by Adrian Amos
As I reach for the handle to the door, I swallow hard once more, take a deep breath, and walk on in. I'm greeted by no one, as usual. Her practice is so small that she doesn't even have a receptionist. She just has appointments, and when the time comes up, she trots out of her office, happy to see me, I'm happy to see her, we say hi, and she ushers me in.
But I'm wringing my hands this time as I study the clock. One more minute. I feel like I'm shaking a little; my stomach is quivering again. I'm just staring at the door. My feet are bouncing up and down.
The door opens, and I see her.
My heart stops, my feet pause, my hands settle. I swallow hard and stand up to greet her, exhaling sharply as I approach her.
Megan smiles, “Hey, Gracie. It's good to see you again.”
She's beautiful. I don't know why, but when I look into her eyes, I get overwhelmed. It's like I'm noticing her beauty for the first time. Her hair is dark, tied back in a tight ponytail, drawing my eyes to her dominant forehead. Her features sharp, she accents their prominence by dressing severely, in a white blouse and black dress pants. She's 5'10”―5 inches taller than me―but her heels put her at 6'0”, making her tower over me.
I clear my throat. “You, too, Megan.”
As we walk in, I realize something strange about myself as I look her over. I dressed up to look special as well. When I was picking out my outfit, I had this strong urge to wear my tight, silk, red dress, and to pull my blonde hair back and put on some nice earrings. I had heels on as well, and I put on some perfume. It's weird, because I usually half-ass it when I come here. Not that I looked horrible, but I never put this much effort in to just come and talk about my problems.
As we walk in, she closes the door behind us, and I head over to lie down on the couch. I just look up at the ceiling, trying not to think about anything, trying to contain my rampant emotions.
“Here, Gracie,” she says. Before I can turn, she picks my head up and places a pillow underneath, setting me back down again.
That was weird. “Uh, thanks.”
As she walks around her desk to collect some paper and a pen, I start to feel vulnerable. I feel so bare, half-covered, cold with the A/C traveling up my dress...
Before she sits down in the seat across from me, I quickly squeeze my legs together.
She notices and says, “Is something wrong?”
“Uh, no, nothing.”
Holy shit! I'm not wearing any underwear. If I didn't close my legs, she would have definitely noticed that. I'm pretty sure I put underwear on! I don't remember taking them off.
I cross my legs at the ankles so I can remind myself not to open them again.
“So, how have you been since you last saw me?” she asks, formally starting our session.
Good. Time to talk. At least I can stay out of my own head. “Good,” I say, ”I've been doing pretty good. I seem a lot more relaxed, not really bothered that much by anything. I seem to be taking things a lot easier.”
“I'm glad to hear that,” she says, “How have your anxieties been doing? Have you been thinking about your ex-fiance at all? I know that's something you've been consumed by lately.”
I pause to think about that. “I really can't remember the last time I thought about him. I think it was before we last met,” I smile, “I might finally be getting over him leaving me.”
Megan smiles―almost smirks―really. “Great!” she says, with a level of animation from her I'm not accustomed to, “It seems like our sessions are heading in the right direction. The more we do this, the easier things might become for you.”
I catch her eyes trailing down and up my body. She's probably curious as to what I'm wearing.
“I don't know why I'm wearing this,” I say, looking to defend myself. But then I think to cover up my actions, “I might be thinking about going out after this.” I'm not even certain if I'm lying about it or not.
“You look good,” Megan says, “You look confident.”
I blush. “Thank you.” The knots in my throat and stomach show up again. I rub my ankles together, making sure I don't open my legs. I don't feel confident at all.
She tilts her head to the side. “I have a feeling like you're holding something back. Is there anything you want to talk about?”
I exhale. “Well, this is why I'm here after all.” I think a little about it, trying to phrase it right. “I've just lately, like, maybe the last three times I've come here, have been feeling this surge of emotion I can't explain. It was light before, where it barely registered, but today it's so strong that I can't ignore it.”
Megan's eyes narrow slightly, and it almost looks like she's smirking again. Her lips are plump and have this natural curl when she smiles, and her eyes are sharp and exotic, making everything she does appear impish. I've seen it a lot when our sessions are about to wrap up, like her words have some hidden meaning that she's getting a kick out of knowing but not sharing. But something about those lips and those eyes makes me want to see that smile all the more often, even if it might be at my expense.
I lick my lips, biting the bottom one lightly. “See? Right now? I feel something. I don't know what it is. It isn't a panic attack; I know what those feel like. This is, like, similar, but still different. I feel short of breath, my throat's caught up, my stomach is unsettled.”
“And you're sure it's not a panic attack?” she asked.
“Yes, I'm sure. When I think about it, it's almost like I feel nervous and excited,” I say. Realizing what I'm implying, I rub the back of my neck and look off to the side. I'm sure she's noticing what I'm doing, but I can't help it: I basically just told her that I get excited to see her.
She smiles, her hidden knowledge showing through, “I think I know what it is.”
My eyes widen, “Really? What is it?”
“Well,” she says, “You know how we've been working on your anxiety through hypnosis, right?”
“Yeah.”
“We've done it for about 10 sessions now,” she says, “I put you in a deep sleep, we go through each of the difficulties going on in your life, and we try to pinpoint where your anxieties lie. And then we deal with how to control it.”
I nod. She goes over this every time, but there's little I can remember from our sessions. I wake, we talk about what she's learned from our conversations, and then she sends me off to work on myself. I just know that it's been working, and that I walk out of here relieved, refreshed, and a lot happier. I don't put that much effort into it after I leave; the sessions alone feel like enough to help me.
“It must be helping,” I say, “My anxieties don't seem to get to me much anymore, but this new problem just seemed to creep up on me. I'm not sure what we can do to fix it.”
“Like I said, normally I put you into a deep sleep, where remembering what happened afterward is nearly impossible. But now,”―she stands up and walks to her desk―“Now we're going to try something different.”
She sets down her pen and paper, dims the lights, and closes the blinds. She sits back down in her chair.
“Instead of putting you into a deep sleep, I'm going to empower your senses instead. You'll feel things stronger, which should allow you to understand the feelings you're going through better. So this time you won't be fully asleep, you'll kind of be awake, still experiencing things like normal, but just more intense and more relaxed. You might feel somewhat immobile.”
“Immobile?”
“Just like if you were in a deep sleep. It's just you'll be able to experience your surroundings. You'll also remember what's going on, you just won't have full control of your actions. We'll still be dealing with suggestibility, so I'll be guiding the conversation and you'll be responding.”
She reaches out and touches my hand. “Now relax and close your eyes.”
Her touch is so light and warm, I try to swallow, but my throat gets caught up again. I look into her eyes, and they seem so deep, I feel this sense of longing. I shake my head, trying to
cut loose these weird, detached feelings. I keep getting these feelings when I'm with her, and they're incredibly powerful, but they don't make any sense. They just come out of nowhere, and I'm completely confused as to what my body is trying to tell me. It feels like my brain is miswired.
I want to tell her this―I should tell her this: she's my therapist―but I don't know how to explain it, at least not while sounding like a weirdo. I feel almost embarrassed to tell her any more about my problems, as if I don't want her to know anything bad about me.
It might just come out when she hypnotizes me. It makes me a little worried.
“I don't know about this,” I say, “I don't want to say or do anything weird.”
I want to get up, but she softly guides me back down to the couch. “Just relax. Again, all I can do is suggest things to you while you're hypnotized. If you don't want to talk about it, you can easily just refuse me; I can't force you to tell me or do anything you don't want to.” She touches my hand again, “I promise you, this is going to help you understand and feel better.”
I hope that's enough to keep me from making her uncomfortable. “Okay,” I say.
“Again,” she says, “Let's close our eyes and relax. Take a deep breath.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
“Keep listening to my voice and keep letting yourself wind down. Focus on your breathing. I'm sure you got this part down.”
I turn myself inward, clearing my thoughts and focusing only on my breathing. I focus on taking the deepest breath possible, and then I focus on expelling all the air out. I do this multiple times. I've done this enough where I've actually learned to use this technique to help me fall asleep at night.
“Now,” Megan continues, “You're relaxed, but this time, we're going to turn your thoughts away from breathing, and focus them on your senses.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Shhh, silly girl. I'm getting to that,” she teases.
I tingle throughout my body. She just called me a silly girl. So oddly unprofessional for someone like her, but it makes me feel good, and, surprisingly, keeps me quiet and helps me relax.
I keep my eyes closed and wait for her to speak again.
“Now,” she continues, “Focus on your body. We're going to want to travel down it. Start at your forehead and imagine slowly gliding down. Think of it like your scanning yourself with a machine. Over your eyes, your nose, your mouth, over your chin, and down your neck.”
It must be working, because even though Megan doesn't move at all, when she mentions my neck, it sounds like she is whispering in my ear, and my neck tingles as if it is being lightly touched.
“We're going over the protrusion of your collarbone, then crossing your chest, up your breasts, scaling your nipples, and down the cup.”
I take a deep breath and catch it. It feels like she's running her fingers over me, and I swear that my nipples harden because of it. I let out some short breaths, trying to conquer the sensation, not letting myself moan out loud.
“Scanning down your stomach, dipping into your bellybutton, and crossing over your pelvic bone.”
This feels good, but it also starts to feel more intense, not only because I know where it's leading―what I'm about to cross over―but also because the sensations I'm feeling are growing, becoming more powerful.
“As we hurdle over the soft mons,” she says, slowing perceptibly, almost building me up, “We drop down and dip into...” She pauses, letting me soak in the idea, “Your genitals.” Even though, for some reason, I was expecting her to use some dirtier word, the sensation is still immense. It's as if I have a superheated, or supercooled―I'm not sure which―finger pressing down on my pussy, striking my clit and running down my slit. It's so powerful, it makes my hips buck, trying to avoid the pressure and intensity. I feel like if I had more of that, I'd orgasm in no time.
But Megan continues, “We travel down your thighs.” Tickling, tingling, and muscle seizing, of course, since the inside of my thighs are typically sensitive. “Cross over your knees.” I never thought my knees could feel anything so sensitive other than scrapes. “Down your shins, up your feet, and out your toes.” As the scan leaves my body, I give a mini-convulsion, like someone just rubbed my sensitive clit after I just came.
After a moment, Megan asks, “How do you feel?”
I feel completely relaxed, uninterested in moving at all. I'm almost paralyzed, but I feel light, floating above myself. I feel almost intoxicated, drunk off of pure sensation.
“I think,” I say, “I think I'm in the proper state.” I don't know if I'm imagining it, but it sounds like I am trying not to slur my words.
“Good,” she says, “Let's try a suggestion to move.”
I giggle, “I don't know if I can move.” I sound like a numbed-up boozer.
“We'll see,” she says. “Pick your hand up and point it upward.”
I make no effort to do so; I really am not interested in moving. I feel so calm that I don't want to leave the comfort I have going for me.
But after a second, to my surprise, my hand rises, pointing to the ceiling.
I made no conscious effort to do that!
“You can put it back down now.”
Another second passes, another movement made I had no control over.
“What's going on?” I mumble.
“Like I said,” she says, “You're hypnotized, but now you're aware of your surroundings.”
Even though my eyes are closed, it seems like my senses are so attuned that I can still see, or perceive, what's going on around me. It's as if I can see Megan sitting in her chair, watching me, as if I'm floating above, watching both her and my body.
“But I didn't try to move,” I say, slowly getting my words out. It's difficult to talk. It takes a lot of effort, and I sound like a little child trying to form her first sentences.
“It's not about effort, my dear. It's about what you want to do.”
“Want?”
“Desire, honey,” she says, her voice shifting to something a little bit more stern. “You may not have wanted to move, but you wanted to do what I told you. It was the more powerful of your wants.”
Wait, what? Why would I want to do what she tells me?
“Let's test our new state of hypnosis. How does this feel?”
My eyes are still closed. I can't open them at all, but I can 'see' her stand up and come closer. As she bends down, she reaches her hand out and touches my inner thigh. Immediately, I feel intense pleasure shoot up my body, causing me to shake and kick up a little.
“You're sensitive there, aren't you?” she says, that impish smile showing itself. She runs her finger nails over my skins, moving between my thighs, caressing me lightly as I squirm. “It also feel more intense than usual, doesn't it?”
I struggle with my words. “What are you doing?”
“Gracie, please,” she says, matronly, scolding my naivete, “I've done this before. That's how I know you're sensitive there.”
I can't believe it. She's really been messing with me this whole time? “No, you're joking, right?”
“You know why you're feeling that way? Your throat catching and your stomach in knots?” she asks. “You know why you want to do what I tell you?” She stands, coming over to my face. “It's because you're in love with me.”
She kisses me, and the butterflies in my stomach erupt into dance. Her lips are soft and large, her tongue gently licking mine. But the taste on her lips. It's delectable, the most sensuous and tantalizing flavor I've ever experienced from another mouth. I seek them as they seek mine. But it's a taste I recognize all too well.
She has done this before!
“Love?” I ask. It sounds absurd, but the mere idea also makes sense of my unrestrained feelings.
“It took a while―multiple sessions―but the only reason you feel the way you do now is because I finally broke through to you.”
It's why I've been sweating; it's why
it's hard to talk to her; it's why my heart races when I'm coming to see her. I love her! It's true, but how the hell did it happen?
“Our relationship seemed so platonic, it doesn't make sense,” I say.
“It was, but like I said, multiple sessions.” Her hand pulls down my dress, exposing me. She squeezes my breast, pinching my nipple. The sensation is horrible, but for some reason, I can't stop her.
“But I don't want this,” I say.
“I'm doing it right now. If you didn't want it, you'd snap out of your state immediately.”
I try to get up, to fight this paralyzed feeling, but I can't.
“You're lying,” I say.
“No, I am not. By the way, thank you for wearing the dress, like I asked you to last time. It's kind of a clue I used. It helped me know you were ready for our next step,” she says, smirking to herself.
That's why I wore it! I couldn't figure out why I had such an urge to wear it. It felt like I was trying to impress someone. She made me do it!
“You see, in your hypnotized state, I can only get you to do things you want to do. I can't force you to do anything. I can only suggest. So I spent all of our time in deep sleep getting you to love me, getting you to let me slowly touch you and undress you,” She reached for my dress, intent on pulling it down, but stopped herself, “But now that you love me, I don't need to do anything. You'll simply do what I tell you, because you can't resist your love for me. We don't need your dress anymore. Take it off.”
A second passes, my mind registering what's going on. I slip my hands under the top of my dress, pull it down, lift my ass, and remove it completely from my body. I hand it to Megan, who takes it and drapes it over her chair. I'm completely naked, completely out of control.
She lies on top of me, pressing her body against mine. She runs her hands up my sides and nuzzles my neck. I want to think; I want to stop it. I think I want to stop it. But her hot breath and wandering hands make me quiver, and the pressure of this stronger woman on top of me makes me feel trapped.
