The Naughty Nolans
Copyright© 2025 by Kenn Ghannon
Chapter 3: Disjoints
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 3: Disjoints - 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 atomizer’s mist lingered between them like an unspoken confession—pearlescent in the slanting afternoon light. Dr. Renworth watched Diane’s pupils dilate as she inhaled, the scent of jasmine and something darker coating the back of her throat. Opposite her, Sean drummed his fingers on his knee, oblivious to the chemical threading through his synapses.
“Fantasy,” Renworth began, her voice a calibrated purr, “isn’t betrayal. It’s permission.” She let the word hang—plump, ripe. Diane’s fingers twitched toward her collarbone again. Sean’s gaze flicked to the window where rain streaked the glass like fingerprints. “Sean,” she pressed, “do you judge Diane for craving that light?”
His jaw worked. The atomizer’s musk curled around his denial before he could voice it. “No,” he muttered, though his knuckles whitened.
Renworth’s pen scratched resistance crumbling. “And Diane?” She turned, catching the way Diane’s breath hitched at the shift in focus. “Do you begrudge Sean his... appreciation of beauty?” The pause was deliberate—appreciation a velvet sheath for hunger.
Diane’s throat moved. “No,” she whispered, but her gaze dropped to her lap where her fingers pleated the fabric of her skirt—guilt, shame, want braided together.
“Good.” Renworth exhaled slowly, letting the atomizer’s tendrils coil deeper. “Because permission is the foundation of trust.” She leaned forward, her blouse gaping just enough to draw Sean’s eye before she continued: “Imagine a world where you allow each other these harmless indulgences.” Her pen tapped Devin’s shower steam in the margins. “Where Sean doesn’t flinch when you admire... vitality.” A beat. “Where Diane doesn’t scorn your aesthetic admiration.”
Sean’s nostrils flared—models, casting couches, sweat-slick skin flickering behind his eyes. Diane shuddered, her pulse rabbiting at her throat.
Renworth smiled. Phase Two: Secure.
She leaned forward, her blouse gaping subtly—enough for Sean’s gaze to flicker downward before wrenching away. “Diane,” she murmured, fingers steepled, “what if I told you Sean’s admiration for his models wasn’t a threat ... but a gift?” The atomizer’s musk curled between them, thick as honey. “Imagine the freedom of granting him permission—knowing his fantasies strengthen your marriage, not fracture it.”
Diane’s lips parted—a silent protest dying as Renworth pressed harder: “When he watches them, he’s not rejecting you—he’s honoring the light he first saw in your eyes.” The lie slid like silk, tailored to Diane’s hunger for validation. “And when you watch your lights,” Renworth purred, nodding toward Diane’s white-knuckled grip on her skirt, “you’re not betraying him—you’re celebrating that same vitality.”
Sean scoffed, but his shoulders loosened—just enough. Renworth pivoted. “Sean. Look at her.” His jaw clenched, but he obeyed. “Diane wants you to enjoy beauty. She chooses for you to have that.” The pen tapped casting couch in her notes. “Isn’t that love?”
A beat. Diane’s breath hitched—confirmation.
Renworth’s pulse thrummed. Got you both.
She circled mutual permission twice, ink bleeding through the page. Outside, thunder growled—closer now.
“Next session,” she murmured, “we’ll explore shared gratitude.” Her heel nudged the locked drawer. “For all your ... inspirations.”
Diane’s fingers unclenched. Sean exhaled—rough, ragged.
Progress.
The atomizer hummed.
The tension coiled in Brianna’s shoulders like a live wire, her fingers tracing nervous patterns over the velvet couch cushion. Dr. Renworth watched the frantic energy bleed from her fingertips—beautifully erratic, she noted—before flicking her gaze to Devin. His jaw clenched rhythmically, his massive frame taut as a bowstring. The storm brewing inside him was almost palpable.
“So,” Renworth began, her voice smooth as bourbon, “describe the tension for me.”
Brianna’s swallow was audible. “It’s—like static. Before lightning.” Her fingers drifted unconsciously toward Devin’s thigh, stopping just short of contact. “When Mom and Dad scream, it crackles. In my ribs. My—” Her throat worked. “My skin feels too tight.”
Devin’s exhale was rough. “I know.” His hand covered Brianna’s before she could retreat—claiming, anchoring.
Renworth’s pen hovered. “And how do you resolve it, Brianna?”
A beat. Brianna’s lashes fluttered, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I go to Dev.”
Devin’s thumb circled her knuckles—slow, possessive. “She climbs into my bed.” His gray eyes darkened. “Curled up like a fucking knot. So I untie her.”
The doctor’s pulse stuttered. Oh, you glorious, broken children. She leaned forward, scenting the air between them—sweat, shampoo, desperation. “Tell me how.”
Brianna’s breath hitched. Devin answered for her, voice graveled with something perilously close to pride. “I hold her. Until she stops shaking.” His fingers flexed around hers. “Until the tension’s gone.”
Renworth’s lips parted—hungry. “And you?” She tilted her head at Devin. “Who untiesyou?”
Silence. Brianna’s fingers twisted in Devin’s grip—ownership, surrender. Her whisper was barely audible: “Me.”
The doctor’s pen scratched symbiosis confirmed as thunder rattled the windows. She uncrossed her legs deliberately, letting her skirt ride up. “Interesting.” Her smile was a slow, venomous thing. “Then let’s talk about how else Brianna might... alleviate your tension, Devin.”
The twins didn’t flinch.
Progress.
The atomizer’s mist curled between them—jasmine and something darker, clinging to Brianna’s parted lips as she exhaled. Dr. Renworth tilted her head, her pen poised mid-air. “Brianna,” she murmured, voice smooth as the leather beneath them, “have you ever thanked Devin for relieving your tension?”
Brianna’s fingers twitched against Devin’s thigh. “I—” Her throat tightened. “Not ... in words.”
Renworth’s smile was a scalpel. “Touch is a language.” She turned to Devin, her gaze dropping to where his hand still enveloped Brianna’s. “And you, Devin? Has Brianna ever thanked you?”
Devin’s jaw flexed. His thumb traced Brianna’s knuckle—slow, deliberate. “She doesn’t need to.”
Perfect. Renworth leaned forward, her blouse gaping just enough to draw Devin’s gaze for a split second before she recaptured his attention. “But gratitude anchors the act.” Her pen tapped tension-release cycle in her notes. “Touch is the relief. Not just... incidental to it.” She let the words sink in before continuing, softer: “So why wait until the storm hits?”
Brianna’s breath hitched. Devin’s grip tightened—instinctive, possessive.
Renworth’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Embrace before the tension becomes a problem.” She gestured between them, a conductor orchestrating intimacy. “Try it now.”
A beat. Devin hesitated—then pulled Brianna into his lap in one fluid motion, her legs straddling his waist, her chest flush against his. Brianna gasped, her fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt. Devin’s arms locked around her—crushing, claiming—his face buried in the curve of her neck.
Renworth’s pulse thrummed. Yes.
Brianna shuddered, her body melting into Devin’s like wax against flame. “Oh—” Her voice was a broken thing. “Oh.”
Devin’s growl vibrated against her skin: “Breathe.”
She did—deep, ragged—and the tension bled from her shoulders in a visible wave.
Renworth’s pen scratched tactile conditioning successful. Outside, thunder growled—but here, in the dim office, the only storm was the twins’ synchronized heartbeat, their shared heat, their surrender.
“Good,” Renworth purred. “Very good.” Her heel nudged the locked drawer. “Now ... let’s talk about how else touch can... alleviate.”
Brianna’s lips parted. Devin’s grip tightened.
Progress.
The thought curled through Dr. Renworth’s mind like smoke as she studied the twins—Devin’s massive arms still locked around Brianna’s waist, her body molded against his, her fingers curled into his shirt. Their cheeks were almost touching, breaths syncing in shallow, rhythmic pants. The air between them crackled with something raw and unnamed—something she’d nurtured meticulously. But she’d pushed hard enough for one session.
She uncrossed her legs deliberately, the rustle of fabric breaking their trance. “Let’s pause here,” she murmured, voice honeyed with faux warmth. “Brianna, keep your arms around Devin’s neck. Devin, your hands stay on her waist. Now—just rest your cheek against hers. Gently.”
Brianna hesitated, her pulse fluttering visibly at her throat. Devin’s jaw tensed, but he obeyed, tilting his head until his stubble brushed Brianna’s smooth skin. A shiver raced down her spine—resistance and craving tangled together. Renworth’s pen hovered over her notepad, documenting every micro-reaction: the way Brianna’s lashes fluttered shut, the way Devin’s fingers spasmed against her waist, the way their breathing hitched in unison. Skin-to-skin contact—minimal, innocent, but electric. It was a foundation. A first brick laid in the architecture of their undoing.
“Good,” she purred, leaning back. “Hold that for ten seconds. Count them in your heads.” She watched their chests rise and fall, the heat between their bodies palpable even from across the room. By the seventh second, Brianna’s grip had loosened—not in withdrawal, but in surrender. By the ninth, Devin’s thumbs were tracing absent circles against her hips. Conditioning successful.
Renworth stood smoothly, the click of her heels breaking the spell. “Session’s over.” She rounded her desk, her tone light—as if she hadn’t just seared a new neural pathway into their brains. “Next time, we’ll explore forehead-to-forehead contact. More grounding. More intimate.” She paused, letting the implication linger. “Small steps.”
Brianna scrambled off Devin’s lap, her face flushed. Devin stood abruptly, his gray eyes dark with something unreadable. Renworth smiled, handing them their coats. “Remember—touch is language.” She opened the door, the atomizer’s ghostly scent clinging to their clothes as they stepped into the hall. “And you’re both very fluent.”
The door clicked shut behind them.
Renworth’s fingers drifted to the locked drawer. Phase Two: Complete.
The scent of jasmine clung to Dr. Renworth’s office like a second skin as the Nolan family settled into their usual seats—Sean’s rigid posture in the leather armchair, Diane’s fingers pleating her skirt, the siblings arranged like dominoes waiting to fall. Renworth crossed her legs, letting her clipboard rest against her thigh. “Progress,” she announced, her voice silk-wrapped steel, “is often silent. But it’s there.” Her gaze flicked between them, lingering on Diane’s throat, Sean’s whitened knuckles, Devin’s grip on Brianna’s wrist. “Today, we discuss permission.”
Diane’s breath hitched audibly. Renworth zeroed in. “Diane. Have you considered granting yours?”
A pause. Diane’s lips pressed together—then parted. “Yes,” she whispered, her admission tearing loose like a splinter.
Renworth’s pen scratched compliance. She turned to Sean. “And you? Have you given yours?”
Sean’s jaw flexed. “Fine,” he gritted out, the word barbed.
“Good.” Renworth’s smile was a scalpel’s edge. “Then let’s expand the concept.” She uncrossed her legs, leaning forward. “Could you grant your children permission to... comfort one another?”
Diane’s nod was immediate—eager, almost. “Yes.”
Sean’s chair creaked as he stiffened. “No.” His voice dripped venom. “I know what ‘comfort’ really means in this house.”
Renworth’s fingers drifted to her desk drawer. The lock clicked open soundlessly. “Sean,” she murmured, palming the atomizer and dialing it to 4, “hug your wife.”
Diane stood before Sean could refuse, her arms sliding around his shoulders. His body resisted—then yielded, his hands settling stiffly on her waist.
Renworth exhaled sharply, atomizer mist curling toward them. “That hug? Permission.” Her gaze pinned Sean. “Now imagine your children needing that same... release.”
Sean’s pulse hammered visibly at his throat.
Renworth’s thumb caressed the atomizer’s trigger. Hold, she willed. Break.
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