The Hypnotist's Secret Command

The first time I walked into Dr. Marcus Chen's office, I was so tightly wound I could barely breathe. Sixty-hour work weeks had turned my shoulders into concrete blocks, and my sleep had devolved into three-hour nightmares where I frantically answered emails that didn't exist. My assistant had finally staged an intervention, sliding the business card across my desk with the same grim determination she reserved for firing people.

"Hypnotherapy changed my cousin's life," she'd said. "Either you call him, or I'm calling HR about your vacation days."

Now, sitting across from this man with his silver-streaked temples and patient dark eyes, I felt foolish. I'd expected crystals and incense, maybe someone swinging a pocket watch. Instead, his office looked like any other therapist's—leather chairs, neutral walls, a view of downtown that usually made me feel powerful but today just reminded me of everything I couldn't control.

"Sarah," he said, and the way he shaped my name made something in my chest loosen. "Tell me what brought you here."

His voice was extraordinary—low and smooth, with just enough gravel to make me wonder if he sang. I found myself talking more honestly than I'd intended, words tumbling out about the panic attacks in conference rooms, the way my body had started betraying me with tremors during presentations I'd nailed for years.

"Anxiety is just your mind trying to protect you," he explained, leaning forward slightly. "But it's using outdated software. Hypnosis helps us update the program."

I nodded, though skepticism tightened my jaw. I'd built a multi-million dollar division by trusting data, not feel-good nonsense. But then he began the induction, and something shifted.

"Focus on my voice, Sarah. Nothing else exists right now except the sound of my words."

The world narrowed to that voice, to the way he said my name like it was important. I wasn't asleep—I'd expected to feel unconscious, but instead I was hyperaware of everything: the leather beneath my fingertips, the weight of my body in the chair, the way his words seemed to slip past my usual defenses and settle somewhere deeper.

When I opened my eyes thirty minutes later, the office looked different. Brighter. My shoulders had dropped from my ears, and for the first time in months, I could take a full breath without it catching somewhere in my throat.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Like I just had the best massage of my life," I admitted, surprised by the breathy quality of my own voice.

His smile was knowing but not smug. "Same time next week?"

I should have said no. Instead, I heard myself whisper, "Yes."

---

The second session, I arrived wearing the silk blouse I'd bought but never worn—cream colored, with mother-of-pearl buttons that felt cool against my skin. I'd told myself it was just because I had a board meeting after, but standing in Dr. Chen's waiting room, I felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with fabric.

"Sarah." He said my name like he was tasting it, and heat pooled low in my belly. "Come in. You look lovely today."

No one had called me lovely in years. Competent, yes. Formidable, absolutely. But lovely felt like a word from another life, one where I hadn't traded softness for corner offices.

This time, the induction felt different. As his voice wrapped around me, I became aware of things I'd missed before—the way his accent, barely there, shaped certain vowels, how his breathing seemed to match mine perfectly.

"You're doing so well," he murmured, and I felt it like a caress. "Such a good girl, letting go so beautifully."

The words should have infuriated me. I was forty-two years old, CEO of my division, nobody's good girl. Instead, something in me melted, a tightness I hadn't known I carried suddenly releasing. When he told me to remember this feeling of peace, to carry it with me, I nodded eagerly, desperate to please him.

Afterward, as I gathered my purse with shaking hands, he studied me with those dark eyes. "You responded very well today, Sarah. Better than most. There's something... receptive about you."

Receptive. The word followed me home, slipped into my shower, into my bed where I touched myself for the first time in months, thinking of nothing but the way he'd said good girl.

---

The third session fell on a Wednesday, and I spent the entire morning in a state of agitated distraction. My calendar was clear—I’d made sure of that—but my mind was anything but. I’d replayed the last session a dozen times, analyzing every word, every look. The professional part of me, the one that signed off on ethics compliance training for three hundred employees, raised a quiet alarm. This was a boundary. A significant one. I was paying him to help me, not to… what? To make me feel things I had no business feeling in a therapist’s office.

Yet, when I stood before my closet, my hand bypassed the sensible suits and went straight to the black dress. The one my ex-husband had once called ‘dangerous.’ The silk whispered against my skin as I put it on, a secret promise. I told myself I was testing him. If he was a professional, he’d ignore it. If he wasn’t… well, then I’d know.

"Sarah." He stood in the doorway of his inner office, not the waiting room. His gaze swept over me, a slow, deliberate assessment that left me feeling utterly transparent. "You look… determined."

"Shouldn't I be?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.

"Determination is a form of resistance," he said, stepping aside to let me pass. "Today, we work on surrender."

The air in the room felt charged. He didn't return to his desk but instead took the chair opposite mine, closing the distance. "Before we begin, I need to ask you something important, Sarah. The work we're doing is moving into deeper territory. The subconscious mind is powerful, and the triggers we plant there are permanent. You need to be certain you want to proceed."

His tone was all professional concern, but his eyes held something else—a challenge. He was giving me an out, forcing me to articulate what I wanted.

"What exactly are we proceeding toward, Dr. Chen?"

"Please. Call me Marcus." He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "We're proceeding toward the root of your anxiety. Which, in my clinical opinion, is a profound conflict between your need for control and your deeper need to relinquish it. The fantasy you described last time—of letting someone else hold the weight—isn't a pathology. It's a potential solution. But exploring it requires absolute trust and a suspension of… conventional therapeutic boundaries."

He was laying it out, cloaking the transgression in clinical language. My heart hammered against my ribs. "And if I say yes? What does that exploration look like?"

"It looks like honesty. It looks like allowing me to guide you into states of consciousness where you can experience that relinquishment safely. It requires you to follow my instructions, both in this room and, eventually, as part of your ongoing treatment, outside of it." He paused, his dark eyes holding mine. "It would change the nature of our relationship. You need to understand that."

The ethical line wasn't just being crossed; he was asking me to help him redraw it. The danger was palpable, a thrilling current in the air. This was no clumsy seduction. This was a negotiation for my consent to be undone.

"I understand," I heard myself say. "I want to proceed."

His smile was slow, a private victory. "Then close your eyes, Sarah. Let's go deeper."

The induction was faster, smoother. I sank into the trance like slipping into a warm bath. His voice was the only anchor.

"Today, we go beyond peace. Today, we touch desire. The desire to not choose. The desire to be chosen. To be acted upon, rather than to act." His words wove through me, finding the hidden, shameful corners I’d locked away. "Imagine the weight of your responsibilities not as a burden you carry, but as a mantle you allow to be lifted from your shoulders. Feel how your body softens at the very thought."

A soft moan escaped me. The image was back, clearer now: me on my knees, my cheek resting against his thigh, a profound quiet in my mind.

"You crave this clarity," he murmured, his voice closer now. I could feel the heat of his body, though he hadn't moved. "This simplicity. To be free of the endless negotiation. Your mind is so beautiful, Sarah. So orderly. It wants a command structure. It wants to obey."

The word obey shimmered in the dark behind my eyelids, transforming from something oppressive to something liberating.

"I'm going to give you a key. A single word that will allow you to access this state of surrender whenever you need it. When you hear me say 'release,' your mind will remember this feeling. Your body will remember this peace. The need to control will dissolve, replaced by perfect trust. Do you accept this gift?"

"Yes," I breathed, the word a prayer.

"Release."

It was an avalanche of sensation. Every muscle, every clenched thought, let go at once. I slumped in the chair, a puppet with its strings cut. A sound of pure relief, half-whimper, half-sigh, left my lips.

"Beautiful," he whispered, and I felt his thumb stroke my jawline, the touch electric and utterly inappropriate. "Look at you. Finally where you belong. In a state of grace."

When I floated back to full awareness, he was kneeling beside my chair, his face level with mine. His expression was a complex map of triumph, fascination, and something like reverence. "How do you feel?"

"Empty," I admitted, my voice raw. "And full. Like... like I could finally breathe if you'd just—"

"Just what?" His voice had dropped to a register that vibrated in my bones.

"Tell me what to do."

The confession hung between us. I waited for shame, but it didn't come. Instead, a profound rightness settled in its place.

He stood, his movements fluid. "Come back Thursday. Same time. Wear something that makes you feel… open. Vulnerable. We'll continue."

He didn't touch me as I left, but his gaze felt like a hand on the back of my neck. I drove home in a daze, the city lights smearing into streaks of color. That night, lying in my cold, king-sized bed, the internal battle raged. This is unethical. He could lose his license. You are vulnerable, and he is exploiting it. But the other voice, the one that had been silent for decades, was louder: He sees you. He knows what you need. And he’s strong enough to give it to you.

The conflict didn't dampen my arousal; it fueled it. The risk was part of the allure. I was choosing this, eyes open. That made it power, not weakness.

---

Thursday arrived with a storm. Rain sheeted against my office windows, mirroring the turmoil inside me. I’d brought a change of clothes to work: a simple wrap dress in deep green silk. No armor, no corporate insignia. Just softness.

His waiting room was empty. The door to his inner office stood ajar. I pushed it open.

"Lock it, Sarah."

His command, delivered from where he sat in his chair, brooked no hesitation. I turned and pushed the deadbolt home, the solid thunk sealing us in a private world. The room was different. The lights were lower. The leather recliner had been moved to face his chair directly, intimately.

"Come here."

I approached, stopping before him. The scent of him—sandaled wood and clean linen—wrapped around me.

"Tell me your decision," he said, his eyes searching mine. "Not as my client. As Sarah. Do you want to continue down this path, knowing where it leads?"

"It already led here," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "I'm not your client right now, am I?"

A slow smile touched his lips. "No. You're not. So, what are you?"

"I'm… the woman who heard your voice and finally felt quiet." The admission was more terrifying than taking off my clothes.

"Then show me," he said, his gaze dropping to the tie of my dress. "Show me the quiet."

My fingers went to the silk knot. With a gentle pull, it came undone. I let the dress fall open, revealing the simple white lace beneath. I didn't take it off; I let it hang, framing my body, offering myself to his view.

"Stop." The command was sharp, freezing me in place. He rose, circling me with a predator's grace. "Do you have any idea," he said, his voice a low rumble near my ear, "how exquisite you are like this? The brilliant, untouchable Sarah Chase, standing in my office, offering her submission. I've watched you for weeks, you know. Watched the tension in your jaw slowly dissolve under my words. Watched you realize that your greatest strength might be the courage to yield."

His words weren't patronizing; they were an analysis, an appreciation of a complex system finally functioning correctly. They lit me up from within.

"Kneel."

I sank down, the plush carpet rough against my bare knees. The position felt more natural than any power pose I’d ever struck in a boardroom. He completed his circle, standing before me.

"Look at me."

I raised my head. His expression was no longer that of a therapist. It was something ancient, possessive, and intensely focused. "You have given me a great gift—your trust. I will treat it with the seriousness it deserves. This," he gestured between us, "is a contract. Your surrender for my care. Your obedience for my guidance. Do you understand the terms?"

"Yes," I whispered, the businesswoman in me perversely comforted by the clarity.

"Good. Now, we test the key. Release."

The trigger word detonated in my nervous system. The usual floaty peace was gone, replaced by a sharp, needy emptiness. My shoulders slumped, my head bowed slightly. A soft, desperate sound escaped me.

"Beautiful," he breathed. He reached out, not touching my skin, but tracing the air an inch from my collarbone. "The structure of your anxiety is gone. All that's left is need. Tell me what you need."

"Touch," I gasped, the word ripped from me. "Your touch. Your command. Anything. Just… take the silence away."

"First, you will learn the pleasure of anticipation." He walked to his desk and opened a drawer, returning with a simple black silk scarf. "Eyes closed."

I obeyed. The world vanished. The rustle of his clothing, the patter of rain on the window, the sound of his breathing—all amplified. I felt utterly exposed, yet perfectly hidden.

His hands, warm and sure, settled on my shoulders. "I am going to touch you. You will not move unless I instruct you to. You will tell me what you feel. Your only task is to experience."

His thumbs stroked the line of my neck. "Your skin is warm," I murmured.

His lips brushed the shell of my ear. "Your pulse is here, hammering. A frantic, beautiful rhythm."

His hands slid down my arms, then back up, pushing the dress from my shoulders until it pooled at my waist. The air was cool on my exposed skin. "I feel… open. Waiting."

One hand cupped my breast through the lace, his thumb circling my nipple until it hardened into a painful peak. "I feel… owned."

The word hung in the air, true and terrifying. He made a sound of approval. "Such perfect honesty. Now, the other part of our contract. My care."

He guided me backward until my shoulders met the cool leather of the recliner. He arranged me, his hands firm and deliberate, spreading my knees, adjusting my arms. I was a sculpture he was composing. "You will keep your eyes closed. You will keep your hands here, on the arms of the chair. You may speak, but only to answer my questions or to describe your sensations."

The deprivation of sight and the restriction of movement focused everything inward. I was hyper-aware of the brush of the lace against my nipples, the damp heat between my thighs, the overwhelming presence of him kneeling between my legs.

"Tell me what you feel now."

"Empty. Needy. The quiet is… loud."

"I will fill it." His mouth, hot and wet, closed over my nipple through the lace. I cried out, my back arching off the chair. "Hands. Stay."

I forced my fingers to grip the leather arms as he laved and sucked, the fabric abrading me in the most delicious way. His hand slid up my inner thigh, pushing the lace of my thong aside. He didn't touch my core, just rested his palm against my mound, the heat of it a promise.

"You're drenched, Sarah. Is this all for me? This desperate, physical proof of your surrender?"

"Yes," I sobbed. "All for you."

"Then ask for what you want."

"Please. Touch me. Please, Marcus."

"Since you asked so politely." His finger, a single point of exquisite pressure, slid through my folds, circling my clit with infuriating, perfect slowness. The sensation was blinding. Every nerve ending fired toward that point of contact. He built the rhythm with meticulous care, his mouth still working at my breast, his other hand pinning my hip to the chair.

"I'm… I can't…"

"You can. You will. You'll hold on until I tell you to let go. Your pleasure is mine to administer. Your climax is mine to grant." His voice was hypnotic, weaving the command into the fabric of my arousal. "You are doing so well. So perfectly responsive."

The praise, so specific, so earned, coiled the tension tighter. I was trembling, my knuckles white on the chair. He added a second finger, sliding inside me, curling just so. The dual sensation was unbearable.

"Now, Sarah. Let go for me. Come."

The permission shattered me. The orgasm tore through me with violent, silent intensity, my body seizing, my mouth open in a soundless scream. He worked me through it, his touch relentless, until I was a boneless, shuddering wreck against the leather.

Slowly, he removed the blindfold. His face swam into view, filled with a dark, satisfied wonder. He brought his glistening fingers to my lips. "Taste. Taste your own obedience."

I opened my mouth, my tongue cleaning his fingers, the act more intimate than anything before. He watched, mesmerized.

"Stand up."

I tried, my legs buckling. He caught me, holding me against his solid frame. He undressed me completely, then himself, his movements efficient, his gaze never leaving mine. His body was exactly as I’d imagined—lean, powerful, etched with the experience of his years.

He sat in the chair and pulled me onto his lap, facing him, my legs straddling his hips. The feel of his skin against mine, the hard heat of his cock pressing against my belly, was overwhelming.

"Look at me," he commanded softly, his hands gripping my waist. "I want to see your eyes when you take me inside. I want to watch you accept this final part of our contract."

He guided himself to my entrance. I sank down slowly, inch by devastating inch, until he was fully sheathed within me. We both gasped, frozen in that perfect, full connection.

"You feel… like coming home," I whispered, the truth of it breaking something open in my chest.

His expression softened, just for a moment. "For me as well, Sarah. You cannot imagine the solitude of this kind of power. To see the need in someone, to crave the gift of their submission, and to have to wait… to watch for the one strong enough, brave enough, to truly offer it." He brushed a tear from my cheek I hadn't known I’d shed. "You are that rarity. Now, move. Take your pleasure from me. Ride me."

I began to move, a slow, rocking grind that drew a groan from deep in his chest. His hands guided my pace, his mouth finding my breasts, my neck, my lips. The earlier climax had sensitized everything; each stroke built a new, deeper, more resonant wave.

"Touch yourself. I want to feel you clench around me when you break."

My fingers found my clit, now swollen and hyper-sensitive. The added stimulation was almost too much. My movements became frantic, driven by a need that went beyond physical release to a desperate need to please, to prove myself worthy of this.

"That's it," he growled, his own control fraying. "Give it to me. Give me everything."

The second orgasm built from my core, a swelling tide that gathered every surrendered thought, every obedient impulse, and crashed over me with obliterating force. I screamed his name, my body milking his as I convulsed around him. The sensation tipped him over the edge. He held my hips down, driving up into me as he came with a raw, guttural shout, his release hot and endless inside me.

We collapsed together, a tangled, sweating, breathless heap in the chair. For a long time, the only sounds were our ragged breathing and the rain. He stroked my back, his touch now tender, almost reverent.

"Stay tonight," he murmured into my hair. "Let me take care of you properly. Let me feed you, bathe you, hold you while you sleep. Let me show you the care that comes after the surrender."

I nodded, my face buried in his neck. The executive was gone. In her place was a woman, sated, claimed, and profoundly at peace.

He did as he promised. He led me to a small, elegant apartment above the office I never knew existed. He ran a bath, washed me with a gentle, clinical thoroughness that felt like another kind of possession. He made me tea and sat with me on a sofa, my head in his lap, his fingers in my hair.

"You should know," he said, his voice quiet in the dim room, "this is not a game for me. This is who I am. I have a… practice. A very private one. You are not the first to kneel in that office, but you are the first in a very long time who has made me feel this… invested. The connection with you is different. It’s deeper."

The confession should have hurt—the mention of others. Instead, it solidified everything. This was his truth, as mine was my need to submit. We were both finding something real.

"What happens on Monday?" I asked, looking up at him.

"On Monday, you will be Sarah Chase, CEO. You will be formidable. And you will carry this quiet with you, this secret knowledge of where you belong. And when you need to, you will come back to me, and you will kneel, and you will find your peace again." He bent and kissed my forehead. "This is the balance. This is the contract."

I slept deeper than I had in years. In the morning, he made me breakfast and sent me home with a final, searing kiss at my door. "I'll text you," he said. "A simple word. When you see it, you'll remember. You'll feel me with you."

I drove home as the city woke up, the dawn painting the skyscrapers in rose gold. My body was deliciously sore, marked inside and out. The anxiety was a distant memory, replaced by a steady, humming certainty.

My phone, charging on the passenger seat, buzzed with an incoming text. I stopped at a red light and looked.

A single word, from an unknown number: Anchor.

A wave of calm, deep and immediate, washed through me. My shoulders dropped. A smile touched my lips. It wasn't a command to return. It was a reminder. A tether. I was his, and in that, I was finally, completely, my own.

The light turned green. I drove forward, into the new day.