Chapter 6: The Sixth Session: A New Altar
The days between sessions had become a form of sleepwalking. Elise moved through her studies, her walks, her small apartment, with a pervasive sense of waiting. Her body was the clock, and it ticked towards Thursday at four PM with a low, insistent thrum.
When she entered the office, the scent was different again. Not sandalwood. Something darker, spicier. Myrrh. The change felt intentional, a signal that the terrain was shifting once more.
Julian stood by the window, silhouetted against the grey afternoon light. He turned, his green eyes assessing her immediately. “You didn’t sleep well last night.”
It wasn’t a question. She shook her head. “I kept… waking up. Feeling restless.”
“Your body is anticipating its purpose. It’s becoming impatient with the mundane.” He approached, not touching her, but his presence felt like a hand on her skin. “The work we’ve done has laid a foundation. Today, we install a more efficient trigger. A shortcut from your mind to your cunt. Sit.”
She obeyed, sinking into the too-soft chair. The framed art on the walls seemed to shift in her peripheral vision—figures entwined in blurred, hungry gestures.
“Look at me, Elise. Breathe in the myrrh. It focuses desire, makes it sharp and singular.” His voice dropped, becoming the only sound in the room. “You are falling so deep, so fast. Your thoughts are soft clouds, and I am the wind that blows them away. Nothing remains but the sound of my voice and the empty, aching space between your legs. Deeper. Let go.”
The descent was swift, a elevator with its cable cut. Her mind went quiet, warm, and blissfully blank.
“Stand. Remove your clothes. Fold them neatly on the chair.”
Her movements were mechanical, precise. The air prickled against her bare skin.
“Come here. Stand before me.”
She did, her eyes downcast, her hands loose at her sides. He was still fully dressed, a monument of tailored charcoal wool and calm control.
“Look down.”
She did. He had unzipped his trousers, freed his cock. It was semi-hard, thickening even as she watched. A predatory, living thing. He took it in his hand, gave a slow, deliberate stroke.
“Watch it,” he commanded, his voice hypnotic and soft. “Watch it become hard for you. This is the only thought your mind can hold now. This shape. This flesh. You see it, and your mind goes blank. All your intelligence, your art history, your sweet little anxieties… they leak out of your pussy. They drip down your thighs. Thought is a liquid, and your cunt is a sieve. Watch it.”
She stared, mesmerized. Her vision seemed to narrow, tunneling onto the sight of his hand moving on his shaft, the head emerging, ruddy and wet. A corresponding heat flooded her, a sudden, shocking gush of wetness between her legs. She felt it, a warm trickle. Her mind truly did blank. There was no embarrassment, no analysis. Just a hollow, hungry need.
“Do you understand?” he murmured.
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Say it back.”
“I see your cock… and my thoughts leak out of my pussy.” The words felt true, anatomically correct.
“Good girl.” He continued to stroke himself, now fully erect. “Now, all you can think about is which hole you want it in. Your mouth, your cunt, your tight little ass. That’s the only choice your mind is permitted. Which hole, Elise?”
A soft whimper escaped her. “I don’t… I can’t choose.”
“You can. Your body knows. Tell me.”
She was trembling. “My… my cunt. Please. I need to feel it in my cunt.”
“Beg.”
“Please, Dr. Blackwood. Please fuck my cunt with your cock. I’m empty. I’m leaking. Please fill me.”
He moved then, sitting in the larger armchair. He guided her to straddle him, her knees on the cushion on either side of his hips. He positioned the head of his cock at her soaked entrance.
“Take it. Take your medicine.”
She sank down, a low, ragged cry tearing from her throat as he stretched her, filled her utterly. The feeling was catastrophic, a perfect, brutal fullness that erased everything else. She braced her hands on his shoulders, her head falling back.
“Move. Fuck yourself on me. Use that desperate cunt.”
She rose, then sank again, setting a frantic, clumsy rhythm. Her hips pistoned, taking him deep, then shallow, then deep again. The wet, slapping sounds were obscenely loud. Her breath came in sobbing gasps.
“That’s it. Look at me. Watch me watch you fuck yourself.”
She forced her eyes open, meeting his gaze. His face was a mask of cool observation, but his eyes were dark fire. He didn’t touch her, didn’t guide her. He just let her use him, his cock a fixed, unyielding pole for her desperation.
“You’re an animal,” he said, not unkindly. “A beautiful, mindless animal. Your only function is to be fucked. Do you feel it?”
“Yes!” she cried, her movements becoming wilder, less coordinated. The coil in her belly was wound impossibly tight. “I’m… I’m going to…”
“Come. Come all over my cock.”
It broke her. The orgasm was a seizure of pleasure, a blinding white rush that locked her muscles and tore a scream from her lungs. She ground down on him, her cunt milking him in violent pulses.
He let her ride it out, until she was spent, collapsed against his chest, shuddering. Then, with a harsh grunt, he thrust up into her, once, twice, three times, and she felt the hot jet of his release inside her.
He held her there, impaled and filled, for a long minute. Then he lifted her off, setting her on her unsteady feet. He produced a warm, damp cloth, cleaning her with swift efficiency before dressing her. His fingers were deft, impersonal.
He led her back to the patient chair. “When I snap my fingers, you will wake. You will remember a productive session discussing somatic triggers and arousal mapping. You will feel relaxed, and slightly tired. The details will be pleasant but fuzzy. You will carry only the profound satisfaction of a pupil who has learned her lesson well.”
He snapped.
Elise blinked. She was sitting in the chair, fully dressed. Dr. Blackwood was back at his desk, writing. She felt a languid warmth spread through her limbs, a contented drowsiness. Her body felt wonderfully used, in a vague, non-specific way.
“The cognitive-behavioral approach we discussed can be very physically taxing,” he said, without looking up. “You did excellent work today.”
“Thank you,” she said, her voice soft. She stood, a little ache between her legs that felt like the ghost of good exercise. “I feel like I understand the… connection better.”
“You do.” He finally met her eyes, and a smile touched his lips—the kind a sculptor might give a nearly-finished piece. “The architecture is holding. Soon, it will be all you are. Goodbye, Elise.”
She floated out, into the cool evening. The city lights blurred into soft halos. She couldn’t remember a single specific thing they’d talked about. It didn’t matter. Her body hummed a quiet, satisfied tune, a melody composed entirely by the man in the office with the myrrh and the knowing green eyes. The empty, aching space was, for now, beautifully full.