Chapter 2: The Director's Cut That Never Ends
The home office was a study in calm, a sanctuary of pale oak and soft grey linen. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Pacific was a sheet of hammered silver under the late afternoon sun. Will adjusted his camera, making sure the bookshelf behind him—a curated mix of somatic psychology texts and modern art monographs—was perfectly in frame. Bindi, beside him, smoothed her charcoal tunic. She looked effortlessly professional, her hair pulled into a loose knot.
“Ready?” she asked, her finger hovering over the mouse.
“As I’ll ever be.” His stomach was a tight knot. It was just a consultation. An expensive one, but still just a screen between them and a client.
Bindi clicked. The screen split, and there she was.
Not the red-carpet version, not the poised UN ambassador. This was Emma Watson in what looked like a book-lined study, wearing a thick, cream-colored Oxford sweater. Her hair was down, slightly tousled. She offered a small, guarded smile. “Hello. Bindi, Will. Thank you for making the time.”
Her voice was familiar, but quieter. Softer around the edges.
“Our pleasure, Emma,” Bindi said, her tone warm but deliberate. No gushing. “This is a safe, completely confidential space. Anything said here stays here. We’re here to listen, not to judge.”
“Absolutely,” Emma said, and then she laughed. It was a bright, unexpected sound that seemed to startle even her. She leaned back in her chair, running a hand through her hair.
Will felt his own shoulders relax a fraction. Her energy was disarming.
“So, let’s just dive in, shall we?” Emma continued, her tone shifting to practical, almost academic. “The headline is I’ve never had an orgasm with a partner. Not once. I can manage on my own, obviously, but it’s become… less satisfying. As I’ve gotten older, it just feels more difficult to get there, full stop. And when I do, alone, it feels… muted. Like the volume has been turned down halfway. They only feel half as powerful as they used to.”
Bindi nodded slowly, her gaze focused on the screen. “And with a partner?”
“I get stuck in my head.” Emma’s cheerfulness didn’t waver, but her words were precise, analytical. “It’s like I’m directing. Or editing. I’m mentally rewriting the scene as it’s happening—‘his hand is there, but it should be here, his rhythm is off, this angle is unflattering.’ I become a critic instead of a participant. It’s exhausting.”
“Performance anxiety, but you’re auditing the other performer,” Bindi said.
“Exactly!” Emma pointed at the screen, a grin flashing. “It’s ridiculous. I’ve read all the theory. I understand arousal non-concordance, the importance of context. Intellectually, I get it. My body just… doesn’t. That’s why I sought you two out. I heard through a very discreet, very satisfied grapevine that your methods are different. That you have advanced approaches—both physical and mental—to bridge that gap.”
Will found his voice. “Our process is about creating a new script. One where you’re not the director. You’re the only character in the scene.”
Emma’s eyes flicked to him, curious. “How?”
Bindi took over, her hands moving slightly as she explained. “We dismantle the observational platform. We use structured touch, guided sensation, and cognitive anchors to keep you firmly in your body. It’s experiential learning. Will and I provide a stable, predictable, and intensely present framework. You can’t edit a lived experience. You can only feel it.”
“It’s about surrender,” Will added, the word feeling both clinical and intimate in the quiet room. “But surrender within absolute safety and control.”
Emma was silent for a moment, absorbing it. The ocean light through the window behind her haloed her hair. The cheerful candor was still there, but underneath it, Will saw a raw, hungry hope. “When do we start?”
Bindi leaned forward, her elbows resting on the sleek desktop. “We propose something unconventional. For high-profile guests where discretion and depth are paramount, we often recommend an immersive experience.” She paused, letting the idea hang in the digital space between them. “We suggest you stay here. With us.”
“The entire second floor of our home is a private suite,” Bindi continued, her voice smooth and persuasive. “It has its own entrance, a lounge, two bedrooms, and a veranda. It’s essentially a luxurious guesthouse. You’d live here for a week. We’d work in intensive, daily sessions, breaking down the barrier between ‘therapy’ and lived experience. You’d eat, sleep, and breathe the work without the pressure of going back to a hotel, of shifting mindsets.”
Emma’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but she didn’t look shocked. She looked calculating. “A retreat model.”
“Exactly. It removes the transactional feel of appointments. It allows for spontaneous conversation, for moments of insight over coffee or a walk in the garden. The goal is to make your somatic education feel organic, not clinical.”
Emma studied them, her head tilting. The practiced, cheerful mask softened into something more pensive. “A week. That’s… significant.”
“It’s an investment,” Will said, jumping in with the pragmatism he knew Bindi expected. “In yourself. The results from our immersive retreats are typically exponential compared to weekly sessions. We clear the mental cache completely.”
A faint smile touched Emma’s lips. “I appreciate the tech metaphor.” She took a slow breath, her gaze drifting to something off-screen for a second before snapping back, sharp and decided. “Allie mentioned it might be… intensive. That the methods were hands-on in every sense.”
The name landed between them, casual as a dropped pen.
Bindi didn’t flinch. Will kept his face perfectly still, a neutral mask of professional interest. Inside, his blood did a funny, hot little skip.
“Allie?” Bindi asked, her voice a model of polite inquiry.
“Oh, God, sorry—Alexandria. Congresswoman Ocasio-Cortez.” Emma waved a hand, as if brushing away a formality. “We did a fundraiser together last year and got to talking about… well, everything. She said you were revolutionary. That your sessions could become quite… sexual. That it wasn’t just talk.”
A shared memory, vivid and unbidden, flashed behind Will’s eyes: the Congresswoman’s wrists secured to their bed’s wrought-iron headboard with silk ties, her back arched off the mattress. Bindi’s mouth between her thighs, slow and deliberate. The sharp, gasping sounds that were nothing like her public speaking voice.
He felt Bindi’s energy shift beside him, a subtle tensing of her shoulder that only he would notice. Another flash: his own release, hot and sudden, streaking across the woman’s focused, defiant face as she looked up at him, a challenge in her dark eyes. And then Bindi, later, kneeling behind her, the harness straps stark against her hips, driving into her with a steady, relentless rhythm that finally shattered that famous composure into raw, shuddering cries.
“We adapt our methods to the client’s needs and boundaries,” Bindi said, her tone miraculously even, pulling them both back into the sunlit office. “The goal is always somatic breakthrough, whatever form that takes. Alexandria was very clear about her objectives.”
“She was,” Emma said, and for the first time, a real, unguarded curiosity lit her features. It wasn’t prurient. It was the look of a dedicated student presented with a promising, new textbook. “She said you removed the… spectatorship. That’s what I need. I’m tired of watching myself from the balcony.”
The silence that followed was thick, charged with the ghost of another woman’s pleasure and the tangible possibility in front of them.
“So,” Emma said, leaning forward, her image pixelating slightly. “A week. When can I move in?”