Chapter 38: The Analyst's Session
The morning light had hardened into the flat, bright glare of afternoon. Channah sat on the edge of the unmade bed, the rumpled gray sheets still holding their scent. Her laptop was open on the modest desk Ryan had shoved against the brick wall. On the screen, the video conferencing software showed her own image—a square of professionalism superimposed over a slice of his chaotic bedroom. She had combed her hair. She wore one of his button-down shirts, untucked, the sleeves rolled. It was all she could bear against her skin. Nothing underneath. The soreness was a deep, personal throb, a secret she carried.
She clicked ‘Join Session’. A young woman’s face appeared, pinched with worry. “Hi, Maya,” Channah said, her voice calm, a practiced instrument. “How was your week?”
As Maya began speaking about a conflict with her roommate, the bedroom door behind Channah clicked open. She didn’t turn. Ryan padded in, naked, a glass of water in his hand. He set it quietly on the desk beside her, within her reach. His hand lingered for a moment on the nape of her neck, a thumb stroking her vertebrae. Then he moved behind her, out of the camera’s frame.
Channah kept her eyes on Maya’s pixelated face. “It sounds like you felt cornered by her tone,” she reflected, her tone even. “That’s a valid feeling to explore.”
She felt Ryan’s knees press into the mattress behind her. Felt his warm, broad hands slide from her waist down over the curve of her hips. His touch was deliberate, possessive. He gripped the hem of the shirt she wore—his shirt—and slowly pulled it up, gathering the fabric around her waist. The cool air of the loft kissed her bare back, her ass.
She didn’t flinch. “Tell me what you needed in that moment, Maya.”
His hands spread her. Thumbs pressed into the soft flesh of her ass cheeks, parting them. She was exposed, utterly open to him, while her face remained a mask of attentive concern. She felt the humid warmth of his breath first, a ghost against her most private skin. Then the flat, wet stroke of his tongue.
A sharp, silent gasp hitched in Channah’s chest. Her fingers curled on her bare thigh. On screen, Maya was talking about boundary-setting.
“Mmm-hmm,” Channah murmured, the sound perfectly calibrated to sound like thoughtful agreement.
Ryan’s tongue was not gentle. It was an exploration, a reclamation. It laved over her sore, stretched hole, the muscle soft and probing, then dipped lower to spea͆r through the slick folds of her cunt. He ate her from behind with a quiet, focused intensity, his stubble rough against her tender flesh. She could feel her own wetness, could hear the faint, obscene sound of his mouth working on her.
“I… I guess I needed her to see my side,” Maya said, her voice uncertain.
“Of course you did.” Channah’s own voice sounded distant to her own ears, a thread of strain woven through the professionalism. Ryan’s tongue was circling her asshole now, pressing insistently against the pucker, mimicking the act that had defined the last twelve hours. Pleasure, sharp and hot, coiled in her gut, intertwined with the deep ache. She pressed her thighs together, trapping the sensation, and felt his hands tighten on her hips to stop her.
He wanted her open. Available.
She forced a slow breath. “What would it look like,” she asked Maya, “to articulate that side without accusation?”
As she spoke, Ryan’s tongue pushed into her ass. Just the tip, a soft, wet intrusion. Channah’s eyes fluttered. She reached for the glass of water, her hand trembling slightly, and took a sip, using the motion to let her head drop forward as if in deep thought. A moan was locked in her throat, burning.
The call continued. Twenty minutes. An eternity. Ryan worshiped her from behind with his mouth, pausing only to whisper filthy, praising words against her skin that the laptop microphone couldn’t pick up. “You taste like my come,” he breathed, his voice a ragged vibration. “You taste like us.” He pushed two fingers into her cunt, curling them, finding a spot that made her vision blur. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper, anchoring herself to the pain.
“Thank you, Maya,” she finally said, her words slightly rushed. “Same time next week. Take care of yourself.” Her finger stabbed the trackpad, ending the call.
The screen went black, reflecting her flushed face, his shadowed form behind her.
Silence, now, except for their breathing.
She slowly closed the laptop lid. The click was definitive.
In one fluid motion, she pushed back from the desk, turned, and shoved Ryan onto his back on the tangled sheets. She swung a leg over him, straddling his chest, her knees pinning his shoulders. She didn’t kiss him. She looked down at him, her red hair falling around her face, her breasts heavy and swaying. Her cunt was poised over his mouth, glistening from his attention.
“You made me lie to her,” she said, her voice low and raw. “You made me a liar while you had your tongue in my ass.”
“Yes,” he said, staring up at her, his eyes dark.
“Now clean up your mess.”
She lowered herself onto his face, grinding her wet, swollen flesh against his mouth. He groaned, his hands coming up to grip her ass, pulling her harder onto him. His tongue speared deep, lapping at her own juices mixed with his saliva. The orgasm she’d been suppressing for twenty minutes broke over her almost immediately, a shocking, violent wave that tore a ragged scream from her throat. Her body convulsed, riding his face.
As the pulses subsided, she slid down his body, her own mouth hungry. She took his cock in her hand, already hard and leaking, and without ceremony swallowed him to the root. The salt and musk of her own ass was still on his skin. She reveled in it.
He cried out, his hips bucking off the bed.
They found their rhythm in the 69, a desperate, sloppy exchange of possession. She sucked him with a fervor that bordered on violence, taking him deep into her throat until she gagged, then pulling back to lick and tease. Below, his tongue and fingers worked in her cunt, pushing her toward another peak. The room filled with the sounds of it: wet sucks, guttural moans, the creak of the bed, skin slapping skin.
“I’m close,” he warned, his voice muffled by her flesh.
She came again, her body clamping down on his fingers, her cries vibrating around his cock. The sensation tipped him over. He pulled her head down hard, holding her still as he ejaculated in hot, pulsing jets down her throat. She swallowed compulsively, taking every drop, milking him with her lips and tongue until he was soft and sensitive.
She collapsed beside him, spent, their bodies a tangled, glistening mess. The taste of him—and of herself—was thick in her mouth. The late afternoon sun had moved, now cutting a sharp blade of light across the bed, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air above them.
For a long time, they just breathed.
“I have to go back,” she said finally, staring at the exposed pipework on the ceiling.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.” She turned her head to look at him. The lust was momentarily sated, leaving something more terrifying in its wake. “This isn’t my life. My life is a waiting room and notepad and a cat that hates me.”
He propped himself up on an elbow. He traced the line of her jaw, sticky with sweat and come. “So this is just a dirty weekender? After everything?”
She didn’t have an answer. The flight, the loft, the raw sex—it was a fever dream. Reality was a suitcase by the door and the insistent ping of emails on her silenced phone. But the place between her legs, and the deeper ache in her ass, felt more real than any of that. They felt like truth.
He saw the conflict. He leaned in, kissed her softly, a startling tenderness after the brutality. “Then we have tonight,” he said.
It wasn’t acceptance. It was a postponement. A theft of a few more hours. She nodded, curling into him, letting the warmth of his body and the stark sunlight hold the world at bay, for just a little longer.