The Naughty Nolans
Copyright© 2025 by Kenn Ghannon
Chapter 2: Conflict
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 2: Conflict - The Nolan family was a complete wreck. In a last ditch effort to save it, the matriarch takes the family to a psychiatrist for family counseling. The psychiatrist, though, has an agenda of her own. [NOTE: Partially A.I. generated by an original idea (if there are original ideas in prose anymore) I had]
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft mt/Fa Fa/Fa ft/ft Teenagers Mind Control Reluctant Romantic Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Science Fiction Cheating Cuckold Incest Mother Son Brother Sister Group Sex Harem Orgy Polygamy/Polyamory Analingus Cream Pie First Facial Oral Sex Pregnancy Sex Toys Squirting Hairy Size Small Breasts Teacher/Student Slow AI Generated
The silence stretched taut between them—Sean’s polished oxfords tapping an impatient rhythm against the Persian rug, Dr. Renworth’s pen poised above her notebook like a scalpel. Sunlight slanted through the blinds, striping his clenched jaw with gold and shadow. Five minutes. Seven. The clock’s tick was a metronome counting down to something inevitable.
“This is costing me a pretty penny for a staring contest,” Sean finally growled, fingers tightening around the armrests.
Dr. Renworth’s gaze flicked down to her notes—slow, deliberate. Her manicured finger traced an invisible line. “You can afford it.” The words were velvet-wrapped steel. She’d known he’d break first; men like him always did. Her lips curved, just enough to make his shoulders tense. “So. You fantasize about the models your agency represents?”
Sean’s nostrils flared. “They’re everywhere,” he muttered, as if that explained everything. His thumb rubbed at his wedding band—a nervous tell she’d cataloged weeks ago. “Young. Gorgeous. Willing.” The last word dripped with self-loathing.
The doctor’s pen danced across the page. Willing: projection. “And Diane isn’t?” she murmured, tilting her head. “Or is it that she’s too willing? Too ... familiar?”
Sean’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His gaze dropped to her crossed legs—the slit in her skirt revealing a teasing inch of thigh. A flicker of heat in his eyes before he wrenched his attention away. “Familiarity breeds contempt,” he muttered.
“Or desire,” she countered softly. Her heel nudged the lower drawer—just enough to make the lock click audibly. Sean’s head snapped up. “Tell me, Sean,” she purred, leaning forward. “When was the last time you allowed yourself to want something ... forbidden?”
His breath hitched. The office air thickened with the scent of her perfume—something dark and expensive. Outside, a car horn blared. Sean’s fingers twitched toward his collar.
Dr. Renworth smiled. Checkmate.
“Fantasizing is inappropriate?” Her laughter was soft, mocking. “If that were true, the entire world should feel guilty!”
Sean’s fist clenched against his thigh. “Because all I have to do is succumb to it and it would be real—but I can’t.” His voice cracked like dry kindling. “I’m married. I spoke vows. My word means something to me.”
The doctor’s pen stilled. She inhaled subtly—the faintest scent of bergamot and leather from her atomizer merging with the charged air between them. “But you wish you could succumb ... don’t you?” Her pupils dilated slightly as she held his gaze.
Sean’s throat worked. The office walls seemed to press closer.
“This is a safe space,” she murmured, leaning forward until her blouse gaped just enough to reveal the swell of lace beneath. “No judgment. No recrimination. Just truth.”
His exhale shuddered through him. “Sometimes—” His fingers dug into the armrests. “Christ, sometimes I want to pin them against the drafting tables and—” He choked off, horrified.
Dr. Renworth’s tongue darted out to wet her lower lip. Perfect. She uncrossed her legs slowly, letting her skirt ride up another inch. “Tell me about the last time,” she urged, voice husky. “When the fantasy ... almost won.”
Sean’s gaze dropped to her thigh again—lingering this time. His breathing turned ragged. “There’s this intern,” he ground out. “Jade. Eighteen. She—” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “She ‘accidentally’ brushed against me in the supply closet last week. I could’ve... fuck.” His knuckles whitened. “I should’ve walked away. But I didn’t. Not right away.”
The doctor’s pulse quickened. She let her pen clatter to the floor—a calculated accident—and bent to retrieve it, giving him an unobstructed view down her blouse. “How long,” she breathed, straightening up with deliberate slowness, “did you let her stay pressed against you before you... did the right thing?”
Sean’s nostrils flared. The vein in his temple throbbed. “Thirty seconds.” A hoarse whisper. “Maybe more.”
Dr. Renworth’s lips parted on a silent oh. She scribbled three words: Guilt = arousal. “And if Jade hadn’t pulled away first?” Her thumb stroked the atomizer’s button beneath the desk. “Would you have stopped at all?”
Silence. The clock ticked. Sean’s wedding band gleamed dully in the lamplight.
His whisper was barely audible: “I don’t know.”
The doctor’s smile deepened. Progress.
“So what are you looking for, Sean?” She steepled her fingers, elbows resting on the mahogany desk. “What do you hope to accomplish here?” Her voice dropped to a whisper, silk over steel. “Permission?”
Sean flinched as if struck. His knuckles cracked audibly. “I don’t—”
“Because that’s what this is, isn’t it?” She leaned forward, letting her blouse gape further. A single strap of her lace bra slid down her shoulder—just enough to draw his gaze like a magnet. “You want absolution. Someone to tell you it’s okay to fuck that eighteen-year-old intern. That Diane won’t care.” Her lips curved. “Or maybe...” A breathy pause. “That she should.”
Sean’s pulse hammered visibly in his throat. His tongue darted out to wet cracked lips. “You’re twisting this.”
“Am I?” She tapped her pen against her notepad—once, twice—before letting it roll off the desk. It clattered to the floor near his feet. “Pick that up for me?”
A beat. Then Sean bent—slow, stiff—hand closing around the pen. When he straightened, her legs were slightly parted, one high-heeled shoe dangling precariously from her toes. The pen hovered between them.
She didn’t take it.
“Permission is a funny thing,” she mused, watching his Adam’s apple bob. “We crave it most for the things we’ve already decided to do.” Her foot brushed his knee—feather-light. “Tell me, Sean ... if I said ‘yes’ right now, what would you do?”
His breath hitched. The pen trembled in his grasp.
She let the silence stretch—thick with unsaid hunger—before finally plucking the pen from his fingers. Their skin brushed. A spark.
Sean jerked back as if burned.
Dr. Renworth’s smile turned feline. She uncapped the pen with her teeth, never breaking eye contact. “Next session,” she murmured around the plastic, “we’ll discuss why you really punish yourself for wanting what you could have.” Her heel nudged the atomizer drawer shut with a barely audible click. “And what happens...” She tilted her head. “ ... when you stop resisting.”
Sean’s exhale shuddered. His fingers twitched toward his tie like he wanted to loosen it—or yank it off entirely.
Susceptible, she scrawled in looping cursive beneath her notes. Permission-seeking behaviors established. Linkage confirmed. Her tongue traced her lower lip as she added: Erogenous response to authority figures (me) noted. Potential to weaponize.
Outside, rain began pattering against the window—soft at first, then harder. Sean’s reflection fractured in the streaked glass. “My family—” His voice cracked.
“Will be fine,” she interrupted smoothly, crossing her legs with deliberate slowness. The slit in her skirt parted further, revealing a crescent of thigh. Sean’s pupils dilated. Oh yes. She tapped her pen against her notes—right above the word Devin. “Better than fine, actually.” Her smile widened. “With the right guidance.”
Sean’s gaze snapped back to her face. Something dark flickered behind his eyes—understanding, or the beginnings of it.
Dr. Renworth leaned back, stretching her arms above her head in a way that strained her blouse’s buttons. Sean’s throat worked. She let him look for three full seconds before dropping her hands to jot one final note: Phase One complete. Prepare Devin’s induction.
The rain intensified. Somewhere in the walls, pipes groaned.
Sean stood abruptly, his chair scraping loud enough to startle them both. “Same time next week?” His voice was rough—too rough.
She nodded, watching his fists clench and unclench. “Oh,” she added as he reached for the door, “and Sean?”
He turned.
Her smile was all teeth. “Don’t be late.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Alone, Dr. Renworth unlocked the atomizer drawer, running her fingers over the cool metal casing. Her other hand drifted between her thighs, pressing lightly through the silk of her skirt. Soon, she promised herself—and Devin—as lightning flashed outside.
So very soon.
The scent of bergamot and lavender clung to the air as Diane Nolan perched on the edge of the leather sofa, fingers twisting the hem of her blouse. Dr. Renworth’s smile was warm—calculatedly so—as she settled behind her desk. The subtle click of the atomizer drawer unlocking went unnoticed, the soft hum of the device drowned out by Diane’s shaky exhale.
“This is a sacred space, Diane,” the doctor murmured, dialing the concentration to 2. The mist curled invisibly between them. “No shame here. No condemnation. Only truth.” She leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Now. Tell me—do you really think about your children’s friends?”
Diane’s breath hitched. Tears welled, spilling over before she could stop them. Her eyelids fluttered shut as she nodded, once, sharp and miserable.
The doctor’s pulse quickened. “Are you attracted to them?”
Another nod, slower this time. Diane’s throat worked around silent guilt.
“The boys?” Renworth’s voice was velvet. “Or the girls?”
A pause. Then, barely audible: “ ... Both.”
The doctor’s pen paused mid-stroke. Bisexual—unexpected. She let the revelation settle before pressing further. “You’re attracted to your children’s male and female friends?” The words dripped with faux neutrality.
Diane’s whisper cracked. “And ... my students.”
Renworth’s thighs pressed together under the desk. Perfect. “What draws you to them?” she coaxed, scribbling teen fixation—guilt-driven arousal. “Their youth? Their... bodies?”
Diane’s hands trembled. “Their—their light,” she admitted, voice fraying. “The way they laugh. The way they...” A shuddering breath. “Move.”
The doctor’s lips curved. Erogenous response to vitality. Link established. She exhaled, letting the atomizer’s effects deepen. “And how long,” she murmured, “have you been starving yourself of that light?”
Diane’s sob was answer enough.
Dr. Renworth’s pen hovered over the page—desire displacement?—before etching a darker truth: Children as proxies. She let the silence curdle between them, watching Diane’s pulse flutter at her throat. “Is that why you fight?” The doctor’s voice was syrup-thick, laced with the atomizer’s lingering musk. “Because Sean can’t see how brightly your children burn?” She tilted her head, feigning innocence as she scrawled Hailey’s freestyle hips and Sam’s tumbler thighs in looping cursive. “Or is it because you see them too clearly?”
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