Chapter 6: The Clinical Session Deepens
The black silicone massager sat on Derek’s bathroom counter like an indictment. He stared at it, the morning light glinting off its slick surface, his stomach a knot of cold dread and searing shame. The physical memory was a bruise on his mind—the overwhelming, mind-blanking pleasure that had consumed him, followed by the horrifying snap back to reality, naked and bent over the sink, the thing still lodged inside him. He had no memory of how it got there, only the jarring return to consciousness and the devastating ache of emptiness that followed its removal.
He had scrubbed himself raw in the shower, but the feeling lingered. Not just in his body, but in his thoughts. A sticky, distracting haze clung to everything. He’d tried to work, opening his coding interface, but the lines of logic blurred. His fingers, which usually flew across the keyboard with precise intent, felt clumsy. A phantom sensation kept pulling his focus downward—a ghost of fullness, a whisper of something missing.
The only clear thought was the compulsion to return to Dr. Thorne’s office. It was an anchor in the fog. Thorne had given him hope, a keyword, a path. Anchor. He clung to it. The horrific bathroom episode was just a setback, a spasm of the trauma. Thorne would fix it.
He arrived ten minutes early. The waiting room was quieter than before, the bossa nova record replaced by a deep, oceanic hum of white noise. The receptionist wasn’t at her desk. Derek paced, the itch inside him flaring with each step.
The door to the inner office opened. Dr. Thorne stood there, his smile professional and warm. “Peter. Right on time. Come in.”
Derek moved forward, but then froze on the threshold. There was another person in the room. A woman, seated in the second armchair, legs crossed. Platinum blonde hair. A sharp, tailored navy suit. She turned her head, and gray eyes, sharp as flint, pinned him where he stood.
Simone Vance.
A jolt of pure, animal recognition fired through his nervous system. His mouth went dry. The hotel room memories, previously blurred, rushed forward in a chaotic smear of chandelier light, satin, and helpless, humiliating arousal. His heart began to hammer against his ribs.
“Peter, allow me to introduce Dr. Simone Vance,” Thorne said smoothly, his hand guiding Derek into the room as if he were a skittish animal. “She’s a renowned colleague specializing in dissociative suggestion disorders. Given the… unique nature of your case, I’ve asked her to consult.”
Simone rose, extending a hand. Her grip was cool and firm. “Peter. Aris has told me so much. It’s a fascinating profile.” Her voice was like honey poured over ground glass—sweet, with a cutting edge.
Derek’s tongue felt thick. “I… I know you.” The words came out as an accusation.
Her eyebrow arched, a perfect curve of feigned curiosity. “Do you? From the convention, perhaps? I do lectures occasionally. The mind can play strange tricks when under stress, can’t it, Aris?”
“Indeed,” Thorne said, gesturing to the primary chair. “Please, Peter. Sit. Dr. Vance’s insights will be invaluable.”
Every survival instinct screamed at Derek to run. But the compulsion to stay, the desperate hope Thorne had planted, was stronger. And the itching, aching void inside him throbbed in agreement. He needed help. This was help. He sat, his body rigid.
Thorne took his seat, steepling his fingers. “Last session, we identified the foreign trigger phrase and began building your cognitive defenses. Today, with Dr. Vance’s help, we’re going to take a more direct approach. We need to confront the somatic component—the physical memory that seems to be triggering these… episodes.”
Derek’s face burned. He thought of the massager. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
“You don’t have to talk,” Simone said. She hadn’t sat back down. She began to slowly circle his chair, her heels silent on the thick carpet. “Talking is Derek’s domain. We need to speak to the other one. The one tied to the body.”
“No,” Derek said, panic rising. “That’s not… we’re not doing that hypnotism thing. We’re deprogramming. You said.”
“We are,” Thorne assured him, his voice a low, hypnotic drone. “But to deprogram a virus, you must first observe it in its active state. We need to see the trigger in action, Peter. To map its pathways. It’s the fastest way to dismantle it. You trust me, don’t you?”
Derek looked into Thorne’s calm, earnest eyes. The man had given him the word ‘Anchor’. He had made the fog lift, if only for a moment. He swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet room. “I… yes. I guess.”
“Good. Then relax. Focus on my voice. You are safe here. This is a controlled, clinical environment. Nothing will happen that we do not permit. Your mind is your own.” Thorne’s words wove around him, soft and insistent. “Now, I want you to recall, just for a moment, the phrase that was used on you. The one we discussed. Don’t say it. Just hold it in your mind.”
Derek closed his eyes. Against his will, the two words formed in his head. Bambi Blossom. A cold sweat broke out on his temples.
Simone had completed her circle. She was behind him now. He could feel her presence, a pressure at his back. Her perfume, something expensive and floral, wrapped around him. She leaned down, her lips so close to his ear he could feel the warmth of her breath.
Her whisper was a silk scarf drawn across a razor.
“Bambi. Blossom.”
It was like a trapdoor opening beneath his soul.
All the tension, the fear, the rigid control in Derek’s body vaporized. His posture dissolved. His head lolled back against the headrest, a long, sighing moan escaping his lips. Then, with a languid, sensual shift, he straightened. His shoulders rolled back, his chest pushed forward in a grotesque parody of a come-hither pose. His hazel eyes, when they fluttered open, were empty of all cognition, shining with vapid, eager hunger. A wide, blissful smile stretched his face.
“Hello, Bambi,” Simone purred, moving to stand in front of him. She placed a finger under his chin, tilting his face up. “Do you remember me?”
“Mistress,” Bambi breathed, the voice a breathy, high-pitched tremor that was utterly alien. “Of course I remember you. You made me. You have the keys.” He giggled, a sound like tinkling, broken glass. “Did you bring friends to play with your toy?”
Thorne was already moving. He opened a drawer in his desk, withdrawing a sleek, black medical vibrator, longer and thicker than the massager Derek had bought, and a bottle of clear lubricant. His movements were efficient, dispassionate. “We’re going to test the somatic anchor’s stability and response thresholds,” he said, as if commenting on a lab specimen.
“Ooooh, tests,” Bambi cooed, his eyes glued to the vibrator. “I love tests. I’m a very good test-taker. I always get an A for Anal.”
“Assume the position, Bambi,” Simone commanded, her voice losing its honeyed tone, becoming flat and imperative.
Bambi was a flurry of eager motion. He stood up, his movements oddly graceful, and shoved the chair aside. He faced the large, padded arm of the sofa that served as a therapy couch, unbuttoned his jeans, and pushed them and his boxers down to his knees in one clumsy, hurried motion. He bent forward, folding his torso over the arm, his ass presented high in the air. He reached back and spread his cheeks apart with both hands, offering himself.
“See?” he panted. “Empty and ready. Just waiting for the key.”
Thorne approached. He squeezed a generous amount of lubricant onto his fingers. The clinical smell of cold silicone filled the space between them. He didn’t speak as he applied the gel, his fingers rubbing in slow, circular motions around the exposed pucker. Bambi shivered, pushing back against the touch with a wanton groan.
“Please… Doctor… need it…”
Thorne picked up the vibrator, coated it, and placed the blunt, rounded tip against the twitching entrance. He applied steady, unyielding pressure. The resistance gave way with a wet, yielding sound. Bambi cried out, a sharp, happy sound, as Thorne worked the entire length inside him, burying it to the flared base.
“Is it in?” Bambi begged, hips making tiny, desperate circles. “Is it all in? I wanna feel so full.”
“It’s in,” Thorne confirmed. His thumb found the control at the base. A low, deep hum resonated through the room. It was a sub-audible thrum that Derek, in his right mind, would have found menacing. Bambi’s whole body jolted as if electrocuted, then melted into a boneless, trembling heap over the arm of the sofa.
“Ohgodohgodohgod…” The words spilled from him in a continuous, sobbing stream. “That’s it… that’s the key… turning me on… unlocking my dumb head…” His hips began to rut back against the invading object, fucking himself on it with a frantic, lost rhythm.
Simone watched for a moment, a sculptor assessing her work. Then she began to unbutton her tailored blouse. Each button popping free was a small, sharp sound in the room. She shrugged the garment off, letting it fall to the floor. She wore a black lace bra that cupped her full breasts. She reached behind her back, undid the clasp, and let it slide down her arms.
She stood before him, topless, her expression one of cool assessment. “Bambi. Look at me.”
Bambi’s glassy eyes, streaming with tears of overwhelmed pleasure, dragged themselves from the middle distance and focused on her. His mouth dropped open in a silent ‘O’ of awe. “So pretty…”
“I want you to watch me,” Simone instructed, her hands coming up to cup her own breasts, thumbs brushing over the nipples. “You watch me while the doctor plays with your useless hole. You keep your eyes on my tits. Do you want to touch them, Bambi?”
“Yes! Yes, Mistress, please, I wanna suck them, I wanna taste—” Bambi babbled, one hand letting go of his own cheek to reach out blindly.
Simone’s hand shot out, not to guide, but to slap his wandering fingers away. The crack was sharp, shocking. “No. You don’t get to touch. You are a receptacle. A warm, wet hole. You only get to watch. And remember who this,” she gestured at her own body, “belongs to. And who you belong to.”
She stepped closer. The scent of her skin, warm and perfumed, washed over Bambi. He whined, a high, needy sound in his throat. She leaned down, aligning her right breast with his feverishly panting mouth. The nipple, stiff and pink, brushed his lips.
“You may lick.”
It was permission and curse. Bambi’s mouth latched onto her like a starving animal. His tongue lashed and swirled, his lips sucked greedily. He moaned around the flesh, the vibrations from the toy deep in his guts making his entire world narrow to two points of overwhelming sensation: the brutal, buzzing fullness in his ass and the soft, forbidden texture in his mouth.
Thorne observed, his finger on the control. He turned the dial. The hum escalated, climbing from a low thrum to a focused, intense buzz. Bambi’s sucking became frantic, his hips pistoning back and forth, slamming himself down onto the vibrator with abandon. The wet, slapping sounds of his own flesh, the electric buzz of the toy, his choked, gagging moans around Simone’s breast—it all fused into a symphony of abject degradation.
“He’s nearing a climax threshold,” Thorne noted clinically.
“Deny it,” Simone said, her voice strained only slightly. She twisted her fingers in Bambi’s short brown hair, holding him to her breast.
Thorne twisted the dial all the way to its highest setting.
Bambi screamed, the sound muffled by her flesh. His body went wire-tight, every muscle corded, his back a taut arch. Tremors wracked him, violent and uncontrolled. It was a plateau of unbearable, denied release. Tears flooded from his screwed-shut eyes.
“Please… pleasepleaseplease… I’ll be so good… let your toy come… I’ll do anything…” he sobbed, the words distorted, saliva coating Simone’s skin.
“What do you want, Bambi?” Simone asked, pulling her breast from his mouth with a soft, wet pop.
“I wanna come! I need to come! It hurts so good, I need it!”
“Who do you belong to?”
“You! You and the Doctor! I’m your toy! Your fuckhole! Your dumb bimbo Bambi!”
“And what happens when you’re empty? When you’re just Derek?”
Bambi’s face crumpled in genuine, profound terror. “No! Don’t make me be him! He’s scared and it hurts and it’s empty all the time! It’s so empty! Please, let me stay! Let me be full! I’ll be good!”
Simone looked at Thorne and gave a single, small nod. This was the core of it. The aversion therapy. Pairing the Bambi state with forced, denied ecstasy, and the Derek state with the terrifying, craven emptiness that followed.
Thorne’s thumb moved. He switched the vibrator off.
The sudden cessation of sensation was a violence in itself. Bambi howled, a raw, ragged sound of loss. His body, strung out on the edge of orgasm, convulsed in dry heaves of frustration. The object inside him went from being a source of overwhelming pleasure to a cold, foreign intrusion.
“Cycle him,” Simone said, stepping back and picking up her blouse. She didn’t put it on yet.
Thorne moved close to Bambi’s ear. His voice was calm, directive. “Listen, Bambi. When I snap my fingers, you will wake up. You will be Derek Matthews. You will feel the object in your rectum. You will feel the overwhelming, unmet need for climax. You will feel profound disorientation and shame. You will not remember how you got into this position. You will only know that you are here, in my office, exposed, with Dr. Vance present. Do you understand?”
Bambi, shuddering and weeping, nodded miserably. “Understand. Derek comes back. Hurts. Empty. Ashamed.”
Thorne snapped his fingers.
The collapse was instantaneous. The coquettish posture imploded. Derek’s eyes flew open, blinking rapidly, filled with sheer, uncomprehending terror. Sensation flooded him—the cool air on his exposed skin, the deep, aching stretch inside him, a crushing, physical need for release that felt like a fist around his spine. And the shame. A hot, nauseating wave of it, as he saw his own pants around his knees, felt the solid, foreign shape lodged in his ass, and saw the blurred form of a topless Simone Vance pulling on her blouse a few feet away.
A dry, wretched sound escaped his throat. He scrambled upright, his movements clumsy and pained, yanking his boxers and jeans up over the protruding base of the vibrator, fumbling with the buckle. His face was a mask of horror. “What… what did you do? What the fuck did you do to me?”
“We observed the trigger, Peter,” Thorne said, his demeanor shifting back to the concerned professional as if flipping a switch. He placed the vibrator remote on his desk. “It was a difficult but necessary session. You dissociated completely. The somatic anchor is even more potent than I theorized.”
Derek’s mind was a shattered pane of glass. Flashes—the feel of silicone, the smell of her perfume, the sound of a slap, the unbearable buzzing—but no sequence, no narrative. Just the devastating emotional and physical aftermath. The craving was a live wire in his gut. He was painfully, impossibly hard, and the denial of release was a physical torment. He wanted to vomit.
Simione buttoned her blouse, her expression one of detached sympathy. “The shame you’re feeling, Derek, is a protective mechanism of your host identity. It’s fighting the pleasure pathway we activated. This friction is where the healing will begin.”
“Get it out,” Derek whispered, his voice breaking. He couldn’t look at her. “Get it out of me.”
“Of course,” Thorne said. He approached, wearing a pair of medical gloves he’d drawn from a box. “Turn around, please. Bend over the chair again.”
The instruction was so clinical, so utterly humiliating, that Derek almost refused. But the object inside him was a screaming