Christy the Sex Therapist

31

Miss Christy's alarm broke her slumber around 7am. Marcus hadn't moved. She gave him a firm nudge and he woke up. He yawned and stretched. Monday mornings were always the fucking worst -- the longest possible time before the next weekend.

"ffffffffffuuuuuuuuuck, Miss Christy, nooooooooo, I don't want to get up ......."

"It's Monday morning, Marcus. Worst time of the week. Sucks to be us. Rise and shine, sleepyhead."

Marcus remembered what happened last night. He remembered how packed his ass felt when Miss Christy was fucking him on the kitchen bench with her purple vibrating dildo. God, that felt so amazing. But Monday morning felt a million miles away from Sunday night, and facts were facts. Suck it up, dude, you're going to work.

"Can I call in sick, Miss Christy? Let's both call in sick. Let's stay in bed. Let's fuuuuuck. No, let's sleep some more, and then let's fuuuuuuuuuuuuuckkkkkkk." He threw off the covers to show her his flaccid penis. "Wanna fuuuuuuuck you."

Miss Christy was the adult in the room. Nothing would've made her happier to do exactly what Marcus suggested, but she had clients to see and a business to run. "No, Marcus. Come on, get up."

Marcus changed tack. "Or maybe you could fucccccccccccck me?" He gripped his cock at the base and tried to helicopter, but he wasn't big enough. He rolled onto his back and spread his cheeks.

Miss Christy wasn't impressed. "Put your cock away, Marcus. And close your legs."

She's the boss. He got up and got dressed.

Miss Christy found her way to the kitchen where she performed the first task of every work morning. She put coffee in the machine, filled it with water and turned it on. Nobody's leaving this fucking house without a fucking coffee. That's how riots start. The machine did its job while she went to the bathroom. She accidentally left the door open and Marcus happened to walk past as she was mid-stream.

"Sorry, Marcus. Just taking a pee. Coffee's on."

Marcus popped a semi as he listened to her warm piss drain into the bowl. He wanted a closer look, but on the other hand, he was still half asleep. Why couldn't he have had a cup of coffee *before* Miss Christy went to the bathroom? Life is so unfair.

He gave her privacy; after all, he was in her house. The machine switched off and binged as if to say 'all done, come get your fix, addicts'. Miss Christy finished the task at hand, washed her hands and returned to the kitchen. She took two mugs from the cupboard and poured the magic morning liquid.

They'd barely spoken, it was far too early. Clearly, neither of them were morning people.

"Can I have some cereal please, Miss Christy?"

"Sure you can. Help yourself, you know where everything is."

Marcus poured some corn flakes into a bowl, added some milk, took a seat, and munched away silently.

You know that feeling when you spend an amazing night with someone, then you wake up the next morning and you want to reconnect with the exact same way you felt the night before, but you can't, because the bullshit of ordinary life gets in the way? It's like, when you feel deeply connected to another person, but the connection intermittently sputters and fails, and you can't work out how to fix it? This was exactly how they both felt right now. Marcus knew that the best thing he could do right now was to be the person who gets dressed and goes to work on Monday morning.

Before too long, they were coffeed up and on their way to Marcus's apartment so he could change clothes for work. Miss Christy looked as fuckable as usual, and as Marcus glanced over at her, he couldn't believe he was having regular sex with someone this hot. Boots like that must be illegal in some parts of the world. He put his key in the lock and opened the door.

"Welcome to my palace, Miss Christy." Marcus felt intensely embarrassed. Things were a bit messy here, probably because he'd last left his apartment 36 hours ago at the tail end of a depressive stoner porn binge that he could barely now recall. There were unwashed cups and plates in the sink, and his laundry basket was full of dirty clothes.

He noticed he'd left washed t-shirts, socks and boxers hanging on the backs of chairs to dry, and he felt even more embarrassed. Why the hell hadn't he bought something civilised to hang his washing on? He wasn't much of a housekeeper, which doesn't really matter too much when you live on your own. But when you invite someone like Miss Christy into your house, suddenly it matters. If he'd known she'd be here first thing on a Monday morning, he would've made sure the place was spotless before he left.

"I'm sorry, Miss Christy, my place is a bit of a mess. It's not normally like this. I'm gonna tidy up tonight after I get home." He worried that Miss Christy would think less of him now that she'd seen how he lived. What he didn't know was that Miss Christy actually didn't care. She knew he lived on his own. She knew he probably didn't have many house guests. She assumed he didn't spend too much time at home anyway. It was merely a space to eat, rest and sleep in. She knew the state of his apartment was absolutely no reflection on him as a person, and it didn't change her opinion of him at all.

Even so, Marcus felt an urgency to get changed and leave as quickly as possible. He achieved that goal, throwing his discarded clothes into the overflowing laundry hamper, and soon they were on their way into town to go to work. Miss Christy called an uber. Marcus usually caught public transport to and from work every day, so this was a nice change. The car arrived and they rode into town.

"Hey, so what does Alex do for a living, Miss Christy?" He'd never really cared until now, and he didn't even really care now, he was just making Monday morning small talk.

"He's a professional sportsman, Marcus."

Marcus didn't know a lot about sports, he was more into books, film and art; but he knew if you were good enough at a sport, like *really* good at it, you could make a career out of it. Perhaps that's what Alex had done. He certainly had the build of an athlete. The only sports Marcus knew were skateboarding and snowboarding. "What sport does he play, Miss Christy?"

"Rugby. He plays rugby."

Marcus only had a vague idea what rugby was. It was something like football, right? He thought it was a contact sport -- did they wear helmets in rugby? He knew it wasn't soccer; he didn't think the ball was round. Was it something like that weird unusual game Australians play with the four goalposts of different heights? Or like the football game they play in Ireland? He didn't know.

"Interesting, Miss Christy. OK. Rugby." She was amused to find he had no fucking idea what rugby was.

"That's why he's out of town at the moment. Marcus. He travels a lot. He's training right now, the next season is approaching."

Marcus had two parallel trains of thought. The first tried to get a slightly tighter grip on what rugby was, but he didn't have enough raw material to latch onto. The second was how good it was to find out that Alex was away from home fairly regularly.

The car arrived at Marcus's building. Miss Christy hugged him tightly and kissed him before he got out. The car then continued on to Miss Christy's office.

On the surface, their work days were ordinary. Marcus did what he did -- problems came his way and he fixed them. And in a different part of town, Miss Christy did the same -- clients came to see her with personal problems of a sexual nature, and she did her best to try to understand them and to suggest solutions.

As Marcus spent his day fixing other people's problems, he thought about Miss Christy. He wanted to be in the same room as her, and ideally in the same bed, yet here he was, sitting at a desk. It didn't matter to him what they'd be doing in bed -- whether they were kissing, hugging, fucking, watching a movie, making each other laugh, or sleeping -- all Marcus wanted was to be in her presence.

Miss Christy had two immediate problems, but like Marcus, she had to put hers to one side to help other people deal with their own. Her first problem was the realisation that she loved two people at the same time. She loved Marcus, but she also loved her husband. How could she navigate this -- being in love with two people at the same time? The second problem was if it was true that Marcus couldn't feel intimacy with people he loved, did that mean he didn't (or couldn't) love her in return? I mean, they'd been having some pretty awesome sex lately, but logically, if he was fucking her, wouldn't that have to mean he also didn't (or couldn't) love her? She desperately wanted him to love her too, but at the same time, she didn't want a future where they couldn't fuck anymore.

She'd never said those magic words to him. She'd never told him she loved him, though she knew it was true. Those words could change everything irrevocably. Should she say them? What would happen? What might change? How would Marcus respond? What would it mean in the context of her marriage to Alex? Would it be better to just keep things as they are?

Miss Christy knew she and Alex had an open relationship when it came to sex. They could fuck anyone they wanted with no consequences. But sex is sex, and love is something else, and Miss Christy could no longer deny to herself that she'd developed a deep emotional bond with someone outside her marriage.

Her brow furrowed. This wasn't going to be easy. Her next client was waiting outside, she'd have to come back to this later.

*

Their work days ended. Miss Christy tidied up some paperwork before leaving the office, while Marcus logged off as soon as he could and left the building. Fuck everyone else's problems, he'd had enough for the day.

As Miss Christy travelled home, she thought about Marcus.

As Marcus travelled home, he thought about Miss Christy.

Who the fuck knows what Alex was thinking about. Probably rugby.

Marcus got off the bus a few stops earlier than his regular stop. He wasn't quite ready to go home just yet. He felt thirsty, and there was a bar not too far from his place. He opened the door and ordered a pint of beer. He pulled a fat novel out of his bag, un-dog-eared the page where he was up to, and rejoined the tale he'd been reading lately.

He was distracting himself and he knew it, but he quickly and sadly remembered there were more than enough things he needed to do at home that would also distract him. Laundry. Vacuuming. Housework. 'Come on, dude', he thought to himself, 'get your shit together. If not for yourself, then for Miss Christy'.

He ordered a meal to go, and ordered a second beer to keep him company while he waited for the food. The meal arrived, and he drained his glass.

He knew he had to be an adult. He had to do what needed to be done. The fucking laundry.

Just as he was about to leave to walk the rest of the way home, his phone pinged. It was Miss Christy.'Hey, boi. I'm bored. Alex will be home tomorrow. Come over. Same deal, get a cab and text me when you're near. I'll pay for it.'

His fingers couldn't move fast enough. 'I'd love to, but my place is a mess, Miss Christy. You saw it this morning. It's pretty bad. I really need to clean up.' Ouch. Sending that message really fucking hurt, but at least it was honest.

The response came fast.

'Fuck that shit. Get your ass over here, boi.'

'Yes, Miss Christy.'

He went home, but only to eat his takeout meal and to change his clothes. He immediately left again. He found a taxi and gave the driver her address.

*

32

Marcus's dinner was fucking atrocious, but he choked it down. Lesson learned: NEVER order a vegetarian curry from a fucking pub. Who the fuck puts mushrooms in a korma?

He was smart enough to bring another change of clothes with him this time, just in case he ended up spending the night with Miss Christy. On the off-chance he stayed over, it'd mean he wouldn't have to endure another painful collection of small yet awkward minutes in his apartment with her tomorrow morning while he got changed for work. It'd also save some time.

He texted Miss Christy when he was about five minutes away from her house. She met him outside as his taxi pulled up, and she paid the driver. She gave him a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. She brought him inside.

"Hey Marcus, how was your day?", she asked.

"Same old same old same fucking old", he replied. "I'm really tired of my job, but I have to pay the rent. Half the time I don't even know what I'm doing there, and I don't really care anyway."

"What do you do for work, Marcus?"

"IT help desk. Fucking kill me now. I don't know how much longer I can do this."

The therapist in Miss Christy noticed there was something serious here that needed attention, but she changed tack, ever so slightly. She was in friend mode right now, not therapist mode. "Hey so I was just about to open a bottle of wine, would you like some? An Australian riesling, a 2016 from Victoria."

Other than 'sweet liquor eases the pain', none of that meant anything to Marcus. "Sure, Miss Christy." She opened the bottle and poured two glasses. They clinked.

"I'm really sad to hear that you hate your job, Marcus, but to be honest, I'd hate to have your job too. I think you have a lot of creative potential. You could be doing so much more than this. I could imagine you writing something like a novel or a play."

"Yeah, but I didn't go to college, Miss Christy. I'm glad just to have this job, even though it's totally fucking crap and I hate it. But at least it means I can live alone", he said.

Miss Christy wondered if there was a reason why living alone was so important to Marcus, but now wasn't the time to ask. Independence means different things to different people. "Well, I think you're intelligent and I think you would've had a great time at college. All that cheap sex you could've had! Why didn't you go?"

Marcus shrugged his shoulders. "Don't know. Didn't want to." Miss Christy sensed this was the tip of a deeply detailed iceberg. If she was in therapy mode, she might have drilled down, but she wasn't. She wanted to say "but dude, it's not too late, fucking look into college tomorrow!", but this wasn't the time or the place. Besides, some people just don't want to go to college no matter the circumstances, and those are decisions to be respected. She sipped her wine.

"Hey", she said, changing the subject, "have you eaten? I got something to eat on the way home, I was too lazy to cook tonight. What about you?"

"Yeah, Miss Christy, I've already eaten too", said Marcus. It was thus formally agreed: the evening's problems of proteins and carbohydrates were already solved. They talked like old friends for hours. They sat on Miss Christy's couch, drinking wine and making each other laugh.

Time passed. "Can I show you something, Marcus?'

"Sure, Miss Christy." He would've been happy to watch paint drying on a wall, so long as he could watch it while sitting next to her.

"I thought you might be interested to learn something about rugby. I know it's not a popular game here, but it's growing fast. It's really big in some other parts of the world. You were asking what Alex's job was, and I wasn't sure if you understood what it was. I just thought you might be curious."

What's the difference between watching paint drying on a wall or watching a game of rugby? Marcus wasn't sure. "OK, Miss Christy, show me." Miss Christy connected her laptop to the TV and pressed play on a youtube video. A few seconds later, Marcus briefly glimpsed Alex running onto a rugby field with his teammates.

*

Nothing of rugby made much sense to Marcus. He worked out that the aim was to take the ball from one end of the field to the other as well as kicking it through the goalposts, but his interest lifted a bit when he saw one pile of men grinding head-on into another pile of men. "What's this, Miss Christy? What's happening in the game?"

Miss Christy wouldn't say she knew all the rules of rugby, but she knew enough. "In rugby, you can only kick or carry the ball forward, you can't pass it forward or throw it forward, not even accidentally. That includes if you drop the ball in front of you. See, that player fumbled the ball when it was passed to him, and when that happens, the referee blows his whistle, and play stops. The referee then calls a scrum."

"A scrum, Miss Christy?"

"Yes. A scrum is how the game starts again when someone drops the ball in front of them, or they pass it forward."

"How does a scrum work?"

"Well, eight players from one team bind together, and the idea is to push forward, as a group, as hard as possible. Eight players from the other team do the same in the opposite direction. See that tiny dude there wearing the number 9? He's called the scrum half, and he rolls the ball into the middle of the scrum between the two groups. Each group of players then try to push the other group away from the ball so they can take it themselves."

There was a pause in conversation as Marcus watched this display of brute muscle, stamina and collective strength.

"By the way, Alex says scrum halves have the smallest dicks."

It was the mention of dicks that did it. Marcus imagined himself sharing a shower with a bunch of thick, built, sweaty rugby players after a game. He knew they couldn't possibly all have small dicks. There'd probably be some pretty big swingers in a rugby change room. Besides, he'd already seen Alex's dick, and it definitely wasn't small.

"So if 'scrum half' is a position, I guess that means everyone else in rugby has a position? What position does Alex play?"

"He plays a position called 'tight head prop', Marcus", replied Miss Christy. "You can see him there, in the front row of the scrum. He's the one wearing the number 3 jersey." She pointed at the screen. Sure enough, there he was. "The players who play in the front row of the scrum need to be very strong. They generally are of average height, but they have broad shoulders, strong necks, wide hips, and thick, powerful, muscly thighs."

Marcus drifted away. He drew a mental picture of Alex stripping his clothes off in the locker room after a hot, tiring game of rugby, and turning on the shower. He imagined the water running over Alex's head and shoulders, and the steam rising up from the heat. He imagined himself walking into the shower room and catching Alex's eye. He imagined unwrapping a fresh new cake of soap, getting undressed, and stepping into the shower next to Alex. They were both soaked, but in this moment, Marcus was Alex's servant. He imagined inhaling Alex's manly post-game stink, and soaping up his shoulders and chest, paying particular attention to Alex's sweaty pits and his firm, meaty nipples. He dreamed about washing Alex's arms, especially his muscly, strong forearms as Alex flexed for him, bouncing his magnificent pecs. He imagined kneeling to wash Alex's strong legs as the hot water bounced off the tiles back into his face. He imagined washing Alex's feet, making sure to clean his heels, his soles and in between his toes. He dreamed about slowly moving upwards to wash Alex's ankles and calves. He imagined lathering up Alex's muscly thighs, focusing specifically on his sweaty inner thighs, where he caught a glimpse of Alex's thick penis and his heavy, swollen balls. He imagined gripping Alex's ass with one hand to steady himself while he washed those huge thighs with his other hand. He imagined accidentally slipping a soapy finger into Alex's asshole, and he envisioned a look of shock and arousal registering on Alex's face as his fat dick involuntarily stood up under the shower right in front of Marcus's wide open mouth, waiting to be serviced.

Marcus had popped a pretty big boner in his pants, and Miss Christy noticed.

"You OK there?", she asked. She patted Marcus's thigh and raised an eyebrow. There was no hiding his erection.