Like Winning The Lottery

Author's note: I'd like to thank MasterBaiter for his assistance in editing and reviewing this story. It's the first one I've written in this category, and his help was much appreciated.

This is a story about a woman whose husband and his doctor are using hypnosis to manipulate her sexually. It's not a story about magical, instant, complete mind-control. It's also something that's clearly unethical and nothing I'd condone in real life. But I do hope it makes for a good yarn.

Thanks

Belle

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It all started when we won the lottery. I mean, Dean bought the ticket, so technically he won. But we'd been married for six years, so it was community property or whatever. That was a year and a half ago, and I have to write this down because I can't believe what all has changed. I'm afraid if I don't write it now I won't remember to. Or I won't care. There has to be some record. Someone needs to know what happened to me; why I'm so different. Why I quit the job I loved, and why I never hang out with my friends. Why I'm so forgetful. Why none of that matters to me any more.

I don't think all this happened because of the lottery. But it couldn't have happened if we hadn't won. Dean told the doctor about having all that money, and the doctor realized we could afford his special treatments.

I watched the videos; I read some of the notes. Sitting in that office, with the two of them watching me, expecting some kind of reaction. All I can think is, who was that? Who was that opinionated, assertive woman in the beginning? Was she really me?

We just got home. He said he'd leave me alone. He said he knew I needed time to sort through things. He said they have a way to make it better. Not fix it, I don't think. But maybe make me less upset by the changes. How many times have I said that to delusional people? That the meds won't make them stop believing what they believe, they'll just be less annoyed that other people don't.

He said that the final decision would be mine. But I'm not sure that's true. I'm not sure I can make any decision he doesn't want me to make.

Hold on.

I just found the diary that I'd started when we got married. My sister had given me the first one as a birthday present years and years ago; one of those gratitude journal things where you write a little each day. By the time I met Dean it was a ritual; every evening sometime between dinner and bed, I'd spend ten minutes writing about my day. When we got married I'd switched to an electronic version; just a document that I password protected. My last entry is from three months ago.

I'm going to copy some of what I'd written before, then add to it. I may send this to my sister. Or maybe my friend Breanne. I don't know what they'll do with it. Maybe they won't even believe it.

Or maybe I'll just keep this to remind myself who I was. It's so confusing now. It's so hard to think. God I'm so horny. Bastard.

I'm including this for background:

21 June 2012:

I'm writing this on my first night as a married woman. Yep, Dean and I just got married! It's so wonderful. I can't believe my luck. I never thought I'd find someone who'd accept me for who I am, flaws and all. I remember that first night we met (back when I was still doing crisis intervention and was in the emergency room all the time), I thought he was kind of an asshole. Ha ha. He's not though. He just knows what he wants, and I can't blame him for that, I'm the same way. Anyway, I'm not going to write for long. I've got better things to be doing. Wink, wink. But I had to write something. I'm so giddy and happy. I can't stop smiling. He's so handsome, so smart, so funny. All newly married women should think this about their husbands. But I really do. Well, that's enough. More later.

I met Dean ten years ago. He's an emergency room doctor, and I am (or was) a clinical social worker. At the time I was working for the local mental health agency, and I'd be in the ER doing evaluations on people, to see if they needed psychiatric treatment. I did think he was an asshole at first.

He was typical of some doctors in that he thought his time was wasted examining mentally ill people. Since the problem seemed obvious, why did he need to examine them, argue with them about blood work, put up with the disruption? I remember the first time I really let him have it, after he made a snide remark to one of the nurses about a guy I'd just finished talking to. What surprised me was after I stopped ranting he asked to get coffee.

When we talked he apologized. He said it was hard for him to understand the people with mental illnesses: the delusions, hallucinations, the odd behavior. He said "give me something I can see on an x-ray or shows up in bloodwork. That I know how to fix." I talked about how frustrating it was to see someone ignored, just because they were acting weird.

He'd listened thoughtfully, far more interested that I'd expected. He asked me why I did the job I did. So, I told him, like I've told so many people: I was always the girl in school who people came to with their problems; that I've always had a knack for listening to people. Then I'd talked to him about what it was like for me, doing the crisis work, the evaluations. That sense of almost instant gratification when you've spent time with someone who's so upset. When you've helped them find a solution they'd never see on their own.

That he understood. He laughed and called me an adrenaline junky. I started to argue, but he confessed his own addiction to the rush of instant gratification, of patching someone up well enough that they could survive the next part of whatever treatment they needed. I was nodding along by then, realizing that we were speaking of the same things, just in different frames of reference.

Then we talked for a long time about the stresses of our jobs. What we liked about the jobs; what we hated about the system. What and who we'd change if we had absolute power.

"Absolute power". That was his phrase.

After that I'd see him trying to take more time with people, paying as much attention to what they said as to what the tests revealed. He started waiting around until my shift ended, or I'd come up with excuses to talk to him. We had coffee a few more times and then he asked me out on a date. We had a lot of fun, and just kept seeing each other. The next thing I knew, we'd been going out for months.

It's all so hazy now, what I liked about him then. I know that I love him. I know that I've loved him for a long time. I know that I feel safe around him. But I can't separate what I loved about him before from what my mind and my body are telling me now. What's the foundation, and what's the façade that got erected.

I vaguely remember being impressed at his sense of humor. Not just the gallows humor that you find in so many doctors. He has that, too. He can crack an inappropriate joke that leaves me shocked and laughing at the same time. And he's never batted an eye at the inappropriate jokes I make. But aside from that, he's just funny. And self deprecating, once I got to know him. He'd grown up so hard, went through so much so young. Once I got under that shell there was real compassion there. That's what really did it. That's what made me want to be with him. At least, that's what I think now.

It's hazy now, too, what he likes about me. Aside from my body and what I'm willing to do with it. This fog comes over me and it smudges the edges of my memories. The tender moments, the sad moments. He used to marvel at my memory, and now it's in pieces. He used to say I made him laugh more than anyone else he knew, and now I can't tell when I'm joking. He used to say he loved how I didn't take bullshit from anyone. And now. Now, I don't know if I'm coming or going, and I'm not around enough people to worry about bullshit.

He kept saying, today, that all he was trying to do was make things better. He said I'd gotten so sad, after my parents died. He said I was having nightmares, and he really thought the doctor who'd helped him could help me too. He kept saying that he wasn't really trying to change so much, but something got out of hand. I'm not sure I believe that either. He said something worked too well. I keep trying to think about how I was before, whenever that was. How we were before.

Now all I can think about is his dick. But I can't think about that, or I'll forget what I'm doing.

His dick. It's beautiful. It's the perfect length and the perfect girth, and it smells great. His head is the perfect proportion to the shaft, and it's a beautiful color. It's so velvety when he's hard. His veins are so thick and ropey. His balls hang just low enough to be fun to play with. To suck on and lick and pull into my mouth. His pubes. I don't even mind them. They soak up his smell, and I get to rub it all over my nose when he fucks my face. It's the best smell. The best perfume. Except for his cum. Oh God. His spunk. Jizz. Seed. Semen. Fuck juice. Makes my mouth water.

God, what did I just write? I should delete that. No, it's evidence.

You know what I noticed about Dean first? His voice. It's kind of low, kind of gravely. He's got just a hint of a southern accent, but he wouldn't tell me where he was from for the longest time. He didn't want anyone to know. When we were alone together, his accent would get just a little stronger, and I'd try to guess. The first time we had sex, when he was whispering in my ear, my God. His voice just vibrated on my neck in the best possible way.

Then I noticed his eyes. He's taller than me, of course, everyone is. So it wasn't until that first coffee in the hospital cafeteria that I got a chance to look him in the eye. They're green, a dark green with little flecks of light brown. So expressive. When he smiles, really smiles, they almost glitter. When he's angry they look shades darker. Against his light olive complexion and his dark brown hair, his eyes really stand out.

Now he's using his voice and his eyes against me. I can't look away from him, and now if he just says a few words I'm like clay in his hands. To be molded and formed to do what he wants. To crave what he wants. To think only of what pleasures him, and not think about what I want.

Writing that down just now made me scared and so wet I think I'm going to leave a stain on this chair. Bastard. Master.

Here's more:

14 June 2018:

Dean and I just had a huge fight. I'm so angry, I'm not sure I can write. But I'm so angry I think I have to. It's a week before our anniversary. He's been in such a bad mood lately. I know they're short staffed at the hospital, and he's been working over. But I'm tired of him taking it out on me. My department at my hospital is short staffed too, and I've been working over too. But I don't yell at him for bullshit reasons, or criticize every fucking thing he does. I don't tell him that because he's a doctor he should just put up with my moods. I don't... He just came in and apologized. He said a kid he worked on died, and he found out just as he got home.

By then I'd started working at a local psychiatric hospital. It was a big change from the crisis work I'd done for so long. I'd been ready for a change. More stable hours; better pay. But it was almost like the stability in my job created conflicts that hadn't been there before. I started seeing a side of him that I didn't think had been there before. He was suspicious in a way he hadn't been, and seemed irritated all the time.

15 June 2018:

We talked a lot. He's going to the hospital's employee assistance program. He says he's ready to talk to someone. He said that he's finally ready to talk about not just the stress of his work, but all that crap he had to deal with when he was a kid. He hardly ever talks about it. He's had regular nightmares for a long time. And while he won't tell me details, he's told me enough to know that there was an abusive alcoholic dad, and an overworked practically single mom who tried to be around but couldn't. There was an older sister who turned out like dad, and a younger brother. Something happened with or to the younger brother, but Dean's never, never told me. He's hinted at real trouble between him and his sister. I've still never met any of his family. I'm proud of him. I've been worried about him. I hope it helps. It's been rough around here lately, and that fight last night really scared me. I was afraid of him for a minute. I've never been afraid of. No that's not true. It's just that I haven't been afraid of anyone since I've been an adult. Since that guy in college.

He started counseling, and it helped. The employee assistance person recommended a psychiatrist who specialized in trauma, who had experience working with doctors and other professionals in high stress jobs. Who used hypnotherapy and sometimes a special cocktail of medicine to deal with old traumas and protect against new ones. After Dean had been seeing him a while, that's when things got weird for me.

21 June 2018:

What a fucking day! Our anniversary, and he wins the lottery. He never even plays, usually. I'm afraid to write down how much, so that'll have to wait. We just got back from dinner. It was really nice. He bought me a beautiful pair of diamond earrings, and I got him a new watch. He's calling my name, he said there was one more surprise.

I never wrote this down, but his other anniversary surprise was shrooms. I'd tried those when I was in college, and remembered joking with him about how they were the only drug other than alcohol that I'd do again. I relaxed and enjoyed the trip. It was just as fun as the first time, and when we had sex. Jesus. That was amazing.

Sex with him now is mind blowing. He's like a god in bed. He does everything right. Every place he touches me is exactly where I want to be touched. Everything he does is what I want, even if it's not something I've ever wanted before. Just knowing that's what he wants is enough. When he's inside me that's the best feeling in the world. I want his cock inside me all the time. I'll do anything for him to give me that. If he just favors me with his penis, his beautiful, perfectly formed, glorious cock. When I'm pleasing him, my life is complete. When he deigns to use my pussy, it's the greatest gift he can bestow.

Shit. I think I just had an orgasm from writing that. How the hell am I going to tell this story if I keep getting distracted like that?

14 September 2018

:

Dean asked me to go with him to counseling. He said that he and the doctor have really been working on the issues from his childhood, and there are some things he wants to tell me. But he wants the psychiatrist to be there in case it gets too upsetting for him. I have no problem with this. I want to be supportive of him, and I know it's been hard, talking about all that stuff. I do think it's helping. He seems happier and calmer over all. Hornier, too, but I'm not complaining about that. We'd been in a bit of a dry spell before that massive fight anyway. He said that they finally got the staffing issues sorted out at his work, and he's planning to take some time off. It'll be nice for him to be able to relax some. We started going on walks together most evenings. He said the psychiatrist (Dr. Samuels) recommended it. It's been kind of nice. Almost like our own ritual; afterward we sort of process the day. He's listening better. Oh, and, next week we're going to turn the lottery ticket in. We went to a lawyer and an accountant. ((It's $250million.!! MegaMillions!!)) It's a mind boggling amount of money. Dean's started saying that he won the lottery twice: once when I agreed to marry him, and once a few months ago. Ha, ha. I keep teasing that he's just saying that to get into my pants. Not that he didn't already have free access, right?

I don't wear pants anymore. Dean doesn't like them on me. He doesn't like me to wear underwear either. He says I should always be ready for him. I only wear short skirts, or tunic dresses. A lot of the time I don't wear anything at all. I gave away all my work clothes after I quit my job. I don't need a job. My only job is making sure that Dean is happy. My job is pleasing Dean. My job is pleasuring Dean. My life's work is to do exactly what Dean wants without him having to tell me. My reward is whatever he decides. My reward is him deciding to fuck me or use me, and it's bliss if he cums on me. My reward is whatever he wants. My reward is the knowledge that I've been able to help him have joy for a few minutes.

It's like I fall into a fog, as soon as I think about anything vaguely related to sex or pleasing him. My hands have been stilled on this keyboard for I don't know how long. I can feel my pussy throbbing from writing that last paragraph. I'm afraid to write this down, but I almost don't want to come out of the fog anymore.

Master. That feels so right, just typing it. Master.

21 September 2018:

Just finished the counseling session with Dean and his psychiatrist. It was kind of intense, but I'm not going to write here about what Dean talked about. Though truth be known, I'm not as clear on what he said as I should be. I kept getting distracted because the office was so fucking hot. The doctor said something about the A/C being broken. I feel bad, like I missed something important. But I can't really go to Dean and say "um, sooooo, what were you talking about earlier?" His psychiatrist seems nice. He was interested in what I do, and where I work. He knows some of the docs there. He kept saying Dean was lucky to have such a supportive and attentive partner. (If only he knew, right?) So, also, he has this thing about names. I think it's kind of cool. Weird, maybe, but cool. He talked about the power of names, and how someone's identity can be wrapped up in what they call themselves. How sometimes something as simple as changing a name can unlock a whole different side to someone. How sometimes making up silly names to call a part of you that you don't like, or even a silly name for a bad event can change the power that part or event has over you; can free you to feel differently. I really liked that. But it's kinda weird and new-agey coming from a psychiatrist, y'know.

When I got home, my underwear was folded up and in my purse. Looking back now, I should have been alarmed. But I just shrugged and thought something about not questioning Dr. Sam's methods.

No. I will never question Dr. Sam's methods. Dr. Sam saved my marriage. Dr. Sam saved my beloved husband Master's life. Dr. Sam is an amazing doctor, and the second most important person in my life. I will do anything Dr. Sam suggests, because he's only trying to help me please my beloved Master. Dr. Sam's cock is beautiful.

I feel so calm, thinking about Dr. Sam. There's a small part of my brain trying to tell me that something strange has happened to me, that I should be angry. But why would I be angry with the doctor who transformed my life? I'm so much happier than I was. I'm just here to make Dean's life better, and Dr. Sam is the one who helped me understand that.

Fuck me. Another fog. My hands are aching from typing so fast. But If I stop, I think I'll never start up again.

19 October 2018:

I've been going to see Dean's psychiatrist for a month now. He's such an amazing doctor! I wind up talking to him about so many things. He's told me that I need to trust him and be open with him so that I can help Dean, and help our marriage. Which I definitely want to do. It's odd, though, I still don't know much about what Dean said he wanted to talk about. Every time I go to Dr. Sam's office, I just wind up talking about myself. And there's always some part of the session that I don't remember well. I usually have a great memory. Dr. Sam said that I've had some trauma to work through too. Which is true. Both my parents died last year in a car crash. My sister and I had a huge falling out and didn't talk for a long time. There was the incident at work; the first time a patient ever hurt me. Anyway, he suggested I start taking that medication cocktail. He said it's just an antidepressant and some supplements. To help with sleep, and energy. I'm thinking about it. He actually set up some sessions for me to go on my own. With the lottery money, we don't have to worry about billing insurance. Some of my co-workers keep teasing me about why I'm still working. Dean even asked me if I wanted to quit. I said "would you quit?" He said (he ACTUALLY said OUT LOUD) "I'd quit in a heartbeat if that meant I could stay home and fuck you all day long" WTF? I mean that's flattering, for sure. But WTactualF?