortable with.”
For a moment, no one moves. Then Hunter stands, fluid and controlled. He moves behind Stella’s chair, places both hands on her shoulders. She tilts her head up, lips parted.
He bends, mouth at her ear. “You’re going to be a good girl and show the pastor what I’ve taught you. What you’ve learned,” he says, voice pitched for her alone but loud enough that I catch it. “Let him see you in your glory.”
Her pulse jumps in her throat. “Do you mean we’re going to do that? In front of him?” she whispers, big breasts heaving.
Hunter grins like an animal.
“Yes exactly, sweetheart,” he rasps, cupping her chin while whispering in her ear. “Pastor O’Toole can only help us if he witnesses the act, and I want you to show the good pastor everything you’ve learned.”
Stella’s still for a moment, her curves trembling delicately. Then, she bends her golden head and assents. “Yes, Daddy,” she murmurs, and the words are more breath than sound. “Whatever you want.”
With an animalistic grin, Hunter draws the young blonde up by the wrist, not rushed, but with an inevitability that brooks no resistance. Stella rises, a little tremor in her posture, but otherwise game. She stands before me, big bust rising and falling, her eyes never leaving mine.
“Relax,” Hunter growls, and his hands find the tie at her waist. “You’re beautiful, sweetheart. You have nothing to hide.”
He undoes the knot slowly, then peels the dress away from her shoulders. It slips down, pooling at her feet, leaving her in nothing but a strapless bra and a pair of black lace panties. Her huge Double D’s strain against the cups, the fabric doing almost nothing to conceal her.
I am not made of stone. My own breath is sharper than I mean, and I will myself to remain clinical. To observe, to witness, not to participate. But the edge of it is too bright. Every sense is on fire, and my cock jerks in my pants.
Hunter grins, flashing sharp white teeth, and then unclasps the bra, lets it drop.
Her Double D’s are a man’s wet dream, huge, ivory, and utterly suckable, with hard pink tips.
I let out a gasp, and Hunter grins. He goes around to her back and palms her breasts, thumbs rolling over the nipples in slow circles.
Stella’s head tips back, mouth open, a tiny sound escaping.
Hunter keeps his gaze locked on me as he kneads her, talking into her hair.
“Show him how good you are at taking cock, little tease,” he murmurs. “Let him see what a horny slut you are.”
The words shock even me, but Stella’s whole body reacts. She shakes, just a little, then cups her breasts.
“Yes, Daddy,” she murmurs obediently. “I’ll do whatever you say. Use my body for your pleasure.”