A stressed executive visits a...

The coffee burned my tongue, but I barely flinched. Another Monday, another ulcer blooming in my stomach like a toxic flower. My assistant had already rescheduled this appointment twice—Dr. Marcus Chen, hypnotherapist, recommended by my boss after I’d snapped at the CFO during last quarter’s review.

“Just try it,” Patricia had said, sliding his card across my mahogany desk. “He’s supposed to be magic with Type-A train wrecks.”

I’d almost taken offense. Instead, I’d pocketed the card, told myself I was above this sort of hippie nonsense. Yet three weeks later I was climbing the stairs to his second-floor suite above a florist, clutching a water bottle like it might save me from drowning.

The waiting room smelled of sandalwood and something darker—vetiver, maybe. No receptionist, just a fountain murmuring in the corner and a single leather chair. Before I could sit, a door opened.

“Elena Wilcox?” His voice poured over my name like warm syrup, and every muscle in my neck unclenched at once. I hadn’t even seen his face yet; the sound alone hooked me through the sternum and tugged.

I stepped into the office. He was taller than I’d expected, mid-forties, black hair threaded with silver at the temples. A charcoal sweater pushed up to the elbows revealed rope-veined forearms. Intelligent eyes the color of storm clouds took inventory of me: silk blouse still crisp despite the day, pencil skirt, Louboutins that cost more than most people’s rent. My armor.

“Come in. Make yourself comfortable.” He gestured to a reclining chair upholstered in buttery leather. Not the clinical chaise I’d pictured—this looked like something you’d find in a private jet. I sank into it before I could overthink.

He closed the door. The click of the latch sounded…final.

“First session is about mapping the territory,” he said, rolling a stool closer. His knees almost brushed mine. “Tell me what brought you here.”

I gave him the sanitized version: insomnia, irritability, heart racing at 3 a.m. for no reason. I didn’t mention the fantasies that ambushed me when I was supposedly working—filthy, foreign scenarios that left me wet and ashamed under my desk. I’d been having them more frequently since I hit forty-three, as if my libido had waited patiently for midlife to stage a coup.

Marcus listened without writing anything down. When I finished, he nodded slowly. “Anxiety is often a gatekeeper. Once we calm it, we sometimes find more interesting rooms behind it.”

Interesting rooms. An odd phrase, but it fluttered through me like a trapped moth.

He had me focus on a small silver pendulum. “Nothing mystical,” he assured. “Just a focal point to quiet the analytical chatter.” The pendant swung, catching the lamplight. Ten minutes later I was floating, aware of his questions only as gentle ripples across the surface of my mind. When he told me to open my eyes, thirty minutes had passed. I felt as if I’d slept for days.

“Same time Wednesday?” he asked, walking me out. His hand brushed the small of my back—nothing overt, yet heat pooled low in my belly. I told myself it was transference or some psychobabble cliché.

I slept eight dreamless hours that night. Tuesday I closed a merger without yelling at anyone. By Wednesday I was desperate to see him again, though I chalked it up to relief.

Session two followed the same pattern: the chair, the pendulum, his voice slipping past my defenses like smoke under a door. He guided me down a staircase, each step dissolving tension. At the bottom he planted innocuous suggestions: You are safe in your body. You can choose when to work and when to rest. Standard protocol, I assumed. Yet when I emerged, my nipples ached against my lace bra, and my panties were damp. I escaped quickly, mortified and electrified.

All week I replayed the cadence of his sentences. In the shower I tasted syllables he’d never spoken aloud—Good girl, Elena. On my knees in the steam, I came with the water pounding my scalp, horrified by how easily I’d shattered.

Friday night I drank an entire bottle of Barolo trying to scrub his timbre from my ears. It didn’t work. I booked the next available slot online, waiving the usual forty-eight-hour buffer. Desperate looked good on no one, but here I was.

Session three. Rain lashed the windows, and thunder growled like distant artillery. I arrived soaked, my usual composure in tatters. Marcus took my coat, fingers grazing my collarbone as he lifted my hair free. I shivered, and not from cold.

“Bad week?” he asked.

“The worst.” I didn’t elaborate. He already knew; my hands were trembling.

“Let’s begin.”

I expected the pendulum. Instead he dimmed the lights until the room balanced on the edge of twilight. He sat across from me, knees touching, and held my gaze. No props. Just those storm-cloud eyes.

“Breathe with me, Elena.”

We inhaled together. Exhaled. His voice wound around me, softer than before. “You’ve done well, but we need to go deeper. Past the anxiety, past the spreadsheets and deadlines. Past the good-girl executive who never missteps.”

My throat tightened. “I’m not—”

“Shh. You hired me to guide you. Trust that I know the way.”

Something inside me folded. I nodded.

He led me down the familiar staircase, only this time he kept going past where we’d stopped before. Darker corridors. Older doors. Cobwebbed hinges. With every step I felt lighter, as if he were unzipping the Elena-skin I wore for the world.

At the bottom he paused. “Here lies the part you’ve locked away. The part that aches to surrender. I can help you open this door, but only if you ask nicely.”

Surrender. The word detonated behind my ribs. I’d built my life on control—Harvard MBA, corner office, shareholder meetings where men twice my age jumped when I frowned. Yet beneath that scaffolding lived a raw, humming want I’d never named. It terrified me. It thrilled me.

I swallowed. “Please,” I whispered, voice cracking like a schoolgirl’s.

“Good girl.”

Pleasure spiked through me so sharply I moaned. The sound startled us both. Heat flooded my cheeks.

“Interesting,” he murmured. “Your reward system responds to verbal approval. We can use that.”

He had me imagine the door: heavy oak, iron hinges, my initials carved into the grain. Behind it, pulsing crimson light. He counted backward from five. On one, the door swung inward, and a cyclone of longing swept through me—decades of repressed appetite, nights I’d bitten pillows to keep from begging lovers to take me harder, uglier, dirtier. My knees parted of their own accord. The leather creaked.

Marcus’s hand settled on my forearm, feather-light yet seismic. “Breathe. Let the sensations surface without judgment.”

I panted, hips tilting toward emptiness. His thumb stroked the inside of my wrist, finding my galloping pulse. “There’s my girl. So eager.”

My womb clenched. I’d never been anyone’s girl—always the woman, the boss, the one in charge. Being reduced to this quivering creature should have enraged me. Instead it felt like coming home.

He continued, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “You will remember everything when you awaken, but you’ll also remember how safe you felt letting go. How natural it felt to obey.”

Obey. Another detonation. I whimpered.

“Would you like to please me, Elena?”

My head bobbed frantically before conscious thought could intervene.

“Words.”

“Yes…Sir.” The honorific slipped out, shocking me. His pupils dilated, black swallowing gray.

“Excellent. When I count to three, you’ll open your eyes feeling refreshed, aroused, and desperate to follow my instructions. One…two…three.”

Awareness snapped into place like a camera lens focusing. I was soaked, nipples diamond-hard, face flaming. He watched me assemble myself, a faint smile playing at his lips.

“How do you feel?”

“Like…someone else,” I admitted.

“Or perhaps more yourself than ever.” He stood, offering a hand. I took it, legs Jell-O. “Your homework: every night before bed you’ll touch yourself while repeating ‘I obey Dr. Chen.’ You’ll stop before climax. Edge yourself for ten minutes, then go to sleep hungry. Understood?”

The directive should have been laughable. Instead my pussy throbbed in helpless affirmation. “Understood.”

“Good girl.”

I nearly came from the words alone.

I lasted four days. Each night I followed his instructions to the letter, circling my clit until my thighs shook, then backing off, whispering the mantra until it coated my psyche like latex. By Saturday I was delirious, snapping at baristas, forgetting entire conversations. Sunday morning I emailed him: Please, I need another session. Today, if possible.

His reply arrived within minutes: 6 p.m. Don’t wear underwear.

I spent the day in a frenzy of waxing, moisturizing, selecting a wrap dress the color of merlot—demure enough for public, easy access in private. No panties. The silk lining grazed my bare lips with every step, keeping me swollen and slick.

He buzzed me in promptly at six. The florist downstairs was closed; the building silent. Anticipation crackled along my skin as I climbed the stairs. He met me at the door, gaze darkening as it traveled from my stilettos to the loose knot at my waist.

“Beautiful,” he said, voice roughened. “And obedient. I wasn’t certain you’d comply.”

“I barely slept,” I confessed.

“Good. Sleep is overrated. Come.”

Inside, the office looked different. Candles flickered on low tables. A plush rug had replaced the usual Afghan. The recliner remained, but beside it stood a straight-backed chair that reminded me of a throne.

He directed me to stand in the center of the rug. “Eyes on me.” Slowly, deliberately, he unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled his sleeves. Veins roped across his forearms. My mouth watered.

“Repeat after me: I am yours to command.”

I faltered. Not from reluctance—my throat simply locked under the weight of desire.

He stepped closer, knuckles grazing my cheek. “Trust, Elena. You’ve already jumped. I’m merely catching you.”

“I am yours to command,” I breathed.

“Again.”

“I am yours to command.” The confession tasted like sacrament.

He untied my dress, letting it fall open. Cool air kissed my breasts, my belly, the slick heat between my legs. I stood exposed while fully clothed himself; the imbalance liquefied my bones.

“Kneel.”

I folded gracefully, kneecaps meeting the rug. He circled me, predator savoring prey. “Hands behind your back. Grasp opposite elbows.” The posture thrust my breasts forward, spine arched. I’d never felt more on display—or more powerful in my surrender.

He sat in the throne-like chair. “Crawl to me.”

I did, swaying across the rug, desire dripping down my thighs. When I reached his feet, he spread his knees. “Place your cheek here.” I nestled against his inner thigh, inhaling cedar and arousal. His pulse thudded beneath my ear.

“Tell me what you want.”

“To please you,” I whispered, surprising myself with the truth.

He tipped my chin up. “Specificity, Elena.”

“To taste you. To serve your cock.” The words shot straight from id to air, filthy and earnest.

He groaned, low. “Such a fast learner.” Unzipping, he freed himself—thick, veined, crown already beaded. “Open.”

I swallowed him greedily, saliva flooding. He allowed me to set the rhythm for thirty seconds, then fisted my hair, taking control. My world narrowed to the slide of hot flesh over my tongue, the guttural sounds he made, the scent of sex thickening the room.

“Eyes on me.”

I looked up through tears of effort. Something in his expression shifted—possessive, tender, dangerous. He held my gaze as he thrust deeper, nudging the back of my throat. I relaxed, let him in. My pussy clenched around nothing, desperate.

He pulled out abruptly, leaving me gasping. “Stand.” He helped me up, hands steadying my waist. “Bend over the recliner.” I obeyed, breasts pillowed against cool leather, ass presented. He kicked my heels wider. “Hold the arms.”

I heard the rasp of a zipper—his pants pooling—then foil tearing. Condom. Gratitude mingled with disappointment; I wanted every part of him bare, wanted to carry his seed for days. Later, perhaps. For now, the crinkle of latex was promise enough.

He teased my entrance with the head, gathering moisture. “Who do you belong to tonight?”

“You, Sir.”

“Whose pleasure comes first?”

“Yours.”

He slammed home in one stroke. I screamed—relief, triumph, surrender. He set a brutal pace, hips slapping my ass, fingers digging into my waist. Each thrust drove air from my lungs in punched grunts. The recliner skidded across the floor.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he growled. “Made for this. Made for me.”

I could only moan, rocking back to meet him. Pressure coiled low, savage. My climax hovered just out of reach, fed by every denial of the past nights.

He reached beneath me, pinching my clit. “Come when I say. Not before.”

I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper, battling the tidal wave. He pounded harder, angling so the head dragged across my G-spot again and again. Stars burst behind my eyes.

“Now, Elena. Come for me.”

I unraveled, keening, contractions wringing his cock. He followed on the next thrust, shouting my name like a conquering war cry. We collapsed against the chair, hearts hammering in sync.

Later—minutes? hours?—he eased out, disposed of the condom, wrapped me in a soft throw. He sat with me on the rug, my back to his chest, both of us slick with sweat.

“How do you feel?” he asked, lips in my hair.

“Reassembled,” I said, surprising us both. It was true: the anxious executive, the closet submissive, the hungry woman—pieces fused into something fiercer than the original whole.

He chuckled. “Hypnosis is just the key. You walked through the door.”

I turned to straddle him, blanket falling away. “Will you keep the door open?”

“For as long as you want to walk through it.” His hands traced the curve of my ass, possessive but gentle. “But understand: this power exchange exists inside these walls. Outside, you still run boardrooms. I’ll never diminish that.”

I kissed him, slow and deep. “Maybe I need both. Maybe I need you to remind me who I am when the mask slips.”

He smiled against my mouth. “Then schedule standing appointments. Friday nights. You’ll arrive ready, leave complete.”

I felt the truth of it settle in my bones. No more sleepless nights wrestling shadows. I’d found a conductor for my chaos, a keeper for my secrets.

We dressed in comfortable silence. At the door he paused, brushed a thumb over my lower lip—still swollen from his cock. “One last suggestion,” he murmured. “When work feels overwhelming, press your tongue to the roof of your mouth. Remember how it felt taking me deep. Breathe. You’ll find clarity.”

I tested it—tongue to palate, inhale. Instant calm, threaded with illicit heat. Magic, indeed.

Outside, rain had stopped. The city smelled scoured, newborn. I walked to my car, heels clicking, dress caressing bare skin, mantra thrumming under my pulse: I obey Dr. Chen. I obey.

For the first time in years, I wasn’t running from myself—I was racing toward who I might become. Fridays couldn’t come fast enough.