Chapter 7: The Aftermath Session
The object was still inside him.
For three days, it was all Derek could think about. Not the object itself, now safely disposed of in a public bathroom trashcan miles from Thorne’s office, but the ghost of it. The phantom fullness. The aching void it left behind. The shame was a constant companion, a low-grade fever coloring every interaction. He’d called in sick to work, unable to face his screens, terrified that a line of code or a sudden notification might somehow trigger the buzzing emptiness again.
He smelled lavender in his coffee. He heard the low hum of his refrigerator and his body would tense, anticipating a vibration that wasn’t there. The world had become a minefield of sensual triggers, each one a potential pathway back to that office, to that humiliating position, to her.
But worse than the fear was the craving. A deep, cellular hunger that overshadowed everything. Food tasted like ash. The taut, satisfying burn of a good climb he used to love now felt pointless, a feeble distraction from the only sensation that mattered. He found himself, late at night, browsing online for toys that resembled the one Thorne had used. He’d add them to a cart, then close the browser in a cold sweat, only to reopen it an hour later. He was a prisoner in his own skin, and the only people who held the key were the ones who’d locked him in.
The compulsion to return was a physical ache, stronger than pride, stronger than fear. Thorne had said it was treatment. The only path to getting this thing out of him. So when Friday afternoon arrived, Derek put on clean clothes with numb hands and drove back to the polished building.
The waiting room was empty. The oceanic white noise was gone, replaced by a silence so complete he could hear the blood pounding in his ears. The receptionist’s desk was dark. Before he could decide to flee, the inner door opened.
Simone Vance stood there alone. She wore a charcoal-gray pantsuit, the jacket unbuttoned over a simple black shell. Her platinum bob was flawless. She didn’t smile.
“He’s finishing a call. Come in.”
Her voice, even in those flat words, sent a tremor through him. He wanted to spin and run. His feet carried him forward, across the threshold. The office was different. The lights were lower. The large mahogany desk had been pushed aside, clearing the center of the room. The portrait of the woman on the wall seemed to watch with grim approval.
Thorne was not on a call. He was standing by a small equipment table, on which sat a sleek black remote and something covered with a white cloth. He looked up as Derek entered. “Peter. Good. You came. That shows remarkable commitment to the process.”
“Where’s the other chair?” Derek asked, his voice thin. The second armchair was gone.
“We’re modifying the approach today,” Thorne said, adjusting his glasses. “The supine position proved suboptimal for deep somatic engagement. Today, we work with gravity. With posture. It will allow for a more… thorough integration of the corrective stimuli.”
Derek’s mouth was desert-dry. “I don’t want to be hypnotized again.”
“You won’t be,” Simone said. She closed the office door. The soft, definitive click of the lock engaging was the loudest sound Derek had ever heard. She leaned back against the door, blocking the exit. “Not by him, anyway. The trigger isn’t responding to his voice with the necessary… clarity. There’s interference from your rational mind. We need to streamline the access point.”
She pushed off from the door and took three slow steps toward him. Derek backed up, his calves bumping against the lone remaining armchair.
“Stop,” Simone said. It wasn’t a request. It was a command that vibrated in the space between them. Derek froze.
“The trigger phrase,” she said, her gray eyes locking onto his. “You think about it constantly, don’t you? It’s there, in the back of your thoughts, like a song you can’t get out of your head. A dirty little tune. You mouth the words in the shower. You dream them.”
“No,” Derek whispered, but it was a lie. He did.
“You’re craving the resolution it promises. The release. You’re terrified of it, and you’re desperate for it. That conflict is what’s poisoning you.” She was close enough now that he could see the fine powder on her skin, the faint trace of lipstick on her perfect teeth. “Today, we’re going to end the conflict. We’re going to give Bambi exactly what she wants. And we’re going to let Derek watch.”
She didn’t whisper. She spoke clearly, enunciating each syllable with cold, surgical precision right into his face.
“Bambi. Blossom.”
It wasn’t a trapdoor this time. It was an annihilation.
One second, Derek Matthews was there, a knot of terror and defiant shame. The next, he was gone. His body didn’t slump; it transformed. His posture melted into a vapid, hip-cocked stance. His hands fluttered up to his own chest, cupping where breasts would be, pinching at his nipples through his shirt with a gasping sigh. His head tilted, a wide, empty smile spreading across his face.
“Mistress!” Bambi squealed, the voice bursting forth in a giddy rush. “You said my name! You bloomed me! I’ve been soooo empty waiting for you!”
“Silence,” Simone said. The word cut through the babble. Bambi’s mouth snapped shut, though the eager, delighted expression remained. “You will speak only when given permission. You will obey instantly. Do you understand?”
Bambi nodded rapidly, making a childish mime of zipping his lips.
“Strip. Everything. Fold your clothes and place them on the chair.”
Bambi’s hands flew to his buttons, fumbling with eager, clumsy haste. The shirt was off, tossed aside before Simone’s sharp “Fold them!” correction sent him scrabbling to pick it up, clumsily smoothing the cotton. The jeans followed, the socks, the boxers. In under a minute, he stood naked in the center of the room, shivering slightly, not from cold but from excited anticipation. His cock was already half-hard. He placed the neat pile on the seat of the armchair and turned, hands clasped behind his back, chest pushed out, presenting himself.
Thorne had removed the white cloth from the equipment table. What sat there wasn’t a handheld vibrator. It was a dildo, thick and obscene, made of deep purple silicone. Deep, pronounced ribs circled its girth from base to tip. It was attached not to a handle, but to a heavy, circular black base. Thorne carried it to the cleared center of the room, knelt, and pressed the base firmly to the polished wooden floor. There was a soft, suction-cup thwomp as it sealed into place. The thing stood upright, a rigid, veined column about nine inches tall.
“Kneel,” Simone commanded.
Bambi dropped to his knees on the hard floor without hesitation, wincing only slightly. He shuffled forward on his knees until the purple tip pressed against the underside of his balls.
“Look at it,” Simone said, circling him. “That is your purpose. Your reason for existing right now. You are going to take it. All of it. You are going to lower yourself onto it until that base is sealed against your ass. You are not to use your hands. You are to use only your muscles. Your hunger. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mistress,” Bambi breathed, his eyes wide and fixed on the intimidating object. A thin string of pre-come dripped from his tip onto the floor. “I’m so hungry for it. I want it to wreck my stupid hole.”
“Then feed.”
Bambi placed his hands flat on the floor on either side of the dildo for balance. He lifted his hips, positioning the flared, rounded head right at his entrance. He took a shaky breath, then let his weight drop down.
The head, slick only with his own nervous sweat, didn’t give way easily. It pressed, a blunt, insistent pressure. Bambi whined, bearing down. There was a sickening, yielding pop as the tip forced its way past the tight ring of muscle. He cried out—a sharp sound of pain instantly morphing into a groan of profound relief.
“Oh fuck… it’s in… it’s starting…”
He didn’t stop. He continued to sink down, the thick, ribbed shaft stretching him open with a brutal, burning fullness. His face was a contorted mask of effort and ecstasy. Each pronounced ridge dragged against his sensitive inner walls, a rough, delicious friction. His knuckles were white on the floor. His thighs trembled with the strain.
“All… the way…” he gritted out, lowering himself further, impaling himself inch by agonizing inch.
Thorne watched, remote in hand, his face a bland study. Simone stood directly in front of Bambi, looking down at his strained, sweating face.
“Look at me,” she said. “Look at me while you fuck yourself on that toy.”
Bambi’s tear-filled eyes dragged up to meet hers. He was so full he could barely breathe. The heavy black base finally kissed his skin, a cold circle sealing him to the floor. He was fully speared, utterly penetrated. A deep, shuddering moan wracked his body.
“Good toy,” Simone said, and the praise made Bambi’s eyes roll back for a second before he forced them to focus on her again. “Now. You may speak. Tell me what you are.”
“I’m… I’m a hole,” Bambi panted, his voice strained from the stretch. “A hungry, open hole. I’m your fucking toy. I’m Bambi.”
“And what do you think about when you’re not here? When you’re pretending to be Derek?”
Bambi’s hips made a tiny, involuntary circular grind, sending shocks of sensation through his core. “I think about this. I think about being full. I think about being used. I dream about cocks. I dream about Mistress’s voice. Derek tries to think about… about code and rocks and stupid, hard things… but I’m underneath. I’m always there. I’m thinking about how empty he is. How scared he is of me.”
Thorne’s thumb moved on the remote. A low vibration started deep within the purple silicone, a deep, resonant thrum that traveled up through Bambi’s spine into his teeth.
Bambi shrieked, his body seizing. “Oh God! Oh, it’s alive! It’s fucking me!”
“Continue,” Simone said, her voice calm over the electric hum. “What else?”
“I love it!” Bambi bawled, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I love being a dumb bitch! I love how my brain goes quiet and all I can feel is my cunt! Derek hates it! He hates how good it feels! He’s a coward! He’s weak! I’m real! This,” he slammed his hips down hard onto the base, making himself gasp, “this is real! He’s the ghost! I’m the real one!”
Thorne twisted a dial. The vibration intensified, climbing to a mean, focused buzz. Simultaneously, the dildo began to rotate slowly, torturously, inside him. The ribs became relentless, twisting corkscrews of sensation.
Bambi’s coherence shattered. His words became a stream-of-consciousness liturgy of filth. “Fuckfuckfuck it’s turning my guts into mush! It’s milking me! I wanna come! Please, let your slut come! I’ll be such a good dumb bimbo! I’ll forget my own name! I’ll only remember yours! Just let me come on this fucking pole!”
He was bucking now, fucking himself up and down on the vibrating, twisting intrusion with wild, animal abandon. The slapping sounds of his ass against the suction cup base filled the room. Drool pooled on the floor beneath his hanging mouth. His cock was a deep, angry purple, leaking a constant stream of pre-come that puddled between his thighs.
“No,” Simone said. “You don’t come until I say. And I may not say. You hold it. You feel every second of that need. You remember who owns it. Who owns you.”
She let him writhe. For what felt like an eternity. The mechanical fucking was relentless. Bambi babbled, sobbed, begged, praised. He confessed to rubbing himself through his jeans at work, to getting wet thinking about the sound of Thorne’s voice, to wanting to suck off strangers just to feel useful. He unraveled completely, a spool of depraved thread spun from the core of Derek’s deepest shames.
After twenty minutes of this, Bambi was a limp, shuddering wreck, held up only by the rigid toy inside him. His pleas had subsided into weak, continuous whimpers. Every muscle in his body fluttered on the edge of a catastrophic, denied climax.
Simone nodded to Thorne. He turned the vibration and rotation off.
The sudden stillness was more violent than the activity. Bambi gasped as if plunged into ice water. The overwhelming stimulation was gone, leaving only the brutal, aching stretch and a need so profound it felt like dying.
“Listen carefully,” Simone said, crouching down so her face was level with his. Her voice was soft, deadly. “The trigger is now refined. You will respond to my voice, anywhere, anytime. A phone call. A recording. A whisper across a room. You are mine. When I call, you will bloom. And you will crave this.” She tapped the base of the dildo with her fingernail. “This fullness. This emptiness. This is your truth. Embed it.”
She placed her hand on his sweaty, heaving chest. “Now, you will sink into a deep, deep sleep. A sleep where you feel only the need. The exquisite, unfulfilled need. And when you hear the snap, you will wake as Derek. You will be here, naked, impaled on this device. You will feel the humiliation like a physical blow. You will feel the denied orgasm as a sickness in your soul. And you will know, absolutely, that we can do this to you whenever we wish. Do you understand?”
Bambi, barely conscious, managed a faint nod. “Understand. Need. Shame. Yours.”
Simone snapped her fingers.
Reality returned as a sledgehammer.
One moment, there was only desperate, screaming need and a fullness that threatened to split him apart. The next, cold, horrifying comprehension.
Derek’s eyes flew open. He was on his knees. Naked. A deep, burning ache radiated from his core. He looked down. The purple silicone shaft disappeared into his body. The black base was suctioned to the floor between his thighs. His own cock was hard, throbbing, and dripping onto the wood.
Memory crashed over him—not the memory of what just happened, but the memory of the before. Simone’s face. Her command. The utter loss of control before he’d even heard the phrase. She had taken him with just her voice, her will.
A wave of nausea, hot and immediate, rose in his throat. He gagged, dry-heaving, strings of saliva joining the mess on the floor. The shame was a physical entity, a weight crushing his lungs. He tried to move, to pull himself off the thing, but his muscles were watery, useless. The slight shift sent a fresh bolt of painful, unwanted sensation through his groin. He whimpered.
Thorne walked over, remote in hand. He didn’t look at Derek’s face. “The session is complete, Peter. The somatic integration appears successful. The trigger pathway is now singular and robust.”
He pressed a button on the remote. There was a soft hiss as the suction cup released. The support was gone. Derek, already unbalanced, toppled sideways onto the cold floor, the dildo still buried inside him. He curled into a fetal position, shaking violently.
Simione walked to the chair, picked up his neatly folded clothes, and dropped them beside him. “Get dressed. We’ll see you next week. The cravings will intensify. You’ll find it harder to focus. Your ‘anchor’ will feel increasingly brittle. That’s the point of no retreat approaching. Remember, Peter,” she said, pausing at the door, her gray eyes devoid of any therapeutic pretense, “the only way out is through. And we decide what ‘through’ looks like.”
They left him there. Derek heard the outer office door open and close. Silence, save for the ragged, sobbing sounds of his own breathing.
It took him ten minutes to find the strength to move. Slowly, agonizingly, he pulled himself off the silicone shaft. The sensation of its ridged length dragging out of him was so violently intimate it brought fresh, hot tears to his eyes. He felt gaping, ruined, and yet the moment it was out, the craving roared back, louder than ever. The emptiness was a howling abyss.
He dressed with clumsy, fumbling fingers, each brush of fabric