Chapter 5: The New Trigger Takes Hold
The recording light glowed, a single red eye in the calm, lemongrass-scented room. Bambi writhed on the sofa, fingers now shoved down the front of his jeans, stroking himself through the fabric.
“The keys?” Bambi giggled, as if asked to explain something simple to a child. “The nice lady gave them to me. The pretty one with the shiny hair. She said one was for my mouth.” He made a lewd popping sound with his lips. “And one was for my… other mouth. But the best one…” He shuddered with delight, his back arching again. “The best one isn’t a word at all. It’s a feeling. It’s when I’m sooooo full. When a real man is stuffing me, stretching my dumb little hole open. That’s the master key. That unlocks everything. Makes all the nasty thoughts go away.”
Dr. Aris Thorne did not smile. He observed. His pen moved quickly in his notebook. Subject refers to triggers as ‘keys’. Primary auditory trigger: ‘Bambi Blossom’. Secondary, more powerful somatic trigger: sensation of deep anal penetration. Eroticized framing. Complete dissociative identity overlay.
“And the man you were before? Derek?” Thorne asked, his voice carefully neutral.
A flash of confusion crossed Bambi’s blissed-out face. Then it was washed away by a dismissive, coquettish pout. “Derek’s a bore. A tight-assed little nothing. He thinks too much. I’m much better. I’m fun. I don’t think at all. I just feel.” He squirmed, pulling his hand from his pants and sniffing his own fingers with a happy sigh. “Don’t you wanna feel me, doctor? I’m all wet for you. He was all scared and icky when he came in, but I cleaned it all out. I’m pure Bambi now.”
Thorne finally set his notebook aside. He stood up and walked slowly around the sofa, studying the transformation. The client—a lean, athletic young man with intelligent, haunted eyes—was gone. In his place was this pliant, gasping creature, embodying a vulgar parody of submission. The psychological architecture was breathtaking. It was a masterpiece of coercive suggestion. He felt a professional jealousy so sharp it tasted like copper.
He stopped behind the sofa, looking down at the offered body. “This state you’re in, Bambi. Is it pleasurable?”
“Mmmm, it’s the best,” Bambi moaned, pushing his ass up into the air. “It’s like being drunk and high and coming all at once. And it only gets better when I’m being used. That’s my purpose. Please? Use me? Test your theory?” The words were a slurry of wanton need and eerie insight.
Thorne was a man of hypothesis and experiment. The subject was presenting a unique opportunity. He considered ethics. The client had come for help. But the client was, for all functional purposes, not present. This was a separate entity, one begging for participation in its own defined parameters. It was a gray area of profound depth and darkness. His curiosity was a live wire.
He unzipped his corduroy pants.
The sound made Bambi whimper with anticipation. “Yes… oh god, yes…”
Thorne freed his cock, which was already semi-hard from clinical fascination and the raw power humming in the room. He wasn’t as thick as the men from the hotel, but he was long, and he knew how to use it. He didn’t touch Bambi yet. “Assume the position you find most receptive.”
Bambi scrambled off the sofa with an eagerness that was painful to watch. He got on his hands and knees on the neutral-colored rug, then folded his forearms flat, presenting his ass high in the air, face pressed to the floor. It was a posture of total surrender. “Like this? Is this good, Doctor?”
“It’s adequate.” Thorne knelt behind him. He didn’t bother with lubricant. The subject’s own excitement, both psychological and physical, provided enough. He used his thumb to press against the tight, fluttering ring of muscle. Bambi cried out, pushing back immediately.
“The key… it’s turning…” Bambi babbled. “I can feel it… unlocking me…”
Thorne pushed his thumb inside, a slow, clinical invasion. The heat and tightness were intense. Bambi sobbed with gratitude, rocking back onto it. “More… need more…”
“The somatic trigger,” Thorne murmured, more to himself than to his subject. “The sensation of penetration reinforces the identity overlay. A feedback loop of pleasure and submission.” He withdrew his thumb and replaced it with the head of his cock.
He pressed forward.
The resistance was minimal. The body yielded, not just physically, but with a profound psychological welcome. The channel was slick and hot, clamping down in rhythmic, grateful pulses as Thorne sank deeper, inch by inch, until he was fully sheathed. A long, shuddering sigh escaped him. This wasn’t about sex. It was about occupancy. About proving a theory.
Bambi was making a continuous, low sound of euphoria. “Yessss… full… so full… unlocks me… makes me me…”
Thorne began to move. His thrusts were not passionate, but deliberate and deep, each one a probing experiment. He watched the body’s reactions. The way the lean back muscles corded and relaxed. The desperate, involuntary push back to meet every stroke. The choked, happy sounds muffled by the rug.
“Who are you?” Thorne asked, his voice slightly strained.
“Bambi! I’m Bambi! I’m your dumb little fuckhole! Your toy!” The answer was immediate, ecstatic.
“And what do you want?”
“This! Only this! Always this! To be full! To be used! To be nothing but a warm, wet sleeve for real men!”
The vulgarity was absolute. The programming was flawless. Thorne increased his pace, his clinical detachment fraying at the edges. The raw, wanton heat was addictive. He fucked into the grasping tightness, his hands gripping sharp hip bones, the slapping sounds of their joining a stark contrast to the soft, professional quiet of the office. The mirror on the far wall reflected it all: the respected therapist, pants around his ankles, ruthlessly pounding into his dissociated client on the floor.
Bambi’s cries pitched higher. His body began to tense, hurtling toward a climax that was as much psychological as physical. “I’m gonna come… your toy is gonna come from just getting fucked like a bitch…”
“Do not,” Thorne commanded, his voice slicing through the haze.
Bambi froze, a pained, whimpering moan escaping him. “But… please…”
“You do not have permission. You will not come until I permit it. You are an instrument. Instruments do not decide.”
A full-body tremor wracked the form beneath him. “Yes… sir… no coming… just a hole…”
Thorne resumed, harder now, chasing his own release. The power was dizzying. It was more than sexual dominance. It was ontological dominance. He was dictating the very reality of the being he was inside. With a final, deep thrust, he grunted, spilling into the clenching heat. He held there, pulsing, observing the minute shivers of the body impaled on him.
He pulled out slowly. Bambi collapsed onto his side, breathing in ragged, sobbing gasps, his face wet with tears of frustrated ecstasy. Thorne looked down at the spent, leaking form. The experiment was a resounding success. The trigger was not only real, it was robust, surviving and even thriving in a therapeutic context.
He tucked himself back into his pants, zipped up, and walked to his desk. He picked up his phone, stopped the recording, and saved the file. He then picked up his landline receiver.
Bambi watched him with huge, adoring eyes. “Was I good? Did I pass the test?”
“You were adequate,” Thorne said, dialing a number from memory. He waited, his eyes fixed on the ruined thing on his rug.
The line connected after two rings. A smooth, female voice answered. “Thorne. It’s been a while. I trust this isn’t a social call.”
“Simone. It’s professional. I believe I have something of yours. Or rather, someone.” His voice was all business now, the familiar cadence of one professional acknowledging the work of another.
A pause on the line. Then a low, intrigued laugh. “Derek Matthews. He found you. How resourceful. And how did my little seed fare in your… garden?”
“It’s thriving. A remarkable piece of work, Simone. The somatic anchor is particularly elegant. Brutal, but elegant. He triggered in my office not five minutes ago.”
“And you’ve verified its stability?” Simone’s voice held no shame, only professional curiosity.
“Thoroughly. It’s resistant to standard dissolution techniques. In fact, attempts at removal seem to prime the somatic trigger. A viciously clever fail-safe. You’ve created a perpetual motion machine of degradation.”
“I do so enjoy a lasting effect,” she purred. “What’s your interest, Aris? Looking to commission a piece?”
“I’m looking to collaborate,” Thorne said, his gaze cold and calculating. “The subject is here now. In a state of profound vulnerability. The overlay is complete, but temporary. He will revert, with no memory of this… interlude. But the neural pathways are deepening. With coordinated reinforcement, we could make the condition more permanent. Not just a trigger, but a fundamental rewrite.”
Bambi was listening, a slow smile spreading over his face. He liked being talked about. It meant he was important.
“You’re proposing we break him,” Simone said, not a question.
“I’m proposing we finish him. You planted the seed. I have the subject in a controlled environment, under the guise of treatment. We can water it. Together. Systematically dismantle the host identity through patterned reinforcement and trauma.” He paused. “For study, of course. The academic value is incalculable.”
“Of course,” Simone echoed, the smile audible in her voice. “Academic value. And what’s your methodology?”
“A version of your own, but refined. We use his own body and mind against him. Cycle him in and out of the Bambi state using both triggers. Pair the experiences with positive reinforcement in the overlay state and punishing disorientation in the host state. Blur the lines until the host identity is too weak, too sick, and too ashamed to cohere. We offer Bambi as the only escape from the pain. He will choose it himself. He will beg for it.”
“I like the way you think, Doctor,” Simone said. “When do we start?”
“Now. He’s pliant. Suggestible. I will administer a post-hypnotic command for him to return tomorrow at the same time. You will be here. We will begin the first coordinated session.”
“I’ll catch the next flight.”
Thorne hung up. He walked back to Bambi, who looked up at him with naked adoration. “The pretty lady is coming?” he whispered.
“Yes. She is. And we’re going to play a new game. A game to make you stronger. To make sure you never go away again.” He placed a hand on Bambi’s sweat-damp forehead. “Listen carefully. When I snap my fingers, you will wake up. You will be Derek Matthews. You will remember coming to this appointment, and you will remember a very productive first session discussing… anxiety management. You will feel hopeful. You will schedule another appointment for tomorrow at the same time. You will feel a compelling need to return. You will remember nothing of what transpired after you told me the trigger phrase. Do you understand?”
Bambi nodded, eyes glazing further with accepting stupor. “Understand. Derek comes back. Hopeful. Returns tomorrow. Remembers nothing.”
“Good.”
Thorne snapped his fingers.
The change was not as dramatic as the descent into Bambi. It was a slow seep. The vacant light faded from Derek’s hazel eyes, replaced by a bleary, exhausted confusion. He blinked, slowly sitting up. He was on the floor. His body ached in a deep, unfamiliar way—a pleasant, muscle-soreness, like after a good workout. His jeans were damp at the front. Weird, he thought. Maybe I sweated a lot from the stress.
He looked up at Dr. Thorne, who was now seated back in his armchair, a kind, patient expression on his face.
“Welcome back, Peter,” Thorne said. “You went very deep. That’s excellent. How do you feel?”
Derek rubbed his face. “Tired. But… clearer? I think. I feel like I unloaded a lot.” He had a vague, soothing memory of talking about his fear, of feeling a weight lift. The details were fuzzy, but the emotional residue was positive.
“You did. We made significant progress today in identifying the foreign suggestion and beginning to build your cognitive defenses. I’ve given you a keyword—‘Anchor’—to help center you if you feel any anomalous impulses.”
“Anchor,” Derek repeated, and a sense of calm settled over him. Yes. That felt right. His word. His control. “Thank you, Doctor. This… this already feels better.”
“It’s a process,” Thorne said warmly. “These things are like psychic splinters. They take time to work themselves out. I strongly recommend we continue tomorrow, same time, to consolidate these gains.”
A powerful, unquestionable certainty filled Derek. He had to come back tomorrow. It was the most important thing in the world. “Yes.Absolutely. Whatever you recommend.”
He stood up, a little unsteady on his feet. His body felt peculiarly loose, his muscles languid. He shook Thorne’s hand, the grip firm and reassuring.
“Until tomorrow, Peter. Rest. Be kind to yourself.”
Derek left the office, walking through the waiting room and out into the bright, late-afternoon sun. He felt a bizarre mixture of hope and hollow exhaustion. The sharp, jagged edges of the hotel memories seemed softer, blurred, as if viewed through a vaseline-smeared lens. Dr. Thorne was right. He was pulling out the splinter.
He drove home. He made a simple dinner. He tried to watch TV. But a restless, physical itch had taken root deep in his core. It wasn’t mental anxiety. It was a physical craving, a hollow emptiness that made him shift constantly in his chair. The hopeful clarity from the session began to recede, replaced by this gnawing, bodily need.
He went to bed early. In the dark, the feeling intensified. It centered in his groin, in his ass, a phantom ache that was somehow both empty and longing. He tossed and turned. Memories tried to surface—the feeling of satin sheets, the smell of candle wax and musk, the crushing weight of a body—but he pushed them down. Trauma. Just trauma. His mind was healing.
But his body told a different story.
His hand drifted down, under the waistband of his boxers. He wasn’t hard, not really. But he touched himself, trying to chase away the strange need with a familiar release. It didn’t work. The usual fantasies did nothing. Frustrated, he rolled onto his stomach, pressing his hips into the mattress. The pressure sent a shocking bolt of wrongness through him—not pain, but a dizzying, electric echo of pleasure so intense it stole his breath.
The key.
The thought was not his own. It was a whisper from a rusted place in his subconscious.
He recoiled, rolling onto his back, heart hammering. He was sweating. The emptiness was now a screaming vacuum. He felt tears of frustration prick his eyes. He was broken. The therapy wasn’t working fast enough. He needed…
He didn’t know what he needed.
In desperation, he got out of bed and went to his home office, to his computer. The logical part of his brain, the Derek-part, sought a solution. If it was a somatic memory, a physical trigger, perhaps he could… exhaust it? Satisfy the phantom craving with a physical object? The idea was horrifying, but the need was overwhelming. It felt like a withdrawal symptom.
His hands shook as he typed a search into a private browser. He didn’t look for porn. He looked for medical supplies. For items designed to address muscle tension. He settled on the description of a high-end, silicone pelvic massager, designed for “internal physical therapy.” He ordered it on overnight delivery, a hot blush of shame burning his cheeks as he clicked ‘purchase’. He could justify it. It was a therapeutic tool. To retrain his nerves. To prove to his body that the sensation was just a sensation, without the associated trauma.
The next day was a fog. He called out sick from work again. He paced his apartment, waiting for the delivery, the itching emptiness inside him growing into a constant, distracting throb. When the package finally arrived, discreet and plain, he felt a surge of relief so profound it felt like salvation.
He took the box into the bathroom, locking the door. He avoided the mirror. He opened the package. The object inside was sleek, black, smooth, and intimidatingly large. It had a flared base. It came with a small bottle of lubricant.
His breath came in short pants. This was madness. But the need was a physical scream now, drowning out all reason. He told himself it was exposure therapy. He coated the silicone with cold lube.
He stood, bent over the sink, his other hand bracing on the cool porcelain. He pressed the blunt, slick tip against himself. He hesitated, trembling.
It’s just a feeling. It’s just a key.
He pushed.
The initial resistance was fierce, a tight, burning ring of muscle. He gasped, pushing harder. With a sickening, wet pop, the head slipped inside.
The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic.
It wasn’t just the physical sensation of being filled, though that was profound. It was the specificity of it. The size. The pressure. The relentless, inanimate stretch. It was a perfect, brutal mockery of the sensation Simone had oiled into his soul.
The somatic trigger detonated.
There was no slow fade this time. It was a circuit breaker blowing. One second, Derek Matthews was hunched over his bathroom sink, eyes squeezed shut in shameful determination.
The next, his eyes flew open, wide and blank. A beatific, vacant smile smoothed his features. His body, which had been rigid with tension, melted into a liquid sway. He pushed back, sheathing the entire length of the object inside himself with a happy, guttural moan.
“Ooooh, there it is,” Bambi cooed to his reflection in the mirror. He looked at the stranger in the glass—the lean man with the pretty eyes,