A-Freud Of The Truth

Alex Coal shows up at the therapist’s office with her shoulders tight and jaw clenched, desperate for relief. One look at Dr. Alix Lynx—cool, polished, maybe a little too steady—and Alex figures she’s finally in good hands. She slumps into the couch, ready to unload. Alix leans in too fast, voice like smoke around the edges, grilling Alex about boys who never called back, about the taste of a first kiss, the shape of another woman’s mouth. Every question drips toward one answer. Alex feels the room tilt. She spits it out: "You keep pushing me on girls. Why?" Alix doesn’t blink. She smiles instead, tells Alex that all that jittery stress is just bottled desire—the kind Alex refuses to name. Alex tries to laugh it off, then insists the session is over. Alix rises, steps close, voice low: to prove it one way or another, they need to test it. Fingers trace under fabric; lips drag across skin. Alix’s mouth finds Alex’s tits, sucks slow, deliberate. Then she drops lower, spreads Alex open, tongue working in tight, wet circles until Alex’s breath breaks into ragged sounds she can’t swallow back. Heat twists in her belly. Every soft press between her legs pulls her further from the lie she walked in with. By the time her thighs start shaking around Alix’s head, Alex knows—she wants this. She’s been starving for it. And the knowledge hits harder than any denial ever could.