The room was baroque and elegant, accompanied by a gentle oaky scent. The late hour and the soft glow of candlelight enhanced the overall atmosphere. He’d always had a taste for the classical.
While he enjoyed the office in his clinic, his home office provided a much larger and more comfortable space for his most discreet work. The walls were lined with a collection of texts and case files, occasionally interrupted by strange objects and sculptures of intertwined figurines.
A solitary ray of artificial light pierced through the room as he settled into a leather armchair, a laptop open in front of him.
He's watching the video.
Her humiliation. Her forced obedience. Her primal forbidden pleasure. Her surrender.
"Thank you so much for my treatment."
Such a pretty little smile. So ruined. A beautiful moment of submission. She truly was made to serve, even if she doesn’t know it yet. She’s so beautifully damaged and desperate.
His own voice plays from the speakers.
"This is how it will be every week. In this environment, you will be my object."
Yes. That's it. The words ring in his mind.
"Every. Week."
He stirs with feral anticipation.
It had been a long time since he had had a true project. Not a client or a patient. No. He’d known since the very day she walked into his office. She was going to be different.
He wanted more. More control.
He'd seen her type so many times, always so eager to be owned, so desperate to be used, but never quite like this. He wouldn't let her slip away. Not this one.
She was a gift. One he intended to keep.
He'd already decided how he was going to do it. Every session she had revealed another vulnerability, another weakness. He would break her down and slowly, purposefully, reconstruct her as something new.
Deep down, she wants this. There is nothing that will convince him otherwise now.
The camera and the contract were just the start. The decision has been made.
He opens his email client, with some select individuals already pre-filled as recipients, and attaches the video. With a smile, he clicks send.
She’s going to be magnificent.
Another week.
After your latest session, you feel as if you are living two lives now: one of the public and one that is shaped and sculpted by the therapist. The conspiracy you are now living threatens to tear your life and relationships apart in a tornado of taboo.
But it’s so deliciously exciting.
Despite being twice lured in and reduced to a brainless cocksleeve, in your daily life, your mannerisms and behaviours have been slowly blossoming into something new.
Your confidence is soaring. Family and colleagues compliment you on how well you seem to be doing. Male colleagues seem to approach you more now; they flirt with you, and their eyes drift over and linger on you. You catch yourself spending more time on your appearance and even flirting back. If only they knew the truth—how much of a slut you really are.
You're falling in love with the idea of it.
You were always known as the shy girl. Mild manners and always polite. Now there are more eyes on you than ever.
You’ve never felt so wanted. So desired. The attention you’re receiving gives you a high. And you’re starting to crave more. At any cost.
You catch yourself thinking a dangerous thought.
Maybe his 'treatment' is working after all. Maybe he's right. Maybe you really do crave being used by men.
The sessions with the therapist have had intense aftereffects. Despite the disgusting way he treats you, you can't sleep without waking up feeling him inside you. Without dreaming of his smooth voice and thick cock. Your skin is hot. You can't stop touching yourself.
You were raised to be better than this. You know that these thoughts are a sickness, but you can't bring yourself to cure it.
After all, you're not a victim here. You chose this. You’re choosing this.
Right?
Your slowly changing dress sense and the reactions of the men in your day-to-day life only serve to create a beautiful cycle of addiction, stoking the flames of your forbidden thoughts. Whenever you catch a man’s gaze, you think of the therapist’s cruel smile and dangerously melodic voice. You think of his words. His scent. About being his good girl.
It makes your clit throb every time.
He’s filled you with his seed twice now. All on film. Birth control has kept you from pregnancy so far, but even if you wanted to stop him breeding you, you're not sure you could. He’s a medical professional, after all. You know how influential he is. How powerful he is. You know what he can do to you.
The thought of your belly and tits swelling for his children makes you shiver with excitement. It’s deliciously tempting to throw away the pills and place yourself in his office, spreading yourself, ready for him to ruthlessly claim your fertile body and fill your eager womb.
As you fantasise about the therapist manipulating you into bearing his offspring, you have a terrifying realisation. If he
did
demand to breed you, you don’t think you would be able to resist.
The thought only makes you moan and rub harder.
What the hell is wrong with you?
The evening before the appointment, a package arrives. You didn't order anything. You check the label.
It's from him.
"I'm looking forward to our catch-up. I've noticed your progress. I believe in positive reinforcement; enjoy this as a reward. Do remember our rules on appearances. See you tomorrow."
Despite the condescending tone, you tear open the packaging like a giddy schoolgirl.
Inside is a smooth dark dress, still sealed, and a pair of dazzling silver high-heeled sandals.
How did he know your measurements?
The question is rinsed away by your excitement. You can't resist trying them on.
The dress fits perfectly. It's soft and thin in texture and leaves little to the imagination. You’ve never owned a piece like this before. By your standards, it’s daring but classy, crafted to tempt onlookers and envelop it's wearer in an aura of mystique. You run your hands over the silk. He'll be expecting you to wear it, of course.
The shoes are platformed and are higher than anything you’ve ever worn. They force you to stand tall, and demand that you take careful, measured steps. The light from your bedroom lamp reflects off the glistening surface, further advertising your vulnerability.
You can’t imagine how much all of this must have cost.
You ignore the fact that he’s dressing you like a doll for his own pleasure. You forget about the likelihood that you will be ruined on film in such a delicate outfit and that you are being configured for the male gaze. Instead, you beam at your reflection in the bedroom mirror, focusing on the flowering feelings of being special. Like a deluded princess under a spell.
The night is long and restless, filled with visions of your wonderfully twisted therapy, the camera, the dress, the scents,
him
.
Your alarm rings at an early hour. You diligently follow the process, religiously applying your makeup, nail polish, and setting your hair. You decide to add some items of your own choice. A delicate silver necklace, earrings, and a bracelet.
For underwear, you select matching black lacy lingerie. You’ve worn them once, trying them on a long time ago. Since then, they have lain dormant in your wardrobe, waiting for a date or a worthy suitor. You never had the confidence or opportunity to use them properly. That will change today.
You smile as you dress yourself in them. You can’t wait to see his face. His stunned silence. You wrap and layer yourself in the brand-new garments, like an expensive gift. You slip into the heels and gaze in awe at your reflection. The girl in the full-length mirror is unrecognisable. Slowly, but surely, you are being transformed into someone else.
The taxi driver tasked with conveying you to your damnation is the same as last week. He can hardly take his eyes off you. You don’t comment; you simply flash an understanding smile. You sit back slowly, folding one leg over another in the rear seat of the car. The dress glides up your figure, rewarding his audacity and appreciation of your efforts with the best view.
He slows down to better indulge his eyes during the journey.
And to avoid crashing.
You emerge from the taxi like a movie star. Approaching the clinic feels different this time. Your pulse races as you gaze at the building in reverence. His office has become so much more now. It’s a site of transformation. A temple to your weakness. A church of beautiful corruption.
The receptionist eyes your dress, but this time her gaze lingers. She can see how much care and effort went into preparing for today. Her judgement is clear, but she does not comment.
